Entice Me Box Set: The Truth About Shoes and Men\Cover Me\My Favorite Mistake (26 page)

So here we were at seven-thirty on a cold Saturday morning, poised with oh, about eight or nine hundred other freezing leotard-clad women, waiting for the doors of Filene’s to be hurled open. There were a few identifiable teams with members wearing identical hats or T-shirts. Like me, they were friends who had been commandeered to grab as many dresses as possible from the clearance racks, thereby increasing the odds of the bride-to-be getting a gown she wanted.

“Remember,” Cindy said, her eyes as serious as an NFL coach dispensing plays, “strapless or spaghetti straps, with a princess waistline—white is my first choice, but I’m willing to go as far left as light taupe. I need a size ten, but I can work with a twelve.”

I nodded curtly. “Got it.”

“If you find a gown that might work, put it on so no one can grab it out of your hands.”

I swallowed and nodded again, suddenly apprehensive.

“And who knows,” Cindy added with a grin. “You might find a dress that you’ll want to keep for yourself.”

I frowned. “Barry and I haven’t even talked about getting married.”

“Good grief, you’ve been dating for two years—he’s going to propose someday, and then you’ll already have a dress. It’s
practical
.”

I started to say it was presumptuous, then remembered why Cindy was there and clamped my mouth shut. Barry was…great, but I couldn’t see myself getting married…again.

Like every time I remembered my last-minute and short-lived Las Vegas marriage to Sergeant Redford DeMoss, I got a sick feeling in my stomach. My first marriage was one of those events in my life that I wanted to expunge from my memory, like a stupid teenage stunt…except I hadn’t been a stupid teenager—I had been a stupid adult. In the three years since my marriage to and subsequent annulment from Redford, I had managed to block the incident from my mind for the most part. But since two of my best friends, Jacki and Kenzie, had recently gotten married and my last single friend, Cindy, seemed hell-bent on doing the same, the memories of my incredible wedding night had been popping into my head at the strangest moments—I couldn’t seem to outrun them.

Someone behind me stepped on my heel, scraping it raw. I winced, not sure how I was going to outrun this dogged bunch, either.

“They’re opening the doors,” Cindy announced excitedly.

A cheer rose from the crowd and everyone lurched forward collectively. The two security guards unlocking the doors looked as frightened as I felt. When the doors were flung open, self-preservation kicked in—I had to match the pace of the crowd or be trampled. I squeezed through the double doors and ran for the escalator, my heart pounding in my chest. The escalator was instantly jammed, and everyone still clambered upward, some screaming as if we were all vying for front row seats at a rock concert. At the top of the escalator, we spilled onto the second floor where several freestanding racks bulged with pouf dresses. I had no idea where Cindy was and I hesitated, not sure where to begin.

Women stampeded by me in a blur and began yanking dresses by the armfuls from the rack. It was a locust swarm. I realized I was going to miss out if I didn’t move quickly. Cindy’s order of “strapless or spaghetti straps” vanished in the wake of the disappearing gowns. I grabbed whatever I could get my hands on, draping the gowns over my shoulders until I could barely see or hear past the mounds of rustling fabric.

Within one minute, the racks had been picked clean. As if on cue, everyone began trying on dresses where they stood, stripping to their underwear and in some cases, even further, heedless of the male salesclerks and security guards milling
about. Keeping an eye out for a neon pink headband, I sorted through my spoils like a lion protecting its kill.

I had managed to snare a white satin gown with cap sleeves, size fourteen; an off-white long-sleeved lacy number with a straight skirt, size twenty; a pinkish Gibson-girl design with bishop sleeves, size twelve; a dark beige high-neck gown with an embroidered bodice, size four; and a creamy halter-style gown with a pearl-studded skirt, size ten. My shoulders fell in disappointment—I had struck out for Cindy.

Although…the halter-style gown was actually quite nice. I peered at the designer label and my eyebrows shot up—
really
nice. Then I peered at the price tag and my eyebrows practically flew off my head—a $2000 gown reduced to $249? Cindy would be crazy not to buy this dress, even if it wasn’t exactly what she was looking for. While juggling the other gowns, I stepped into the halter dress and twisted to zip it up in the back, then smoothed a hand over the skirt, reveling in the nubby texture of the seed pearls. Longing welled in my heart, surprising me, because I was the most no-nonsense person I knew—a dress couldn’t possibly have any power over me.

