Mystic Summer (27 page)

“Erika said to keep them together. She's already lost it once,” I joke.

Peyton isn't listening. “Plus, you don't want the veil to get stuck on the dress bodice. That happened to
my
veil,” she adds with a cluck of her tongue. “Lost several pearls. It was disastrous.”

I surrender the veil and take refuge on the window seat. “Sounds like it.”

She drapes the yards of pearled tulle meticulously between hangers and hooks it a good two feet away from the dress bag with a flourish.

Below, Erika is walking Trent out to his car. Their voices rise up through the open window, and it becomes clear things are not as sparkling as the summer morning outside.

“What's going on?” Peyton asks.

Erika is standing on the walkway, arms crossed. “Can't the golf game wait? You've barely spent time with my side of the family. Or with me!”

“Isn't that what the next four days are about? Dinners, boating, the rehearsal night? Relax. I'll have plenty of time to sit with you and Grandma Elaine.”

“
Ellen,
” Erika barks back at him.

I close the window. Not that I blame Erika. While he's been acting like a tour guide for his friends and family, she has been left to manage all the details.

“Chad and I were the same way leading up to our big day,” Peyton says breezily. “Don't worry, it's nothing.”

Outside, Erika's face is flushed with anger. I can't hear what she's saying anymore, but I've got a pretty good idea.

“Are they still going at it?” Peyton asks.

I nod. She comes to stand beside me. Below, on the walkway, Erika is still talking. Yelling may be more accurate. Suddenly, she turns away from Trent and storms back toward the house. Trent throws up his hands and turns the opposite way—toward the driveway. But then he stops. We watch as he spins around in her direction.

“What's he doing?” Peyton says.

We have to crane our necks to see. Trent has caught up to Erika. He reaches for her arm, roughly, and grabs ahold. And before either one of us can let out the gasp that's in both of our throats, he pulls Erika against him and hugs her. I can see her arms go limp as she gives in. And just as quickly they're kissing like teenagers.

Peyton shakes her head and turns back to the closet. “Jesus. Nothing like a wedding to bring out the best in everyone.”

Which makes me think about Evan. After waking up at the inn this morning, he wanted to lounge in bed and order room service. But I begged off, claiming our salon appointment was a couple hours earlier than it really was.

“Evan is sort of driving me crazy,” I admit to Peyton now.

She finishes fussing over the veil and closes the closet door. “Is it because of all the wedding stuff? Because let me tell you, going to a wedding one year into a relationship is sort of like crossing a minefield.” She sits next to me on the window seat. “I remember attending a college friend's wedding in Nantucket
when Chad and I had been together around that same time. It was one of the most beautiful weddings, and yet the whole weekend was torture. Chad hadn't even popped the question yet, and all I could think about when I saw the bride was what my own dress would look like; or what my own menu would consist of. And Chad just wanted to get plastered and catch up with his fraternity guys.”

“It's not like that,” I say, with a sad laugh. “Believe me, I wish it were that simple.”

Peyton contemplates this. “When we were at the bar the other night, Evan mentioned that he'd found a great apartment. It sounded like he's stressed about losing it.”

I'm a little surprised to hear that Evan shared this with Chad and Peyton. Not the fact of the apartment search—they all knew about that already. What irks me is that he's complaining to our friends instead of confiding in me. “We have an appointment to see it this week, after the wedding. I just don't want to move into a place I've never seen. You know how Evan is. He's very pragmatic, and when he wants to do something, he wants to do it right away. I wish he'd be more patient.”

Peyton draws her knees up to her chest. Sitting this close to each other, I can't help but notice that even in the humidity of the morning, not a single hair is straying from her casual chignon. Her cropped linen pants are wrinkle free. “Do you feel like things are moving too fast?”

I run a hand over my own sloppy ponytail. “Not really. I mean, this is everything I wanted: to move in together, and to have more time together. I still want all that. It's just that since I've been home I've been trying to catch my breath, and those wants seem to be somewhere off in the distance.”

Peyton is as sharp as a tack. “I guess it depends which direction you mean—are those wants in the distant future? Or in the rearview mirror?”

When I falter, she hops up and extends a brisk hand to me. “Never mind.” As much as her managerial style can sometimes get to me, this time I'm deeply grateful for it. She's letting me off the hook. “We've got manicures and dress fittings to get through this morning. Now,
that'll
make you glad you don't have to worry about a wedding anytime soon.”

On the way to the salon, I try Cam's cell phone. This time it goes straight to voice mail. It's not like him to ignore calls. His silence has filled me with a longing, leaving me jittery and distracted.

After eighty fingers have been painted in Bridal Bliss and eighty toes in Seaside Summer (Erika's “something blue”), there is still no word from Cam. Erika is beside herself with excitement to see us in our bridesmaid gowns, so I make a mental note to focus and have some fun.

Since day one of dress shopping, I had been nominated the official “mannequin” for fittings. But it was no compliment.

“You're perfectly average,” Erika had gushed at the time. “Not too thin, not too busty.” She went so far as to pat my tummy fondly as she said this.

Now Sarah, a tan young salesgirl, invites us to the back of the store. The dresses are hanging on a rack ready to be fitted by the store seamstress. But looking at them now, they aren't quite as I remember. The long cream sheath is more yellow than vanilla, and the green belt looks more office-fare than wedding-fabulous.

