Chapter Six
Heron
Heron sat cross-legged on her bed, watching out the window for Bea’s car. A Christmas-morning feeling buzzed through her folded limbs. Today was the day she would truly start to feel like a bride. When Bea pulled up in front of her building, she slid her feet into her running shoes and grabbed the bag she’d packed, which included a pair of heels for trying on dresses (she wore a half-size bigger than Bea, close enough to share in a pinch, and Bea wouldn’t think to bring any), bottles of water, granola bars, and the wedding planning binder Toni had bought for her. And a bag of cheese puffs, a tradition for their road trips. The convention center was only about an hour away, but she wanted this day to be as much fun for her cousin as possible.
She climbed into the passenger seat. Bea was wearing cropped leggings, a sweatshirt emblazoned with the quote, “Not fragile like a flower, fragile like a bomb,” (so Bea) and running shoes like Heron’s. She was drinking from one of The Beanery’s largest paper cups. The box for the number of espresso shots was marked with a six and circled emphatically, as if the barista couldn’t quite believe it either. Oh boy, Bea was really fortifying herself for this day.
“I got you a chai,” Bea said, indicating the cupholder.
“Thanks. And thank you for coming with me today. I know it’s not exactly your idea of fun. Maggie would have come, but she has a rugby game.”
Bea made a dismissive sound. “It will be an adventure. Before I forget, Sarah asked me to bring back some samples. Help me grab some for her, will you? Anything older people might like for crafting or activities.”
“Sure,” Heron said.
At a stoplight, Bea glanced over. “So do we have a game plan?”
“A game plan?” Leave it to Bea to want a strategy for this.
“Well, do you have certain vendors you especially want to talk to? Is Charlie in charge of anything?”
“Just to get some ideas, mostly. Charlie says he doesn’t have strong opinions, but I’m supposed to talk to his mom soon about arranging details in Connecticut.”
“I’m guessing she will have some opinions.”
“I know she does.” Heron watched a couple of farms blur past and then said, “Charlie says she has a favorite photographer, string quartet, and caterer. Might as well use them.”
Bea laughed. “Imagine being the kind of person who has a favorite string quartet. Or caterer!”
“Or professional photographer,” Heron added.
“Well,” Bea put on a mid-Atlantic accent. “Darling, everyone who’s anyone needs one of those in case the fellow who does the life-sized oil portraits is otherwise engaged.”
Heron laughed. “I know. It’s all very different.”
Here, Charlie was just…Charlie. He had nice clothes and a decent car, and he didn’t have to worry about tuition or books the way some of their classmates did, but he didn’t act snooty. Heron was aware she had more financial privilege than many, herself. She took summer jobs to help pay for her expenses, but they never worried about not being able to make a tuition payment. The way Charlie talked about his family back east sometimes made them sound like they existed in an entirely different world. Something out of an old movie, where people dressed for dinner and used finger bowls. She rubbed her sweaty palms on her jeans.
As usual, Bea had one of her playlists of nineties female singer-songwriters on. She was always trying to get Heron into these older artists and while she enjoyed Bea’s taste, Heron wondered why Bea never played anything new. Had her cousin simply stuck with the music that had been popular when she was younger, or was it just that the music of the era suited Bea perfectly? As they turned off the highway, Bea’s favorite song—upbeat, harmonious folk-pop with lyrics about astronomers and karma—came up in the rotation. Heron decided it was probably a little of both. Bea had always known what she wanted, and worked hard to get it, but she kept room in her heart for the people she loved. Heron admired that deeply; hopefully there was more of Bea in herself than she got credit for. She planned to approach her future with Charlie with the same gusto Bea had for studying the stars. Heron filled her lungs and joined in to sing the chorus.
They were both hoarse when they pulled into the convention center. The parking lot was nearly full, and Bea said, “Why don’t you hop out and get us signed in. I’ll park and meet you inside.”
Heron grabbed her bag and exited the vehicle hastily because a line of cars had already built up behind Bea’s. As she walked toward the building, she looked at the other women—the crowd contained only a few reluctant fathers or hands-on grooms—wondering who was betrothed and who was, as Bea put it, “pit crew.”
A pang of regret crept in at the sight of so many brides here with their mothers, but Heron brushed it away, replaced with gratitude for Bea, and Toni and her dad and everyone else who was excited for her and wanted to be involved with wedding planning, even if her mom didn’t. Bea had come with her today when she would literally rather be anywhere else. Who could ask for better support? So many others here were just as in love as she was, just as filled with anticipation for the future. With gratitude in place and her intention set, Heron pulled the door open and stepped inside.
