Fashionably Late Read online

  My kingdom for a brown paper bag. “You already made a down payment? On a piece of land I’ve never seen?”

  “You’re going to love it.” The grin reappeared. “It’s a brand-new development out by Camelback Farms. Great schools, great view, great neighborhood. Our yard is going to back up to a greenbelt, and the floor plan has four bedrooms so we’ll—”

  “You already picked out a floor plan?” I gasped.

  “Well, I didn’t think you’d be interested in the construction aspect.”

  “Yeah, but if I’m gonna live there…”

  “Don’t worry—you’ll have free rein to decorate.”

  “Oh my God.”

  Maybe it was the tone of my voice or the expression on my face, but Kevin finally realized that this surprise was not going over as planned.

  “You seem a little shocked.”

  I nodded.

  “But you know I would never do something like this unless I really believed that it was the best thing for us. I want you to be happy, Becca, you know that, right?”

  I nodded again, bile rising in my throat.

  “So just trust me.”

  “But, when we started this conversation, you said, ‘We’re going to buy a house.’ Which, I mean, I don’t want to be Little Miss Literal, but I didn’t realize that meant you’d already picked out a parcel of land, talked to the builders, and arranged for a down payment.”

  He brushed this off. “I know it’s a lot to take in. A wedding, a new house—things are stressful right now. But we can handle it! We’re a great team.”

  I closed my eyes and tried to see this whole thing from his perspective: a grand romantic gesture in the same vein as the surprise engagement ring.

  Except even more expensive and permanent.

  “We’re going to have a great life together.” He reached over to rub my lower back. “All I want is to make you happy. Are you happy?”

  The left side of my face started twitching uncontrollably.

  “We’ll go see the land and the plans this weekend,” he continued, “and if you don’t like it, we’ll find something else. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I said.

  Then I scurried off to the ladies’ room and threw up.

  After Kevin drove me home that night my sister Gayle, she of the therapy degrees and the Care Bear DNA, finally called.

  “Hi, Becks, I know it’s late but we’re moving into the new office in Chandler and I’ve been buried under boxes of files all day.”

  “No problem,” I said, flopping back on the little twin bed I’d had since seventh grade. “What’s new?”

  “Not too much.” She paused. “Mom said Kevin popped the question.”

  “Yep.” I inhaled deeply. “We’re getting married.”

  She cleared her throat. “You sound pretty matter-of-fact about that.”

  “Well, it’s not like it’s a big bombshell. We all knew it was coming.”

  “I see.”

  There is nothing quite so condescending as a psychotherapist’s prim “I see” coming from your oldest sister. But after twenty-five years of hearing it on a daily basis, I’d built up a pretty high tolerance.

  She let another long pause stretch out between us. “Is this really what you want?”

  “What, with Kevin? Well. Sure.” I tried to sound enthusiastic.

  “Good, then. If you’re happy, if this is really what you want, I’m happy for you. But sometimes I can’t help but feel you’re a little, shall we say, under assertive. I’m sure I’m partially responsible—the whole family is, really—for patronizing you and drowning out your voice in childhood.”

  “My childhood was great. My voice is loud and clear,” I assured her. “I couldn’t have asked for a better family.”

  “See? This is exactly what I mean. You’re saying what you think I want to hear, instead of what you really feel.”

  I made a face into the phone.

  “Becca?”

  “Yeah.” I gave a theatrical rendition of a yawn. “Sorry—I’m really tired. I just got home and I have to open the boutique tomorrow.”

  “I thought the boutique was closed on Sundays?”

  Busted. “Oh yeah. I got confused, I guess. Too much wine.”

  “I see.”

  Okay, now it was getting irritating. “Gayle—”

  “You don’t have to talk to me about this if you don’t want to,” she said. “Truly. It’s fine. And I’m delighted for you and Kevin. I’ve always liked him.”

  I kicked off my shoes, which landed on the carpet with two muffled thunks. “Yeah, yeah, you and everyone else. I’ll never find a better guy, right?”

