My two and only, p.25
My Two and Only, page 25
Amber didn’t chuckle. She lowered another gown over Charlotte’s head. When she released it, Charlotte nearly buckled under its weight. She looked at herself in the mirror. Heavily beaded flapper.
Next was a low-cut silk column with the thinnest spaghetti straps. More like spaghettini straps. It looked like she was wearing a slip. Or a nightgown.
A storehouse of tears began to well behind her eyes.
Next came an all-lace poof with voluminous sleeves. Too Bridgerton.
Next, a confection of a dress—tulle ballerina skirt exploding from a crystal-shot bodice. “Swarovski,” Amber boasted.
“Too princess…” said Charlotte. She shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she added, admitting defeat.
“Let me help you out,” said Amber, unzipping her.
“I can manage,” Charlotte said. “Maybe something…not quite so…I don’t know…so all of these things.” She nodded toward the dresses lining the room. She didn’t care about length or fabrication or silhouette. She wanted Amber out of there because she couldn’t stopper the tears any longer.
“You wait right here,” said Amber. This time she closed the door all the way.
Charlotte was certain. There was no dress for her on any rack or on any mannequin in the store. She had stared at herself in the mirror too long. She didn’t recognize herself anymore, in the way that a word overly repeated loses its meaning.
She bent to pick up her phone off the floor. When she stood, a whoosh of lightheadedness smacked her. She plopped down on the riser, waiting for it to pass, the meringue of skirt billowing around her. She texted Maggie.
Dress shopping. Disaster. Cock-eyed crazy face emoji.
Can’t be that bad.
Charlotte stood, zipped herself back up as far as she could, and snapped a selfie in the mirror. Hit send.
Maggie wrote back immediately.
You picked that out?
No, my best friend, Amber. She’s 12.
The phone in Charlotte’s hand vibrated.
“Want me to come?” said Maggie.
“No,” said Charlotte. “Thanks, but no.”
“I can be there in fifteen.”
“I just want to get out of this dress…and get out of this place.”
“Call me later.”
“I will,” said Charlotte. “Want to hear something really ridiculous?”
“More ridiculous than that dress?”
“Equally, at least.” Charlotte stood up, considered her full-length reflection. “I didn’t realize it before, but when I walk out on the day, I want to stop Brian’s heart.”
“That’s not ridiculous,” said Maggie. “And it’s also nothing to worry about. You stop his heart every time you walk in the room.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Now get out of that stupid thing.”
Charlotte cautiously stepped out of the dress and draped it over the satin chair. There was another chair, too—not quite as grand. The lady-in-waiting chair to the queen’s. The chair where the bride’s mother was supposed to sit, dabbing her eyes.
She was pulling her T-shirt over her head when there was a knock at the door.
“Yes?” she said.
The door opened. It wasn’t Amber. This saleslady was in her seventies at least, her silver hair cropped short, her face lined.
“Perhaps I can help you?” she asked, her accent deeply Eastern European. Romanian? Maybe Czech?
“I don’t think so,” said Charlotte. “I was foolish to come.”
The woman waved her hand in front of her face: nonsense! “You’re getting married?”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” This was the moment when Charlotte normally would have launched into her speech. Make no mistake—widowed, not divorced.
“Come with Inka.” She led Charlotte out of the room into the main salon. “You don’t want one of these.” She waved her hand, this time in a circle over her head, taking in all the gowns in one fell swoop.
“No.”
“Not all our dresses are so…” She opened her eyes wide to indicate all the adjectives she needn’t speak. Billowy…bejeweled…white.
“You’re…I don’t know what the right word is…embarrassed? Aren’t you?”
Charlotte nodded.
Inka led her into a room toward the back of the salon—less bright, less twinkly. Charlotte was relieved to see that this area had its own fitting room.
Fifteen minutes later, Charlotte stood on the riser in that cozier, less glittery space.
“I think this might be my dress,” she said. Tea length, delicately beaded, three-quarter sleeves. Lustrous, simple, elegant. Charlotte never wore this color—more than blush, less than mauve. It cast a rosiness onto her face that no makeup ever could. “I need to take a picture.”
“Let me,” said Inka. Click, click, click. She smiled as she handed back the phone. “Do me something,” she said.
Charlotte half expected that when she turned away from her reflection in the mirror to face her, Inka would have vanished…bippity-boppity-boo. But there she was, the Dress Whisperer.
Inka smiled conspiratorially. “Let yourself enjoy this moment.”
•••
Charlotte sat at a table by the window at Peet’s Coffee, studying the photos she’d taken at Ginnie’s. Matthew’s vanilla almond milk cold brew was waiting for him. She was halfway through her iced hibiscus when he arrived.
He scooted his chair closer to hers to better see the photos. Charlotte couldn’t wait to show him how the swatches and samples behaved in the room.
“Do you think we need another pop of color?” she said.
He considered for a moment, studying the photo of the Italian fabric against the Swiss carpet. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Besides, I would never come between a girl and her color palette. WTLB.”
Charlotte raised her eyebrows.
“Words. To. Live. By.”
More swiping. He oohed and aahed between sips.
