Part One—Susan
One
Susan Abbott of the Connecticut Abbotts had always been the perfect daughter. A good, clever, ambitious, dutiful girl, and it had all come down to five days before her wedding to possibly the most eligible bachelor in Connecticut, and she was in the midst of a completely uncharacteristic temper tantrum. “I hate this dress!” She tugged at the frilly white flounce adorning her hips as she stared in the mirror and bit her lip. She wasn’t used to letting irrational emotions make her snappish, and she never snapped at her mother.
“Don’t pull at it,” Mary Abbott protested. “If you rip it Edward’s mother will never forgive you.”
“If I rip it maybe I won’t have to wear it,” Susan said mutinously. “One can only hope.” She turned sideways, looking at her reflection in the godawful dress. She wasn’t one to worry obsessively about her clothes, but this piece of frou-frou was exactly what she didn’t want to get married in. Everything about her wedding was going to be perfect, simple and elegant, except for this monstrosity foisted upon her by Edward’s mother, Vivian. She suspected her reluctant mother-in-law took a perverse pleasure in making her future daughter-in-law look foolish.
It had hoop skirts, for heaven’s sake! It had layers and layers of polyester lace, so that she looked like an upside-down ice-cream cone. It had short puffy sleeves that were too tight, a neckline that flattened what cleavage she had, and it itched.
But Vivian Jeffries had worn it forty years ago when she married her poor, henpecked husband, and it was her fondest wish that her future daughter-in-law wear it when she married Vivian’s beloved only child, Edward. How could she refuse? Particularly since Vivian was doing a stalwart job of covering up her sincere belief that Edward was far too good for even an Abbott of Connecticut.
There didn’t seem to be any way around the problem of the dress—neither Susan nor Mary had been able to come up with a reasonable excuse. Mary Abbott had eloped: her wedding dress was a Dior suit from the late fifties that would scarcely fit her tall daughter.
And while Vivian now carried an impressive bulk on her matronly frame, she’d been reed-slim when she’d married, and Susan would eat nails before she admitted that it was too tight.
She took a step backward, peering at herself in the minor. “Maybe if we got rid of the hoop skirts,” she murmured, not hopeful.
“They need to hold up the train,” Mary said.
“There’s a train, too? Merciful heavens,” Susan said faintly. “I don’t suppose we could elope?”
“Vivian would never forgive you.”
“I don’t think Vivian’s going to forgive me for stealing her devoted son from her,” Susan muttered.
“Besides, the wedding is less than a week away. You’ve spent an enormous amount of money already—I can’t imagine you’d want to throw it all away at this late date.”
“The rest of you can stay and party. Edward and I can run away, and I won’t have to wear this horrible dress,” she suggested, knowing it was a lost cause. Despite her protests, Mary deserved to have her daughter suitably wed in a manner that would return them to the forefront of Matchfield society.
Mary shook her head. “I’ll support whatever decision you make. But this isn’t like you, to get so upset over a silly dress.”
“I’ve never been married before.” Susan sighed.
“It’s not that bad, darling. Besides, brides are always beautiful.” For a moment Mary looked misty-eyed.
“If only you’d had a formal wedding I’d have the perfect excuse not to wear this.” Susan wasn’t about to wonder what else it might give her an excuse not to do—that was far too dangerous. If Mary Abbott had married the right man in the first place, instead of a ne’er-do-well drunk like Alex Donovan, then maybe it wouldn’t matter if Susan married someone a little less suitable than Edward Jeffries, a little less perfect .
Not that there was anyone else she wanted to marry. All her life she’d been searching for stability, permanence. To become a real Abbott once more. Dear, devoted Edward was the key to that She’d made her choice, set her course years ago. It was too late to change her mind, just when she was about to get everything she ever wanted.
“You’re five inches taller than I am, Susan,” Mary said, oblivious to her convoluted train of thought. “Even if I had something for you to wear it would never fit. And after your aunt’s death I’m afraid the family wouldn’t have been able to handle another formal wedding, even if they’d approved of my choice.”
Susan presented her back to her mother. “Maybe I’ll be lucky and die on my wedding day like Aunt Tallulah. Then I won’t have to wear this thing.”
“Susan!” Mary admonished her, shocked. “She was my sister, you know.”
Susan bit her lip, ashamed. She spun around. “I’m sorry, Mother. I’m being a spoiled brat and you don’t deserve it. I know you still miss her after all these years....”
“She died fifty years ago, sweetie. I was only nine. Yes, I still miss her, but I’ve gotten over it,” Mary said calmly, pulling at the zipper. “Damn,” she muttered. “I think it’s stuck.”
The polyester lace was giving Susan a rash, the zipper was digging into her spine, she’d been on a diet for two weeks and she was not in a good mood. To top it off, the doorbell rang.
“Susan!” Mary admonished her daughter’s hearty curse. “Just stay there and I’ll see who it is. Probably more wedding gifts.”
“More Steuben bud vases and espresso machines,” Susan moaned, tugging at the dress. “Just what I need.”
She flounced back to the mirror as her mother disappeared, staring at her reflection. She was tall, five feet nine and a half, and her body was lean rather than curvy. Her thick, honey-colored hair was cut short, waving around her strong, angular face, and her green eyes were wary. She wasn’t a soft, pretty woman, she was slender and strong with her own sense of style. She was definitely not made for ruffles and lace.
