“Are you going to try it on, or not?” Selena demanded, thrusting the wedding dress in my direction. Yards of white silk billowed toward me. “You’re not chicken, are you?”
“Yeah, you’re not chicken, are you?” repeated Patience. “Go for it, princess.”
“It’s . . . It needs alteration,” I hedged. It was a nice enough gown on its own merits: yards of silk and satin topped by lace. The skirts were too poufy for my taste, and it would need to be altered to my dimensions, but Lucille could easily make those changes. Still, the vibrations didn’t quite suit me. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but one of my talents was knowing when something fit someone, both physically and psychically, and this dress did not fit me.
Or maybe there was nothing supernatural about my jitters—after all, brides were famous for searching for the perfect dress, and for being eternally dissatisfied, right? Maya informed me there was a whole TV show about it.
I had been scouring my usual sources of inventory, and had gone so far as to see what other vintage clothing stores carried, and still hadn’t found a wedding gown I liked better. If I didn’t find something soon, I would be in trouble. Hopefully this afternoon’s estate sale might have something for me.
On top of everything else, Susan Rogers from the Examiner wanted to do a photo layout of the wedding party, as a sort of follow-up to the piece she had written about her niece’s wedding—which I’d wound up attending stag, when I alienated my former boyfriend, Max. I had outfitted the niece’s wedding party not long after Aunt Cora’s Closet had opened, and the article had, in good part, made our reputation when it came out.
“Pleeeeaasse?” said Selena. Like any self-respecting teenager, Selena knew just what buttons to push. It was hard for me to refuse her when she found something that would make her happy. I let her lead me into the large communal dressing room, the poufy dress over her arm. Awkwardly, Selena helped me pull frothy yards of pure white satin over my head. I stood back and looked at myself in the full-length mirror. The shoulders were too wide and the shawl collar—clearly made for a better-endowed woman than I—flopped.
Selena flung the curtain open. “See? She does look like a princess!”
“More like a Baked Alaska,” Patience muttered.
Selena laughed, and light glinted off the metal dream catchers in the window and landed on her face. For a brief moment, despite my other worries, I reveled in the pure sound of her teenage joy. Selena had once been so severe that every smile—much less full-blown laugh—now felt like a gift.
The back of my neck tingled. I turned to look out the front window. Conrad was talking with someone on the sidewalk, and eating what looked like a brightly frosted cupcake.
A moment later, a man named Jamie strode into the store, carrying a huge pink box.
Jamie was one of Renee-the-cupcake-lady’s minions. He was small and slender, with dark hair and eyes and sharp features. “Weaselly” was the adjective that came to mind anytime I saw him.
“Well, lookee here,” Jamie said. “Don’t you look just like a princess, pretty lady?”
“See?” said Selena. “Told you so.”
Oscar had run up to greet Jamie the instant he spotted the pink bakery box.
Instinctively, I reached out to stop him. Renee wouldn’t use cupcakes to cast a spell over us, would she? What was I thinking? Of course she would. But surely she would know I would anticipate such an obvious ploy.
Surely.
I glanced outside; Conrad was chatting with a passerby, apparently unaffected by the cupcake. Still, I didn’t want to take any chances.
“Jamie,” I said, “what brings you here?”
“Renee heard about the troubles facing your fiancé, and sends these as a peace offering. She says she guesses her invitation to the wedding must’ve got lost in the mail. Mine, too, for that matter.”
“We’re good here,” I said, physically holding Oscar back from the cupcakes. “Thanks, anyway.”
Patience, who had been taking in the scene, stepped in. “You have something to do with what’s going on, you little pissant?”
Jamie cringed. “Jeez, lady. A guy brings a dozen cupcakes . . . I mean, I don’t expect a parade, but a simple thank-you seems in order.” He shook his head. “I really don’t get what’s up with folks these days. There used to be a time when people valued simple politeness. . . .”
Jamie didn’t look like he was much older than I was, but there was no denying he had a timeless sort of way about him.
He reached out and picked up a flyer for the Magical Match event.
“Hey, is this like speed dating? I might just give that a try. I tried the online-dating thing, but it’s a bit of a slog. Also, you never know who’s gonna show up—the photos don’t always reflect current reality, if you catch my drift. Something like this here might be right up my alley.”
“It’s not a ‘match’ in that sense,” I said. “It’s a tea, a fund-raiser for the Haight Street women’s shelter. The ‘match’ refers to matching dresses.”
“Or outfits, for that matter,” said Bronwyn. “You’re very welcome; it’s a gender-inclusive event.”
Jamie looked disappointed and shoved the flyer back in its stand. “Sorry. Doesn’t seem like my type of deal after all. Good cause, though—am I right?” He dug into a pants pocket and extracted a wrinkled five-dollar bill. Handing it to Bronwyn, he winked and said, “A contribution to the cause.”
“Well, now,” said Bronwyn, “aren’t you kind? Thank you. I’m Bronwyn, by the way.”
“Nice ta meetcha,” he said. “I’m Jamie. I—”
“Why are you here, Jamie?” I interrupted him.
“What? Like I said, I’m on a mission of mercy. Renee heard your fiancé was in the slammer, and that you were feeling
