16

SHE WAS GETTING HER LIFE BACK to some semblance of normal —her life postmastectomy —just in time for cancer to change things up again with chemotherapy sessions starting on Monday.

But she didn’t want to think about that now. Tonight was one of those perfect Colorado September evenings —one of her favorite things. Even with the sun beginning its descent toward Pikes Peak, the air was still comfortable. Not too hot. Not too cool. Geoff had agreed to her suggestion for a walk —a short one —and she’d ignored his insistence she wear a light jacket. She’d also vetoed his suggestion to drive over to Palmer Park, opting to stay in her neighborhood —closer to home.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to go out for dinner tonight.” Geoff sidestepped a low-hanging tree branch. “I tried to break away sooner —”

“I understand. Going for a walk is nice.”

“Are you excited about shopping for your wedding dress tomorrow? My mom really appreciated you inviting her.”

“It’ll be fun, having both her and my mom there.” Jillian kicked a pinecone so that it skittered ahead of them on the sidewalk. “Why don’t you meet us for dinner later? I could ask my dad —”

“Tomorrow’s a girls’ day, Jill. You don’t want me there.”

But she did. Not while she tried on wedding dresses —she wanted to keep with the tradition of Geoff not seeing her in her gown until she walked down the aisle to him. And she could only hope breast cancer wouldn’t wreak havoc with her determination to feel as beautiful as possible when she said, “I do” to Geoff.

Was her wedding going to be all about pretense?

“Besides, I haven’t had a quiet Saturday in so long.” Geoff grinned. “I’m looking forward to sleeping in late. Maybe going to the gym. Other than that, I’m not making any plans.”

Jillian shrugged off the heaviness clinging to her as if someone had dropped a wool coat on her shoulders. Geoff wasn’t saying no to her. Not really. He was just tired. The man deserved a day off. From life. From work. From her.

Their shoulders bumped, the backs of their hands brushing together.

And the fact that Geoff wasn’t holding her hand while they walked? That didn’t mean anything, either. He didn’t have to hold her hand all the time to prove he loved her.

“So . . . work? How’s that going?”

“More of the same —well, that’s not true.” Geoff huffed a humorless laugh. “This company had nothing but the most basic security set in place. The good news is they’ll probably keep us on after we fix this mess they’re in.”

“That’s great.”

“Did I tell you that Rick’s wife had her baby? He’s cut back his hours some, which means I’m picking up the slack.”

Of course he was.

Jillian wanted to say something positive, but instead she stayed silent. Here she was, stuck in the middle again. She should be used to this. Only this time she wasn’t lost between her sisters. No, now cancer and Geoff’s job closed in on her from both sides.

“Do you want to talk about the wedding?” Jillian inhaled the light scent of Geoff’s aftershave. Familiar. Comforting. “Were you thinking about tuxes for the guys? Or suits?”

“Oh, honey, I haven’t had time to think of that. Shouldn’t we wait until you find your dress tomorrow?”

“I may not find my dress tomorrow —”

“With everyone’s help? Sure you will.” Geoff adjusted his steps to her slower pace. “And no matter what you wear, you’ll be beautiful.”

How like Geoff to say that. But she didn’t want him to say the right thing just because it was the right thing —an automatic response just like he adjusted his pace to hers without thinking about what he was doing.

Jillian’s steps slowed even more. “I think I’m ready to head back —”

“Sure.” As they turned toward her apartment, putting their backs to the vivid oranges and golds of the sunset, Geoff took her hand in his. “I’m so proud of how well you’re doing with all this, Jilly.”

“Sometimes I wonder how I’ll handle the chemo —”

Geoff squeezed her hand before drawing her close and slipping his arm around her waist. “You’re a fighter. You’re going to beat this.”

Right. That’s what Geoff kept telling her. Despite all of Harper’s positive-thinking notes, did Jillian believe it? Was that even the right question? She had to believe it. Had to keep fighting. But with each passing day, it seemed as if she was fighting multiple battles.

All that was missing was the television camera crew. Oh, and the mandatory visit with a skilled makeup artist who would ensure she was primped and prepared to play the bride-to-be.

