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It’s taken at least a dozen fittings, all with Erin Lattimer breathing down my neck, but my dress for the president’s birthday party is finally done. I’m nervous about the party for a whole host of reasons. The dress being only a small part of my anxiety. I know I’ll be on display as the president’s new daughter-in-law, everyone watching what I do, the way I interact with Bishop. And my father and Callie will be there, too. Everyone waiting for me to slip up. Although they haven’t approached me since the night I found out about my mother’s suicide, I know they want the gun safe combination. There are only a few weeks left before the deadline. And a bustling party in the president’s house is probably my best chance of finding it.
But beyond all those concerns, there is the simple desire to look pretty in my dress. To watch Bishop’s face when I walk into the room. It’s a waste of time, but I can’t stop picturing the moment. You’re being ridiculous, Ivy, I tell myself, before finding myself back in the same daydream five minutes later.
The day of the party dawns warm and rainy. I know the bulk of the party is supposed to take place on the back terrace and yard of the president’s house, but I don’t imagine the turn in the weather ruffles Erin. She’s the type of woman who expects things to happen as she wants them to, so I’m not surprised at all when the storm clouds move off and the sun shows up in the late afternoon. Her wish is the weather’s command, apparently.
Bishop disappears from the house after lunch and, almost immediately afterward, a woman I’ve never met before arrives, saying she is there to help me dress and do my hair. I would argue, but I know better. I have to pick my battles, and this one isn’t worth it. Besides, I want to look pretty, but I’d never say it out loud. To anyone.
The woman, whose name is Laura, won’t let me look at myself until she’s done. But she listens to me when I say I don’t want my hair all pulled up. Or, at least, she’s listened to what Erin told her beforehand. The dress is a work of art, and I’m not sure I’m going to be able to pull it off. But once I have it on, Laura claps her hands in front of her mouth and smiles. “Perfect,” she says.
She turns me with her hands on my shoulders and then steps back, out of my reflection. I was worried I wouldn’t recognize myself, but I still look like me. Just a more elegant version. The front of my hair is upswept, but the rest trails halfway down my back, its usual wild waves smooth and shiny. But it’s the dress that really captures my attention. It hugs my body more than I thought it would, but it’s not skintight, the skirt floating out from my hips to skim the floor. My right shoulder is bare, my left partially covered where the lilac material gathers. I’ve never had a dress that was made for my body and not my sister’s. This dress makes me glad to be tall, for once not ashamed of my height and curves or anxious to conceal them. Tonight I see a pretty girl in the mirror, one at home in her skin, and I hope Bishop sees her, too.
I don’t even notice Laura’s left the room until I hear her voice from the front of the house and Bishop’s deep voice in response. I turn from the mirror, unsure. Should I stay where I am? Walk out to meet him? I’m breathing too fast and my palms are damp. I imagine this is how a real bride is supposed to feel on her wedding day, which makes my anxiety even worse.
Bishop saves me from having to decide what to do when he appears in the bedroom doorway. He stops when he sees me, leans one shoulder casually against the doorjamb. His eyes travel down the length of my body before journeying back up. He’s wearing a black suit and a coveted white shirt, open at the throat. No tie. I remember the day we met—how I looked at him and catalogued his features so objectively. I understood he was handsome, the same way I knew a pretty sunset or lovely flower when I saw it. But his beauty didn’t touch me. Now, when I look at him, I just see Bishop.
And he takes my breath away.
He pushes off from the doorjamb and crosses to where I stand, my hands clasped in front of me. He takes them in his, smoothing out my curled fingers. “So, is this the dress my mother made you crazy over?”
I nod. He nods in return. “Remind me to thank her,” he says. He releases one of my hands and cups my cheek, lowers his head and kisses the curve of my neck right below my ear. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, “but that’s nothing new. ”
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” I say and feel his smile against my skin. I hook a finger into his open collar and pull lightly. “No tie?” I tease.
He pulls back to look at me, his arms looping around my waist. “Hate them,” he says with a grin.
“Your mother won’t be happy. ”
“She’ll get over it. ” He tightens his hold on me. “Or we could stay home and really piss her off. ”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Absolutely not. ”
He sighs and turns for the door, my hand clutched in his. “Can’t blame a guy for trying. ”
Erin instructed us to be early, but we end up being some of the last to arrive, walking up the drive with a few other stragglers. Bishop doesn’t seem concerned, but I don’t want to give Erin any additional ammunition against me.
Candles in tiny paper bags sparkle along the edges of the driveway and on the front steps of the house. As if in solidarity, fireflies flicker above the grass. When I was younger, there were summers you could scoop handfuls from the air without even trying, enough to fill a jar for a nighttime lantern or to make a glowing ring if you had the will to pluck the shimmering tails from their bodies. I never did, but Callie would do it for me. There is a lesson in there somewhere, if I care to think about it.
From the corner of my eye, I can see the hulking shadow of the tree where my mother died. I don’t turn my head to look at it, but Bishop must sense my focus because he gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. We have somehow reached the point where we can read each other without words, and I’m not sure when it happened. One more thing about Bishop Lattimer that has snuck up on me.
Bishop’s parents greet us almost the second we step through the entryway. His father gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek, tells me I look radiant. Erin is her usual standoffish self, but I catch a gleam of approval in her eyes as she takes me in. “Very nice,” she tells me. It’s the most I’m likely to get from her, and it’s enough.
“You’re late,” she says to Bishop with pursed lips.
“My fault,” I say before Bishop can take the blame. “Trouble with the dress. ”
Erin graces me with a polite smile. “Better late than never, I suppose. ”
Bishop leads me through the front hallway and out onto the back terrace. It’s the same twinkling wonderland as the front, ringed with candles and the lilting sound of laughter. On the far side of the terrace, there is a bar set up, and Bishop nods toward it. “Do you want a drink?”
“Sure,” I say. It would be nice to have something to do with my nervous hands. I can feel the stares of the other guests on us, everyone wanting to see the president’s son and the founder’s daughter. I like it better when we are alone, inside our tiny house, safe from prying eyes.
“I’ll be right back,” Bishop says. I watch him move away from me, taller than everyone else, his lean body cutting through the crowd. I work at not feeling self-conscious as people mill around me, a few offering kind smiles as they pass. If my father and sister are here, I haven’t seen any sign of them yet.
Bishop is waiting in the line for drinks, and he looks back over his shoulder, his eyes finding mine. He gives me a small, intimate smile that heats my skin. I don’t look away from him, even when someone sidles up next to me.
“Well, you two seem to have gotten cozier,” Callie’s voice says.
I tear my eyes away from Bishop’s and look down at my sister. She is wearing a yellow dress that makes her complexion sallow, but her face is still beautiful. “He can’t keep his eyes off you,” she says, running her own gaze down the length of my dress.
