Jordan nodded and put the gifts down on my bed before walking over to me and reaching up to the back of my dress. I felt her fingers looping up the pearl buttons slowly, one by one.
I watched in the mirror as she deftly worked her way up my back. “My goodness, Daise. Who knew a dress could have so many buttons?”
“It’s couture,” I told her, repeating the word Tom’s mother had used to describe it, when she’d insisted on taking me to Paris to get it fitted.
“In other words, exorbitantly expensive?” Jordan laughed a little, causing her hands to shake against my shoulder blades.
I nodded. “It was made at a very fashionable atelier in Paris.”
“Of course it was,” Jordan said, her tone a little bit mocking. But then she quickly added, “It is beautiful, Daise. All this lace.” She stopped buttoning and ran her fingers gently across my lacy back. “What a dream.”
The dress was a dream: formfitting lace with a heart-shaped neckline and an excessive amount of pearl buttons—they wound all the way up from my backside to the nape of my neck. I wasn’t sure exactly how much the dress cost, and I would’ve been afraid to even ask Mrs. Buchanan that question. When I’d fretted about it to Tom, insisting that really, it was all too much, this dress, the trip to Paris, the wedding reception with four hundred guests at the Seelbach—half of whom I was pretty sure neither one of us had ever met—he said I shouldn’t even think about those things. As his wife I’d have everything. Too much was not enough. Money meant nothing any longer. And that thought washed over me now, making me feel light and happy, the way a bride should.
Truth be told, I was relieved to hear Jordan complimenting my dress. Relieved she’d taken a little time off from her tour to come home and stand up at the altar with me. I hadn’t been sure how she would react to the news of me marrying Tom when we got engaged last fall. When I first wrote her about dating him, a year ago, she made it clear in her response that she didn’t love the idea of me dating someone on the basis of his enormous wealth, and from Chicago no less. But Jordan was different when she’d come back to visit last Christmas, softer somehow. The golf tour seemed to be agreeing with her. And when I’d asked her then about coming back home for the wedding in the middle of June, being my maid of honor, she’d answered me with a squeal and a hug and an of course. And in that moment, neither one of us had even stopped to be sad about Rose, about the fact that she certainly would’ve been my maid of honor, if she’d still been here.
I thought about it later, though, after Jordan went back to her tour, after New Year’s. When I traveled to Paris with Mother and Mrs. Buchanan and sat inside the small, warm atelier, looking over designs, allowing the old Frenchwoman to stretch her tape measure around my body, over my bosom and across my hips, I’d looked up, and Mother had had a cautious smile on her face and Mrs. Buchanan was looking, well, like Mrs. Buchanan. （Tom said when she wasn’t deeply frowning that actually meant she was quite happy.） But I’d looked at them then, and in that moment, I could almost see Rose sitting there in between them, her bright eyes, shimmering with excitement, at me, her older sister, in France, getting her wedding dress.
Or would she have been sitting there shaking her head, reminding me to be good? Telling me how many poor people she could help with all the money going to pay for this too-extravagant trip across the Atlantic, for a too-extravagant dress that I would only wear once. Then I’d had another thought: in a world with Rose, I might have never even gone to Paris for my wedding dress, never even met Tom Buchanan at all.
“There you go, all buttoned,” Jordan said, interrupting my thoughts. I examined my figure in the mirror, smoothing the lace down around my hips and pushing all negative thoughts away, too. It was my wedding day. I was here with my Jordie, and I was about to become Mrs. Tom Buchanan. “We still have to fasten your veil,” Jordan was saying now. “But open your gifts first.”
Gifts! From Tom. I’d almost forgotten about them. I clapped my hands together, gleefully. They were sure to be expensive gifts, beautiful gifts. I picked up the larger of the two boxes first and unwrapped the gold foil. Inside was the most gorgeous pink pearl necklace I’d ever seen. Jordan, who was glancing over my shoulder, let out a little gasp. “So that’s what three hundred and fifty thousand dollars looks like on a necklace.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that part. But Tom accidentally let it slip.”