I pause my jasmine tea mid-sip. “Our flight?”
“We’re going to New York,” Rosa says. “Gracie Hiroshi Atelier Couture Bridal. Two o’clock appointment.”
Thomas’s head pops up at the name. I blink. Even I know that brand. Yesterday, while scrolling wedding dresses, one of her designs popped out at me, gorgeous, impossible, and ridiculously expensive. “Rosa… that’s not an off-the-rack store. The wedding is in a couple of weeks. There’s no way she can make a custom dress in time.”
Johnny sips his coffee. “It’s possible when you’re marrying Cyan MacBrady.”
“Yes, you’re going, Dove,” Cyan says, his tone brooking no argument. “You only get married once. I want you to have the best.”
“She won’t mind,” Rosa adds. “Gracie’s a friend.”
Thomas sets his fork down, jaw tightening. “I’d like to go with Aria.”
Rosa doesn’t blink. “No. Absolutely not. Gracie said… and I quote… ‘keep that son of a bitch Thomas away from my boutique.”
Thomas stabs at his eggs, silent. And now I’m suddenly very curious about what kind of chaos happened between Thomas and the legendary wedding dress designer Gracie Hiroshi.
Forty-Five
“Sometimes the most beautiful days are the ones that hurt the most, because joy, without the ones you’ve lost, takes its own kind of courage.”–Aria Boschett.
The moment we step into the boutique, a careful excitement settles over me. The kind I don’t trust, yet. A slim woman with olive skin and infectious energy greets us with a radiant smile.
“Ahh, the Boschett party! Welcome to Gracie Hiroshi Atelier Couture Bridal. I’m Lia, Ms. Hiroshi’s assistant,” she says in a crisp British accent. “Ms. Hiroshi will join us soon. Please, follow me.”
We trail after her through the boutique, and my eyes don’t know where to land. The space is a dream rendered in silk, lace, and more. Mannequins stand like works of art, draped in gowns that shimmer beneath soft lighting. In ball gowns, A-lines, sheaths, mermaids, trumpet silhouettes, and fit-and-flares. Veils, gloves, tiaras, heirloom-worthy accessories; each piece already knows it will be part of someone’s forever.
Lia leads us through the boutique, to the middle of the store, then guides us along the side of the runway to a seating area that looks straight out of the Victorian era. “Please take a seat. Which one of you is Miss Boschett?”
I pause for a beat, realizing that it’s my cue. “Um... yeah, right, that’s me. It’s nice to meet you, Lia.”
“Oh, how wonderful! Congratulations on your upcoming marriage, Aria.” Her eyes widen, then flicker with sudden panic. “Oh, Aria. Forgive me, Ms. Boschetti, please. I didn’t mean to address you so informally. That was very unprofessional.”
“It’s fine. Please call me Aria. Honestly, I would prefer that you do.”
Relief floods her face. “Wonderful! Then let’s begin.” She claps her hands. “I see you brought your mother and sister.” The words land like a blade.
The last time I saw my mother’s smile flashes in my mind–warm, proud, alive. With the same zoom, the memory, leaves and the truth rush in. She’s not here. None of them are, and it’s my fault. My chest tightens, and tears sting behind my eyes.
Unaware of the landmine she’s stepped on, Lia continues talking, her voice fading beneath the roar of grief in my ears. There will be nola mia piccola signorawhispered in awe. No mom marveling over lace and buttons and no dad to walk me down the aisle.
Before I can crumble, Tasha steps in. “Hey, Lia,” she flashes Lia a polite smile. “You might want to let the bride introduce her party next time. I’m Tasha, Aria’s best friend, and this is Rosa, the groom’s aunt.”
Lia’s hand flies to her pearl necklace, horror flooding her expression.“I’m so sorry, Aria. That was thoughtless of me.”
I force steadiness into my voice. “It’s fine. Let’s not dwell on it.”
Lia nods, recovering. “Of course, may I offer you something to drink? Coffee, tea… or perhaps something celebratory?”
“Bubbly,” Tasha says instantly. “Itisa wedding appointment.”
“Coffee,” Rosa adds. “One cream, one sugar.”
“And you, Aria?”
I manage a smile. “I’ll have the bubbly.”
As Lia walks away, Rosa squeezes my arm. “You alright, honey?”
