If You Only Knew Read online

I nod. He slides it open, and the girls all fall silent immediately at the sight of a stranger.

  "You must be the Puke Sisters," he says.

  "You not funny," Rose says, and her own comment makes her laugh, then puke again.

  "You're gross," Gus says. He reaches in the back for something--Rose's backpack, opens it up and takes out her lunch box. "If you need to puke again," he says, "do it in here. Okay? You too, Princess Pukey." Charlotte accepts her Hello Kitty lunch box from him, and I grab Grace's backpack and give her hers--Matchbox cars... She's not the girliest girl.

  "Mommy, why you crying?" Rose asks.

  "Oh, honey," I say, not aware that I still was, "I'm just sorry I let you have all that ice cream. I shouldn't have. I'm so sorry you feel bad."

  "It okay," she says kindly, and my tears surge hotter and harder.

  "Tell you what," Gus says. "I'm gonna follow you home."

  "No, that's--"

  "Oh, come on. How could I live with myself if I didn't?"

  *

  An hour later, the girls and I are clean again. I've given the girls a bath, put them in their jammies and tucked them into bed for nap time. "We love you," Grace says sleepily, speaking for her sisters as she often does.

  "I love you, too, my little angels. So, so much."

  I go into my room and change into jeans and a sweater. I washed up while the girls were splashing in the tub. No makeup. My hair seems to have been spared the puke-a-thon, but I brush it and put it in a ponytail, then head downstairs.

  Gus is just coming in, a bucket and some laundry detergent in his hands. "I cleaned up as best I could," he says, "but, good God, woman. It's terrifying in there. You probably need to get the car detailed. Or just set fire to it." He smiles, his eyes all but disappearing.

  "Would you like some coffee?" I ask. "Or do you have to get back to work?"

  "I'd love some." He washes his hands at the kitchen sink, and I make the coffee. Put out some cookies, too--organic oatmeal with fair-trade, locally grown organic cranberries--and we sit at the kitchen table.

  "How's work?" I ask.

  Gus is still at Celery Stalk Media, the company where I worked for seven years before I left in my sixth month of pregnancy, an act of mercy for my boss, Adele, who was terrified the girls would slide out at any minute. It was--is--a lovely company, fifteen or so employees, a casual, happy place, as you'd hope it would be. We designed children's educational software, after all--lessons masquerading as games. I haven't kept up much; some of the women came over to visit when the girls were a few months old, a blurry, exhausting time that I barely remember. I send a Christmas card, the photo-montage type, and always get a few emails about how beautiful and big the girls are.

  A lot of the women at Celery Stalk had a crush on Gus, who is so nice it's hard to believe he's genuine. He's cute rather than handsome; he has a round face and a slightly receding hairline which he doesn't try to hide; his hair is in a crew cut. He's only five-eight or so. Adele, our boss, once asked him what his ethnic background was. Italian, he said, with an Inuit great-grandmother, which explained those happy eyes. I think the quality that makes him so popular with women is simply his happiness.

  He asked me out once, two days after my first date with Adam. Something casual, like "Want to get a drink sometime?" and I was taken aback; we'd worked together for more than two years, and he'd never shown any special interest toward me. I blushed so hard my face hurt and mumbled something about not being a drinker, really, but maybe a bunch of us could go out for happy hour sometime, I know Eliza had mentioned a new place she'd been wanting to try.

  He got the message. Didn't seem to hold it against me. And truthfully, I forgot about it, caught up in the romance of Adam, who was tall and so handsome and sent me flowers the very next day with a card that said, "I like you a lot, Rachel Tate." I still have that card, in our photo album, along with a pressed rose from the arrangement.

  "Are you seeing anyone, Gus?" I ask now, strangely at ease. Once a guy's seen you covered in puke, sobbing on the side of a highway...

  "No," he answers. "I was, for a while. A nice woman named Alice. We lived together for a while, but..." He shrugs.

  "So no heartbreak?" I ask.

  "I didn't say that." He smiles a little. "She's a good person. We just weren't right for each other. We're still friends."

  "My sister and her ex are still friends," I say. "I don't really understand how that works."

  "It has its awkward moments." He pauses, but it's still there, the happiness that we all so loved back in the day. The notion that Gus Fletcher never had a bad day in his life. Naive, but reassuring. "Your daughters are beautiful, by the way. Even when they're snarling."