Bea
Bea hustled across the windswept parking lot, where she’d finally been able to snag a spot in the far back corner. She was happy to have on a warm sweatshirt until she opened the heavy convention center doors to an immediate sensory assault of warm, moist air, perfume, and shrieks of feminine delight. The entire space, normally a perfectly sensible beige facility where Bea had once attended a Women in STEM conference, was thoroughly draped in shiny white polyester and tsunamis of tulle, accented by sprays of ribbons and silk flowers. What fresh, frilly hell was this?
“Bea!” Heron’s voice was nearly drowned out by the din, but Bea moved toward it like a beacon. The sooner she found her cousin, the faster they’d be finished here and back home to relax with a movie marathon. Bea swam through the crowd, passing more than one group wearing matching pastel sweatsuits, before reuniting with Heron, who said, “Don’t be mad.”
“Bird, of course I’m not mad. It only took me five minutes to find you.”
“No.” Heron handed Bea a pink badge on a hot pink lanyard and a reusable canvas grocery bag in a matching lawn-flamingo shade. She said again, more emphatically, “Don’t be mad.”
Bea looked around. Heron’s badge was pink, too, but most of the older women had lavender, and some of the younger women had yellow. She looked more closely at the lanyard and saw “Bride” running along the ribbon in a script so encumbered with curlicues and flourishes it was nearly illegible.
Heron smiled, a nervous grimace. “You said you wanted samples for Sarah. The lady at the counter said most vendors only give samples to brides. So...I registered both of us as brides. You also get a tiara.” Heron handed her a tiny crown made of rhinestones, glued to a barrette, then clipped her own to the top of her head.
Bea turned it over in her hands as she scanned the room. It appeared that the yellow badges were for bridesmaids, purple was for mothers-of-the-bride, and there were a few white-haired ladies with blue badges—probably grandmothers. None of those would feel right, either. Acting as the mother-of-the-bride would emphasize the fact that Felicia wasn’t here with her daughter. According to Len, Felicia had only called to offer Heron perfunctory congratulations, hanging up after five minutes. Heron had asked Bea to be a bridesmaid, along with Charlie’s sister and Maggie, and Bea had agreed (only, she’d quipped, if her official title could be Old Maid of Honor). But all the women with yellow badges looked like they were in junior high to her. Perhaps this event didn’t attract many sensible, subdued brides with sensible, subdued friends.
Bea huffed out a breath to steel herself. Might as well go for broke; it wasn’t like she’d ever be attending one of these things to plan her own wedding. Besides, she could regale Sarah with the story later. She clipped the tiara into the top of her ponytail. “Lead on, fellow bride,” she said.
“Yay!” Heron did a little jump of delight and dragged Bea into the hall of vendors.
If the lobby were purgatory, the exhibition hall was the ninth circle of hell. Booths turned the entire space into a labyrinth. They looked much like the vendor setups Bea was used to seeing at academic conferences, except that the acres of shiny white drapery skirting the tables and backdrops made it look like all the booths had joined the same cult. On a rectangular, pink-carpeted runway in the center of the room, an endless parade of models in bridal party fashions marched like automatons. Some of the wedding show attendees observed from white-draped folding chairs in the middle of the rectangle. How did they get in or out? Were they supposed to just wait for a space between flower girls and make a break for it?
Over the loudspeaker, an emcee was leading a group of brides and bridesmaids through a practice bouquet toss in some unseen corner of the room, which didn’t discourage one of his competitors from playing tired old party hits at top volume.
Bea took a deep breath. One lap around for Heron to get the information she needed; that was all. She looked at her cousin’s face, rapt and wondrous. She was enjoying herself. Bea could suck it up for her sake. She should. She would.
“What do you want to look at first?” she yelled over the noise.
“Invitations?” Heron pointed toward a booth.
“Okay.” Bea followed her over to a stationery booth, the draped tables laid out with heavy engraved card stock. While Heron examined a rose-printed square with elaborate cut-outs that opened like a wrought iron garden gate, Bea picked up a small box, startling when the sides fell away as she took the lid off. Inside, a cut-out silhouette of a bride and groom were marked with a simple “STD: MM-DD-YYYY.”
A saleswoman set down the tablet she was working on and came over to say, “Those are quite popular with couples who have engagement parties, to hand out as favors. But they can also be mailed. When is your special day, dear?”