“I’m obsessed with this whole beachy thing,” he said. “It’s an entire mood.” Another sip. “This is not Grade A vanilla. Maybe they lost their source. Those crazy Madagascans.”
She continued swiping. He hovered his hand over hers to pause on a photo of the corner of the room, slashed with sunlight. “I’m thinking a little desk moment.”
“There’s a little sitting room-slash-office off the bedroom,” said Charlotte.
“Ours?” asked Matthew.
“I think so. It’s all a little vague.”
Next photo.
“Wait just a minute!” he said. It was the photo of Charlotte in the dress.
He grabbed the phone. “Hello, Gorgeous!” He spread his fingers across the screen, enlarging the image. “Drool,” he said. “Where are we going?” He opened his blue eyes wide in exaggerated wonderment. Exaggeration was his brand.
“I was just shopping…” Charlotte absently slid the straw in and out of the plastic lid on her iced tea. Squeak…squeak…squeak.
“Don’t be coy with me, Miss Charlotte,” he said. “This is a special event dress. Bar Mitzvah at Hillcrest, fundraiser at the Beverly Wilshire, or wedding at…well, any number of places.”
Charlotte felt her cheeks go pink.
“Bingo!” he said. “So who’s getting married? Dinah? Is Dinah getting married? Dinah’s not getting married!”
Charlotte shook her head.
“It’s not Teddy. It can’t possibly be Teddy. Even though I know he’s got several future ex-wives dangling at the moment.”
“Don’t say that.”
He waved her off—don’t be such a mom.
Sometimes she felt like his mom. Sometimes, his big sister. Rarely, his boss. More and more like good friends.
“So…?” said Matthew.
Charlotte’s cheeks amped up from pink to magenta.
“It’s you.” Matthew took the phone out of her hand and set it on the table, revealing…the ring on her finger. “It is you.”
“It looks that way.” Charlotte worried he was going to leap from his seat and sweep her into an embrace, perhaps even a waltz. Instead, he kissed her cheeks—two little pecks.
“Oh my God,” he said, examining the ring.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?”
“Pretty?! It’s drop-dead gorgeous.” His eyes glistened with tears. “The. Best. News. Ever.”
“I’m glad you think so?”
“Dear heart, he’s a good one.”
“I know.”
“Listen to me, Charlotte Most,” said Matthew, “I would kill to have a man look at me the way Brian looks at you.”
Charlotte squinted, trying to picture the way Brian looked at her.
“Details,” said Matthew. “Every last one. Proposal. The works. Spill. I want them all. The good, the bad, and the gorge.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Hanging art came last. Normally, Charlotte preferred giving homeowners ample time to live in their reimagined space before discussing art placement. Occasionally, an overwhelmed client deferred to her entirely. She liked to think she had a flare for this. But for Ginnie Salinger, she needed an expert. She needed the best.
She contacted Nick Patton, her go-to guy for hanging high-end art, though she’d yet to encounter a job where the high-end skewed anywhere near this high.
Nick was eager to get the feel of the room even though the hanging would be who knows when, possibly a year away. She set their appointment before learning that Ginnie was going to be in France that week.
Ginnie had shown her photos of her Paris apartment: a rococo two-bedroom overlooking the Seine. As if to orient Charlotte, Ginnie remarked that it was steps away from the Prada boutique and the Les Deux Magots café.
Paul used to talk about that café. Some day they would go there and sip espresso where Hemingway hung out. She wished she could tell him about Ginnie’s Left Bank apartment and its proximity to the famous bistro. She wished he could remind her of all the other literary types who passed their days there.
The urge to talk to him zoomed her back to a time when she was seized by that sensation daily, hourly. I have to talk to Paul about this. I have to tell Paul that. Now, it reminded her that her grief was simply dormant—in permanent remission, but incurable.
She wondered if, after all these decades, Ginnie was ever struck by similar pangs? Or did she store them in a climate-controlled facility along with the art that had been displaced while the house was in flux? Or was perpetual motion her MO?
She was happy to let Charlotte bring Nick Patton while she was away. She knew his name; he’d hung the art in a friend’s house.
“Nick wants to be alone with you,” Matthew told Charlotte, meeting in the foyer before heading up the sweeping staircase.
“You’re crazy.”
“I’m aware,” he said, “However, comma, that does not mean that I am not also correct.”
“Besides, he’s not going to be alone with me. You’re going to be here.”
“He doesn’t know that.”
Nick was tall and narrow, with a two-hundred-dollar haircut and Tom Ford eyeglasses. He reminded Charlotte of Lumiere from Beauty and the Beast. Today, he showed up dressed in charcoal gray slacks with a crisp powder blue shirt and a bright lilac tie. He dressed for the part. Art wrangler—crucial to the serious collector, though neither collector nor artist himself.
“I wanted you to come at this exact time of day,” Charlotte said to Nick when he arrived. “Five p.m. The light is perfect.”
“It’s a shame the sun moves,” he said. “Don’t ask me why. Something about the passing of time.”
Charlotte laughed. “You might as well meet the room at its best.” She led him up the sweeping staircase.