  “Hmm,” was her only response to that. “Have you guys set a date yet?”

  “No.”

  This time the “hmm” was much more drawn-out and judgmental.

  “But only because Claire made me promise I wouldn’t start planning my wedding until she finished hers,” I hastened to add.

  “Claire is so self-centered she should have her own gravitational field,” Gayle said. “She cannot expect you to stop thinking about your own wedding. Besides, I’m sure you’ve already decided what you’ll wear to walk down the aisle.”

  I blinked. “Actually, I haven’t.”

  “What? You’ve been showing me wedding dress sketches since you could hold a crayon. And you’re telling me you haven’t even thought about your gown now that the ring is actually on your finger?”

  “Well…”

  “Oh, honey, that is so depressing. Tell you what—meet me at the bridal salon at Macy’s in Fashion Square tomorrow. We’re going to go try on wedding dresses.”

  “But Claire said—”

  “Claire is not the boss of you.” She paused. “I am. We are going, understand? And Mom, too, if she wants.”

  A vision popped into my head—a vision of me, trussed up in tulle and a sturdy polyester undergarment, standing in front of my mother and sister while salesgirls dutifully asked to see the ring…

  My stomach gurgled.

  “Becca? You still there?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m here.” I curled up into the fetal position. “But you know I’m going to make my own gown, so there’s no point in looking at off-the-rack stuff I’m never going to buy.”

  She seemed startled. “But you wouldn’t have to buy anything. This would just be for fun. To get in a nuptial frame of mind.”

  “You know what would be even more fun? The flea market in Paradise Valley. Remember when I found those great green pedal pushers from the sixties? I’m looking for some sandals to go with them, something really retro and off-beat—maybe white espadrilles with big chunky heels—and I thought there’d be good pickings at the flea market. Let’s do that instead.”

  “I guess. If you’re really not up for the bridal salon…”

  “Forget the bridal salon. This will be much better. Meet you there at noon?”

  “I worry about you, Becks,” she said right before she hung up.

  “Don’t,” I told the dial tone. “Everything’s perfect.”

  3

  You aren’t wearing your ring,” my mom said as she pulled into a parking space at the flea market.

  “I’m not?” I glanced down at my fingers. “Oh. I must have forgotten to put it on this morning.”

  “You take it off at night?” She sounded scandalized.

  “I just feel better knowing it’s safe.” In the impenetrable vault of my sock drawer.

  “Let me tell you something.” She gazed down at the small diamond chip on her left hand. “Your father gave me this ring when I was twenty years old and I have never, to this day, taken it off.”

  “Not even in the shower?”

  “Not even in the shower.”

  “Not even when you were pregnant and bloated?” My mother’s third-trimester bloat was the stuff of legends, as she routinely reminded all three of us during o
ur many mother-daughter battles.

  “I only took it off to have it resized. And then resized again after you three were born. And when I die, I’ll be buried with it on.” She smiled fondly at the thought.

  Since I couldn’t think of any appropriate response to that, I got out of the car and walked around to meet her at the sidewalk, which—this being Paradise Valley—was edged with lush green grass and palm trees, all of identical height.

  But Mom wasn’t finished. “So you better put that ring back on and keep it on, missy. You’ll hurt Kevin’s feelings. Men are very sensitive about these things.”

  “Relax. I just forgot this one time.”

  “That’s my little Beck-Beck. Head in the clouds. So artistic and forgetful.” She ruffled my hair. “Now, come on. We’re going to be late meeting Gayle and I hardly ever see her as it is.” As we hustled toward the smoothie stand, our appointed meeting place, she confided, “I’m glad you asked me along today because I’m on a mission. I’m going to look for one of those old-fashioned back-tie aprons for you to wear at your bridal shower. Like the housewives used to wear on Leave It to Beaver. Wouldn’t that be hysterical?”

  I tried to be tactful. “I appreciate the thought, Mom, but I don’t need a bridal shower.”

  “Of course you do. Every girl needs one. How else are you going to get all the things you need to set up a household?” She wrung her hands. “I can’t believe my last little baby is leaving the nest.”

