“Too full?” Camilla asked.
I gave the gown a look and grinned. If Alicia, Patti, and I formed a circle around Camilla and attempted to hold hands, ring-around-the-rosy style, we couldn’t.
“A little,” I told her.
Camilla laughed, and it opened something in my heart.
After that, I took photos of every gown and hated that I’d missed the first two. Alicia and I finished the pitcher of mimosas, and Camilla tried on dress after dress until sweat beaded on her brow.
“Last one,” she said, trooping back inside the fitting room. “Tell me we can get something to eat after this,” she called through the curtain. “We can review the gowns I’ve tried. I want your honest feedback.”
“Sounds like fun,” Alicia said, wiggling her empty flute.
“Agreed,” I said. “Anything but French food. It’s my day off. Don’t make me go to work.”
“I’m thinking tacos,” Camilla said. “Or pizza.”
I perked at the idea of having both. “How about the food trucks by the water? We can grab a table and enjoy the decent weather before temperatures drop.”
Behind the curtain, everything fell silent. No more rustling of material or whispering voices.
Patti stepped into view and held the pink curtain aside so Camilla could follow.
Tears filled her eyes, and a heavy blush spread across her cheeks.
The gown was gorgeous. Layers of white chiffon crisscrossed over a corseted top, accentuating her trim waist and delicate collarbones. I could imagine my mother’s pearls on her neck, the “something old” portion of her good-luck charms. Chains of organza flower petals fell in ultrafeminine loops from her shoulders. The skirt was full without bulk or structure, just layers and layers of the most weightless-looking fabric I’d ever seen stretching out behind her. The whole aesthetic was ethereal, as if she were part of a dream.
“Mama,” she whispered.
My heart broke on that little word, and I knew. This was the dress.
We couldn’t leave here without it.
I nodded. “Perfection.”
After long minutes of staring into the mirror while Patti, Alicia, and I fawned over her, Camilla changed into the clothes she’d arrived in and returned the dress to Patti. “I have to think about it,” she told her. “And I’d better use the ladies’ room before lunch.” She pointed the latter comment in my direction.
I waited for her to leave the room, then rushed for a look at the price tag. Alicia kept pace at my side. “How much is this one?” I asked.
Patti returned the gown to the rack, then smiled knowingly as she revealed the tag.
I nearly vomited on the number printed there.
Alicia gripped my arm. “That says seventy-two hundred dollars.”
“Yes,” Patti confirmed. “It’s a generous price for this designer. She tries to make her gowns accessible.”
“To whom?” Alicia asked. “Bill Gates?”
Patti frowned. “This is at least a ten-thousand-dollar dress.”
I covered my mouth as panic churned.
“The required deposit is only ten percent,” Patti informed us. “The balance can be paid in monthly installments. We keep a credit card on file, and you pick the day of the month that’s best for the withdrawal. Or we also have an excellent financier, if you prefer to work directly with a bank.” She passed me a business card from the pocket of her skirt.
Alicia pulled her chin back sharply. “People take out loans for a dress?”
“Of course.”
