Page 53 of The One Timer

“We’ll go dress shopping for you tomorrow.”

She says it with such finality and such pleasure that the automatic protest about to spout from my exhausted conscience dies on my lips. I firmly close my mouth and nod.

Thursday, the next day

After a late breakfast, because Mrs. W slept in, she hires a chauffeur to take us shopping.

She pats my hand as I sit with her in the back where she’s huddled in her fake fur that I would swear under oath is a real sheared beaver if I didn’t see the label for myself when I helped her on with it. I pull my ratty old puff jacket around me. Luckily, it’s toasty warm in the limo because I can’t rely much on the short jacket to keep me warm. I’m wearing my best sweater, a soft red one Merry gave me for Christmas one year before I made her stop giving me gifts because I couldn’t buy her any once I started nursing school.

“This will be fun. We’ll get you matching shoes and undergarments, too. No outfit is complete without them.”

I gulp. “Undergarments?”

She laughs, then coughs, and I frown. “Of course—depending on the dress you pick out, you’ll need them, especially if you get something in the latest styles. I highly recommend something to show off your figure to advantage.”

I laugh and watch her eyes sparkle. She looks happy, and I swallow the Cinderella feeling because she’s enjoying playing fairy godmother far too much.

The coach—er, limo—pulls up in front of an exclusive-looking boutique on Newbury Street that I’ve never heard of called El.

“El is short for Elegance, I’m told,” Mrs. W says as if she’s reading my mind. I probably look like a small-town hick from the country seeing the big city for the first time—or like the Clampetts arriving in Beverly Hills—so I shut my mouth and school my expression to tone down the awestruck look.

It’s tough to maintain when a man in a long black wool coat opens the door and ushers me and Mrs. W into the store across the green carpeted sidewalk under the red awning. Inside, the place is decked out in gold and silver holiday bling, but none of it hides the sumptuous quiet, and yes, elegance of the shop.

Other than a few impressive displays on stylized mannequins, I don’t see any dresses or clothes of any kind.

“Come this way, please, Mrs. Whittier. We’re so glad to see you again after so long. This is the young lady you spoke of?”

“Yes, this is Emery O’Keefe. She’s like family to me, so we must treat her well.”

My heart clenches, and I wrap an arm around the woman who I’m supposed to think of as my boss as we follow the woman who I’d swear moonlights as a runway model the way she walks.

We go through some doors, and Ms. Elegance points to a sparkling array of gowns on a rack that stretches along one entire wall of the large, sumptuous room. “These are size six. Is that correct?”

I nod, but her guess is as good as mine since it’s been a while. My jeans are a size four, and my tops are a medium or size eight, so…

The woman helps Mrs. W into a comfortable-looking chair, and I go to sit in the chair’s twin next to her, but Ms. Elegance stops me.

“Please come and take a look. We’ll pick a few for you to try on, and you can show them to Mrs. Whittier.” Her brilliant teeth shine from between shiny-red-wagon lips, and I go along with the scheme—er, plan. But I feel like a fraud because I’m not Cinderella—I work for Mrs. W. It’s not like I’m her ward, a family member, or even the close family friend she claims I am.

Am I?

I sigh as I point to a couple of black dresses because Merry told me once you can’t go wrong with a little black dress for a formal event. Not that these black dresses are little in any way, size, style, or especially price tag. In fact, I grab the door handle and squeeze it as I go into the dressing room after catching a glimpse of the price of the one that looks like it should cost the least—based on the amount of material used.

After trying on dress number five and switching to white and then red at Mrs. W’s suggestion, the sales lady has a chat with her and says she’ll be right back. I retreat to the dressing room and carefully peel myself out of the mermaid-style red dress, understanding exactly what Mrs. W meant by the necessity of special undergarments, and wait for the next dress, not caring what this one looks like because this is a tiring business, and right now, I feel like the anti-Cinderella.

What happened to the magic wand that was supposed to instantly transform me from wearing rags to a fabulous ball gown?

“This will be the last dress of the day, I promise you,” the sales lady wisely says to me as she hands me the giant bundle of black fabrics of all kinds, with sparkle and bling.

“Sure.” Skepticism drips, but she’s not discouraged in the least, holding her pearly white and red-lipped smile. After I unravel the bundle, I realize she’s included under garments with the dress. She’s nice and discrete, I’ll give her that.

Without bothering to face the mirror, I dress once again—no easy task with the zipper in back, but I manage because I’m not in the habit of asking for help. For anything. Then I open the door, step outside, and walk like I’m in a fashion show because why not?

“Oh my!” Mrs. W. gasps, and I immediately look down expecting to find a giant stain or tear in the dress.

“Exquisite,” the sales lady says. “Please spin around.”

I turn in front of the mirror as instructed to see myself in the black satin strapless Cinderella-style ball gown with sprinkles of bling on the voluminous layered skirt.