If You Only Knew Page 9

  Does he want me to praise him? Give him a sticker? Write his name on the kitchen blackboard, like I do when one of the girls does something especially sweet or helpful?

  "And then one day she came into my office to talk about a case, and she crossed her legs, and she wasn't wearing panties, and I couldn't help myself. It was--"

  "Shut up, Adam. Shut the fuck up."

  I'm quite sure today is the first day Adam has ever heard me use the F word. He stops talking.

  "I told you if you ever cheated on me, I'd divorce you," I say calmly.

  "I don't want a divorce. Think of the girls, Rachel."

  "I always think of the girls," I hiss, the fury writhing in my stomach. "All I do is think of the girls. Were you thinking of the girls when you fucked another woman? Hmm? Is that what a great father does?"

  "Look. I'm sorry. I really am, Rachel. I was weak. But I don't want to lose you."

  How I would love to tell him to piss off right now. That there's no going back from this. That he can talk to my lawyer.

  But just the thought of a divorce makes cold fear shoot through my legs. I don't want a divorce! No adored husband coming through the door every night, no father in the house for the girls, no "Baby Beluga" sung at bedtime. We'd have to separate our things, all our lovely things that have made our house so welcoming and happy. All the pictures of the girls; he'd obviously get to take some with him.

  How could I live without things the way they are now?

  My rage has been snuffed out by icy-cold terror.

  "When you knew I saw the picture," I whisper, "did you tell her things had to end?"

  "No," he admits. "I haven't yet."

  The big question is waiting in the back of my throat like bile. "Do you love her?"

  He hesitates. "I... No. Not like I love you. But yes, there are...feelings."

  Oh, God.

  My temples throb, and I have to force my teeth apart.

  I get up to leave. I'll sleep in the guest room, take a long bath in the tub, maybe get another bottle of wine. Watch Game of Thrones and...and...

  I stumble before I even make it out of the living room.

  Adam's arms are around me. "Baby, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry." His voice is rough with tears. "Please don't make any decisions now. I love you. I love our family. Let's not throw that away. I made a mistake. I'll fix this. We can get counseling, or go on vacation, whatever you want. But please don't leave me. I couldn't live without you."

  I love him so much. I hate him so much. He picked me--out of all the women who would've loved to have been Adam Carver's wife, he wanted me. We made this beautiful family, this happy life--well, obviously not happy enough that he kept it in his pants, did he?

  "I'm going to bed," I whisper. "I don't know what I want right now. Except to be alone."

  "Sleep in," he says. "I'll get the girls to school tomorrow. I'll go in late."

  I can't bear to look at his eyes anymore. Those beautiful caramel eyes that lied so well.

  Feeling more tired than I've ever felt in my life, I climb the stairs, holding the railing with both hands. Past the picture of my parents on their wedding day. Past the photo of Jenny and me when we were little, dressed in frilly Easter dresses. Past the picture of Adam, smiling hugely, his eyes wet as he holds three little burritos with pink caps.

  Past our wedding photo. Me, in that stunning, amazing dress Jenny made for me, looking more beautiful than I ever knew I could, smiling at Adam with such adoration and...and...gratitude that it makes me sick.

  Without thinking, I take the photo off the wall and toss it down the stairs behind me, the sound of glass shattering on tile bright and clear.

  "Rachel." His voice is hard and sharp.

  I look down the stairs.

  "Before you break anything else, just...just make sure you know what you want. Think about our life together, and what life would be like apart." His voice softens. "Our marriage is worth fighting for. I screwed up, I admit that. But it would be smart to go slowly here."

  I turn around again and go into the guest room and close the door.

  It seems I've just been warned.

  Jenny

  "Oh, God," Andreas says. "Look at the hordes. This is awful." Though he threatens weekly to quit, I don't think he will, despite the reverse commute to the city. Who else would let him work on his novel during work hours?

  "Hordes are good, Andreas," I say patiently, looking at the line that snakes down the block. "This is great. It's our grand opening. Smile. Be happy. And do not open that door until the stroke of twelve, okay?" It's Sunday, the sun is shining, and the streets of Cambry-on-Hudson are filled with people strolling around, having brunch--yes--shopping. Outside my shop is a huge tin bucket filled with early peonies, bought from the florist across the street. A chalkboard sign says "Bliss: Open House today from 12-5. Come in, look around and enjoy!"