Bea remembered her bride badge. “I’m not sure yet.” Didn’t most people get married in the spring? “Spring, probably.”
“Spring weekends fill up! You should get save-the-dates out as soon as possible. Would you like to look at our postcards?”
“Oh, that’s okay.” When the woman turned around to get a sample book, Bea grimaced at Heron who was deep in conversation with the other woman working the booth and didn’t notice. “I’m really just here browsing with my cousin.”
The woman picked her tablet up and tapped at it with a stylus. “Ah, well, maybe you want to wait until your engagement is a little more official. I notice you aren’t wearing a ring.”
Bea bristled, offense causing her to forget she wasn’t, in fact, engaged. “What does my jewelry have to do with it?”
“Look, I’ve been doing this a long time and I’ve found that women who haven’t gotten a ring yet end up cancelling a lot of orders. It’s a simple fact.”
“And I suppose the bigger the diamond, the bigger the order?”
The saleswoman shrugged elegantly. “It’s merely an observation.”
“Really. A little piece of carbon with nothing special about it at all. Did you know it rains diamonds on Saturn?” She could tell her voice had gotten louder, but she didn’t care. “And they can easily be created in a lab. But all this”—she gestured to indicate the hall—“hype creates the high prices.” Heron’s eyes flicked up from the pile of floral-printed cards she was sorting through.
“It’s simply traditional, dear.”
“So is burning witches,” Bea snapped.
Heron appeared at Bea’s elbow. “Okay, I think I’m ready to move along. How about flowers? I know I’ll use the Brewster’s florist; I only want to get a few ideas.”
Bea nodded. Across from the florist, she saw a booth that did interest her. Oversized apothecary jars filled with pastel candy. Women with pink badges were using small silver scoops to fill little cellophane bags. She could get some almonds for Sarah and some bridge mints for the nursing home residents. Since Heron and Charlie would be giving mini bottles of Len’s wine as favors, Heron wouldn’t need to look there.
“I’ll be over there,” Bea said, inclining her head toward the candy.
By the time she was done with the candy jars, scoring some champagne-flavored gummy bears for movie night in addition to the treats for Sarah, Heron was seated at the florist’s table clicking through pictures of bouquets on a large computer monitor.
“What do you think of peonies?” she asked, showing Bea baseball-sized riots of petals in myriad shades of pink.
“Pretty,” Bea said. Each bouquet was nice enough, but they all looked nearly identical to Bea, whether they were roses or peonies or lilies. She’d never been big on cut flowers. If she ever got married, she might like to carry greenery or autumn leaves.
If she ever got married? Bea shook her head as if she’d been swimming and the idea was water she needed to clear out of her ear. Where the hell did that even come from? They must be pumping something in through the vents; that was clearly the only rational explanation. She had to get out of here. It was too hot and noisy, and she’d had too much caffeine.
She leaned over to speak into Heron’s ear. “I’m going to go grab some air. Do you want to meet near the bridesmaid dresses in…an hour?” Hopefully an hour would be enough time for Heron to make her way through the rest of these booths.
Heron dragged her gaze away from an image of a magenta cluster of roses. “Sure. Here.” Like magic, she produced a cold bottle of water and a granola bar (peanut butter, Bea’s favorite) from her bag and pressed them into Bea’s hands. Bea started the arduous process of moving toward the exit against the flow of giddy women trying to move deeper into the hall, feeling like a cantankerous salmon swimming upstream.
Heron
With Bea gone, Heron felt freer to linger over things she knew her cousin would make fun of; matching Mr. and Mrs. coffee mugs and pillowcases, a fluffy white robe with “Bride” emblazoned across the back, a fancy pen for signing the wedding certificate.
The back third of the hall was devoted to gowns, and as Heron moved through them, she found herself wandering through a forest of dresses. Mannequins and dress racks rose on either side, fabrics in a range of colors between white and blush, the skirts spreading out like the lower branches of snow-draped trees. Heron stretched out a hand to run along the fabric, considering the textures ranging from the rough rustle of tulle to waterfalls of the slipperiest satin. She had a basic idea of what she wanted and had gathered a few patterns but immersing herself in all these gowns was helping to crystallize her vision. The way the wide straps of one bodice narrowed at the collarbone, then crossed over a bare upper back; a skirt lifted enough in front to show toe-tips and pooled into the barest hint of a train, embroidery drawing the eye to a focal point. Heron had never been a big fan of lace or beading. Aside from being difficult to work with, she thought they distracted from the lines of a well-constructed dress. She wanted her own gown to rely on beautiful fabric instead. She wondered if there were any vendors here selling fabric and had begun to look around for one when she bumped into Bea.
