Brown-Eyed Girl by Lisa Kleypas
Hollis came to stand beside me, tucking her phone back into her bag. “You try to raise a daughter someday,” she said, sounding tired and a little defensive, “and tell me how easy it is. You’ll teach her right from wrong, how to behave, what to believe. You’ll do your best. But someday your smart girl will do something stupid. And you’ll do anything you can to help her.” Hollis sighed and shrugged. “Bethany can do whatever she wants until she’s a married woman. She hasn’t said any vows yet. When she does, I’ll expect her to keep them. Until then, Ryan has the same freedom.”
I kept my mouth shut and nodded.
At two o’clock on the dot, we were welcomed into Finola Strong’s studio and bridal salon on the Upper East Side. The salon was decorated in understated smoky colors, the furniture in the private seating areas upholstered in velvet. Jasmine had referred me to Finola, who had agreed to turn my rough sketches into an appropriate design. Known for her love of clean lines and opulent detail, Finola was well suited to pull off the period beading and intricate paneled construction of the high-waisted skirt. Her team was second to none at creating couture gowns that started at thirty thousand dollars.
Two months earlier, an assistant from the studio had flown to the Warner home in Houston to render the drafted pattern into a muslin mock-up, pinning it meticulously to fit Bethany’s body. Since Finola had been told about the pregnancy, she had designed the gown to be easily adjusted to Bethany’s changing shape.
This fitting was the first for the actual gown, with much of the beading and trim already added. Today the garment would be adjusted so the fabric would drape and fall perfectly. One of Finola’s assistants would fly down with the finished gown a few days before the wedding, for one last fitting. At that time, additional alterations would be made if necessary.
As we lounged in a dressing room with a giant three-way mirror and a private seating area, an assistant brought champagne for Hollis and me and a flute of club soda and juice for Bethany. Soon Finola appeared. She was a slender, fair-haired woman in her thirties, with an easy smile and a lively, discerning gaze. I had met her three or four times during the years I had been in design, but each encounter had lasted for mere seconds during Fashion Week or at some crowded society function.
“Avery Crosslin,” Finola exclaimed. “Congratulations on the new gig.”
I laughed. “Thank you, but I’m not nearly as convinced as Jazz that I’m going to get it.”
“You’re no good at modesty,” she informed me. “You look positively smug. When do you meet with the producers?”
I grinned at her. “Tomorrow.”
After I introduced Finola to the Warners, she pronounced that Bethany would be one of the most beautiful brides she had ever dressed. “I can’t wait to see you in this gown,” she told Bethany. “It’s a global creation: silk from Japan, lining from Korea, beaded embroidery from India, an underlay from Italy, and antique lace from France. We’ll leave for a few minutes while you try it on. My assistant Chloe will help you.”
After a tour of Finola’s salon, we returned to the dressing room. Bethany stood before the mirror, her figure slim and glittering.
The gown was a work of art, the bodice made of antique lace that had been hand-embroidered in a geometric pattern and encrusted with crystal beading as fine as fairy dust. It was held up with thin crystal straps that glittered against Bethany’s golden shoulders. The skirt, adorned with scattered beads that caught the light like mist, flowed gently from the high-cut bodice. It was impossible to imagine any bride more beautiful.
Hollis smiled and put her fingers to her mouth. “How magnificent,” she gasped.
Bethany smiled and swished her skirts.
However, there was a problem with the dress, and Finola and I both saw it. The drape of the front panels wasn’t right. They split much wider over her stomach than I had sketched them. Approaching Bethany, I said with a smile, “You’re gorgeous. But we’ll have to make a few alterations.”
“Where?” Bethany asked, perplexed. “It’s already perfect.”
“It’s the way it drapes,” Finola explained. “In the month between now and the wedding, you’ll grow enough that the overskirts will fall on either side like theater curtains, which, adorable as your tummy is, will not be flattering.”
“I don’t know why I’ve gotten big so fast,” Bethany fretted.
“Everyone’s pregnancy is different,” Hollis told her.
“You’re not big at all,” Finola soothed. “You’re slender everywhere except your stomach, which is just as it should be. Our job is to make this dress fit like a dream, which we will certainly do.” She went to Bethany, grasping folds of the paneling, repositioning fabric and viewing the drape with an assessing gaze.
Suddenly Bethany jumped a little and put her hand to the front of her stomach. “Oh!” She laughed. “That was a strong kick.”
“It was,” Finola said. “I could see it. Do you need to sit down, Bethany?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Good. I’m just figuring out this paneling situation. I’ll be done in a second.” Finola’s gaze was filled with warm interest as she looked at Bethany. “I’m trying to figure out how much your bump will grow in the next month… Are you by chance expecting twins?”