  My mother is the first person in line. This does make my shoulders droop a little. But no, no. While my mother will talk endlessly about her wedding to Dad, she at least does it in a highly romantic manner. It could be good for business. Still, it would've been nice if she hadn't worn sweats. She looks a teeny bit homeless. Sneakers, too. Her hair is messy. It's all part of the "I'm A Widow" package, lest there be any doubt that her life was ruined when Dad died.

  As ever, a cold needle pricks my heart.

  Well. I have too much to do to rehash the past.

  Andreas pops the champagne at the little bar I've set up for today. Pink champagne and pale pink-frosted cupcakes from Cottage Confections, the fabulous cake shop conveniently located four doors down. Kim, the owner, and I became instant friends as soon as she welcomed me to the downtown with six chocolate cupcakes. We'll be referring each other lots. Andreas arranges the napkins, sets out a beautiful notebook so people can write down their emails.

  To advertise my skills, the showroom is furnished with dress forms adorned with finished gowns in each of the classic shapes--A-line, mini, modified A-line, trumpet, mermaid, sheath, tea-length and, most popular of all these days, ball gown. The forms stand around Bliss like a beautiful army, shimmering in the pinkish lights of the store, the crystals from the ball gown catching the light and casting tiny rainbows, the satin of the tea-length glowing.

  I fluff the cathedral train on the Grace Kelly-inspired dress, fingering the silk mikado. Bliss is not the type of shop that has ready-to-wear dresses. I'm not a salesperson; I'm a designer. But I do keep a few dresses on hand for the women who want to play dress-up.

  Another section of the showroom features accessories--veils, belts, headpieces, gloves, garters. I'll have to make sure my nieces don't get into too much trouble over there. They tend to view my workplace as their personal playland.

  Hung on the brick walls are a huge selling tool--pictures of my brides in their dresses, each one a black-and-white photo, hung at precise intervals. One picture is bigger than the others: Rachel, wearing the most beautiful dress I've ever made.

  The back half of the shop is where the work really happens. Of course, there's the dressing room with its apricot-painted walls and dais with three-way mirror, as well as a couch and three upholstered chairs, a coffee table with a photo album of my work. That's where I'll do consultations and fittings, where the bride shows me pictures of dresses she likes, where I'll ask all the questions they love to answer--what's your vision for the day, do you have a theme, how do you want to look.

  The workroom is across the hall, where Andreas and I painstakingly organized thousands of fabric samples: satin, silk, chiffon, organza, charmeuse, lace--I have more than a hundred samples of lace--and yards and yards of muslin, since I make a mock-up of every dress before cutting the dress fabric itself. In the center of the room is a huge oak table--my work space, complete with four different sewing machines.

  Shelves hold tape measures and scissors and thousands of straight pins, dozens of types of appliques, lengths of crystal and beading and accents. I never understood
how a designer could be unorganized. It makes me cringe on Project Runway when someone loses their fabric.

  I love my job. I love weddings, all types. Me, I opted for a quickie wedding on the beach in Provincetown, a weekend when Owen and I seemed to be the only straight couple tying the knot. Rachel and Adam came, Mom, Owen's wonderful parents, Andreas and his boyfriend, a few friends from New York. We had lunch at a waterfront inn at the tip of P-town, and the sun shone, and we drank and laughed and ate. My dress was a flowing empire-waist sheath with a pale violet sash that fluttered in the wind, and Owen wore a navy blue suit with a lavender tie.

  And look at us now.

  The one thing I hate about the wedding industry is that it focuses so much on the one day. People become obsessed with details, enraged with those they love, worn out from planning a few hours of a day that may not mean that much in the grand scheme of things. Even as I'm designing a dress that will cost thousands and thousands of dollars, I've always tried to work that message in. Don't forget that after this day comes thousands of other days. Be careful. Cherish each other. Don't blow it.

  Even knowing all this, I blew it. I'd say Owen and I blew it, but he's the happiest man on earth these days.