As she faced the door to the wedding salon, Jillian shook her head, dispelling the silly daydream, a figment of her overactive imagination. Thanks to Harper, she’d indulged in too many episodes of Say Yes to the Dress. She should have left the binge-watching to her best friend and caught up on her sleep. Maybe then she wouldn’t find herself dozing off over mortgage loan applications every morning, with too much work left to do before she could go home and change into her pajamas and collapse on the couch. When Geoff made it over in the evening —which was rare —he usually found her asleep in front of the TV. But the man never complained. And she needed to be understanding about the demands of his job, not think —

“Daydreaming, Jillian?”

Johanna’s voice drove her further into reality. “No, no. I was just . . . thinking.”

“You did schedule an appointment, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, why are we standing outside the shop?” Johanna stepped ahead and pulled the glass door open. “I’m sure they’d like us to be prompt.”

If there was one thing Jillian had learned watching reality shows of brides shopping for their dream dress, it was that there was always one outspoken member of the group. Cue Johanna’s entrance. Johanna disapproved of the shopping trip altogether, having made it clear she still thought Jillian should have changed her wedding date.

But if nothing else, Jillian could control her wedding. Well, some of it. She couldn’t stop the . . . physical alterations that would be hidden beneath a veil and gown. With cancer, she fought an unseen, internal adversary. Come Monday, she’d be relegated to the sidelines as the oncologist waged a medical war with rounds of chemotherapy.

Her wedding wasn’t going to become another unraveling in her life.

No cameras or lights or makeup artists or TV personalities waited for her inside the store. Just her mother. And Harper. And Geoff’s mom. And Payton. But when the in-charge saleswoman approached their group and asked, “Who’s the bride-to-be?” Jillian got to say, “I am,” designating herself as the reason everyone else was here. The center of attention. And she didn’t expect to be interviewed about her fiancé while she tried on different dresses, but still, this was her first and last time all rolled into one. After Monday, she’d have precious little time to go wedding dress shopping.

“You’re planning an April wedding, correct?”

“Yes.”

“She’s considering changing the date —”

“No, she’s not.” Payton interrupted Johanna.

The older woman with straight salt-and-pepper hair that hung past her shoulders seemed stunned by the verbal grappling taking place between Jillian’s sisters, her stylus poised above her iPad.

“The wedding date is April 14, as I told you over the phone. There’s no change.”

“Jillian —”

“Johanna, I’m here to look at dresses, not talk about whether you think we chose the right date or not. Geoff and I discussed your suggestion and decided we’re fine with the original date.”

The woman made a few notations on the screen. “I’ve got you all checked in then.” Another woman, this one as slender as a runway model, approached them. “This is Brigitte. She’ll be assisting you today.”

Some of the magic of the day faded. Why hadn’t Jillian realized she’d have to undress —over and over again —in front of some stranger who probably never struggled with her weight a day in her life? Someone who wore a size two and laughed at the idea of layering Spanx.

Brigitte ushered them to a dressing room area shrouded in rich blue velvet curtains. “The rest of you ladies are welcome to get comfortable while Jillian and I go talk about what kind of wedding gown she wants. Can I get any of you a bottle of water?”

Johanna ignored the small semicircle of chairs. “I’m the maid of honor, and I had some thoughts about what kind of gown Jillian should try on.”

Brigitte nodded. “Of course. It’s always good to hear suggestions.”

“I’m sure my sister told you that she has breast cancer —”

Brigitte paled, her smile frozen in place. “Um, no. She hadn’t mentioned that.”

Jillian’s mother stepped forward, placing an arm around her waist. “It’s a recent diagnosis.”

Why did Johanna have to discuss this in the middle of the store as if she was telling the woman, “My sister has six fingers on her left hand” or “My sister has a third eye”? Heat coursed through Jillian’s body, seeming to pool at the scar on her chest. “I was going to talk with her before we tried on any dresses.” She offered Brigitte a small smile. “I apologize. When I called to make the appointment, they just asked me for a time and how many would be coming. It was a very brief phone call.”

