Jack With a Twist

but she has meandered over to look at a framed copy of an old Vogue cover with both Monique and her mother on it. The contrast between Millie’s dark skin and Monique’s pale complexion is striking, and I watch Vanessa examine every square inch of the photograph. Millie, who I see frequently at her downtown art gallery, is every bit as gorgeous today as she was then, if not more so.

So is Monique. Who is now seated on a love seat with my mother. Who is drinking yet another glass of champagne.

“A celebration, no?” Monique says in her thick French accent, handing me my own glass. She wears black cigarette pants and a pristine white button-down shirt with its sleeves rolled up. On her feet, she wears simple black Chanel ballet slippers. Vanessa is wearing the same pair today in tan. Monique’s hair is pulled into a tight bun, pinned back in exactly the same way that Vanessa’s mom wears hers.

“Absolutely,” I say, taking the glass, and trying to push my mother’s drink as far away from her as possible without actually tipping it over the edge of the coffee table.

“So, Brooke,” Monique says, “Tell me a little bit about yourself. I want to know everything. Tell me about what you like, what you don’t like. Everything.”

“She wants something with sleeves,” my mother says, reaching across the bowl of candy that Monique has placed on the table, in a play for her champagne glass. Hasn’t that woman learned her lesson?

“Mom,” I say, trying to appear happy to be here with my skinny lush of a mother.

Monique intervenes: “Let us do this,” she says, “Mother, you will look at mother-of-the-bride dresses while I go with daughter to look at some dresses for her. Yes?”

“Well, I don’t want to steal my baby’s thunder,” my mother says as Monique guides her to a rack of beautiful dresses. Monique only does couture, so every dress is put together entirely by hand, with extensive beadwork and exquisite seams and workmanship. She has a few samples on hand for my mother to study and, like a baby with something shiny in her hands, my mother is mesmerized. We leave her at the rack.

Monique and I walk over to another area of the showroom where she has a number of muslin garments in different styles.

“First,” she says, “we put you in just a few things to see what styles you like best. What works best. Yes?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Is there a style that you know you want for sure?”

“I’m pretty open.”

“Very good,” Monique says, “Then we try. Off you go.”

I go into the dressing room with Vanessa and she zips me into the first dress, an A-line with a sweetheart neckline.

“So, are you okay with all this today?” I ask Vanessa.

“Of course,” she says, smiling as she smooths out the dress for me, “I’m having a blast. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because,” I say, looking at myself in the mirror. “Well, you know. I just don’t want today to bring up any bad memories for you or anything.”

“I’m okay,” Vanessa says, still smiling, “I’m just happy for you.” I turn to face her and I notice that she’s still wearing her wedding ring. I wonder if she was wearing it all day and I just didn’t notice it, or if she put it on in the car so that she won’t have to face any questions about her impending divorce from an acquaintance of her mother.

“So, what do you think?” I ask, as Monique comes into the fitting room.

“Beautiful,” she says as she picks up an enormous sketchpad and starts to draw. “How do you feel?”

“Pretty good,” I say.

“This next,” she says, gesturing with her pencil. Next up: a spaghetti-strap bodice with a huge ball gown skirt.

We go in to dress, and I turn to face Vanessa as she zips me up. “Do you want to talk about it at all?”

“No,” she says. “But I have an appointment next week to meet my divorce lawyer for the first time. I was thinking that maybe if you weren’t busy….”

“Of course,” I say, “I’ll be there. But, am I coming as your lawyer or your friend?”

“Friend,” Vanessa says with a smile and I smile back at her.

“Now that we don’t work at the same law firm anymore, I could represent you, if you want,” I offer.

“You’re a commercial litigator,” Vanessa points out, “so if I want to start a copyright action, you’ll be the first person I call. For this, though, you can just come as my friend.”

“Done. So?” I ask, twirling around like a little girl trying on her mother’s dress. “Do you like this one?”

“Too princessy,” Vanessa says, as I walk out of the fitting room for Monique to take a peek.

“Beautiful,” Monique says again as she looks up from her sketch pad. “How do you feel in it?” She says the same thing for each of the six other muslins I try on for fit.

After the scoop neck with a straight skirt, Monique has me change and come back to the love seat. First, she tells Vanessa and I about how she makes each individual wedding dress. To demonstrate her point, she takes out some of the dresses she is working on to give us a sense of her workmanship. Each one is more beautiful than the next—miles of lace, tons of tulle and acres of silk—I’m almost afraid to touch the pristine white fabric. One dress in particular catches my eye. It’s got a deep V down the front, ending in a gorgeous crystal brooch, with a flared trumpet skirt. The detail is absolutely impeccable. As Vanessa and I ooh and aah over it, my eye catches a tiny ink stain at the base of the dress. I look at Vanessa to see if she notices it, too, but she’s already on to a cowl neck with an A-line skirt.

I’m completely paralyzed—what should I do? Should I dare tell the Monique deVouvray that there is actually something wrong with one of her gowns? One of her masterpieces? Someone’s dream dress? What if this woman’s wedding is this weekend and there’s no time to fix the dress? I don’t want to be responsible for ruining someone’s dream!

Worse yet, Monique could have a you-break-it, you-buy-it policy. And let’s face it, if my mother thought I looked fleshy in a simple gown, I’m quite certain she won’t approve of all of the flesh that would be on display in this number.

Okay, this is fine. Be cool, be confident, and act like you didn’t even notice this little mistake. Just move on to the next dress. I covertly check my hands for blue ink.

“Brooke, I see you’ve noticed my blue good luck ribbon!” Monique calls out.

“I didn’t touch anything!” I say. I was never quite good at playing it cool.

“Flip over the fabric,” she says, walking over to me. “It is a tradition that when you are making a wedding dress for someone by hand you sew in a blue ribbon for good luck. I do that for each of my dresses. So, now let us see the sketches I have drawn up. Just to give you idea of what I will do for you.”

Monique has created six fabulous sketches for me—each one incorporates different details that I mentioned as being my favorites and the styles that flatter me most.

The second I see it, I know. I just know. The sketch jumps off the page and practically speaks to me. Although it’s a rough black-and-white drawing, I can practically see my face in the scribble where a head should be.

The bodice has an off-the-shoulder sweetheart neckline fitted tight to the body with bones inside the thick silk. It has capped sleeves that flow naturally from the neckline and give the dress an air of romance. The bottom of the dress is an elegant A-line, not too princessy—just the right amount. The final perfect detail is a beautiful silk ribbon that ties around the waist. It is elegant and understated and everything I could possibly hope for in a wedding dress.

“That’s it,” Vanessa says, pointing at the sketch.

“I know,” I say, turning toward her and smiling.

“Ta da!” my mother says as she comes out of the dressing room in one of Monique’s gowns. I am immediately concerned about this for two reasons: the first is that Monique did not tell my mother to try on any of the sample dresses. Rather, she merely brought her to a rack and told her to start looking. The second is that it’s not a mother-of-the-bride dress at all. It is one of Monique’s wedding dresses.