Madame Henri is fussing at her husband for him to hurry and pack up so they can leave, because the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree lighting—scheduled to take place tonight—makes the traffic so impossible that it takes an hour, practically, just to navigate out of the city, when the bell to the front door of the shop rings, and I look up to see a pale face, framed by a curtain of blond hair, peering at me urgently.
“What is this?” Madame Henri wants to know. “We have no appointments today.”
“Oh,” I say quickly, getting up and going to the door. “This is a friend of mine.” I open the door to let Jill in…
… and only then notice that there is a chauffeured black Town Car with smoked windows parked with its motor running in front of the fire hydrant, and that behind Jill stands a tall, athletic man I immediately recognize as—
“Oh!” Madame Henri drops her purse and flings both her hands to her cheeks. She’s recognized Jill’s companion as well. Which, considering how often his face appears on the front page of the Post , isn’t any wonder.
“Um, hi,” Jill says. Her cheeks are very red from the cold outside. She’s carrying a garment bag. “You said to stop by. Is this a bad time?”
“This is a perfect time,” I say. “Come on in.”
The couple step in from the slight snow flurry that has started up, lightly coating their hair and shoulders with drops that sparkle more than any crystal I’ve ever sewn onto anything. They bring with them the smell of cold and good health and… something else.
“Sorry,” Jill says, wrinkling her nose. “That’s me. I came straight from work and I didn’t have time to change. We wanted to beat the tree traffic.”
“That intoxicating odor,” John MacDowell says, “that you’re smelling right now is seal excrement. Don’t worry, you get used to it.”
“This is my fiancé, John,” Jill says. “John, this is Lizzie—”
John sticks out a large hand, and I shake it.
“Nice to meet you,” he says, seeming to mean it. “When Jill told me about you—well, I really hope you can help us. My mother—I mean, I love her and everything, but—”
“Say no more,” I say. “We completely get it. And, believe me, we’ve probably seen worse. May I introduce you to my boss, Monsieur Henri? He owns this shop. And this is his wife, Madame Henri. Monsieur and Madame, this is Jill Higgins and her fiancé, John MacDowell.”
Monsieur Henri has been standing nearby staring at the three of us with a stunned expression on his face. When I say his name, he takes a quick step forward, his hand extended.“Enchanté,” he says. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” John MacDowell says politely. Madame Henri practically faints when he says the same thing to her. She hasn’t been able to utter a sound since the couple entered the shop.
“Shall we see what you have here?” I ask, taking the garment bag from Jill.
“I’m warning you,” John says. “It’s bad.”
“Really bad,” Jill adds.
“We are used to bad,” Monsieur Henri assures them. “That is how we came by our endorsement from the Association of Bridal Consultants.”
“It’s true,” I say gravely. “The National Bridal Service has given Monsieur Henri their highest recommendation.”
Monsieur Henri inclines his head modestly while at the same time moving behind Jill to help her out of her down parka. “Perhaps we can get you some tea? Or coffee?”
“I’m fine,” John says, handing over his own parka. “We’re… ”
His voice trails off. That’s because I’ve opened the garment bag. And now all five of us are staring at what I’ve revealed.
Monsieur Henri nearly drops the coats, but at the last second his wife darts forward to scoop them up.
“It’s… it’s hideous,” Monsieur Henri breathes—thankfully in French.
“Yes,” I say. “But it can be saved.”
“No.” Monsieur Henri shakes his head, like someone in a daze. “It cannot.”
I can see why he might feel that way. The gown isn’t promising, to say the least. Made of yards and yards of clearly valuable antique lace over cream-colored satin, it’s a princess cut, with an enormous full skirt, made even bigger by a hoop sewn into the hem. The neckline is a typical Queen Anne style, with enormous poufed sleeves that end in tartan bows at the wrists. Draped along the skirt is more tartan, held in place with gold toggles.
It looks, in other words, like something out of a high school drama club’s production of Brigadoon .
“It’s been in my family for generations,” John says apologetically. “All the MacDowell brides have worn it— with various degrees of alteration. My mother is the one who put in the hoop when she wore it. She’s from Georgia.”
“That explains a lot,” I say. “What size is it?”
“A six,” Jill says. “I’m a twelve.”
Monsieur Henri says in French, “Impossible. It is too small. There is nothing we can do.”
“Let’s not be hasty,” I say. “Obviously the bodice will have to go. But there’s enough material here—”
“You are going to chop up the ancestral gown of the richest family in the city?” Monsieur Henri demands, again in French. “You’ve lost your mind!”
“He said other brides have altered it,” I remind him. “I mean, come on. We can at least try.”
“You cannot fit a size-twelve woman into a size-six gown,” Monsieur Henri snaps. “You know it cannot be done!”
“We can’t fit her into this gown the way it is now,” I say. “But fortunately it’s too long on her.” I take the gown from the hanger it’s on and hold it up to Jill, who stands with her arms at her side, looking alarmed. “See? If it were too short, I’d say you were right. But like I was saying, if we unstitch the bodice—”
“My God, are you mad?” Monsieur Henri looks shocked. “Do you know what the mother-in-law will do to us? She could even take legal action—”
“Jean,” Madame Henri says, speaking for the first time.
Her husband glances at her. “What?”
“Do it,” she says in French.
Monsieur Henri shakes his head. “I am telling you, it cannot be done! Do you want me to lose my certification?”
“Do you want Maurice to steal away what little business we have left when he opens his shop down the street?” his wife demands.
“He won’t,” I assure them both. “Not if you let me do it. I can. I know I can.”
Madame Henri nods at me. “Listen to her, Jean,” she says.
The issue is no longer up for debate. Monsieur Henri may wield the needle, but his wife wears the pants in the family. Once she has ruled, there is no more argument. Madame Henri’s word is always final.
Monsieur Henri’s shoulders sag. Then he looks at Jill. Both she and her husband-to-be are staring at us, wide-eyed.
“When is the wedding?” Monsieur Henri asks weakly.
“New Year’s Eve,” Jill says.
Monsieur Henri groans. And even I have to swallow hard against the soreness that has suddenly crept back into my throat. New Year’s Eve!
Jill notices our reaction, and looks worried. “Does that… I mean, will you have enough time?”
“A month.” Monsieur Henri stares down at me. “We have a month . Not that it matters, since what you are saying cannot be done in any amount of time.”
“It can if we do it the way I’m thinking we should do it,” I say.“Trust me.”
Monsieur Henri takes a final look at the monstrosity on the hanger.
“Maurice,”his wife hisses. “Remember Maurice!”
Monsieur Henri sighs. “Fine. We will try.”
And I turn, beaming, toward Jill.
