Dolly All the Time(21)

“This is delicious,” I say to Octavia. “Where do you get your shrimp?”

“I would have no way of knowing,” Octavia says. “Where should we start?”

I open my mouth to speak and close it again. I’m looking around the room at the clothes—long chiffon dresses in ice cream colors, tailored pants in bright yellow and green, short-sleeved cashmere sweaters so fine you can see the silk of the camisoles under them. I cannot imagine wearing this stuff or standing in a room full of people dressed like this.

“Give us a minute, if you don’t mind,” Busy tells Octavia, then she turns to me. “Can we talk about the vibe you’re going for?”

I scrunch up my face. “Probably no vibe? I think that’s my vibe.”

“I mean, what do you think about when you’re picking out clothes? Like when you show up and love what you’re wearing, what’s that like for you?” she asks.

This is something I’ve never thought of in my life. I like clothes that can be washed in warm water and don’t have to be ironed. Anything that can be bleached in case of a mishap is a plus. I feel good when my jeans are freshly washed and dried so they don’t hang too low. I don’t like having to hike them up when I sit for circle time. I like a cocktail sauce–free T-shirt and a nightgown that’s short enough that it doesn’t get tangled around my legs. I have the feeling this isn’t what she means, but she is sparkling at me so brightly right now that I want to give a good answer.

I say, “I think I feel best when my clothes fit. And are clean. The vibe I’m putting out is that I’m on top of things?”

Octavia shoots Busy a look.

“That’s interesting,” Busy says. “There’s an enneagram for that. I like a pulled-together look. But I think this summer, for these events, we want a bit more than that, just a little bit. Low-key whimsical. Just a whiff of spectacular. Is that okay?”

I don’t think I’m capable of pulling off even a half whiff of spectacular, but I want to do this right. I want to win at being made over and do a great job making Stewart look good. “Okay,” I say.

Octavia says, “We’re going for a competent fashionista.”

“Send us your most capable clothes!” Busy says, and tops off my champagne.

Octavia smiles for the first time and I realize they’re teasing me. “What do we need?” she asks.

“I have a list,” Busy says.

“He gave you a list?” I ask.

“Damion did. His assistant.”

“Of course,” I say.

Busy reads from her phone. “One black-tie dress for the Providence event on Wednesday. Four dinner dresses—one for Boston, so more structured, and three for here. Something for the Starlight Gala. Shoes. Accessories for all. Sun hat. An assortment of things for yacht club lunches.”

“What about casual?” I ask. “Do I need something to wear on a boat or are my shorts and T-shirts okay?”

Busy shakes her head. “Stewart doesn’t take his boat out. Boating might actually be fun, and he can’t have that.” She says it with a smile, like it’s just a little quirk of his, but it strikes me as kind of sad.

“All right,” Octavia says with a clap of her hands. “Can I get a quick look at you, dear?” I stand and she measures me with her eyes. “Got it.”

The two of us, along with our feast, move into the dressing area to wait. Everything is white in there, down to the leather sofas, and I decide to forgo cocktail sauce for the rest of the day. Octavia returns with the “casual” options first. Pants in heavy cotton and linen, crisp blouses in floral patterns, and those delicate sweaters. I turn the pants inside out and admire the stitching the way Maud used to do. These pants were not sewn in a factory. I try on the first pair, canary yellow, with a sharp seam up the front. Yellow pants. The blouse picks up the tiniest bits of the yellow and maybe even a bit of my blue eyes. I can see how it’s all pretty in some way, but I feel like a peacock. This is more than a whiff. I take tiny steps to the sitting area.

“These are very nice pants,” I say, making big eyes at Busy. “But yellow? Do people wear yellow pants?”

“Gerard,” Octavia calls into the hallway.

“Trust me, this blends. People at the club are going to stare at you if you’re not wearing yellow pants,” says Busy. “Think of these yellow pants as camouflage. Change into beige and they’ll stare.”

It makes sense in an upside-down kind of way. My main job here is to fit in. “Okay,” I say, though I’m not sure I mean it.

Gerard comes in and sits at my feet. Apparently, my pants don’t fit. He takes them up an inch and then in at the crotch. He hikes them at the waist and pinches a bit. Covered in pins and not knowing how I am ever going to take them off without injuring myself, I realize I have been wearing pants that don’t fit for thirty-nine years.

“They’re perfect,” Busy says.

Next are the dinner dresses. There’s a black one for Boston that scoops low at the neck and makes me think of Audrey Hepburn. The other three are in flowy cotton (it might be linen, I don’t totally know the difference) in light pastel patterns. Each of them is a work of art.

When Octavia brings three long dresses in featherweight fabrics, I know they’re for the Starlight Gala. I’ve worked the event more than a dozen times, and the women were always in long, flowy dresses that felt like a fever dream of color and wind. My choices are orange strapless, powder-blue sleeveless, and a white halter dress.