  “I’m twenty-five years old. Most people my age would be deeply ashamed to still live with their parents, and rightly so. You don’t have to worry about setting up my household. I have some savings—I can buy my own toasters and blenders and fancy-schmancy cooking pots.” I waved as I caught sight of Gayle.

  “Ha. I know you; left to your own devices, you’ll wind up with a house full of sewing machines and fabric swatches, with spools of thread in your silverware drawer. Poor Kevin will starve to death.”

  “But at least he’ll be well-dressed. And thin enough to fit into runway samples.”

  “Don’t make this into a joke.” She paused long enough to give Gayle a hug and a kiss, then lit right back into me. “You’re going to be a wife and that’s a big responsibility. It’s not just about you and your hobbies anymore.”

  I exhaled slowly and counted to ten. “I know that, Mom. But sewing is more than a hobby to me, okay? It’s my passion. It’s going to be my job someday.”

  She let this pass without comment, but I could feel the effort it cost her to hold her tongue.

  “Besides, it’s not good etiquette for the mother of the bride to throw a shower.”

  “Says who?” She turned to Gayle. “Have you ever heard that?”

  With an air of supreme authority, Gayle said, “No, but regardless, I think it’s just another one of Becca’s typical self-effacing attempts to shun the limelight.”

  My mom’s head snapped to the left as she spied a rickety card table laden with old vinyl records. “Ooh! LPs! I wonder if they have any Bob Dylan. I’ve been searching for Blood on the Tracks in the original dust jacket.”

  “I’m going to look for sandals,” I huffed. “I’ll meet up with you later.”

  “I’ll call your cell when I’m ready.” Mom made a beeline for the record bins. “And don’t take everything so personally, sweetie.” She shook her head at Gayle. “It’s beyond me how a youngest child turned out so prickly and introverted. Aren’t youngests supposed to be flamboyant little divas?”

  “Typically, yes, but Claire had already had that role for five years before Becks was born, and you know Claire—she always has to be the center of attention.”

  “True. I wonder if things would’ve been different if she’d been a boy…”

  I left them to their armchair analysis and headed for the vintage clothing booths. This market was nearly an hour’s drive from our house on the west side of Phoenix, but it was worth the trip. Paradise Valley is one of the nation’s wealthiest zip codes, nestled up against the affluent neighborhoods of Scottsdale, which meant that some tantalizing pieces could be found if one was not averse to a little digging. Genuine Pucci for pennies. Givenchy scarves—from back when Givenchy was Givenchy—for a song. Sometimes I’d refurbish the pieces to their original glory, sometimes I’d use the fabric as part of another, more contemporary design, but the thrill of the hunt always made me happy. Just the sight of the racks of hand-tagged clothing sweetened my mood.

  As the blazing Arizona sun crested higher in the sky, I took off my cardigan and tied it around my waist. I pawed through racks of peasant skirts and polyester pantsuits, forgetting all about bridal showers and Kevin’s real-estate ambush and the ring stashed deep in the bowels of my dresser…and then I saw it.

  Sandwiched between a moth-eaten corduroy shirtdress and gold lamé trousers so hideous Liberace would roll over in his grave was a gorgeous peignoir set straight out of the 1920s. Made of peau de soie in the palest shade of dove gray, expertly cut to skim without squeezing the body’s contours, the nightgown was trimmed with insets of ivory Schiffli lace at the neckline and hem. Very Ava Gardner. I could practically hear the tenor sax wailing in the background as I slipped the robe off the hanger and focused on the gown.

  No holes. No stains. No giant rips, although there were a few loose threads along the side seam. The back fastened up with delicate mother-of-pearl buttons, only one of which was missing. Then I glanced at the price tag and my ecstasy was complete: fifteen bucks.

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped and clutched my find to my chest, unwilling to let anyone else even look at my treasure.

  “Becca?” Gayle sounded amused. “I’m not mugging you. I just want to know if you’re almost ready to move on. I want to go rummage through the used books.”