“So . . . so what should I know in light of your . . . illness?”

“Nothing, really. I mean, there are certain designs I’ll stay away from. Nothing too revealing or low-cut, but that’s not my style anyway.”

“She should probably look at something with sleeves.” Johanna spoke up again. “And obviously nothing too formfitting. Maybe an empire waist.”

“Does anyone else have any thoughts about what kind of gown would look best on Jillian?” Brigitte’s gaze encompassed the rest of the group. “Mrs. Thatcher, what would you like to see your daughter wear?”

“I think Jillian would look lovely in something with lace. Maybe a vintage look. Ivory, maybe? What do you think, Payton?”

“I think Jillian should get whatever she wants. Short. Strapless.” She held up her hand as Johanna started to sputter. “Oh, I’m kidding, Jo. But let Jillian get what she wants.”

By the time everyone had given their suggestions, Jillian was lost in the cross fire. She could have been eleven years old again, sitting at the family dinner table, her father having asked, “How was your day?” How was she supposed to join the conversational fray, the words and sentences tossed back and forth across the table between Payton and Pepper and Johanna? How did she fight for her place —demand some space and declare it hers?

“Okay then. Why don’t I take Jillian back to the dressing room and select a few styles, and we can start having some fun.” Brigitte guided Jillian away from the group, motioning to a silver tray of small water bottles. “You all relax. Please, have some water. We’ll be back in a few.”

If Brigitte could make trying on wedding dresses fun, she was more magician than saleswoman.

The woman handed Jillian a blue satin robe, not unlike one she’d seen women wearing on Say Yes to the Dress. “Do you need any help getting undressed?”

“No. My surgery was just over three weeks ago. I’m fine.”

“Great. I’ll go find some dresses for you, then, and be back in just a few minutes.”

Jillian didn’t know who was more relieved when Brigitte left —the other woman or herself. She rubbed her palms against her jeans, blowing out a breath. There was no “if” she was getting undressed. She was here to try on dresses. This wasn’t the time to hesitate.

She kicked her flats to the side, discarding her jeans and T-shirt on the chair positioned in one of the corners. Her reflection mimicked her hurried movements as she slipped into the cool satin robe, covering her too-ample body that was oddly less-than in one area.

“Fun, fun, fun . . .” She whispered the words over and over like some new mantra.

What had one of the surgery nurses told her as she’d fought back tears, struggling to dress herself after her mastectomy? Some kind of don’t-let-life-get-you-down quote.

“Life’s challenges are not supposed to paralyze you; they’re supposed to help you discover who you are.”

What was she going to discover today as she bared herself —literally —in front of a stranger? She could either put her clothes back on and say, “I changed my mind” or tough out the embarrassment. Deal with who she was, what her body looked like, and find some kind of fun . . . humor . . . in her first-time-last-time wedding dress shopping experience.

“All ready in there, Jillian?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Jillian forced enthusiasm into her words. “I can’t wait to see what you picked out.”

Brigitte’s arms overflowed with dresses encased in plastic. “I’ve got quite an assortment. Everybody seemed to have different ideas. I even picked a short dress like one of your sisters suggested.”

“Oh, Payton was only trying to mess with Johanna —”

“I have an older sister, too. I know what it’s like.” Brigitte began unzipping the protective coverings. “So which one do you want to try on first?”

“Is there a lace one in there? Like my mom suggested?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s do that first.”

As Jillian slipped out of her robe, Brigitte removed the dress, coming to stand beside her, chewing her bottom lip.

“Brigitte.”

The other woman jumped. “Yes?”

“Have you ever helped a woman who’s had a mastectomy before?”

“No . . . I’m sorry. I haven’t.”

“It’s okay. No need to apologize. My sister is right. I should have said something before the appointment.” Jillian took a deep breath. “I’m just like any other bride-to-be, except I have only one breast. And I’m wearing a prosthesis, which is just a fake breast, so I don’t look lopsided.”

Brigitte gave a short laugh. “Well, that’s one way to put it.”