“That’s perfect on you,” said a salesclerk next to me.

“Oh, I’m helping a friend of mine,” I replied quickly.

“Pity,” the woman said, nodding toward a mirrored column a few feet away.

I glanced around, looking for Cindy in the frenzied mob, then reasoned I might as well walk past the mirror on my way to find her. I moseyed over and stopped dead in my tracks.

Even over the leotard the dress was dazzling, and for a few seconds, I
felt
dazzling—my makeup-free face and dark blond, disheveled ponytail notwithstanding. For my quickie Vegas wedding, I’d worn a “What Happens Here, Stays Here” T-shirt, which in hindsight, had been a big red flag to my state of mind. I’d told myself a hundred times that it wouldn’t have mattered if Redford and I had been married in a lavish church ceremony with all the trimmings; but now, looking at myself in the mirror wearing this glorious gown, I had to admit that the right wardrobe would have lent a touch of sophistication to the surreal occasion.

If
I ever married again, I would wear this dress…or something like it.

“Do you have any size sixteens?” a girl yelled in my face. “I need a size sixteen!”

I shook my head, then realized that all around me, women were bartering unwanted gowns, some hoisting signs heralding their size. I relinquished the size four to a peanut-sized woman, and during the hand-off, the rest of my bounty was ripped from my arms by circling gown-vultures. I was still reeling when Cindy skidded to a stop in front of me.

“There you are!” she shrieked over the melee. “I found my dress!”

Indeed, over her leotard she wore a sweet, strapless white satin gown with a princess waistline. Laughing like a child, she twirled, sending the full skirt billowing around her.

“It’s perfect,” I agreed. The dress
was
perfect for Cindy’s cherubic beauty, but I felt a pang of sadness as I glanced down at the halter dress I wore…it would have to be sacrificed to the vortex of bargain-hunting brides, which had, if anything, increased in intensity as latecomers descended on the leftovers and another round of frantic stealing and swapping ensued.

Cindy stopped twirling and stared at me. “Wow, that dress looks awesome on you.”

I flushed. “I was just trying it on…for you. It was the closest thing I could find.”

Cindy’s blue eyes bugged. “You should keep it, Denise. If Barry got a look at you in that dress, he’d fall on his knees and beg you to marry him.”

I laughed. “Right.” Barry had never been on his knees in my presence—to propose or do anything else—but I had to admit, I was tempted.

A flushed, middle-aged woman stopped and looked me up and down. “Are you going to keep that dress?” Without waiting for an answer, she proceeded to pick up the fabric of the skirt to scrutinize the pearls.

A proprietary feeling came over and I firmly removed her hand from my—er,
the
dress. “I haven’t decided.”

The woman glared at my bare left hand. “My daughter Sylvie already has a wedding date.”

I frowned. “So?”

“So,” the woman snapped, “what good will that dress do you hanging in your closet?”

She was testy, but she had a very good point, especially considering the fact that I’d been lamenting only yesterday how small my closet was. Still, what business was it of hers if the dress hung in my cramped closet until it dry-rotted? (A distinct possibility.)

Cindy stepped up and crossed her arms. “My friend is going to get married again someday.” Cindy still harbored lingering guilt over my impromptu marriage—she blamed herself for getting the flu and leaving me to spend Christmas and New Year’s Eve in Las Vegas by myself. Otherwise, I might not have fallen under Redford’s illicit spell.

“Again? Someday?” The lady snorted and her body language clearly said that women who didn’t get it right the first time around didn’t deserve a production the second time around. Another good point. I
had
blown it the first time I’d walked down the aisle—well, okay, to be morbidly honest I hadn’t “walked down the aisle.” I was married in a chapel drive-through, which, in my defense, had seemed the most economical route at the time.

My groom, who I barely knew, was a gorgeous officer on leave. And the spontaneous marriage had been prompted by intense physical chemistry (Redford was rather spectacularly endowed), and perhaps
a bit of misplaced patriotism that I had mistaken for love. It was one of the oldest clichés in the book—an observation which, I realized ruefully, was also a cliché. The biggest mistake of my life was redundant. Ridiculously, tears pooled in my eyes.

Cindy gaped at me. I never cried…
ever
.

“There, there,” the older woman said, and actually patted my arm. “You’ll feel better once you take off that dress.”

Cindy drew herself up. “Keep moving, lady—the dress is ours.”