  "Sorry Grace bit you," I say, feeling a smile start.

  "It was a first. I'll be Tweeting it later." He takes a sip of coffee, his eyes still merry.

  "So my husband had an affair," I say.

  "Ah, shit." His smile drops.

  And then I'm telling him everything. The Picture, the denial, the guilt over what I thought, how I just knew when I saw them in the same room. The rage, the fear, the awful, unbearable hurt, the escalator fantasy, which actually makes him laugh. Me, too.

  I don't cry. I just talk. And Gus lets me. I talk for forty-five minutes, according to the clock. And when I'm done, he covers my hand with his, gives it a squeeze and takes it back. "I'm so sorry" is all he says, and those smiley eyes are kind.

  "I'm sorry I unloaded on you."

  "I'm not sorry about that."

  He has such a nice face. I wonder what would've happened if he'd asked me out a week before he did. Of all my coworkers, I had always liked Gus the best.

  Well. No point in going there.

  Fifteen minutes later, Gus leaves. "Thank you for everything," I say, and my voice breaks a little, because the magnitude of his loveliness today, his helpfulness and kindness, hits me in a warm wave.

  "I'm really glad I was driving by," he says, and I can tell he means it. "Tell the girls thanks for exploding like that." Another smile flashes. "Call me if you ever need your car cleaned again."

  Then he leaves, and that night, around nine, when Adam is watching the Yankees and I'm looking at Pinterest, thinking about repainting our bedroom, I get an email.

  It's from Gus. His phone number, and the words It really was great to see you.

  Jenny

  Since opening Bliss, I've booked eleven brides. I've also made the decision to sell a few of the sample dresses. I never had a storefront before and now it seems silly to have eight dresses in the shop that aren't for sale. As Andreas so wisely pointed out--between writing chapters of his lurid urban fantasy/gay erotica--the impulse buy ain't gonna hurt.

  And so I've designed a few more dresses, and the two of us have been sewing till our eyes bleed, more or less. We spend many happy hours discussing whether our celebrity crushes are gay or straight and how they'd be in bed. He tells me about his novel, his boyfriend and how he wishes he knew a straight man or two for me.

  The extra work helps keep my mind off Rachel, too. It's been tooth-grinding, not being able to help her out of her misery. I can't tell you how many times I've plotted my brother-in-law's death. Then I'm filled with guilt and remorse, because until very recently, I loved Adam. He made my sister so happy.

  Now she's dodging my calls.

  "What's wrong with Rachel?" Mom asks one day when I can't find a reason for her not to come to the store. She wanders around, idly fingering material, clucking disapprovingly here and there. Andreas, who confuses her--A man? In bridal wear? But why?--has brought her a cup of coffee and leans against the counter, drinking it all in for his novel. He's basing a character on her.

  "I don't know," I lie. "She seems fine to me. We had so much fun with the girls the other day." In fact, I was babysitting; Rachel barely said a word to me, so distracted and pale. "They came to my apartment, and I made them a pillow fort, and Rose--"

  "Do you think Grace is autistic?"
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  This is my mother. Able to suck joy from the conversation in under one second.

  "No," I say firmly.

  "Well, something's going on with your sister. God knows what she has to complain about. She has a perfect life. She shouldn't take anything for granted. I had a perfect life, too, once, and then it was gone in an instant. I told her to get over her little snit, whatever it is, and be grateful."

  I take a cleansing breath at that. Andreas practically skips into the workroom to his laptop, inspired.

  "Maybe you just don't remember what it was really like, Mom," I say mildly, though my stomach burns. "Maybe it wasn't quite so perfect, and you've just--"

  "Oh, please. Your father and I were madly in love. We couldn't keep our hands off each other."

  First of all, yuck. What kid wants to hear about their parents' sex life, even--or especially--as an adult? Secondly, because I just can't stand this kind of revisionist history, I say, "Yeah, but remember that last year? You were working so much, and Dad--"

  "Are you jealous? Is that it, honey? Because of Owen and Ana-Sofia and how happy they are?"

