friend for being flip about fashion, which she knew ticked me off. “To marry the fabrics, I’ll use strips of the same lace to replace the tulle ruffles at the neck and wrists. That’s yellowed, too. It has to go.”
“You rule, Sis. You should open your own shop.”
Eve snapped her fingers. “Where have we heard that suggestion before, Mad?”
“I know, I know; that’s what you keep telling me. I’ll design the lace coat to flow from a high-standing, scalloped collar and make you look like a queen. It’ll V down to three self-buttons beginning at your cleavage and ending at an inverted V that flows to the floor.”
I bit my lip. The back hem would be tricky. In fact I didn’t want to hem it; I wanted self-scalloped edges all around. “The design will have to give way to the gown’s train, somehow,” I said. “Don’t worry; I’ll know how to do it when I see the lace.”
“Maddie, this’ll be a dream gown when you’re done with it. Thank you so much.”
Sherry’s eyes filled again. “Justin will be happy because his mother is, and on my wedding day, I’ll feel like a queen.”
“Madeira, Sherry, Eve,” my father called from the bottom of the stairs. “Fiona’s here. Time to go to the police station.”
Sherry’s expression froze, the light leaving her eyes. “Do they let prisoners attend their own weddings?”
I raised the gown over her head. What could I say to that?
“A bit melodramatic, aren’t you, Sherry?” Eve asked, helping me lift the gown off her.
I glared at my former best friend, but she gave me a look that said she was standing her ground. Maybe she was right.
I sighed, unsure of anything anymore. “Cherry Pie, you’re not a murderer.”
“No.” She sighed. “I’m only the prime suspect.”
Eight
Women are now more comfortable with themselves and their bodies—they no longer feel the need to hide behind their clothes.—DONNA KARAN
I changed quickly into a sage green, scoop-neck pocket tank mini that I designed and made myself, leopard flats from Blahnik, and my camel Fendi hobo bag. Okay, so I changed handbags the way most people changed their underwear. So sue me. I had a thing for purses.
Shoes, almost as much, hats, too, but as my mother once said, I’d turned in my rattle for a handbag and never looked back.
Because of my job, many of my clothes were gorgeous and pricey, but didn’t cost a thing, yet I wanted something different. I wanted the classic lines I grew up loving, and I knew exactly where to find them. At Aunt Fiona’s.
After we finished at the police station, I’d follow her home, tell her about my
“vision,” and grab some of my secret, vintage stash.
Sherry came down to leave for the station wearing a black suit and white blouse, her hair pulled back in a twist, as if she were going to a funeral or her own execution. I wanted to suggest she change into something livelier, but we didn’t have time. Instead, I ran upstairs for a Gucci scarf splashed with summer flowers, a pair of multicolor pumps, and a red Dior bag that Mimi Spencer had once called “the equivalent of a yapping Chihuahua.”
“There,” I said, after I’d accessorized her. “Proclaim your confidence, instead of your fear.”
She looked down at herself. “You know, I do feel more confident.”
“Go get ’em,” I said. “Eve, ride with me to the station, will you? Sherry, you go with Dad and Aunt Fiona, because she might have some last-minute instructions for you. Right, Aunt Fee?”
Aunt Fiona nodded in agreement, gracefully accepting my suggestion. At least now I knew why I’d always gotten the impression that the woman could read my mind. Sitting in the pimpmobile, motor running, Eve and I watched my dad’s Volvo leave the drive.
Eve poked me in the arm. “What happened when you zoned out up there?”
“Ouch. What’d you poke me for?”
“For holding out on me. How can I save you, if I don’t know what you need saving from?”
“I know what
“You rule, Sis. You should open your own shop.”
Eve snapped her fingers. “Where have we heard that suggestion before, Mad?”
“I know, I know; that’s what you keep telling me. I’ll design the lace coat to flow from a high-standing, scalloped collar and make you look like a queen. It’ll V down to three self-buttons beginning at your cleavage and ending at an inverted V that flows to the floor.”
I bit my lip. The back hem would be tricky. In fact I didn’t want to hem it; I wanted self-scalloped edges all around. “The design will have to give way to the gown’s train, somehow,” I said. “Don’t worry; I’ll know how to do it when I see the lace.”
“Maddie, this’ll be a dream gown when you’re done with it. Thank you so much.”
Sherry’s eyes filled again. “Justin will be happy because his mother is, and on my wedding day, I’ll feel like a queen.”
“Madeira, Sherry, Eve,” my father called from the bottom of the stairs. “Fiona’s here. Time to go to the police station.”
Sherry’s expression froze, the light leaving her eyes. “Do they let prisoners attend their own weddings?”
I raised the gown over her head. What could I say to that?
“A bit melodramatic, aren’t you, Sherry?” Eve asked, helping me lift the gown off her.
I glared at my former best friend, but she gave me a look that said she was standing her ground. Maybe she was right.
I sighed, unsure of anything anymore. “Cherry Pie, you’re not a murderer.”
“No.” She sighed. “I’m only the prime suspect.”
Eight
Women are now more comfortable with themselves and their bodies—they no longer feel the need to hide behind their clothes.—DONNA KARAN
I changed quickly into a sage green, scoop-neck pocket tank mini that I designed and made myself, leopard flats from Blahnik, and my camel Fendi hobo bag. Okay, so I changed handbags the way most people changed their underwear. So sue me. I had a thing for purses.
Shoes, almost as much, hats, too, but as my mother once said, I’d turned in my rattle for a handbag and never looked back.
Because of my job, many of my clothes were gorgeous and pricey, but didn’t cost a thing, yet I wanted something different. I wanted the classic lines I grew up loving, and I knew exactly where to find them. At Aunt Fiona’s.
After we finished at the police station, I’d follow her home, tell her about my
“vision,” and grab some of my secret, vintage stash.
Sherry came down to leave for the station wearing a black suit and white blouse, her hair pulled back in a twist, as if she were going to a funeral or her own execution. I wanted to suggest she change into something livelier, but we didn’t have time. Instead, I ran upstairs for a Gucci scarf splashed with summer flowers, a pair of multicolor pumps, and a red Dior bag that Mimi Spencer had once called “the equivalent of a yapping Chihuahua.”
“There,” I said, after I’d accessorized her. “Proclaim your confidence, instead of your fear.”
She looked down at herself. “You know, I do feel more confident.”
“Go get ’em,” I said. “Eve, ride with me to the station, will you? Sherry, you go with Dad and Aunt Fiona, because she might have some last-minute instructions for you. Right, Aunt Fee?”
Aunt Fiona nodded in agreement, gracefully accepting my suggestion. At least now I knew why I’d always gotten the impression that the woman could read my mind. Sitting in the pimpmobile, motor running, Eve and I watched my dad’s Volvo leave the drive.
Eve poked me in the arm. “What happened when you zoned out up there?”
“Ouch. What’d you poke me for?”
“For holding out on me. How can I save you, if I don’t know what you need saving from?”
“I know what
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