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Casey is staring at me. I can almost see the gears in her head whirring. When we were kids, she’d have listened to that last bit and laughed. But we’re grownups now and, as I said, we’re close. So even as those gears in her brain are still going one hundred miles an hour, she smiles, nods, turns to Bailey and says, “That’s great. I keep telling him he needs a break and now he’s finally going to take one.”
Bailey exhales. Nods. We all sit there for another few seconds. Then Casey gets to her feet.
“Well,” she says briskly, “let’s get this show on the road. Evening wedding. Black tie.” She flashes Bailey a big smile. “Chateau d’Or, here we come.”
Bailey stares at my sister. “Really? The Chateau d’Or?”
Her tone is half awe, half delight. We head for the far end of the mall and when we get there, I understand her reaction. The Chateau is not so much a shop as it is an inner sanctum, all fresh flowers and soft music and gilt-framed mirrors.
But for all that, the saleswoman is low key and immediately puts Bailey at ease. I get waved to a handsome upholstered chair; Bailey gets sent into a fitting room.
Casey huddles with the saleswoman, who nods her head, says Of course and Yes and then hurries off through a curtained doorway.
My sister leans towards me.
“Is there anything you want to tell me?” she whispers.
“Not a thing,” I whisper back.
“You’re going away with a sweet, shy girl for three days and there’s nothing you want to tell me?”
“She’s a woman, not a girl. And I’m not going away with her. Not the way you mean. I’m her friend. This is strictly an act of friendship,”
“Friendship, huh? Three days at a wedding when we both know that weddings make you shudder?”
“The wedding won’t last for three days. “
“You know what I mean.”
“And they don’t make me shudder. I’m just not, you know, into that kind of thing.”
“Not just three days at a wedding. Three days in the country.”
“What’s wrong with the country?”
“Nothing, except it isn’t Manhattan.”
“I like the country.”
“You like Central Park.”
“Trees. Grass. Same thing.”
My sister bends close enough so I’m almost cross-eyed as I try to focus on her face.
“If you hurt this girl,” she says grimly, “I’ll never forgive you.”
“I told you, she’s a woman, not a girl. And I have no intention of hurting her. I like her. I respect her. Didn’t you hear what I said? This is strictly an act of friendship.”
While we’ve been going at each other in whispers, the salesclerk has hustled past us with an armful of gowns. We haven’t paid her any attention; we’ve been too busy squaring off. Now, there’s a discreet cough.
“Pardon me.”
Casey straightens up and turns around. The salesclerk smiles and holds back the dressing room curtain.
Bailey appears.
She’s wearing a long, slender column of pale pink. Later, I learn the color is called blush, but pale pink is close enough. It leaves one shoulder exposed. One pale, lovely shoulder. The gown—silk, I think—clings to the curve of her breasts and embraces her waist; it skims her hips and legs like a lover’s caress. She’s wearing spiked heels the color of the gown and when she takes a step forward, I see that the gown is slit so that when she moves, you get a discreet but incredibly provocative glimpse of ankle, calf and thigh. Her hair is a loose, shiny fall of soft curls drawn away from her flushed face with silver combs.