  Better to have her focused on me than on Rachel. It still cuts, though, my mom's constant need to win, to have had a better life, a better marriage, a bigger, truer love than her daughters. I honestly think Rachel's having triplets made Mom feel outdone. After all, Rachel has a third more daughters than Mom managed. Add to that my sister's glowing happiness, and that sweet, innocent sense that emanates--emanated--from her, and Mom always has to slip in a zinger. Her ease of getting pregnant. Two children being the perfect number, according to "studies I've read." Such studies could never be found, but she still claimed that that's what the experts said.

  And of course, Saint Dad, perfect father, better husband.

  Then, as always, irritating pity trickles in, mixing with the anger I feel. She loved my father. She'll never get over his death. "Come on, Mom," I tell her. "Let me take you to lunch. They redid Hudson's, and it's really cute now."

  "You should eat at the new place in my town," she says. "Really top-notch. The best French food in the Northeast, the Times said."

  "Yeah? What's it called?"

  "Oh, I can't remember." She waves her hand dismissively. This is because if she did remember, I could Google the restaurant and thus disprove her claim on the Times review. "Betty and I had lunch there. The chef came out to greet us and made us a special appetizer. It really was amazing. Completely unique."

  "I get it, Mom. Whatever Hudson's has won't be as good as what's in Hedgefield. Would you like to go out with me, anyway? My treat?"

  "Fine," she says, adopting a wounded look. "I just thought you'd be interested in a nice place. No need to get so touchy."

  Two hours later, Mom kisses my cheek goodbye. I text Rachel to warn her that our mother may well stop by, and Rach gives the preemptive phone call, pretending to check in from a doctor's appointment. Mom warns her about vaccines, both pro and con, essentially saying that the girls are doomed whatever choice Rachel makes.

  I wonder if Mom would be happier in some odd way, knowing that Dad wasn't perfect. If she might have moved on. Mourned less somehow.

  It wouldn't be fair to tell her now. I'm almost positive. In her odd way, she's happy in her misery.

  But I wonder if I should tell Rachel. Then again, maybe it would devastate her, knowing our dad had strayed. Or maybe it would reassure her to know that Dad did love Mom, tremendously, and an affair doesn't necessarily mean the end of happiness.

  I don't know. The last thing I want to do is make things worse.

  "Mind if I go home early today?" Andreas asks, sticking his head into my office, where I'm sketching a mermaid gown for one of my new clients. "Seth and I have a date."

  "Fine," I say. "Rub my face in it. Why can't Seth have a straight brother, huh?"

  "He has a lesbian sister. Want to give it a shot?"

  "Some days, I do," I say. "It'd be easier than dealing with men."

  "Tell me about it," Andreas says.

  Alone in my shop.

  I have plenty of work, but...I don't know. Something's still missing. I'm on autopilot these days. I still love making dresses, but I haven't been truly electrified in a long time. I'd hoped that owning my own shop would reinvigorate me, but so far, I feel horribly like I'm phoning it in. The dresses are still gorgeous, my brides are still thrilled; I'm probably the only one who knows something's amiss.

  I look at one of the display dresses--this gorgeous, sweet hippie-vibe confection with off-the-shoulder sleeves and empire waist. I loved making that dress. The bride called off the wedding; hence the reason I still have the dress, but it suited her perfectly, and she adored it. The guy was the problem, not the gown.

  The bell over the door rings, and in comes my afternoon appointment. Kimber, in to see the muslin dress I made, based on the sketches she (and Mrs. Brewster) approved.

  Unfortunately, the Dragon Lady is here, too, her iron-gray hair sprayed into its fiercely chic helmet, her face set in those frigid lines.

  "Hello!" I say, hugging Kimber, who beams at me. "So nice to see you both! Come on in to the dressing room. Can I get you coffee or tea?"

  "Let's get this over with," Mrs. Brewster says. Kimber's smile twitches, then dies.

  "Sure," I say, ever chipper with my clients. "Now, the dress is obviously going to be in that gorgeous silk we picked out last time. This is just for fit and to give you an idea of how it will look on. I'll show you the lace choices, and we can get to work making it really special."

  "I can't wait," Kimber says, clapping her hands.

  Because covering the tattoos was deemed critical by Mrs. Brewster--and because Kimber dutifully agreed--I've come up with a very elegant, fitted dress with a sweetheart neckline and a graceful, draped skirt. Three-quarter lace sleeves and lace over the bodice will camouflage most of her colorful tattoos. The back is also lace. The material will be ivory silk and with a very delicate, sheer lace--the wedding's in July, after all--and with Kimber's figure and olive skin, she'll look amazing in it.