  I take a pit stop in my little bathroom. I'm wearing my work uniform, my straight, black hair pulled back in a twist, red lipstick in place. I try to look as different from a bride as possible--a little severe and simple, but chic, too. Even though I'm on my feet a lot, I love my fabulous shoes. A talent is a talent, and wearing heels for ten hours a day is one of mine.

  "Showtime!" I say, opening the door. "Welcome to Bliss. Hi, Mom."

  Most of the people here aren't really shopping for wedding dresses. Not yet. Some of them are too young, some aren't engaged, some just want to play dress-up, which we won't be doing today. But they're all welcome, because you never know.

  "Oh, my God, this looks like Kate Middleton's gown!" one young woman exclaims. Brides will be emulating that dress until little Prince George gets married.

  "This one looks like a cloud," says another, pointing to a tulle-skirted masterpiece. I smile and murmur thanks, then tell her a little bit about the construction. Someone from the local newspaper takes my picture. I can hear my mother discussing the details of my father's death.

  The door opens, and in come my three little nieces. "Auntie, Auntie!" they clamor, reaching up with their delicious little arms.

  "Hello, my sugarplums," I say, bending down to smooch them all. "You're so beautiful!" There's an audible sigh from the customers. Charlotte, Rose and Grace are dressed like flower girls, in tiny pink tulle dresses with long pink ribbons--made by yours truly, of course. Hey, those girls are excellent marketing tools--who wouldn't want them walking down the aisle, scattering rose petals?

  "We're fancy," Grace says.

  "You sure are." I give them each a basket full of cookies. "Would you share these with the nice people?" I say, and off they go. Rose eats one, but that just adds to the charm.

  Then I stand up, see my sister, and it's a punch to the heart.

  Adam must've told her. She knows. Oh, God.

  "Hey," I breathe, and my voice is already shaking.

  "It's okay," she says. "We'll talk later. But I'm fine. I don't want Mom to hear anything."

  No, of course not. And Rachel does look fine. She's nicely dressed, as always, and as always, she has one eye on the girls. She gives me a little smile. But she looks so old! Rachel, who still gets carded when we go out, suddenly has lines around her eyes and a general droop to her face. Tears flood my eyes.

  "No, no," she says. "This is your day. Jenny, I'm so proud of you. Daddy would be so proud of you. This is simply beautiful."

  Dad would be proud of her, I'm thinking, keeping her shit together, being so generous and strong to come to a public event just for my sake. Then again, his feelings would be mixed, wouldn't they?

  "Speaking of beautiful, hi, Rachel," Andreas says. He hands her a glass of sparkling wine. "What do you think?"

  "I think my sister and you are both geniuses," she says. She glances at me, then drops her eyes.

  Shy. She's being shy because of me, the only person she's never shy around--except for her daughters. Shy of me because I know.

  That fucking Adam.

  "Well, I can't speak for Andreas, but yes, I'm a genius," I say, my voice firm and fake.

  "I'm just the power behind the throne," Andreas says.

  "Hi," says Charlotte, attaching herself to his leg.

  "Oh, God, get it off me," he says, making Charlotte dissolve into giggles. "Go away, little octopus." He shakes his leg, which makes Grace zoom over and latch on to the other one. Rose is too busy sitting under a table, powering through her basket of cookies.

  Poor Rachel. I knew it, but I didn't want to be right. I never wanted to be wrong more.

  "Andreas, would you watch the girls for a second?" I ask.

  "No. Don't leave me."

  I ignore him. "Come on, Rach, let's talk in the back," I say, taking her hand and towing her through the crowd. "Hello. Thank you for coming."

  "No, Jenny, I--"

  "Rach, we're going to talk. Jesus."

  We get to my office, and I close the door. I wait a second, then open the door a crack to see if Mom tailed us. She didn't. I close the door once more. "What happened?"

  "I went to his office, and...I saw this woman. She came in, and I just knew." A fine tremor runs across her face. "And he didn't deny it this time."

  "Oh, Rachel. Oh, honey." I move to hug her, but she steps back.

  "I can't," she whispers. "Don't be nice to me right now, or I'll lose it."

  "Did he... Is it still... What did he say? Who is it? Do you know her?"

  "Emmanuelle St. Pierre. A litigator."

  "What a whorish name."

  "Please don't make jokes."

  I cringe. "I'm sorry."