“It’s the truth. Might as well say it straight up. I won’t have reconstructive surgery before my wedding because we’re doing chemo and radiation. And I may be bald by April, so I’m not sure about the whole veil option because I don’t know if I’m doing a wig or not. It’s not your problem. It’s mine.”

“I understand.”

“All right then. We’ll just go with what I have.” She needed to stop talking so much. “Sorry. That was not a joke, believe me. Maybe it’s best if we get me into the first dress, okay?”

Eight dresses later, what little hope she’d conjured up about finding a wedding dress had faded. She hadn’t discovered a stronger, better version of herself as she faced today’s challenge. She wasn’t paralyzed, but merely going through the motions of putting on dresses, displaying herself to Harper and Geoff’s mom and her family, and retreating behind the curtains to remove the dresses. Facing her reflection in the mirror again. And again. And again.

She was still overweight. Too hippy. Too short-waisted. Fleshy arms. And two breasts —one real, one fake —that made finding the right kind of bodice an absolute impossibility. Her mother liked her in ivory. Geoff’s mother preferred white. Harper gave a swift thumbs-down to the empire-waist gown Johanna said was perfect. And Payton . . . Payton sat in her chair, more and more quiet as the session went on.

Brigitte hung the last dress on the hanger, preparing to go search for more.

“I think I’m done for today, Brigitte.”

“Are you sure? I can go find some other styles.”

“Thank you, but no. I just haven’t seen anything yet. And to be honest, I’m tired.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think about that —”

“No, no. I’m just normal tired.” Jillian twisted the end of the belt between her fingers. “Nothing more. You’ve been great.”

Silence greeted her when she appeared in her regular clothes. “So that’s all the wedding gown shopping for today.”

Johanna set aside her phone. “What? You’ve only tried on a few dresses.”

“Eight. I’ve tried on eight. And I’m done.”

“But I think we should —”

“I’ll tell you what I’d like to do.”

“What’s that, Jill?” Harper jumped in.

“I’d really like you all to browse the dresses for possible styles to wear for the ceremony. Even you, Mrs. Hennessey, and you, Mom. I talked with Brigitte —” she motioned to the saleswoman standing behind her —“and she said that’s fine because another woman canceled her appointment.”

“That’s not the plan.” Johanna remained seated.

“I realize that. But it’s what I’d like to do. Okay?”

Payton jumped up from her chair. “The bride’s in charge. Let’s go look at some dresses.”

Could I make my escape while Johanna and Harper and the two mothers-in-law-to-be browsed the racks crowded with dresses, organized by color in extended fabric rainbows? No. I wasn’t abandoning Jillian in her hour of need. I couldn’t do anything about her cancer, but I could stiffen my spine, bite my tongue, and shop for dresses. It was one day. One day. And then I could retreat into my world of planning other people’s parties.

I turned my back on the red-and-white Exit sign over the door leading to the parking lot. Ignored every other person in the shop. Geoff’s mother had paired off with my mom, Johanna had allowed Jillian to wander into the small section of the store devoted to an eclectic assortment of bridal shoes, and Harper was nowhere in sight.

Now to find a dress or two we could all agree on —or that we could all compromise on. But what to choose first? Design or color? And would Jillian want short, mid-length, or long?

The chime of my cell phone interrupted my musing as I shifted hangers along the metal rack. I snugged my phone between my ear and my shoulder and kept browsing. “Payton Thatcher.”

“Payton, it’s Nash.”

My fingers clutched the satiny fuchsia material of one dress. Nash. We hadn’t talked since our breakup, thanks to my refusal to answer his repeated calls or texts the following week.

“Don’t hang up. Please.” His voice was low, but calm, not desperate. “I’m not going to harass you. Scout’s honor.”

Okay. “I don’t recall you ever mentioning you were a Boy Scout.”

His laugh was tinged with relief. “True, but I am honorable, Payton. I’m just calling to see how you’re doing. That’s all.”

I kept my voice down. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Care to tell me why you’re almost whispering?”

“I’m with Jillian and some other people at a bridal salon. Jillian’s looking for her wedding gown.”

“I can only imagine how much you’re enjoying that.”

The man knew me well, but then, we had dated for the better part of a year.

