Although reminiscent of a 1930s evening gown, it wasn’t the look she was going for. It looked like a slinky nightgown and the low back extended down to her backside. Further, the braless lack of support for a C-cup was borderline obscene. The last thing she needed was a gaping pastor fixated on her nipples through the thin satin.
“I guess the gown is worth a try on, but only because I know you’re a hopeless romantic addicted toSay Yes to the Wedding Dress.” Of course, there was no way in hell she would choose the gown, but pacifying her sister went a long way to her own happiness.
“Honestly, Lizzy, sometimes I think you’d be happy just wearing jeans and a T-shirt down at City Hall to say, ‘I do’. Need I remind you? You’re in the big league now. Thank God, I’m here to remind you.”
Her sister couldn’t be more wrong, especially about getting married in jeans. As a teenager she imagined a quaint church wedding and a tulle princess gown, but she was no longer a silly dreamer, and she had put away childish things long ago—even if she secretly held onto romantic beliefs but would never let on to anyone. She learned long ago to keep her heart and its desires securely locked in the vault far away from her narcissistic mother and busy-body sister. When she loved, she loved deeply, giving everything she had, but that was private—and love hadalready come and gone in her life. This marriage wasn’t one of deep abiding love. It was more of a marriage arrangement, and yes, in a way, she was settling. No one ever needed to know that either.
She smiled, but Jane picked up on the missing luminosity most brides emitted when their nuptials approached with startling rapidity.
“What’s wrong? You’re not getting cold feet, are you?”
“What? No! I’m very happy.”
“With the dress or the man?” Jane asked.
“With everything! I can’t believe I’m getting married in ten weeks!”
“And to an amazingly good-looking guy, who’s richer than Rockefeller with a luxury condo downtown. The two of you, together, will set Manhattan on fire. Like dress number one, he’s the perfect choice for you. You’re so lucky, even Mom thinks so.”
Of course, her mother was happy. She was probably considering her personal gain.
As for setting Manhattan on fire, she was financially doing fine—well, sorta fine—on her own without a romantic partner to add to her bank account. What she needed from him was safety, companionship, someone to travel with, and a lover to take the edge off her demanding business and natural sexual urges. What she didn’t need was a complicated love bond bound to end poorly. As a safety mechanism, it was best to feel a little than to feel everything. True love hurt too much. Another thing Jane didn’t need to know or butt into, again.
But Jane had advised her correctly on this one: marriage to each other would suit their respective lifestyles and expectations perfectly. Neither looked for something deeper.
Smiling, she said. “Yes, he is charming and handsome. I am a lucky woman.”
“We all think so, and no matter what you wear, Lizzy, I’m sure it’ll make you look beautiful.”
Gee, thanks!“Thank you, Jane. I appreciate all your help in planning the affair on such short notice.”
“What are sisters for, sweetie? Whatever I can do to make your day special, I will! With my guidance, your wedding will be one for the books when I get through with it!”
Just not a romance book.
“And ... your wedding plans will be a trial run for me,” Jane added, taking the 1930s gown from her hands.
“Oh?”
Holding the gown up against her body, Jane looked into the mirror, turning this way and that to admire herself. “I met someone at the coffee shop. He’s perfect for me!”
Reconnaissance was always the best strategy when seeking out potential wholesalers and clients. In Beanz’s line of work, a poor choice of one or both proved a recipe for disaster in the interior decorating world, and sinceshewas the affluent client, she needed the best. Once she was freed from William and his art lessons and lectures, she began her plans for a total modernization of the townhouse. A visit to La Tempera gallery before the art reception would be wise. Their website indicated that they specialized in fine and decorative arts and had a broker on premises. Meeting the owner of the gallery, while throwing around the Darcy name, could open a lot of doors to the European marketplace of fine masterpieces coming up for auction.
Across the street from the purported (by her sister) powerhouse gallery, she sipped a latte at an outside bistro table, killing an hour and enjoying the weather. The pre-Civil War, three-story Gothic building had one large window on the galleryfirst floor and a bevy of quality people entering and exiting. A van pulled up, making a delivery of twelve boxed pieces of work then left after a few minutes. Having seen enough, she glanced at her watch. It was time to make her entrance.
After ditching the cup, she jaywalked across the street when the traffic lulled and passed the front window displaying an oversized fresh flower arrangement. The sun tickled the pink roses creating a bright and welcoming still-life masterpiece.
Entering the vestibule, she peered through the interior door’s diamond-shaped windowpanes before ringing the bell for entrance. A white-haired older man wearing white-rimmed glasses attended to the stacked boxes against a blank wall. The gallery was similar to others she’d visited over the years with clients, but this one had a softer look to it. It wasn’t as stark white as all the others. Perhaps the white was washed, maybe slightly tinted.
She rang the bell, and the man turned with a smile, waved, then walked to the far wall to buzz her in through the heavy door.
“Good afternoon, lovely,” he said with exaggerated flair.
“Hi.” She breathed in the wafting scent of sweet roses from the bouquet, feeling instantly at ease. “Are you the owner?” she asked, handing him a business card.
“Once, but as of recently, not any longer! I just volunteer to curate because ...” He circled his hand in the air. “… once an art aficionado, always an art aficionado. I can’t tear myself away from the scene, nor this place. But I’m afraid the owner isn’t here this afternoon. May I be of assistance?”
“I’m in search of an art broker to help me acquire a few collection pieces for a townhouse I’m decorating in Metropolitan Hill. La Tempera came highly recommended by my sister.” She looked around the space, taking in the few paintings hung for the upcoming reception.
