She untied the joined bags and pulled them from the dress.
“Oh,” I breathed as a swoosh of the creamy-white Givenchy spilled forth. Ruby lifted the hanger where she had pinned the top of the gown. The bodice was a black-and-cream polka dot that stretched across the neckline, piped in black velvet and secured at the shoulder with black ties. The skirt fell, lusciously, in panels to below the knee, and beneath the creamy fabric was a five-inch black tulle underlay. It was daring, fun, and quite gorgeous.
My mother actually clapped. “Darling girl, that is . . . Well, I haven’t seen anything that pretty since my mother paraded around town in just that sort of thing. I cannot believe you took old gowns and refashioned them so divinely. I’m stunned. You know what, I’m calling your aunt, Cricket. She needs to meet this girl.”
My mother rarely got excited by anything, but her normally cool blue eyes were flashing and . . . she was smiling! Goodness, my mama was pretty when she looked stirred.
I laughed, and I swore it felt rusty because I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a reason to feel quite so good. “Wait a second. Don’t you go trying to ship Ruby off. She’s my girl Friday. I need her here.”
“Ha, she’s more than an assistant,” my mother said, with a gleam in her eyes. But then she looked at me, and those eyes narrowed. “Goodness gracious, Cricket, you need to book a day with Jeannie. Sugar, you’re looking peaked. A moisturizing facial and”—her eyes lowered—“a manicure would do you wonders. You know that you must take care of your skin at your age. I’m telling you, dear, that when you tip over into your forties, your skin starts getting crepey and losing elasticity. Let me see your neck.”
I swatted at her as she drew closer. “Go call Aunt Coraline and stop fussing about me.”
“Who’s Aunt Coraline?” Ruby asked, hanging the creation she’d unveiled on the side of the mirror.
“My mother’s sister who works at Vogue. She’s someone who might be interested in you.” As I said those words, I knew that my aunt would be fascinated by Ruby’s talent, but I wasn’t certain that Ruby wanted those doors open. Wasn’t like I could shove her out into New York or London or Paris on a hunch. My mother and I knew what we liked and appreciated Ruby’s talent, but what if my assistant didn’t want to do what we were pushing her toward? What if her dream wasn’t studying at fashion institutes or working for a designer where the competition was so fierce, a person had to know where their scissors were at all times?
“Vogue? Like the magazine?” Ruby asked.
“That is correct.” My mother still looked at me way too discerningly.
“What are you doing here anyway, Mother?” I asked.
“What do you mean? A mother can’t come see her daughter?”
I made a face. “You never come to the store. You don’t like dusty antiques. I believe that’s what you always say.”
My mother lifted a shoulder. She wore her standard uniform for the week—trim trousers tailored to her specifications, a white Talbots button-down, and a cashmere cardigan. In the summer, she eschewed the cardigan for rolled-up sleeves. She wore my grandmother’s diamonds in lobes revealed by tucking her tawny, shoulder-length bob behind her ears. Elizabeth Arden red stained her plumped lips. High cheekbones, firmed skin, and ladylike makeup completed her look. Oh, and those Roger Vivier buckled shoes with the two-inch chunky heel. “Fine. So I got a call from your husband. About the investment opportunity. I tell you, Catherine, I do not like family members involving me in their schemes. Or whatever that Walker man is dreaming up.”
“Scott called you about an investment?”
“I’m not here to tattle. I just wanted you to understand my stance because I told him no. And I didn’t want you to be upset with me.”
“I’m not upset. I’m a little confused, though. Scott stays away from that sort of thing. He knows a few bankers who got in over their heads on some bad deals. But Donner Walker is one of his old frat buddy’s brothers, and I think he got cornered into introducing him around. I didn’t think Scott was actively involved in a deal or anything.” I also hadn’t known my husband had been cheating on me. Did I really know Scott the way I thought I had?
My husband had always been such a man of integrity, taking pride in his reputation, his ability to serve, his standing in the bank. Scott liked to say the only way he was comfortable was if he squeaked when he walked, which I thought weird, but I knew what he meant. He wore an American flag on his lapel, wrote personal notes on monogrammed stationery, and attended every mayor’s prayer breakfast. He’d groomed himself to be trustworthy, a man with whom people wanted to do business, a man who didn’t screw a tennis coach or ask his mother-in-law to invest in an “opportunity.” My husband had changed . . . or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d always been exactly what he was, and I had just fit the image I wanted of him into my world. The past two weeks had shown me that I had been wrong about him—he wasn’t truthful, steady, or admirable.