“Lily’s is a possibility. The rest aren’t.”
I caught a glimpse of Bethany’s face before she put her mask up. Her fingers clutched the hem of the dress she was wearing, then she dropped it. Bethany loved the dress she was in. Did I love the dress I was in? Yes. Did I actually care what I wore to Sharon’s wedding as long as it didn’t cost as much as my dress for Caryn’s? Nope.
My mouth opened involuntarily. “I’d love to try on the one Bethany is wearing too.”
Bethany shook her head narrowly at me. Sharon’s eyes were wide, but wary, waiting to see how her mother would respond to this small rebellion when there was a larger one brewing.
“You can do that on your time. I have a hair appointment this afternoon.”
“I—”
“Next dress,” she said resolutely. “Then we’ll trade the good ones.” I started to say something, but she fixed me with a look that stopped me.
Pick your battles, Lily. You told Sharon you would fight one for her, not her sister. I went back into the dressing room, where my next dress was possibly the worst thing I had ever put on. It was sent back, and I was instructed to put on the first dress that Elyse had and give Bethany my favorite to try on.
I was beginning to feel like I was in one of those dating shows that Becca watched, waiting to see which dress got the rose by the end of the whole ordeal, but eventually Mrs. Meyer selected a dress, then paid lip service to Sharon, asking if she agreed. Sharon did. It wasn’t the one I loved, but again, not my wedding, not my say.
“So we’ll be ordering three of these in black,” she said to the saleslady, and Sharon looked at me imploringly.
Crap, I thought. Then I cleared my throat. Mrs. Meyer turned in surprise.
“Actually, Mrs. M., I’m not sure.”
She looked at me wearily, as if this was no surprise. “Of course. You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” She turned to her daughter. “I told you asking someone who wasn’t family to be in the wedding was a mistake.”
“What? No! I’m not pregnant.” I stared at her, horrified.
“Then what’s the matter?”
“I’m just—uh—I’m not a huge fan of black.”
“Since when?” She looked pointedly at me. I hadn’t thought this one out. My shirt, shoes, purse, and coat were all black.
“I meant for weddings. It’s—um—it’s considered bad luck.”
She turned to the saleswoman. “Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“It used to be considered a faux pas, but black bridesmaid dresses are very in fashion right now,” she reassured Mrs. Meyer.
“It’s a bad omen—in my culture.”
Her hand went to her hip. “You’re half Jewish and half what again?”
“Episcopalian,” I said quietly. I wouldn’t quite describe either as a culture though—we had a Christmas tree but also lit Hanukkah candles. The only time I had ever set foot in a church was for a wedding on my mom’s side, and my only times in synagogues were for my dad’s cousins’ bar mitzvahs.
“The Jewish side certainly doesn’t have a taboo against black, and everyone is doing it these days. And,” she enunciated each word of this next part, “it is not your wedding.”
I glanced at Sharon, who was studying her fingernails. Why am I doing this again? Then I went for it.
“It’s not yours either.”
“What did you just say to me?”
“It’s Sharon’s wedding. Did you ask her what color she wanted us to wear?”
“I’m paying for this wedding and Sharon is my daughter, so this certainly is my wedding!” She turned to Sharon. “Are you going to let her speak to me this way?”
“I—”
Mrs. Meyer cut her off. “I understand that Sharon wanted you in her wedding for sentimental value, but this is completely inappropriate.”
“Ask her then,” I said quietly. “If Sharon says she wants black, I’ll wear it and you’ll never hear a peep from me about it.”
Sharon looked at me, aghast, then realized her mother was watching and adjusted her face.
“Well?” Mrs. Meyer asked. “We’re all waiting.”
“I—” Her eyes darted to me, like a frightened animal’s. “They’re all so pale,” she squeaked almost inaudibly. “They’ll look like ghosts in black.”
“So they’ll go tanning.”