“It wasn't my first choice,” Peyton whispers, as we follow Sarah toward a small dressing area behind a curtain, “but here we go.”

Peyton and I step into our dresses and take turns struggling to zip each other up. Then we stand looking at each other, shaking our heads.

“I can't breathe!” I whisper.

Peyton struggles with the green belt to no avail. “Why didn't you mention that back on Newbury Street? This gown is like a straitjacket.”

“It wasn't that tight. The sample size was an eight. I'm a four!” I remind her.

But she's on to other issues. “I'm sorry, but this yellow color completely washes us out. I look ashen.”

I turn to face the mirror, feeling the same way. “I guess I was so relieved that Erika had finally picked out a gown, I overlooked the fact this dress is kind of . . .”

“Hideous!” Peyton sweeps the curtain matter-of-factly aside and steps out. Hideous isn't the only problem, however. When the seamstress motions me over to the fitting riser, I almost tip over.

“You'll need to take small steps in a mermaid design,” she cautions us. I'm already picturing the four of us shimmying down the aisle, like wayward mermaids out of water.

“It's too bad there isn't a slit up the back,” I say.

“There will be if any one of us tries to dance,” Peyton huffs, as she, too, inches toward the riser. It takes her forever to get there, and we both burst out laughing.

Erika and the cousins come back and join us. “Look at you girls!” Erika cries, placing her hands on either side of her face.
“You're gorgeous.” But when I try to turn around to face her, she narrows her eyes. “Why are you so stiff?”

I shrug, apologetically, and shuffle toward her.

“Oh, good Lord. You can't walk in this dress, can you?” She spins around to Peyton. “What about you?”

Peyton forces a smile. “Just need a little practice,” she insists.

But Erika's not buying it. “Show me,” she says flatly. Peyton hobbles closer.

Erika covers her face with her hands. “You'll never make it down the aisle. Or onto the dance floor!” She turns to her cousins. “Carly. Leslie. Go try yours on!”

Obediently, they disappear into the changing area with their dress bags. Moments later the curtain opens again, and there stand the Chicago cousins, their mouths zipped as tightly as their dresses. “It is a little snug,” Carly admits finally.

Erika turns to the seamstress, her nostrils flaring. “Wait here. I'm calling my mother.”

We wait in uncomfortable silence. I have no idea what kind of fashion consolation Mrs. Crane can offer mere days before the wedding, but moments later Erika's back with wet eyes and a wad of tissues.

Peyton gives it her best shot. “Look, I've been to several weddings where the bridesmaids all wore different dresses, but something in the same color scheme.” She looks hopefully at Erika. “Shopping here in town might allow each of us to get something that suits our physiques and styles.”

Erika sits down hard on her plastic folding chair.

Shopping last minute is our chance. I can almost feel the swish of a shorter, roomier gown against my legs. I can picture all of us hitting the dance floor and posing for pictures and actually
eating wedding cake without feeling like we've been sewn into sausage casing.

“I don't know what to do.” Erika lifts her face from the wad of tissues. “I just loved this gown so much,” she says, running her fingers longingly across my skirt. “It would be a shame to give up on it.”

Peyton flashes me a warning look. Even the cousins are watching me with intense interest. I know what they all want me to say.

“And the belt is the exact color of the bows on the reception chairs,” Erika adds, in a small voice.

The belt. My least-favorite part of this dress. I can feel the possibility of a new dress slipping through our fingers.

“Mags?” Erika stands up. I can tell she's about to unravel. “Tell me the truth. You hate this dress, don't you?”

All eyes rest firmly on me.

The Crystal Mall is part of our history. When we were both eleven, my mother took Erika and me back-to-school shopping there. In one week we'd be starting middle school. Erika offered me a swipe of her Bonne Bell root beer lip gloss as we discussed our wish list in the backseat of the family station wagon. “I want to get the pink-and-green Abercrombie rugby,” she announced.

“The one that was in
Seventeen
magazine?”

She nodded piously.

I knew exactly which shirt Erika was talking about. We'd pored over the magazine's fall fashion layout, in which a lanky blond model wore the Abercrombie & Fitch shirt, while sitting
on the bleachers and watching a homecoming game. I'm not sure if we ached more for the romanticized New England prep school scene, complete with football players and pom-poms, or the shirt itself. But the rugby was somewhat more accessible.

“Where should we start?” my mother asked, as we stood in the mall entrance.

“Mom, we need to go to Abercrombie.”

Mom blinked. “Oh, okay. I guess we can try to find some sales there.” It wasn't a good sign.

While Mom halted to eye a mannequin dressed in an orange triangle bikini, Erika and I searched the floor for the university-inspired rugby shirt from the magazine ad.

“That's the one!” Erika raced to the rack and whisked the shirt into the air. “What do you think?”

I grabbed the tag. “I think it looks expensive. Ninety-eight bucks for a shirt!” I was sounding like my mother.

Erika shrugged. “But I love it.”

The bold watermelon stripes were hard to resist. I fingered the crisp canvas collar. Erika thrust it against my chest. “Wow, Mags. You should get it.”