  "Let me help you get dressed, and then we'll show you, Mrs. Brewster."

  Mrs. B.'s response is to glance at her watch.

  In the changing room, Kimber strips down to her bra and panties, both shocking pink. Her tattoos are rose vines, climbing from her hip bone up her side to twine her neck. She also has angel wings between her shoulder blades and the full-sleeve tattoo. I wouldn't want a tattoo myself, but I don't mind them. And they suit Kimber, with her pink hair and studded ears. She has such an innocence about her; she looks like a rock 'n' roll angel.

  "This is so much fun!" she whispers. "I hope Mrs. B. likes it! I really want us to be friends."

  The admission is so honest and sweet. "If Jared loves you, I'm sure she already does. And not to toot my own horn, but this dress is perfect. You'll look beautiful," I say. "Here, just slide this over your head. Don't look. Now, let me zip you up. You'll have buttons on the real dress, but this can give you an idea."

  Kimber closes her eyes and lets me do my thing.

  The dress fits her perfectly, and that figure... Glory be. She's built like Scarlett Johansson.

  "My tatts will still show," Kimber says.

  "I know," I say. "This is the under-dress...just the bodice and skirt, see? Now, this isn't your lace--we'll pick that out today--but I made you a little jacket to give you an idea of how it will look."

  She slides her arms into the sleeves and lets me button the makeshift jacket. "You can pick whatever pattern of lace you want," I tell her. "It can be a corded lace, which is heavier, or you can go with something really light and airy. I think light would work best, personally, but it's up to you. And it can be beaded, too, if you want a little sparkle."

  "Oh! Sparkle sounds great!"

  I finish the last button. "Open your eyes."

  She opens her eyes, and her lips part, her face at once dreamy and stunned. "Is that really me?" she asks.

  "Sure
is. You look amazing. Shall we show her?"

  We go out to where Mrs. Brewster waits, looking pinched. Her face doesn't change, though Kimber is beaming.

  "What do you think?" I ask.

  "I can still see those ridiculous tattoos," she snaps. "I thought you understood our problem."

  "This lace pattern is only for demonstration," I say calmly. "We can pick out something with a denser pattern if--"

  "No," Mrs. Brewster says. "The lace won't work. No tattoos should be showing at all. This is a church wedding, not some civil ceremony. Jared's father is the minister of the congregation. His son can't seem to be marrying a...prostitute."

  Holy shit.

  Kimber swallows hard. Her eyes are shiny with tears.

  "I'm sure no one would think that, Mrs. Brewster," I say, earning an icy glare. "Kimber, this is your day. What do you think?"

  She looks at Mrs. Brewster. "Um...I guess more, um, opaque? Because I get what Mrs. Brewster's saying. It's kind of a formal day. So maybe no lace. What else could we do? I mean, I love the shape. It'll be beautiful in anything. Right?"

  "It's hardly modest," Mrs. Brewster says. "Her...rump is far too obvious. What about a higher waist? A ball gown would be more appropriate for a church wedding."

  Kimber's one request was anything but a ball gown. Which Mrs. Brewster, she and I had discussed in our first and second appointments.

  "I could try a ball gown," Kimber says meekly.

  "Good. Jennifer--"

  "It's Jenny, actually. I was never Jennifer."

  "Can you whip up a ball gown?"

  I force a smile. "Yes, I can make a ball gown in time for the wedding. If that's what Kimber wants."

  "Then let's pick out some fabric. Do you have any satin?" She stands up, breezes past Kimber and goes to the wall of sample fabrics.

  Ten minutes later, Mrs. Brewster has chosen an antique satin--a heavy, lustrous fabric. Under her critical eye, I sketch out a classic, Cinderella ball gown. High-necked, long-sleeved, high-backed.

  "This is going to be very warm, especially if you have a hot day," I say to the bride, who's biting her fingernail, standing behind Mrs. Brewster.

  "Sew in some sweat shields," Mrs. Brewster says.

  "Kimber? Anything you'd like to add, honey?"

  She inches over and looks at the picture. "Um...maybe some bling? Just a little?"

  "Sure. We can add some beading here, and maybe here, too--"