Bethany shook her head.
“Thank goodness. One of my sisters had twins, and that was an unholy challenge. And the due date… has that been revised?”
“No,” Hollis answered for her.
Finola glanced at her assistant. “Chloe, please help Bethany out of the dress while I talk with Avery about the alterations. Bethany, may we leave your mother here with you?”
“Sure.”
Finola went to Hollis and picked up the empty champagne glass on the little table beside her. “More champagne?” she asked. “Coffee?”
“Coffee, please.”
“I’ll tell one of my assistants. We’ll be back soon. Come, Avery.”
Obediently, I followed Finola out of the dressing room. She gave the empty flute to a passing assistant and directed her to brew some fresh coffee for Mrs. Warner. We proceeded along a quiet hallway to a corner office lined with windows.
I sat in the chair that Finola indicated. “How tough is the paneling to fix?” I asked in concern. “You won’t have to take the whole skirt apart, will you?”
“I’ll have my pattern maker and draper take a look at it. For what they’re paying, we’ll remake the entire fucking dress if necessary.” She stretched her shoulders and rubbed the back of her neck. “You know what the problem with the paneling is, don’t you?”
I shook my head. “I’d have to take a closer look.”
“Here’s the cardinal rule of designing for a knocked-up bride: Never trust the due date.”
“You think she’s off by a little?”
“I think she’s off by at least two months.”
I gave her a blank stare.
“I see it all the time,” Finola said. “Maternity is the fastest-growing department in bridal ready-to-wear. Approximately one in five of my brides are pregnant. And many of them fudge the dates. Even in this day and age, some women worry about their parents’ disapproval. And there are other reasons…” She shrugged. “It’s not for us to judge or comment. If I’m right about the timing, then Bethany’s belly will be considerably larger than we expected when she walks down the aisle.”
“Then we should forget the paneling and replace the entire overlay,” I said distractedly. “Although there’s probably not enough time to get new beadwork done.”
“We’ll have some hideously expensive local person do it. How long will Bethany be in town? Can we schedule an additional fitting for her tomorrow?”
“Absolutely. In the morning?”
“No, we’ll need more time than that. How about in the afternoon after your meeting?”
“I’m not sure how long it will last.”
“If you can’t make it, just have Bethany come here by four. I’l
“Finola… are you absolutely sure about the due date?”
“I’m not a doctor. But I guarantee that girl is more than four months pregnant. Her belly button’s popped out, which usually doesn’t happen until the end of the second trimester. And the way that baby’s kicking? Impressive for a fetus that’s only supposed to be about five inches long. Even though Bethany’s kept her weight down, the bump doesn’t lie.”
I went out to dinner that night with Jasmine and an assortment of old friends from the fashion industry. We sat at a table for twelve in an Italian restaurant, with at least three or four conversations going on at any given moment. As always, they had the best gossip in the world, exchanging tidbits about designers, celebrities, and society icons. I had forgotten how exciting it was to be in the middle of everything new and fresh, to know things before the rest of the world did.
Plates of beef carpaccio were brought out, the raw meat sliced into translucent sheets even thinner than the scattered flakes of shaved Parmesan on top. Although the waiter tried to bring baskets of bread along with the salad course, everyone at the table shook their heads in unison. I stared forlornly at the retreating bread, which left wafts of sweetly fragrant steam in its wake.
“We could each have just one piece,” I said.
“No one eats carbs,” replied Siobhan, the beauty director at Jasmine’s magazine.
“Still?” I asked. “I was hoping they’d come back by now.”
“Carbs will never come back,” Jasmine said.
“God, don’t say that.”
“It’s been scientifically proven that eating white bread is so bad for you, you’re better off emptying packets of granulated sugar into your mouth.”
“Send Avery a copy of the KPD plan,” Siobhan said to Jazz. She gave me a significant glance. “I lost twelve pounds in a week.”
“From where?” I asked, looking at her rail-thin frame.
“You’ll love KPD,” Jasmine assured me. “Everyone’s doing it. It’s a modified ketogenic-Paleo-detox plan, starting with an intervention phase similar to Protein Power. The weight comes off so fast, it’s almost as good as having a tapeworm.”
When the entrées were brought out, I realized I was the only one in the group who had ordered pasta.
Jett, an accessories designer for a major fashion label, glanced at my penne and said with a sigh, “I haven’t eaten pasta since Bush was in office.”
“First or second?” Jasmine asked.
“First.” Jett looked nostalgic. “I remember that last meal. Carbonara, extra bacon.”
Becoming aware of their intent gazes, I paused with my loaded fork halfway up to my mouth. “Sorry,” I said sheepishly. “Should I eat this at another table?”
