Read Online The Marriage at the Rue Morgue (A Rue and Lakeland Mystery) by Jessie Bishop Powell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jessie Bishop Powell
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a full circle as Nana entered the room, tugging on the train to keep it from twining around my legs as I spun. While I was turning, Lance sucked in his breath.
“What?” I asked him.
He tried to explain. “It still hangs and sags”—he gestured to my arms and chest respectively—“but . . .” He trailed off, still circling his left hand like he expected it to conjure words out of thin air for him. Then he said suddenly, “I like it. I like it very much.”
“But you said . . .,” I protested.
Nana cut me off. “No, dear. I agree with Lance. It looks nice. I’m glad someone will finally get some use out of it after all these years.” And I realized he had spoken entirely for my grandmother’s benefit. Whether Lance liked the dress or not, whether
I
liked it or not, Nana clearly loved it. All the memories and heartache, and she still loved her dress. She clasped her hands at her chest and quickly released them. Then she added, “Of course, in my day, the groom never saw the dress until the day of the wedding. I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t made Bill wait. Maybe this would be a second wearing instead of a first.” At eighty, Nana still towered over me. Although she was stooped now and walked a little slowly, her green eyes shone with a joyful light, even in a wistful moment like this one, as she looked at me in her dress.
“What was it like for you,” I asked, “raising Mama alone?” It wasn’t a topic I had ever broached, but I suddenly couldn’t imagine why. My grandmother had been a single parent in an age when girls were routinely sent away for nine convenient months in the event of an unexpected pregnancy.
Franny Cox had laughed as she paced around me, gathering fistfuls of fabric to pull the hem off the ground and putting them in my increasingly overburdened arms. Nana was not troubled about stepping over the train, and the chiffon didn’t slip out of her grip, even while she was handing more of it to me. I resorted to tucking it under my elbows. When Nana was finished, I stood a little awkwardly, half clutching, half pinning the hem clear of the floor, while she stood behind me pinching the chest tight.
“It wasn’t that long ago, really,” Nana said at last, answering a question I had thought she might ignore. “Most people thought we’d eloped before Bill went off to Korea, and I let them lie to themselves. And I wasn’t alone, really.” Now she had moved on to the sleeves, tugging so they hung at my wrists, not down over the palms. No mean feat, especially considering that she did it one-handed without dislodging any of the tucked-up skirt or letting go of the back of the dress. She went on, “Mother was horrified, but she stood up in church for me. And that’s not something you saw every day. She was a very formidable woman, my mother. Very formidable. Your sister is a lot like her.” Last of all, Nana pulled the throat tight for a moment, then nodded once before letting it all go again.
“Yes,” she said, talking about the dress now. “Lenore and I can sew that.”
“Meaning
I
can sew that,” Mama said, returning from her phone call, stuffing the device once more into her pocket. “Mother, you know your eyes aren’t up to needlework.”
“My eyes are fine,” Nana snapped, pushing her glasses up her nose.
“You crochet,” Mama said. “But we’re talking about tiny stitches. When was the last time you even embroidered?”
“Stop it! Both of you!” I threw up my arms and dropped the cascades of fabric Nana had tucked up for me. “Or I swear I’ll get a tailor.” The two of them cackled, like they thought I was making some kind of a joke. “Lance, get me out of this thing,” I said, meaning it this time. I retreated upstairs to the sewing room as delicately as one can while trailing a wedding dress at least three sizes too large, and Mama, not Lance, followed.
C HAPTER 7
----
Now, two weeks later, that dress sat waiting for me on the
“What?” I asked him.
He tried to explain. “It still hangs and sags”—he gestured to my arms and chest respectively—“but . . .” He trailed off, still circling his left hand like he expected it to conjure words out of thin air for him. Then he said suddenly, “I like it. I like it very much.”
“But you said . . .,” I protested.
Nana cut me off. “No, dear. I agree with Lance. It looks nice. I’m glad someone will finally get some use out of it after all these years.” And I realized he had spoken entirely for my grandmother’s benefit. Whether Lance liked the dress or not, whether
I
liked it or not, Nana clearly loved it. All the memories and heartache, and she still loved her dress. She clasped her hands at her chest and quickly released them. Then she added, “Of course, in my day, the groom never saw the dress until the day of the wedding. I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t made Bill wait. Maybe this would be a second wearing instead of a first.” At eighty, Nana still towered over me. Although she was stooped now and walked a little slowly, her green eyes shone with a joyful light, even in a wistful moment like this one, as she looked at me in her dress.
“What was it like for you,” I asked, “raising Mama alone?” It wasn’t a topic I had ever broached, but I suddenly couldn’t imagine why. My grandmother had been a single parent in an age when girls were routinely sent away for nine convenient months in the event of an unexpected pregnancy.
Franny Cox had laughed as she paced around me, gathering fistfuls of fabric to pull the hem off the ground and putting them in my increasingly overburdened arms. Nana was not troubled about stepping over the train, and the chiffon didn’t slip out of her grip, even while she was handing more of it to me. I resorted to tucking it under my elbows. When Nana was finished, I stood a little awkwardly, half clutching, half pinning the hem clear of the floor, while she stood behind me pinching the chest tight.
“It wasn’t that long ago, really,” Nana said at last, answering a question I had thought she might ignore. “Most people thought we’d eloped before Bill went off to Korea, and I let them lie to themselves. And I wasn’t alone, really.” Now she had moved on to the sleeves, tugging so they hung at my wrists, not down over the palms. No mean feat, especially considering that she did it one-handed without dislodging any of the tucked-up skirt or letting go of the back of the dress. She went on, “Mother was horrified, but she stood up in church for me. And that’s not something you saw every day. She was a very formidable woman, my mother. Very formidable. Your sister is a lot like her.” Last of all, Nana pulled the throat tight for a moment, then nodded once before letting it all go again.
“Yes,” she said, talking about the dress now. “Lenore and I can sew that.”
“Meaning
I
can sew that,” Mama said, returning from her phone call, stuffing the device once more into her pocket. “Mother, you know your eyes aren’t up to needlework.”
“My eyes are fine,” Nana snapped, pushing her glasses up her nose.
“You crochet,” Mama said. “But we’re talking about tiny stitches. When was the last time you even embroidered?”
“Stop it! Both of you!” I threw up my arms and dropped the cascades of fabric Nana had tucked up for me. “Or I swear I’ll get a tailor.” The two of them cackled, like they thought I was making some kind of a joke. “Lance, get me out of this thing,” I said, meaning it this time. I retreated upstairs to the sewing room as delicately as one can while trailing a wedding dress at least three sizes too large, and Mama, not Lance, followed.
C HAPTER 7
----
Now, two weeks later, that dress sat waiting for me on the
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