“I’m sure you’re aware,” she said, “that Tyler and I have become quite close. He’s told me a bit about your childhoods. I do hope that’s all right.”
I nodded, still shifting that note around, eyes down.
Meredith sighed. “I can imagine, Katie, that your mother might have some pretty big feelings about this new relationship of yours, even after all this time. Is that what the argument was about? You and Tyler?”
“She, uh... she doesn’t know,” I said. “That we’re together. That he’s even here.”
“I see. And you don’t wish to tell her?”
I exhaled. It was a full-body exhale: lungs and shoulders and limbs. It was a lot of work, telling the absolute truth. Letting people in. “I want to. But I can never seem to find a good time. He’s coming with me to her big charity thing this weekend, though.”
Meredith was quiet for a moment. She traced the rim of her glass.
“It’ll be worth it,” she said.
“Huh?”
“Worth the pain. Worth whatever she says, and whatever you may lose.”
I glanced up, not sure how to respond. Pinot slithered out from between Meredith’s ankles and climbed into my lap. I twisted a tuft of his fur between my fingers as Meredith continued.
“What happened with your brother,” she said. “You must understand, dear. When people get their hearts broken, they can become cruel. That’s not something you grow out of. That’s not something that time, experience, or age changes. If anything, it’s the opposite. And when people are reeling, they tend to lose sight of what matters. Resentment, you know? Wistfulness. Denial. Anger. Pain.”
For a few breaths, there was silence. I bit back a frown and then, as Pinot pawed at the air, I finally spit it out.
“My mom doesn’t love me,” I said.
I had known it for years, of course. I had known it for a decade. But when I said it aloud, I’d hoped it might disintegrate midair. But the opposite had happened. It had solidified into a cold, hard fact. There was no packaging it into a misunderstanding here or making excuses around it there. I was, for all intents and purposes, an orphan. And now I could never take it back.
Meredith sighed again.
I expected her to tell me I was wrong. That a mother always loved her daughter, even if she was in pain. Even if she’d lost her will to live. Even if she didn’t care where her daughter was living, or who she was dating, or had never bothered to read a single page of the six bestselling books she’d written all by her fucking self.
Instead, Meredith topped off her glass and said, “Well, then. I suppose we’d better find you something to wear.”
Minutes later, we were standing in a room twice the size of the cottage and just off the double doors to Meredith’s east wing. A chandelier gleamed above a rounded linen sectional, and from smooth white cabinetry, blazers, cardigans, and ball gowns hung like art. Acrylic boxes showcased colorful silk scarves and crystal-studded evening clutches. A silver bar cart sparkled next to a display of fur coats, and on a console a few yards away, sapphires glittered and diamonds gleamed. Pinot leaped onto the sofa and meowed.
“This is like an archive,” I said. “This is incredible.”
Meredith smiled, pulling a bottle of wine from a small refrigerator near the bar cart. She poured me a glass of my own. “Many of these things were my mother’s,” she said. “If something was beautiful, she wanted it. And then the rest of these items, I acquired early in my marriage. Anniversary gifts, birthday gifts, Thursday gifts. You’d be amazed how quickly you become numb to it—to the money. To the stuff.”
I glanced down at my outfit. I was wearing sleep shorts with peace signs on them, plus fuzzy slippers that looked like narwhals,metallic horns and all. Meredith let out the slightest laugh and said, “Anyway. We’re here for you, not me. How do you feel about navy? Amethyst? Emerald? I like you in a jewel tone, I think, even for summer.”
“I, um... I feel very good about jewel tones? Sorry, I can’t think straight in here. I’m in awe. Not to be cringe or anything, but I’m just a girl from Long Island. And well, I lovestuff. Like, so, so much.”
She laughed again, then began pulling gown after gown until the pile on the couch had swelled to six feet tall. I disappeared to a changing area behind a vintage screen, shimmied into an indigo Dior with narrow sleeves and a slit to my knee, and tried not to squeal at the rush of silk grazing my prickling skin.
I stepped out from behind the screen, walked toward the pedestal stationed in front of the couch, and smoothed the dress over my hips. In the three-paneled, full-length mirror, I looked a little sunburnt—and twice my age.
Meredith tsked from the sofa, where Pinot had fallen asleep in her lap. “Too matronly. Try the Fendi. Or the Celine.”
I disappeared again, sliding into an off-the-shoulder burgundy number that flared out like a mermaid’s tail at the hem. This one, I didn’t even bother to show Meredith. It clashed with my hair. I took a swig of my wine, then another.
I tried the canary yellow Carolina Herrera. The eggplant and bow-embellished Prada. The slinky, inky Saint Laurent. Gorgeous, all of them, but not quite right. Too avian, too purple, too cold. Three glasses of wine and two dozen dresses later, I stepped into a structured faille Oscar de la Renta. Absurdly puffy—and dreamilygreen. I twisted to coax the zipper up the side of my ribs, then poked my head out from behind the screen.
“Well?” Meredith said.
As I made my way toward the mirror, she beamed. On the pedestal, I pushed the falling chiffon sleeves fully off my shoulders and practically squeaked. The bodice’s boning was impeccable, and the skirt was the grandest, most romantic thing you’d ever seen.