“Since you’re technically an out-of-town guest,” Jasmine said, “you can keep your penne. When you move back here, however, you’ll have to say good-bye to refined carbohydrates.”
“If I move back here,” I said, “I’ll have to say good-bye to a lot of things.”
At one o’clock the next afternoon, I took a cab to midtown and walked into the Stearns production offices. After five minutes of waiting, a young woman with a messy bob and a skinny black pantsuit came to escort me to an elevator. We rode a few floors up and entered a reception area with a spectacular ceiling paved in a lavender-and-silver mosaic tile design and furniture upholstered in a deep shade of eggplant.
Three people were there to greet me with such lavish enthusiasm that I relaxed immediately. They were all young and beautifully dressed, smiling widely as they introduced themselves. The woman introduced herself as Lois Ammons, a producer and executive assistant to Trevor Stearns; after that came Tim Watson, a casting producer, and Rudy Winters, a producer and assistant director.
“You didn’t bring your sweet little dog?” Lois asked with a laugh as we went into a spacious office with a dazzling view of the Chrysler Building.
“I’m afraid Coco is a little too old and high-maintenance to do much traveling,” I said.
“Poor thing. I’m sure she misses you.”
“She’s in good hands. My sister Sofia is taking care of her.”
“You work with your sister, right? Why don’t you tell us how that started. Wait, would you mind if we record our chat?”
“Not at all.”
The next three hours went so fast that they seemed like three minutes. We started by discussing my past experience in the fashion business and then what it had been like to start the studio with Sofia. As I recounted some of the quirkier weddings we had designed and coordinated, I had to pause while the trio burst out laughing.
“Avery,” Lois said, “Jasmine told me that you’re still in the process of getting an agent.”
“Yes, although I wasn’t certain it would even be necessary, so I haven’t —”
“It’s necessary,” Tim said, smiling at me. “If this all works out, Avery, we’ll be negotiating issues such as public appearances, licensing and merchandising rights, product endorsements, publishing, residuals… So you need to find an agent right away.”
“Got it,” I said, pulling a tablet from my bag and making a note. “Does this mean we’ll be meeting again?”
“Avery,” Rudy said, “as far as I’m concerned, you’re our girl. We’ll have to do some more testing, perhaps send a camera crew to the Warner wedding.”
“I’ll have to clear it with them,” I said breathlessly, “but I don’t think they’d object.”
“You and this show would be a perfect match,” Tim said. “I think you could take Trevor’s concept and make it your own. You’ll bring great energy. We love the sexy redhead image, love how comfortable you are with the camera. You’ll be on a fast learning track, but you can handle it.”
“We need to get her together with Trevor and see how they click,” Lois said. She smiled at me. “He already loves you. Once you get an agent, we can start talking about tailoring the show to your personality, and working on the pilot treatment. In the first episode we’d like to push the idea that Trevor is mentoring you… set up some dilemmas and have you call him for advice, which you don’t necessarily have to follow. Ideally the dynamic would have hints of tension… Trevor and his sassy protégée, with a lot of snappy dialogue… how does that sound?”
“Sounds fun,” I said automatically, although I was unnerved by the feeling that a persona was being created for me.
“And there’ll have to be a dog,” Tim said. “Everyone at the L.A. offices loved seeing you carry that dog around. But a cuter one. What are those fluffy white ones, Lois?”
“Pomeranian?”
Tim shook his head. “No, I don’t think that’s what I mean…”
“Coton de Tulear?”
“Maybe…”
“I’ll pull up a list of breeds for you to look at,” Lois said, making notes.
“You’re getting me another dog?” I asked.
“Just for the show,” Lois said. “But you wouldn’t have to take it home with you.” She laughed lightly. “I’m sure Coco would have something to say about that.”
“So,” I asked, “the dog would be a prop?”
“A cast member,” Tim replied.
While the two men talked, Lois reached out and gripped my nerveless hand, beaming at me.
“Let’s make this happen,” she said.
Sitting in the hotel room that night, staring down at my cell phone, I practiced what to say to Joe. I tried a few lines out loud and wrote a few words on a nearby notepad.
When I realized what I was doing… rehearsing for a conversation with him… I pushed away the notepad and made myself dial.
Joe picked up right away. The sound of his voice, that familiar, comforting drawl, made me feel good all over and at the same time filled me with wrenching longing. “Avery, honey. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. Missing you.”
“I miss you too.”
<
“I’ve got all night. Tell me what you’ve been up to.”
I sat back farther on the bed and crossed my legs. “Well… I had the big meeting today.”
“How did it go?”
I described it in detail, everything that had been said, everything I’d thought and felt. While I did most of the talking, Joe was deliberately reserved, refusing to express an opinion one way or the other.