it through the gap beneath the door.
“Here,” I say. “Drake’s Yodels. Dig in.”
There is stunned silence for a moment. I wonder if maybe I have just committed a huge faux pas. But hey, when I cry, Shari always gives me chocolate. And it makes me feel better immediately .
Well, maybe not immediately, but eventually.
But maybe Jill’s problems are so huge that it’s going to take more than just a Yodel to make her feel better.
“Th-thank you,” she says. And the snack cake (although, really, if you ask me Yodels are more of a dessert than a snack) disappears from my hand. A second later I hear plastic crinkling.
“Do you want some milk with that?” I ask. “I have both whole and two percent. There was skim, too, but, well, you know. Also, I have a diet Coke. And a regular Coke, if you need the sugar.”
More crinkling. Then I hear a tearful, “Regular Coke would be good.”
I crack the can open for her, then pass it beneath the stall door.
“Th-thanks,” Jill says.
For a moment there’s no sound except soft slurping. Then Jill says, “Do you have any more Yodels?”
“Of course I do,” I say soothingly. “And Devil Dogs, too.”
“Yodels, please,” she says.
I pass another one under the stall door.
“You know,” I say conversationally. “If it’s any consolation, I know what you’re going through. Well, I mean, not exactly , but, you know, I work with a lot of brides. Most of them aren’t under the kind of pressure you are, of course. But, you know. Getting married is always a little stressful.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jill asks with a bitter laugh. “Do all their future mother-in-laws hate them the way mine hates me?”
“Not all of them,” I say. I’ve helped myself to a Devil Dog. Just the creamy filling inside, though. It’s less carbs than the cake part. I think. “What’s up with yours?”
“Oh, you mean besides the part where she thinks I’m a gold digger out to rob her son of his rightful inheritance?” I hear more crinkling plastic. “Where do I start?”
“You know,” I say.Don’t do it , a voice inside my head is saying.Do not do it. It’s not worth it.
But a different voice is telling me that it is my duty, as a woman, to help, and that I cannot let a girl who has suffered as much as this one has to continue to wallow in misery… especially when she doesn’t have to.
“When I said I work with a lot of brides, I didn’t mean here,” I go on. “I mean, not just here. I’m actually a certified wedding-gown specialist. Well,I’m not. I mean, I’m not certified. Yet. But I work with someone who is. Anyway, my specialty is restoring vintage or antique gowns, and refurbishing them to fit modern brides. Just in case that information is at all helpful to you.”
For a second, there is no sound from the stall. Then I hear some more crinkling. Then the toilet flushes. A second later, the stall door opens and Jill, looking red-eyed and pink-faced, her hair a blowsy mess, with Yodel crumbs all over the front of her woolly sweater, comes out, staring at me warily.
“Are you kidding me with this?” she demands, not in what you would call a teasing or even friendly manner.
Oops.
“Look,” I say, straightening up from where I’ve been leaning against the bathroom wall. “I’m sorry. I just heard, you know, through the grapevine, that your future mother-in-law was trying to make you wear some dress that’s been handed down in their family for generations or something. And I just wanted to let you know that—you know. I can help.”
Jill is blinking at me, her expression devoid of any emotion whatsoever. She’s not wearing any makeup, I notice. But then she’s one of those healthy, outdoorsy girls who can get away with it.
“Not just me, I mean,” I add hastily. “Lots of people can help, this whole town is filled with people who can help. Just don’t go to this one guy, Maurice? Because he’ll just charge you a lot and he won’t actually fix it. The gown, I mean. Monsieur Henri—that’s where I work—is the place to go. Because, you know, we don’t use chemicals or anything like that. And we care.”
Jill blinks at me some more. “You care ?” she repeats, sounding incredulous.
“Well, yeah,” I say, realizing—a little belatedly—how I must sound to her. Because it isn’t as if she isn’t hounded all day by people who want something from her—the press, for a quote or a photo; the public, for what it’s like to be engaged to one of the richest bachelors in New York; even her beloved seals, the ones she’s willing to throw out her back for, are probably always after her for fish. Or whatever it is the seals in the Central Park Zoo eat.
“Look,” I say. “I know you’re going through a rotten time right now, and it must seem like everybody and his brother wants a piece of you or whatever. But I swear that’s not why I’m telling you this. Vintage clothing—it’s my life. I mean, you can see what I have on, right?” I point at the dress I’m wearing. “This is a rare long-sleeved, kimono-style dress from the 1960s by the designer Alfred Shaheen, who was better known for his authentic South Seas designs—basically Hawaiian shirts—but who also made some hand-screened Asian prints as well. This dress is a fantastic example of his work—see the wide, obi-style belt? Which is actually a good look for me, because I have more of a pear shape, you know, so I want to emphasize my waistline and not my hips so much? Anyway, this dress was in pretty bad shape when I found it in the bottom of the dollar bin at the place where I used to work back in Ann Arbor, Vintage to Vavoom. It had this really gross stain on it—grape jelly, I think—and it was actually floor length because I think it was meant to be a hostess dress. And it was way too big for me in the boobs. But I just threw it in a pot of boiling water and gave it a good soak, then I dried it out, cut it off to mid-knee, hemmed it, redid the darts, and, boom.”
I do a little pivot for her, the way Tiffany had taught me to.
“And now I’ve got what you see here. What I’m trying to say”—I pivot over to where she’s standing, gaping at me—“is that I know how to take someone else’s trash and turn it into treasure. And that if you want me to, I can do it for you. Because what would stick it to your future mother-in-law more than you walking down the aisle in the dress she’s forced onto you, looking way, way better in it than she ever did?”
Jill shakes her head. “You don’t understand,” she says.
“Try me.”
“That—that thing she wants me to wear. It’s… hideous.”
“So was this,” I say, indicating the Alfred Shaheen. “Grape jelly. Floor length. Bullet boobs.”
“No. This is worse. Way worse. It’s got like—” Words seem to defy Jill. So she uses her arms to make a circle. “This hoop skirt thing. And there’s… stuff.Hanging. It’s got this plaid thing—”
“The MacDowell clan tartan,” I say gravely. “Yes. Yes, of course it would have that.”
“And it’s like a million years old,” Jill says. “And it smells. And it doesn’t fit.”
“Too big or too small?” I ask.
“Too small. Way too small. There’s no way anybody could make it fit. I already decided.” She tosses her head, her blue eyes glittering. “I’m not wearing it. I mean, she already hates me. What’s the worst that can happen?”
“True,” I say. “Do you have something else in mind?”
She looks at me blankly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, do you have another dress in mind? Have you shopped for another gown?”
She shakes her head. “Oh, right. When would I have time to do that? In between manicures? What do you think? No, of course not. What do I know about any of this stuff? I mean, John, he keeps telling me just to go to Vera Wang or whatever, but it’s like every time I even think about going into one of those places—you know, those designers—I get all short of breath, and… well, it’s not like I’ve got girlfriends, or whatever, who are into that stuff. Everyone I know, they’ve got like monkey shit all over their shoes.Literally . What do they know from bridal gowns? Really, I was just thinking maybe I’d fly home and pick something up back at the mall in Des Moines. Because at least there I know what I’m getting myself into—”
Something cold and hard grips my heart. I recognize immediately what it is, of course. Fear.
“Jill.” I reach for another Devil Dog. I need it. For sustenance. “Can I call you Jill?”
She nods. “Yeah, whatever.”
“I’m Lizzie,” I say. “And please, don’t ever say that word around me again.”
