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The pleasantries as the two ‘in-laws’ get to know each other are polite but something to build on.
“Harper’s wanted to be a teacher her whole life, right?” my mom asks.
Hillary laughs lightly. “Since she was a kid. I remember her coming to me one day—she must’ve been around seven—upset that her friends didn’t want to play with her. I asked her what they didn’t want to play, expecting her to say ponies or hide and seek, and she showed me how she’d set up the entire basement as a classroom for her dolls and her friends. Apparently, it was spelling test day and her friends were not having it.” She smiles at the memory but then dabs at her eyes, musing, “How’d time go by so fast?”
My mom pats Hillary’s hand, and then the two women grasp hands, looking into each other’s eyes. I can only imagine what they’re feeling at seeing their babies grow up.
Cassie and I look at each other too, both of us with matching expressions of discomfort.
We’re rescued by a throat clearing. We look over to Harper, who’s come out with her first attempt. “Well?”
“Uh . . . hell no,” I exclaim reflexively. I cover my mouth, embarrassed at my outburst, but everyone else is shaking their heads with me.
“You sort of look like . . . a cupcake,” Cassie says, sounding nicer than me. To me, the big ballgown bottom makes Harper look like white cotton candy, the skirt as the sugary goodness and Harper as the thinner paper cone. “Maybe something . . . you know, more . . . I mean, less . . . voluminous?”
“No pouf parade. Got it,” Harper says, still cheerful.
But for the next two hours, things dissolve into agony. Well, we’re having a good time, but there is a time crunch to consider, and Harper has declared that she’s not leaving the store until she finds The One, no matter how long it takes.
Maybe the next one will be it? A girl can hope.
“Oh, honey! You are a breath away from introducing Thelma and Louise to the light of day!” Hillary exclaims about one with a deep plunging V neckline.
“Are you trying to do a throwback theme? That dress looks old-fashioned for 1921, let alone today. It’s more tablecloth on parade than wedding dress,” Cassie says about a full lace gown with a high neckline, the answer to the too-low one.
“Are those shoulder straps supposed to clip into your parachute or something? They’re long enough that someone could play you like a puppet from the rafters.” I wave my hands like a puppeteer controlling a marionette while Harper flaps the lengths of sheer fabric that hang down her back like a cape.
Luckily, Harper’s not taking anything to heart. She seems to be having a blast roasting the dresses along with us. I think she knows most of these are ridiculous and is having fun playing dress up, like she’s a real-life paper doll sticking astronaut pants and a flight attendant top on at the same time.
“What about this one?” she asks after about the tenth dress. “This one’s kind of cute.”
I nearly drop my untouched champagne as I see what she’s wearing. “Uhm, babe.” I look at the dress she’s swaying back and forth in. “I’m not sure if that’s more feather duster or full-on chicken. Bcawk!”
“Really?” Harper says, touching one of the feathers that fall from the waist down the skirt in rows. “I thought it was better.”
Cassie can see the tiny glimmer of hope in Harper’s eyes and isn’t letting her friend go out like that. She cuts a little deeper, in kindness despite how it sounds. “Harp, it kinda makes it look like you’ve got a full Grandma bush and desperately need a Brazilian. With hedge clippers.”
Hillary chokes on the champagne she was drinking in an effort to not squash her daughter’s dress dreams.
But the consultant jumps in to save the day. “Ladies, despite the—ahem—issues with the ones we’ve tried, I think we’re narrowing things down. We’ve got an idea on silhouette, modesty, and details. I think I know just the thing.”
Harper claps in delight. “One more, okay?” she pleads.
We all nod easily because that’s what we’re here for. And the clock is ticking for Harper to be ready for the wedding, so we shouldn’t leave until we’ve exhausted all the options, including anything without feathers.
Ten minutes later, Harper comes out, and my jaw drops.
It’s perfect. Elegant and sexy, interesting in a way that lets Harper shine, and best of all, Harper is beaming through tears. “Guys?” she says, her voice shaky.
Hillary gasps. “I . . . dammit,” she says, dabbing at her eyes. “My mascara’s running. Remember, everyone, waterproof for the ceremony!”
She’s right. As beautiful as Harper looks today, she’s going to be a vision with full hair, makeup, and a veil, and we’re all going to end up looking like raccoons if we’re not careful.