  "He said the sex is amazing. He might be in love with her. But he doesn't want a divorce, because he loves me, too."

  A blue-black cloud of curses churns in my mouth. That bastard. So, he'll keep Rachel as his perfect wife, and then go have dirty sex with Emmanuelle? Sure. Why not?

  "Would it be wrong for me to want to strangle him?" I ask, my fists clenched.

  "Don't. Look. I... We're working on things. Um...we have a family. We have to do things the right way. It's complicated."

  "It's not complicated!" I hiss. "He's a complete shithead, Rachel!"

  "Stop. You're not helping."

  "What are you going to do?" I ask.

  "I don't know," she whispers, and that tremor quakes through her face once more. "It means we have to go slowly. We have to think of the girls. And I don't want to talk about it here."

  "Right, of course," I whisper back. "But let's talk, Rachel. Come over tonight. Or I can come over there."

  "No. I need to be with Adam. We have a lot to work through." She sighs. "Look. I didn't want to tell you today. This is your grand opening. Let's get back out there."

  "Rachel, you're much more important--"

  "I'm really fine," she says, and there's that brittleness again. "Weren't you going to say something about the store? Let's go."

  My God. If I feel like the world has tilted off center, how must she feel?

  Back in the showroom, Rachel goes to Grace, who's trying on tiaras. She forces a smile toward me, then turns her attention to her daughter.

  My hands are shaking. Nevertheless, I give Andreas a nod, and he taps a champagne glass. The murmur dies down.

  "Thank you all so much for coming to Bliss," I say with a big smile. I wonder how my face looks. "I'm Jenny Tate, and our token male today is Andreas Calderi, my assistant." There's a laugh, and Andreas raises a perfectly waxed eyebrow. "At Bliss, you're going to get a one-of-a-kind dress made just for you. I'll never make another dress exactly like it, so you can rest assured that your dress will be unique."

  There's an appreciative murmur from a few young women. Yes, God
forbid they have a dress that looks like someone else's. I recognize the irony of my cynicism.

  "I can also modify existing dresses, so if you want to wear your mom's dress but have an updated look, or if you've already bought a dress but want some changes, that's not a problem. If you're a bride who has a hard time with traditional sizes, I'm your girl." There are a few plus-size women in the shop who brighten at this. "If you have any questions, feel free to ask. I'm here all afternoon. Look around, drink some champagne and contact Andreas if you'd like to make an appointment. Your first consultation is free. Thanks again for coming!"

  For the next half hour, I take questions, get complimented on my shoes, escort Charlotte to the bathroom, get hired to make a mother-of-the-bride dress for next winter and sell the tulle ball gown. I keep an eye on Rachel, who seems shockingly normal, mostly lingering in the back with Andreas or digging in her giant mommy bag for crayons, a Wet-Nap and a book or two. Grace, armed with a Hello Kitty notebook, pretends to take dress orders from customers, who are enchanted with her cute solemnity. Rose has curled up in the upholstered chair and looks like an angel sleeping there, and Charlotte is sitting under the drinks table, playing with Andreas's shoelaces.

  Someday, maybe my daughter will be here. The image of her is so strong and clear that I feel her, my heart swelling with fierce love--my little black-haired daughter, playing dress-up with her cousins, sitting on the floor to show off her sparkly little shoes.

  "I can't believe people will pay so much for a dress," Mom says.

  "Can you keep that sentiment to yourself, please?" I whisper.

  She sighs. "Well, fine. But I can't believe it."

  "Yeah. You've told me a thousand times or so. Go drink champagne. Or better yet, help Rachel with the girls, okay?" Celebrating her children's accomplishments isn't one of her strengths.

  The door opens, and like salt in a wound, in come Owen, Ana-Sofia and their baby, who's sleeping in a sling, making Ana look like a very posh Native American. My mother's face lights up. Drama. So much fun for her.

  Owen comes right up to me, takes both my hands and kisses me on the cheek. "Jenny. This. Is. Amazing."

  "He's right, Jenny," Ana-Sofia seconds. "Oh, what a shop! It makes me want to get married again." Then, realizing what she's just said, she freezes.

  "Me, too," I say to break the awkwardness. "Hello there, Natalia!"