“Forty!” Millicent said. “Kiki Shenrad is fifty if she’s a day—and tucked so tight she has hospital corners.”
Kiki threw her arms around the hunky chauffeur and pulled him toward her. She soul kissed him and ran a slender leg along his muscular one.
“She’d better pick out a dress quick,” Helen said. “I think they’re going to consummate the marriage right on the sidewalk.”
Millicent didn’t hear her. She was pulling wedding gowns from the racks. Helen knew she should help her boss, but she couldn’t tear herself from the show outside the shop window.
A small figure emerged from the huge Rolls like a mouse from a hole and crept around the nearly copulating couple. Miss Mouse was about twenty with no-color hair scraped into a messy ponytail. Her gray sweats were baggy, but Helen guessed a slender figure was buried underneath that lumpy cloth.
“You’d think Kiki would give her maid a decent castoff dress,” Helen said.
Millicent looked up from the snowstorm of white chiffon and satin on the silver display stand. “Maid? That’s the bride—Desiree Shenrad.”
“Uh-oh,” Helen said. “We’ve got trouble.”
Kiki finally pried herself off the chauffeur, slapped his perky posterior, and sent him back to stand by the car. She flung open the salon door and said, “Millie!”
Millicent winced. Only big spenders called her that. She hated it.
Miss Mouse scurried in her mother’s magnificent wake. The shop’s pink paint was designed to flatter most complexions. The mirrors made double chins vanish. But they couldn’t transform dreary little Desiree.
Kiki started to air kiss Millicent, then swiveled her head so abruptly, Helen thought she’d get whiplash. Kiki had seen the rose dress.
“I want that,” she said. Helen had never heard a soft voice sound so hard.
Every woman who came into Millicent’s wanted the rose dress. There was nothing quite like it. The strapless gown had a beautifully beaded bodice. But the skirt was the show stopper. Made of dark red taffeta that shaded to black, the skirt was swirled to look like an enormous bouquet of velvety roses. If Helen ever won an Oscar, she’d wear that dress onstage.
“I’d like to wear it to my daughter’s wedding,” Kiki said.
“That’s not a mother-of-the-bride dress,” Millicent said.
“I am not going to wear some pathetic little powder-blue dress,” Kiki said.
“I don’t sell pathetic little dresses,” Millicent said. “But my customers leave here properly dressed for special occasions.”
“I’ll decide what’s proper. You!” Kiki pointed at Helen. “Take the rose dress to fitting room A.”
The largest room, naturally. Helen looked at Millicent, who gave her a slight nod.
“Oh, yes,” Kiki said. “We should get something for my daughter, too.” The bride was an afterthought at her own wedding.
“And when is the wedding?” Millicent said.
“Saturday,” Kiki said.
“June, July, or August?”
“This coming Saturday, December fourth,” Kiki said.
Millicent looked stunned. “Impossible. Three months is a rush job. We can’t order the dresses in time.”
“Then we’ll buy something in stock. And you’ll have to alter it in the store. Money is no object.”
Millicent’s eyes narrowed. “You’d better tell me what happened. I can’t help you if I don’t know the whole story.”
“It’s that bitch at Haute Bridal. I saw what she got in for the wedding and canceled everything. The fabrics looked cheap. The colors were horrible. Nothing was as she promised.”
“But bridal sales are final,” Helen said.
Kiki laughed. “My ex-husband is a lawyer. Nothing is final.”
“It is at this store,” Millicent said. “Do what I say, and I’ll make you look like every one of your thirty million dollars.”
Millicent was pointing a red talon at Kiki, punching each word for emphasis. Helen thought the bloodred nails were the mark of Millicent’s success. She’d clawed her way up to the chicest shop on Las Olas with only a small divorce settlement and one major talent: She had a gift for making women look good.
Millicent knew how to emphasize their good points and downplay their figure flaws. She was her own best example. Her hair had turned snowy white years ago. Millicent had the courage to leave it that dramatic color. It made her look younger than most of the highlighted salon jobs in her shop. An unface-lifted fifty, Millicent looked forty. Colorful tops drew attention to her remarkable chest, held high by a cantilevered bra. Dark pants minimized generous hips. But she couldn’t hide her clever, appraising eyes.
Kiki shrugged like a spoiled child. “Millie, darling, help me into the rose gown.”
Kiki stepped out of her pink dress and revealed an even pinker body. Her blond pubic hair was sculpted into a dollar sign.
Helen gaped.
“Any man who gets me hits the jackpot,” Kiki said and winked.
It took Helen and Millicent both to wrestle her into the rose dress. The skirt had four layers, including the only hoop Helen had seen since
“I have to have it,” Kiki said.
“So buy it,” Millicent said. “But don’t upstage your daughter at her own wedding.”
“No one can upstage the bride,” Kiki said. “I’ll take the dress.”
“Only if you promise to buy another dress for the church service,” Millicent said. “You cannot wear a ball gown to a daytime wedding, Kiki. You’ll look like a joke.”
Those words got through to Kiki. She settled on a sleek black knit for the church and a gauzy gold gown suitable for a minor goddess for the rehearsal dinner. Then she put the rose gown back on “to get used to wearing it.” Helen thought she just liked parading around in it.
Finally Kiki remembered her daughter. Desiree stood silently in the corner like Cinderella. Helen didn’t know whether to offer her a chair or some ashes by the fireplace.
“I want a wedding dress with a full skirt and a cathedral-length train,” Kiki said.
“That’s a ten-foot train,” Millicent said. “A petite bride like Desiree will be swallowed by all that fabric.”
“Not if she stands up straight.” Kiki’s French-manicured nail poked her daughter between her slumping shoulder blades.
“I want something expensive,” Kiki said. “I want snow white, not that off-white color. It looks like dirty teeth.”
Desiree stood there, mute.
“What do you want, Desiree?” Millicent asked. “It’s your wedding.”
“It makes no difference. I won’t get it.” Desiree’s little voice was drowned in disappointment.
What was Millicent doing? Helen wondered. She was too smart to get between warring mothers and daughters. Did she forget Kiki had the money?
Desiree tried on a simple white strapless gown. Her mother said, “Oh, Desiree. You’re only twenty years old and I can see you as a nun.”
“And I see you as an old tart.” That soft voice. Those hunched shoulders. That meek expression. Yet she’d insulted her mother with acid-stinging accuracy.
For five hours, Desiree tried on dresses while her mother stabbed her with stiletto slashes. Desiree seemed sad and beaten. Only later did Helen realize the young mouse had fought back with feline ferocity.
Helen did know one thing: She was worn out from being in the same room with that rage. Hauling the heavy wedding dresses didn’t help. They were encrusted with scratchy crystal beading and itchy lace. Many of the dresses weighed twenty pounds or more. Helen had to hold the hangers over her head to keep the long skirts off the floor. Her arms ached. Her neck and shoulders screamed for relief.
When she ran for yet another dress, she saw the chauffeur, Rod, sweating in the shimmering sun. It wasn’t fair to keep him standing by the car in the brutal Florida heat. Helen pulled a cold bottle of water from the fridge.