  “Almost. Just have to buy this and I’m done.”

  “Ooh, let me see. You always find the best stuff here. Stuff that makes me jealous even though I’ve been brainwashed by the cult of Ann Taylor.”

  I held out the peignoir for inspection.

  She eyed the rich folds of silk. “Nice. Fancy.”

  “I know. I’ve been thinking about where I’m going to wear this…”

  “Wedding night, maybe?” She winked.

  “Actually, I was thinking more like wedding day. I’ll take out the lace panels and replace them with something else—maybe a really lustrous silver charmeuse?—hitch up the neckline a couple of inches, put my hair up, and throw in a couple of orchids. What do you think?”

  “You know…” The Ann Taylor devotee nodded. “That could work. It’s a little unconventional for the west Phoenix crowd, but I think you’d look great. Now, would Kevin wear a tux or just—”

  The bubble burst. “Oh wait. Forget it. I can’t get married in this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Kevin. He’d freak if I wore gray down the aisle.”

  “He doesn’t seem like the type to care about female fashion.”

  “He’s not; that’s the problem. He’s stuck in the old school, bride-in-a-white-dress mentality. If I show up in this, he’ll be crushed.”

  She tilted her head. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” I sighed. “Damn. I’m gonna have to wear a big poufed ball gown with a train and a veil.”

  “Now try not to project. You don’t know—”

  “I do know.” My spirits plummeted as I fingered the slippery silk. “He wants to have the ceremony in his parents’ backyard and he wants me to consider wearing his mother’s wedding dress. From the late seventies.”

  She grimaced. “How bad is it?”

  “Cinderella meets Peter, Paul and Mary. I’ll have to come up with a good excuse—maybe I’ll wear Claire’s gown and cite sentimental value? But I definitely can’t wear a revamped nightgown, however stylish, without hurting his feelings.”

  “That’s a shame; that dress could really be a knockout once you get through with it.”

  “No. I’m buying it, but I c
an’t wear it for the wedding.” My mother’s words echoed through my head. “His feelings, remember? Men are very sensitive.”

  “Talk about contrasting ideological visions.” Gayle clicked her tongue. “And that’s just the wedding. You two are going to have quite a time picking out a house together. How do you compromise between old Victorian flair and new construction practicality?”

  “Oh, he already picked out a house for us.” I watched her reaction closely, trying to figure out if the whole deal was as crazy and bizarre as I suspected. “As a surprise.”

  Gayle’s expression would suggest that my instincts were right on. “He picked out a house and didn’t tell you?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to see the lot this afternoon.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Like a heart attack. He already worked out the mortgage and everything, so…”

  “Really.” She gave a crisp nod and for the rest of the morning restricted her remarks to “hmmm” and “I see.”

  On the bright side, at least we were no longer talking about wedding gowns and engagement rings.

  “Here it is: the site of our future home!” Kevin removed his hands from my eyes and awaited my outpouring of gratitude.

  Blinking as my eyes readjusted to the afternoon sunlight, I gazed at the ground in front of me and beheld the spoils purchased with Kevin’s down payment: a giant scraggly pit.

  “It’s…beautiful?” The hole was shallow, muddy, and crosshatched with what appeared to be bulldozer tracks. Little green weeds had started to sprout around the edges.

  “Don’t worry, it won’t look like this forever.” Trish, the builder’s onsite sales rep, swirled her hands over the hole like a fortune-teller. A platinum blonde clad in a magenta blazer, soccer mom jeans, and white cowboy boots, she was the picture of consumer confidence. “Wait until they pour the foundation and start framing the walls. You’ll be so excited you’ll want to come by every day.”

  “Yeah, you can pick out colors for the walls and the shutters and the front door,” Kevin said. “While I bring by my measuring tape and level to make sure they’re building everything properly.”

  “Oh, you engineers are all the same!” Trish pshawed. Apparently she thought he was kidding. “It’s a big responsibility, picking out colors. But I’m sure you’ll do fine. Kevin here tells me you’re real stylish.”