Page 61 of Requiem

Julia 22

“God, I wish Brett would take a few notes from Matthew,” Maggie mutters over her shoulder as she models for me. We’re in the living room of the brownstone apartment she and Brett share – which suddenly felt a whole lot smaller when she entered wearing the puffy, sparkly confection that is her mother’s wedding dress. “The Gold Coast Inn – I mean, that’s like a second honeymoon, Julia!”

“Well, we never had a first honeymoon,” I point out as I tilt my head from side to side, adjusting the angle from which I’m looking at her. And the dress. And her in the dress. “But it was certainly the most romantic night I’ve had in a long, long time.”

“Oh, I’ll just bet,” she grins knowingly. “Okay, so, what’s the verdict?”

“Turn around,” I instruct her, making a little circle with my index finger.

She does. Wow. This thing makes the very slender Maggie look like she’s got a Mack truck for a butt.

“And this is what your mom wore?” I ask skeptically. I’m having a hard time imaging any woman who could pull this look off.

Maggie nods miserably.

“It’s awful, right?”

“Well …” There’s just no way around it, the dress is hideous and I can’t find a single redeeming quality to point to. My non-response confirms her suspicions.

“I knew it! I was hoping it was just me being a brat about wanting my own special dress, but it’s not just me, is it?”

I take one last, long look from neckline to hem and make my way back up to her eyes. I shake my head no. No, it’s not just her. She puts a hand to her forehead and falls back onto their overstuffed denim blue couch with a puff of taffeta and crinoline.

“Holy crap! What am I going to do?” she whines.

“Is it possible that once she see you in it that she’ll realize that it’s …” oh, how to say this tactfully? “That it’s not a good fit for you?”

Maggie is shaking her head emphatically now. “No. No way. I can’t even let my mother see me in it. I mean, I can just hear my mother now, ‘Oh, Maggie, you look so beautiful! I just can’t believe my baby is going to be a married woman!’”

She puts her head in her hands.

“I am so fucked,” she mutters then looks up and we both burst out laughing at the same time.

Before I know what’s happening, she’s slid onto the braided rug on the floor, holding her stomach, and I’m howling so hard I’m crying. It takes us several minutes to regroup from our untoward display of wedding attire hysteria. Finally, Maggie sits up again, wiping at the tears on her cheeks.

“Seriously!” she wheezes. “What am I going to do? I cannot walk down the aisle looking like the Barbie birthday cake from when I turned six, Julia!”

It’s all I can do to keep myself from falling back into a fit of giggles over the thought of the birthday cake, so I bite my tongue and consider her plight. And then it comes to me.

“Trudy!” I declare excitedly.

“What? What about her?”

“Brett told me she sews everything, including her own clothes. I’ll bet she’d be able to whip that dress into something a little less …” I wave a hand at the garment as I search for an inoffensive adjective.

“Tacky? Fluffy? Garish?” Maggie offers.

“I was going to say dated,” I laugh. “But seriously, why don’t you ask her about it? I’ll bet she’d love to do it for you, Maggie.”

“That’s such a great idea,” she sighs in relief. “I’ll call her this afternoon.”

She hoists herself up off the floor with considerable effort. “You know, this damn thing weighs thirty-five pounds? I’m not kidding! It’s right on the shipping label. What bride wants to be thirty-five pounds heavier on her wedding day? Here, will you please unzip me so I can get out of this thing?”

I never had any friends, aside from Matthew. Maggie’s become my sounding board, my confidant, and a damn fine aunt to my son.

“Have you spoken with her?”

Her question interrupts my thoughts and, for a moment, I’m not sure what she’s talking about. “Spoken to who?”