“Feeling better?” she asked.
“Much. Let’s do this bridesmaid dress thing.”
As they walked toward the corner of bridesmaid fashions, an island of color in the sea of whites and ivories, Heron told Bea her ideas about dresses.
“Maggie and I are so close to the same size, and have the same coloring, I think I can try on anything I like, and we will get a pretty good idea of how it will work for her. Charlie’s sister told me not to worry too much about her—apparently, she’s been in so many weddings she’s stopped caring what the bridesmaid dress looks like. She has Charlie’s height and coloring.”
“Tall and blonde? Gee, wherever will we find something to flatter her?” Bea stopped walking so she could look Heron in the eye. “Listen, kiddo. You know I am not willowy and statuesque, or cute and petite like you and Maggie. If you can’t find a dress you like that works for all of us, I’m perfectly happy to just be a guest, you know.”
It was rare for Bea to speak frankly about her appearance. She was so confident and such a vocal proponent of body-acceptance. It was disheartening to hear her float the idea of not doing something merely because it might be hard to find the right clothes. What insecurities was Bea still harboring, and what else might she pass up because of them? Sometimes it was hard to tell which things Bea genuinely wasn’t interested in, and which she brashly eschewed, rejecting them before they could reject her. She had most people fooled, but she wasn’t as tough as she would have everyone believe.
“Bea,” Heron said, “I can’t imagine not having you up there with me. If we don’t find a bridesmaid dress we like for you, you can wear whatever you want.”
“Pajamas!”
“Um, maybe let’s just look at some dresses,” Heron said, laughing at Bea’s mischievous pout.
As she began to flip through an assortment of satins, Heron was trying to work up the courage to tell Bea she wanted to go with something in a light shade of pink. A saleswoman approached Bea, who was flicking through the other side of the rack.
“Hello ladies,” she said, with a pointed glance at Bea’s bride badge. “Our size range is the same for attendants as it is for brides. I’m afraid we likely don’t have much that will work for you available to try on. Our largest size might do, with alterations, but maybe you’d like to look at our Mother-of-the-Bride range? We have some beautiful suits perfect for…less conventional brides.”
“Actually,” Bea said, “I’m getting married in a white bikini. A Vegas thing—you can have your ceremony in a dolphin tank. It’s so romantic.”
Oh my god. Leave it to Bea. Heron suddenly grew very interested in the beadwork on the dress in front of her, failing to maintain a straight face as Bea gushed and the saleswoman’s expression grew increasingly incredulous.
Bea continued in a more serious tone, “In addition to being a ‘less conventional’ bride, myself, I am a bridesmaid for my lovely cousin here. So, let’s see how something in your largest size works for me, all right?”
“Certainly.” The saleswoman bit her lip. “We only have one sample in that size with us today but it’s our most popular style.”
“Thank you so much,” Bea over-enthused, raising an eyebrow at Heron as the woman went to fetch the dress.
“Let’s try somewhere else,” Heron said. Maybe they could make a getaway before the saleswoman reappeared. While Bea could certainly hold her own, she shouldn’t have to spend any more time around someone who was clearly bent on making her feel bad.
“No way,” Bea winked at her. “I’m enjoying making her uncomfortable way too much.”
Heron laughed. “Okay.”
Fifteen minutes later, Bea stood on a pedestal in the dressing area. The strapless column had zipped past her ribs but not over her breasts, and a series of metal clips held it to her bra. The dress bunched around the curve of Bea’s stomach, and she pressed her hands against her lower abdomen.
“Well,” she said, sticking a toe out from under the hem, “the length is good? And I do like the color.” It was deep teal; jewel tones always looked nice on Bea.
“Thank you so much,” Heron said to the saleswoman as she climbed onto the podium to help Bea undo the clips and zipper. “I think we will keep looking.”
The woman pursed her lips. “You might try the Spruce Room, downstairs. That’s where you can find the vendors for people with more…alternative tastes.”
In the mirror, Bea grinned at Heron. “Sounds perfect. Shall we look there?”
“Let’s go.” Heron hopped down and tossed Bea her sweatshirt. She’d be glad for a break from the overwhelming noise and crowds of the big exhibition hall, too. While it was exciting to finally be starting her planning and see all of this wedding stuff in one place, it was still sensory overload.
