“Beau! Oh my gosh, how are you?”
I rush over and give him a hug—a real one with a tight squeeze, not the limp, half-armed thing I gave Mary Moore when I ran into her.
“I’ve been getting by,” Beau says. “You know LuAnne, she’ll never officially retire, but just between us girls, I’ve been basically running the place for the past four years.”
“Good for you!” Beau was always my favorite part of coming to the dress shop. While Mom would scrutinize every gown I tried on with cold-eyed objectivity—that cut doesn’t flatter your figure; that color makes your hair look brassy—Beau told me I looked fabulous in everything.
“There you are!” Mom says, coming over to the two of us. “We’re all grabbing a dress for Cara to try on!” My mom looks like Christmas has come early, or like Mary Moore’s mother has come in second place at the county fair jam competition—to her.
I guess you can say I come by my competitive streak earnestly.
“Go on ahead,” Beau says. “I’m going to find a good playlist for y’all.”
I peruse the racks in the bridal section, picking a relic from the ’80s with a short, fitted skirt and giant poufy sleeves. I flick past a sleek gown with dainty little straps that’s totally Cara’s style and instead select a “Little Bo-Peep”–inspired ruffle explosion.
We all pile our dresses into the arms of the sales associate, and Cara disappears into a dressing room.
I join my mother and sister near the dressing rooms. Linney passes around glasses she’d buried in her tote bag and produces a bottle of champagne. She uncorks it with a pop, and the wine fizzes as she pours us each a glass. Mom, not normally a big drinker, says, “Oh, why not?” and accepts a flute from Linney with a smile.
She takes a sip, then leans over and squeezes my hand. “Remember how much fun we used to have here?”
Beside the dressing room, the small seating area is curled around a low pedestal. I remember all of it: standing on that same pedestal facing a ring of mirrors. Every angle of my teenage body thrown back to me in stark relief.
I offer Mom a smile, not willing to excavate anything unpleasant.
Some of the memoriesaregreat, though, like when Mom tearedup when I tried on my senior prom dress and told me I looked just like Meema, my nickname for my maternal grandmother. Meema died when I was ten, and I always thought she was magical. And itwasfun, getting to be a real-life Barbie doll. Being fussed over and admired felt good.
Until it didn’t.
But I don’t want to focus on that today. Besides, how could I dwell on the negative when Beau’s selected the ultimate Girls’ Night Out soundtrack—everything from Taylor to Mariah to Sabrina to Whitney to Reba to ABBA.
After a few minutes, Cara comes out in her first gown. She actually does look a little shy—hesitating just outside the curtain of the changing room until Linney hollers at her to give us a twirl.
This first dress is one Linney pulled. It’s vintage lace, with long bell sleeves. It’s cool and kind of funky… but notCara.
“You look stunning,” Beau says. “I’m loving the lace with your wavy hair. You like a modern Stevie Nicks!”
I grin despite myself. That’s what so great about Beau—his compliments are genuine. He’s not just hyping you up with generic praise; he finds something specific to love about whatever you’re wearing.
“Thanks,” Cara says, a small smile growing on her face. “I think I’m looking for something simpler.”
Beau nods. “Absolutely, darlin’. I love that for you.”
The next dress Cara tries on is my mom’s choice. There’s a significant amount of rustling behind the dressing room curtain as Cara tries to maneuver herself into the dress. She steps out of the dressing room in a gown that completely overwhelms her. She shuffles forward, gathering up two arms’ worth of fabric in order to step on the small platform. She looks like her ride home might turn back into a pumpkin if she’s not in it by midnight.
“Well, that’s certainly not simple,” Beau says, eyebrows raised above the rims of his glasses. “But you look positively royal!”
“You look so lovely, dear.” Misty-eyed, my mom clutches her glass of champagne to her chest. Linney and I murmur our agreements.
“It’s nice,” Cara says, clearly aiming for enthusiasm but I can tell she hates it and is just nervous about disappointing my mom.
And in that moment, I realize she’s all alone here. No mom, no sister, not even her maid of honor, who is coming the night before the wedding. I imagine how I would feel trying on dresses without Mom and Linney, or the Core Four, and a surge of sympathy rolls through me.
“Um, I think I’ll try on the others too,” Cara says to Mom. “Just to see.”
“Of course,” Mom demurs. “Try Nikki’s next.”
Cara looks over at me. “Which one should I go for?” she asks. “The short one, or the one with ruffles?” She’s smiling, but her eyes are hard.