“I have to tell you,” he said conspiratorially, “the Baldessari is hung too high.” He was referring to a piece hanging in the foyer: Person With Orange Guitar.
“Agreed, but not my territory,” she said.
“Amateur mistake,” said Nick.
“That’s why you’re here.”
He smiled.
Once in the master, she led him through her vision, pulling fabric swatches and paint samples from her bag like Mary Poppins. He applauded and told her she should specialize in bedrooms. (Matthew raised an eyebrow.)
The two of them hunched over the worktable, Charlotte scrolling through photos of Ginnie’s collection on her iPad, while Matthew took notes. Museum quality painting after museum quality painting. She swiped to a good-sized Hockney. Nick’s eyes widened.
“She wants that in here? Where no one can see it?”
“She can see it,” said Charlotte. “This room is going to be all about her favorite things.”
“Raindrops and roses, and whiskers on kittens…” sang Matthew.
“Something like that,” said Charlotte.
Nick’s considered hanging the Hockney over the bed, but this was the land of earthquakes; people were a little shaky about hanging anything over the bed.
“I want to hang it where she can see it,” said Charlotte.
“Of course,” Nick agreed, patting her forearm. Charlotte didn’t look at Matthew. She could picture the eyeroll. “You’re absolutely right.”
He walked the perimeter of the room, evaluating the natural light on each wall.
“So what are we wearing south of the ankle?” Matthew asked her, sotto voce.
She furrowed a brow.
“Shoes.” He was toying with her. “For the you-know-what.”
“The wedding?” She shot him a look. “I haven’t thought about it.”
“Why am I not surprised,” he said. “We’ll hit Neiman’s.”
“Wedding?” said Nick. He turned from examining the westerly light to look at Charlotte. “You’re getting married?”
“Guilty,” she said. It was a coy response. She regretted it instantly.
Nick glanced at Matthew, calibrating how far he could take the conversation with him in the room.
“Who could use some water?” said Matthew. “I myself am parched.” He headed out.
Another look from Matthew on his way out: I told you so.
“I can’t believe I missed my window of opportunity,” said Nick.
“You were looking for a window?”
“I was biding my time.”
“You mentioned seeing someone…and someone else…”
“That’s how I was biding my time. I was waiting, but I’m still human.”
Men, thought Charlotte. They’re a whole other species.
“You never…” There was no finishing that thought. Never what?
Nick shrugged. “You had a force field around you.”
“I did?” She’d felt invisible. She thought she was invisible.
“I thought so,” he said. He took a beat, then smiled. “I’m happy for you.”
“I’m that woman whose husband went out for a run and never came back, aren’t I?” she said.
“You’re the woman whose husband died. I never knew that’s what happened,” said Nick.
“That’s what happened. He tripped.” It sounded like a straight line.
His face scrunched in confusion, then disbelief.
“I know,” she said. “It was so random. He landed wrong. Hit his head. Subdural hematoma.” She never would have believed she could state that piece of information so matter-of-factly. But she did. With a cool, out-of-body detachment that made her feel possessed.
“Oh my God,” said Nick. “Oh my God,” he said again, shaking his head.
“It’s a ridiculous way to die, isn’t it?” she said. “Anyway, I know I’m that woman.”
“You were.” He stepped back and locked eyes with her. “And so much more.”
“Really?” Not fishing. Simply surprised.
“Really.” There, he’d said it. “And now?”
“And now?” she said. “I don’t know. I guess maybe I’m not that person anymore. When did that happen?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Obviously, I missed the moment.” He caught himself in a laugh, but it wasn’t a joke. “I hope he deserves you.”
Matthew reappeared. Mini Pellegrinos were distributed.
Nick raised his bottle high.
The clink of bottles echoed in the empty room.
“So…” said Matthew, “I just had a moment in the kitchen. The time was off on the clock on the oven. A Gaggenau oven. Gaggenau. So I tried to fix it. I’m pushing all kinds of buttons, and I came across…drumroll, please…the Sabbath setting. A Sabbath setting on a German oven? Somebody call Alanis Morissette.”
As Nick raised his bottle to his lips, he smiled at Charlotte. “L’Chaim!”
•••
A few hours later, Charlotte found herself, sandwich in hand, bouncing from jigsaw puzzle to desk, unable to focus on either. Brian was working late and she was “at sixes and sevens,” as her mother used to say, making little more sense to a school-age Charlotte than her mother did now. The Nick Patton revelation had left her uneasy.
If he’d asked her out on an actual date—five years ago, six years ago—would she have gone? No, she would not have. So why did she find herself wondering what that date would have been like? Yes, she was uneasy. Like a college freshman who, upon announcing she was marrying her high school sweetheart, was chided: “You haven’t even seen what’s out there. How could you possibly be getting married?”
She considered turning to Louise Sterling for the answer.
But after seeing Louise in person, Charlotte was done with Mr. Right: Part II…after this one last little foray.
She scanned the Table of Contents, even though she knew it by heart.
“Chapter Five: The Emperor’s Bad Clothes: What To Do When You Hate His Wardrobe”
