Page 57 of Blue Jean Summer

I raised an eyebrow. “Have you?”

She nodded. “It’s in the foyer of the house.”

Well, that explained it. I never used the front door.

“And it was included in the newspaper article that ran about your engagement,” Hallie said as she pulled up the article on her phone. “There was a write-up on the second page about the history of the estate and Walt and Mildred’s love story.”

Savannah rolled her eyes and grumbled, “A two-page newspaper spread, and she pretends like this is just dress shopping.”

I ignored her indignation and studied the screen. I had faint memories of the portrait of Hayes’s grandmother, but it had been so long that I’d forgotten how beautiful she was.

“Now that’s a wedding dress,” Hallie said.

The photo was taken with Mildred Wilder standing on a cascading staircase. Her wedding dress was simple—a graceful boatneck and an A-line skirt. But that’s where the simplicity ended. The train was miles long, dramatically swooping down the staircase. What seemed like thousands of buttons in a neat line ran from her back to the hem. She wore tight white opera gloves and a cathedral-length veil. The same ring that was on my left hand was on hers, over top of the gloves.

Mildred’s hair was pulled back the way Savannah had just done for me. The look on her face was demure, but the way she held herself was regal.

“She looks incredible,” Hallie said.

“She was incredible,” I said. I remembered Hayes’s grandma as a sarcastic woman who laughed loud, hugged hard, and always had ice cream on hand. This woman was a breathtaking force to be reckoned with.

Savannah pointed a finger at the screen. “That’s what we’re doing.”

My brows creased.

“This is why you haven’t found the dress when you look amazing in all of them,” Savannah said. “You’re looking for the magical moment where you fall in love with a dress that you can’t wait for your future husband to see you in. Spoiler alert: You can’t fall in love with a wedding dress if you’re not in love with your husband.”

“Shush!” I whispered as I looked across the shop to make sure the other brides hadn’t heard. The last thing I wanted was a rumor going around that Hayes Wilder’s fiancée wasn’t in love with him.

“You’re playing a part, Cath,” she said quietly. “You’re not supposed to look like a bride. You’re supposed to look like the next Mrs. Wilder.”

Right. I knew that.

We divided and conquered, perusing the racks for the dress.

I was stuffed back into the fitting room with just one gown. The bridal consultant slipped in to help me, wielding a buttonhook like a fairy godmother’s wand.

The dress fit like a glove. Savannah wouldn’t even need to alter it. I hiked up the bulk of the skirt and strutted out.

They stopped in their tracks.

“That’s it,” Savannah said. Hallie nodded in agreement.

I stepped onto the pedestal in front of the mirrors as they fluffed the train so that it lay neatly.

Having my hair pulled back made a world of difference. It made me stand taller, hold my head higher.

Savannah handed me a pair of opera gloves that stretched up to my biceps. “You don’t need a necklace,” she said. “The neckline is high enough.”

I adjusted the gloves and took a long look in the mirror. The boatneck was similar to the one in the portrait of Mildred Wilder. So was the fabric—clean white satin with a muted shine. But where her gown had a wide skirt and miles-long train, mine was fitted, then flared out gracefully just past my knees.

“You look like a million bucks,” Hallie said.

“More like a few hundred million,” Savannah said as she fastened the veil into my bun. “Or whatever Hayes’s bank account is looking like these days.”

My stomach soured at yet another reminder that this wasn’t real. It was just a childish game of dress-up and I had to stop playing pretend.

I stepped off the pedestal and headed for the dressing room. “Put it on his card. I need a drink.”