THE SEVENTY-FIVE-DOLLAR BLUE DRESS
The zipper of the blue polyester dress caught on a loose thread near the waist.
My mother stood perfectly still in the center of my small Chicago apartment, holding her breath so I could work the metal slide free without tearing the synthetic fabric.
“I think it just needs a little tug, Clara,” she murmured, smoothing the stiff material over her hips.
She had paid seventy-five dollars for it on the clearance rack at Carson Pirie Scott.
It was a bright, clean cobalt blue, but the polyester had that slight synthetic sheen that did not quite mimic silk, even in the soft morning light.
“There,” I said, finally backing away to look at her.
I adjusted the comb of my wedding veil where it sat on the small vanity desk.
The lace was light, but the humidity rising from the pavement outside already made the fabric cling to the back of my neck.
My mother turned slowly in front of the full-length mirror, her fingers smoothing her skirt over and over.
Her hands, worn rough from decades of helping my father in his Blue Island shop, looked incredibly pale against the blue fabric.
“Do you think the color is too loud for Lake Forest?” she asked, her voice dropping to a soft, reassuring murmur.
“I wanted to look nice for Ethan’s family.”
“You look beautiful, Mom,” I said.
“I just do not want them thinking we did not try,” she said, looking down at her sensible black low heels.
I reached up to adjust my glasses, catching my reflection in the glass of a framed print on the wall.
The white silk of my own gown felt heavy, a physical weight that seemed to anchor me to the hardwood floor.
We had to leave in twenty minutes to make the drive up to the Sterling estate.
My father was already downstairs waiting in their dented sedan, warming up the engine so the air conditioning would have a chance to kick in.
“They are going to love you,” I said, though the words felt dry in my mouth.
My mother did not answer.
She only nodded and reached for her small vinyl purse on the counter.
The Lake Forest air smelled of damp cut grass and expensive catering by the time we arrived.
Ethan was standing near the edge of the stone terrace, looking out over the fifty round tables set up under the white canvas pavilion.
He looked remarkably handsome in his tailored dark suit, though he was spinning his gold signet ring around his finger, a habit he only fell into when his mind was elsewhere.
I walked up behind him, holding the skirt of my gown to keep it off the damp stone tiles.
“Ethan,” I said.
He turned and smiled, his face softening, though the nervous movement of his hand on his signet ring did not stop.
He reached out to take my fingers in his.
“You look incredible, Clara,” he said in that smooth, quiet voice he used when we were alone.
“My mother is already looking for the photographer.”
“I was just looking at the seating chart by the entrance,” I said, pulling my hand back slightly to adjust my glasses.
“My parents are at table forty-eight, all the way at the back near the catering tents.”
Ethan looked down at his ring, spinning it twice before he answered.
“It is probably just a catering mistake, Clara.
The coordinator handled the layout.”
“Your mother hand-delivered the final seating chart to the printer on Wednesday,” I said.
“I am sure she did not mean anything by it,” he said, stepping closer to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
“It is a massive guest list, and we have a lot of investors to coordinate.”
“They are the parents of the bride.
They should be near the front.”
“Let me talk to the coordinator after the ceremony,” Ethan said, his voice hushed and reassuring.
“We can fix it before dinner, I promise.”
A server walked past us carrying a silver tray loaded with empty crystal champagne flutes, the glass clinking softly.
“Who authorized the change?” I asked.
Ethan did not answer.