The woman huffed and stalked away, head pivoting, presumably looking for other women she could provoke to tears.

Mortified, I blinked like mad to rid my eyes of the moisture. “I don’t know…what happened.”

“Never mind,” Cindy said in her best-friend voice. “Let’s go pay for our dresses.”

I shook my head. “I can’t buy a wedding dress, Cindy.”

“Of course you can…everyone knows you have a fortune squirreled away from clipped coupons and rebates.”

I had a reputation among my friends for being, shall I say, “thrifty.” “I don’t mean I can’t afford it. I mean I…I don’t think I’ll ever get married…again.” But if that were true, why hadn’t I simply handed over the dress to the pushy woman?

Cindy shrugged. “Fine. If you still feel that way
in six months, sell the dress on eBay. Knowing you, you’ll probably make money on it.”

I bit my lower lip. Cindy was right—even if I took the dress home, no one was going to stick a gun to my head and make me get married. Barry seemed to be as leery of walking down the aisle as I was. Although if one day Barry got the urge…

I almost laughed out loud—Barry wasn’t the “urge getting” kind of guy. He was just as methodical and nonsensical as I was, which explained how we had contentedly dated off and on for the past two years without the drama that most couples endure. I was lucky. Luck-eee.

“It’s a great deal,” Cindy urged in a singsongy voice.

I looked at the price tag and wavered at the sight of the red slash through the original price of $2000 and replaced with the hastily-scrawled $249. I loved red slashes. It’s a great deal. And I probably
could
turn around and sell the dress on eBay for a profit. In fact, I might make enough to surprise Barry with plane tickets for a vacation. He’d been wanting to go to Vegas, and I’d been resistant, for reasons that now seem childish…

As childish as me standing here obsessing about buying a gown simply because it resurrected too many memories…? Memories a wedding dress might exorcise…?

“Okay,” I said impulsively. “I’ll take it.”

Cindy clapped her hands, then stopped, as if she
were afraid that her celebrating would change my mind, and herded me toward the checkout counter.

Only later, when a gushing salesclerk handed me the gown, bagged and paid for, was I seized by a sudden, unnerving thought:

What if Cindy’s “self-fulfilling prophecy” experiment rubbed off on
me?

2

T
HE WHOLE
“self-fulfilling prophecy” thing was still nagging at me when I got home and I realized I would have to get rid of something in order to make room for my impulsive purchase. Buyer’s remorse struck me hard and I cursed my weakness for a good buy. To punish myself, I laid out the brown suede fringed coat I had splurged on last spring but rarely wore, plus a pair of rivet-studded jeans and a white embroidered shirt that had seemed exotic in the store, but smacked of a costume when I stood before the full-length mirror in my bathroom. I had never worked up the nerve to wear the outfit. As much as I loved the pieces, it seemed unlikely that the urban Western look was going to come back in style anytime soon, and if it did, I obviously couldn’t carry it off. But my friend Kenzie could, and since she now lived part-time on a farm in upstate New York, she would probably find a way to wear them and look smashing.

Looking for other things that Kenzie might wear, I unearthed a sweater with running horses on it that
Redford had given me and, after a moment of sentimental indecision, added it to the giveaway bag, as well. Then I hung the wedding gown in the front of the closet because it was the only place the skirt could hang unimpeded by bulging shoe racks.

The phone rang, and I snatched up the handset, wondering who it could be on Saturday afternoon. (I was too cheap to pay for caller ID on my landline phone.) “Hello.”

“Hey,” Barry said, his voice low and casual. “What are you doing?”

I dropped onto my queen-size bed whose headboard still smelled faintly of woodsmoke two years after the fire sale at which I’d bought it. “Just cleaning out my closet.”

“I have good news,” he said in a way that made me think that if I’d said, “I just bought a wedding gown,” he wouldn’t even have noticed.

I worked my mouth from side to side. “What?”

“I just passed Ellen in the hall—you really bowled her over at lunch yesterday.”

I sat up, interested. Barry was a producer for one of New York City’s local TV stations, and Ellen Brant was the station manager. Barry had referred her to me for financial advice on her divorce. Over lunch I had listened while she had told me the entire sordid story about her cheating husband, while she downed four eighteen-dollar martinis. “But he was a rich sonofa-bitch,” she’d slurred. “And now I have an effing—” (I’m paraphrasing) “—boatload of money to invest.”