They weaved their way through the hall and down the staircase. The basement level of the convention center had lower ceilings and was far less crowded. Bea and Heron found the Spruce Room at the bottom of the stairs, a barer space where the folding tables were adorned more simply. Booths sold kits for making your own invitations or assembling wedding favors, chalkboards for signage, and handmade accessories like ring pillows and flower girl baskets. Along one wall, there were racks of dresses and a sign reading, “Old, New, Borrowed, Blue.” Heron also spied bolts of fabric there and made a beeline for them.
A flyer on the table in front of the shop explained they were a new business getting ready to open a storefront in Seattle, specializing in “Custom-made gowns, refurbished vintage dresses, select rentals, and non-traditional styles.” This might be perfect for both of them.
Looking through the fabric swatches, something caught Heron’s eye immediately. A pale ivory dupioni silk, with a faint pattern of scrollwork and watercolor vines in a shade of blush that barely contrasted with the background. A dress made of this would look solid from far away, but the embellishment would be visible up close.
“Can you sell me this by the yard,” she asked, “or do I have to order a gown?”
The saleswoman walked over, a young woman in a pinup-style dress, with a half sleeve of tattooed ferns adorning one arm.
“I’m Lucy, the owner,” she said, extending a hand for Heron to shake. “What do you have in mind?”
Heron got out her phone to show some of her inspiration pictures. “Oh, and I made this dress,” she showed the woman a picture from the night Charlie proposed. “Twice, actually,” she scrolled through to find an older picture, from her homecoming dance.
“You seem like you know what you’re doing,” Lucy said. “We could probably sell you some fabric. Good choice. This is hand-painted and it’s one of my favorites.”
They began the calculations of how many yards Heron should buy. The material was expensive, but overall it would be cheaper than buying a dress already made.
“I’ll tell you what,” Lucy said. “Do you need bridesmaids dresses?”
“Yes.” Heron nodded. “Three.”
“If you buy them from me, I’ll give you ten percent off and throw in an extra yard so you have a little more room for experimentation. Just in case.”
“We’ll take a look,” Heron said, and scanned the room for Bea, surprised to see her buying a candle from a table on the opposite side of the room. “Bea!” Heron waved her over.
“Smell this,” Bea said. “It’s like the best part of Christmas.” The candle Bea waved in front of Heron’s nose smelled of evergreen layered with cinnamon and whisky. It did smell great.
“It’s nice. But I thought you only liked vanilla candles.”
“Tastes can change.” Bea’s tone was almost . . . coquettish.
Heron turned away to hide her satisfied smile. There was a simple explanation for her cousin’s new aromatic interests. Ben’s Librotory, with the spice of old paper and sharp tang of the pine scrubbing soap, had a similar smell.
Bea
The Spruce Room was much more Bea’s style. No DJs with booming sound systems or walls of white polyester here. Ambient jazz played softly over the speakers. It smelled like a spa, and there were things here Bea might actually consider purchasing. The other shoppers were different, too; less shrill. When Heron made a beeline for the dresses, Bea drifted over to a booth advertising “clean-burning soy candles,” picking up a few to sniff. Could she help it if the one she liked best smelled a bit like Ben? No. It was a nice smell. Nothing to feel weird about.
Heron beckoned her over to a portion of the room cordoned off for a dress shop, and she thought, here we go again. But this one was different from upstairs. The saleswoman looked like she belonged more at a rockabilly club than a wedding show. The fabrics here were richer colors, without so much beading and frippery. Heron had taken off her sweater and was draping a swatch of softly patterned ivory fabric around her torso. “This color is actually called candlelight,” the saleswoman said. “It’s perfect with your complexion.” It would be a cliche to say Heron was glowing, but Heron was glowing. It would also be a cliche to say tears sprung to Bea’s eyes at the sight of the young woman she’d watched play dress up as a little girl, beginning to look like a bride, but the tears were there anyway.
“That’s lovely, Bird,” she said, surreptitiously dabbing with the cuff of her sweatshirt under the guise of adjusting her glasses.
The saleswoman caught her eye and winked. “You must be bridesmaid number one. I’m Lucy.” She pulled the tape measure from around her neck. “If I can get some quick measurements, I’ll pull a few dresses for you to try on.”
“Oh,” Bea said, taking her bulky sweatshirt off to reveal her own tank top underneath. “You probably don’t have anything that will work for me, I’m a size—”
“Ah-ah.” Lucy stopped her. “We don’t do anything by dress size here. They vary so much across brands and bridal sizes always run small. And”—she gave Bea the kind of up and down assessment that normally made her cringe—“I have lots of things in stock that will fit you.”
“Shouldn’t you have bought me dinner first?” Bea asked as Lucy ran the tape measure around her bust, making a pencil notation on a tiny notepad.
“Pfft, dinner for second base? Aren’t we fancy? Don’t suck in.” With brisk, efficient motions, Lucy ran the tape measure around Bea’s waist and hips.
Through the gap in the fitting room curtain, Bea watched Heron pull bridesmaid dresses she liked from the racks. “That seems to be a lot of pink, Bird,” Bea called.
“Hmm, does it?” Heron widened her eyes in feigned innocence. “Just try them. Please?”
The fitting room was rigged out of pipe and drape, with a pedestal in the middle and a couple of mirrors. It was utilitarian, nothing like the showplace upstairs, but as Bea stood in the third dress she’d tried on, she was surprised to admit to herself she wouldn’t hate standing up in front of two hundred people in it. It was indeed pink, but a muted dusty rose reminding her more of flower petals than cotton candy; sleeveless but cut at the right point on her shoulder to make her arms look strong. A high bateau neckline concealed her cleavage. A wide band of pink in a slightly darker shade ran around the narrowest part of Bea’s waist, and a full skirt flared across her lower belly and hips. It wasn’t anything Bea would ever pick for herself, but it was pretty. Heron looked adorable in the copy she’d tried on to see how it might look on Maggie.
“Wonderful, ladies,” Lucy said, returning from the front with two plastic flutes of champagne. “Heron, we’ll ship the dress to your future sister-in-law based on her measurements; she can either get it pinned and mail it back for any adjustments, or take it to a local tailor.”
They changed back into their street clothes, and while Heron texted Charlie’s sister about the dress, Bea sipped her champagne and absentmindedly perused the racks. It only took her half the glass to get a pleasant floaty feeling, and she remembered the legend about Dom Perignon comparing champagne to drinking the stars. A twinkle caught her eye from a shot of dark velvet among all the silks and laces. She pulled the dress out to look at it more closely. It was a deep, rich midnight, dark blue with the faintest hint of teal. While the other fabrics on the rack reflected the light, this seemed to absorb it, pulling her gaze in and then sparking it with delicate, random pinpoints of pale silver embroidery.
“Oh!” Lucy was returning with the paperwork. “You should try that on. I made three of those for a winter wedding, but one of the bridesmaids dropped out. It’s on clearance.”
Bea replaced the dress on the rack. “I don’t think so. I don’t have any place to wear it.”
“Nonsense,” said Lucy. “You can never find a great dress when you have the occasion for one. And velvet is versatile, you can dress it up or down depending on shoes and accessories. Just try it on. If you like it, I’ll give you the same ten percent discount I’m giving Heron on top of the sale price.”
So, Bea found herself back on the pedestal. This was not a typical bridesmaid dress in any way, nor was it even a typical cocktail dress. The velvet had enough give to it for Bea to move her arms easily in the fitted, elbow-length sleeves, and the wrapped neckline skimmed the top of her cleavage—sexy without being too much. Instead of the structured, flared-skirt silhouette she gravitated to because it camouflaged her butt, stomach and thighs, the draped fabric skimmed close to her body. It made her consider her belly in a way she hadn’t before; material hugged rather than pulling or bunching as if it wanted to caress and decorate the curve instead of hiding it or trying to smash it flat.
“Bea,” Heron gasped, “you have to buy that.”
Lucy cast a critical eye. “It does look perfect. I don’t think I would even try any alterations. And,” she walked around the back of the pedestal, then handed Bea a small mirror, “turn around.”
Bea started to step down. “No, I really don’t think I need to check out my own ass, thank you.”
“Bea. This is a totally weird thing for me to say, but you look hot.” Heron had moved around behind Bea to see the back of the dress. “Just look.”
“Fine.” Bea took the mirror from Lucy. She hadn’t seen herself from behind in years. Her hair spilled down her back, the warm highlights threaded through the brown were set off by the rich blue of the velvet. If the curve between her waist and hips looked surprisingly good from the front, from the back it was a knockout, leading into the curve of her butt in a way she’d admired on other women without ever thinking of it as something she might see in herself. Below the hem, her calves were strong and shapely. Maybe it was the effect of the champagne, but she did look hot.
“Fine,” she said. “Sold.”
Honestly, the dress was worth buying for the fabric alone, which invoked the winter night sky she loved. If she never ended up wearing the dress, maybe she could get Heron to turn it into some throw pillows.