“I wanted to ask about Jillian, too. How’s she doing?”

This was the Nash I remembered from the early days of our romance. Easygoing. Considerate.

“It’s been rough. Harder than she lets on, I think.” The crack in my voice forced me to stop talking.

“Has she started chemo?”

“Her first treatment is this Monday. That’s why we’re shopping for dresses today. Once the next stage of treatment starts, she’s not sure what she’s going to be up to from one day to the next.”

“I’m sorry, Payton.”

“Thanks, Nash. I appreciate you calling.”

“Listen, I just wanted to say —”

“Nash, please . . .”

“No pressure. If you could see me, I’ve got my hand up in the whole ‘Scout’s honor’ position.”

His words defused the situation as I laughed. “Sure, sure, Mr. Boy Scout. I forgot.”

“Anyway, I’d love to meet up for coffee one day. Or a drink. Again, no pressure. Just to catch up.”

“No hidden agenda, right?”

“Right. Not even dinner. You can call, ‘Time’ when you’re done.”

And just like that, he made me laugh again, something I’d appreciated about him when we’d first started dating. Before he’d gone all “Let’s live together” serious on me. “So I get to bring both a penalty flag and a stopwatch?”

“Absolutely.”

“Let me think about it?”

“Sure.”

“Who are you talking to?” Johanna’s voice sliced through the air like a teacher who’d caught her star pupil cheating on a final exam.

I stayed facing away from her. “Thanks for calling. I’ve got to go now.”

“Johanna show up?”

Nash knew my family so well. “Yes. We’ll talk again soon.”

“Take care, Payton. Coffee whenever you’re ready.”

I faced Johanna once I’d ended the call.

“Who was that?”

“Really? And you expect to monitor my calls because . . . ?”

“Don’t pick a fight with me every time I say something, Payton.” Johanna carried several long gowns. “You didn’t find anything to try on?”

I pulled several random dresses from among the selection. Were they even my size? “Just a couple. Let’s go.”

But Johanna stood where she was. “I told you that Jillian wasn’t up to doing this, which is exactly why she needs to plan something sooner. Something simpler.”

“Just because she got tired and didn’t find a dress today doesn’t mean she should do what you want and change the date of her wedding.” I brushed past my older sister, the scent of Coco perfume, her signature fragrance, assaulting me. “How many times are we going to argue about this? If you’re lucky, maybe she’ll choose the style you like for the bridesmaid dresses.”

“This is not about me getting my way!” Johanna spoke through gritted teeth.

“Really, Johanna? It’s been about you getting your way for years.” I slowed my steps, refusing to argue in front of Jillian and my mother. “Does Beckett know you’re a control freak? Or have you managed to hide that character trait from him until after you’re married?”

Johanna stopped in the middle of the store, her face going white. Had I finally managed to silence my sister? But wait . . . was she blinking back tears? Had my words been too harsh in an attempt to gain the upper hand?

“I shouldn’t have said that. . . .”

Johanna waved my words away. “You always say exactly what you mean, little sister. I learned that a long time ago.”

Me? What about Johanna, who left the ring with her arms raised in victory more times than not?

But what else did I expect? This was our normal. Put me in the same room with Johanna for any length of time and we fought. Sincere apologies were few and far between. Usually time . . . well, time didn’t heal our wounds, but it eased the effects of the verbal blows. Unlike actual boxers, we weren’t limited to using our fists. Johanna and I had gone hundreds of rounds in the ring by now. Endless rounds. Alternate winners. Some knockouts. And too little time spent in neutral corners.

Prizefighters leave the ring, their wounds visible to one and all. A bloodied lip. A black eye. But then there are the fights that leave injuries no one else ever sees. Emotional lacerations that made it hard to breathe as I struggled not to cry. That could almost bring me to my knees, even as I questioned the definition of sisters.

Because sisters, true sisters, didn’t act like this, did they?

Had I ever wanted something different? Long ago, maybe. But some things can’t be changed. I could only keep moving forward.

Mom and Geoff’s mother stood in front of the mirrors that had, only a short while ago, reflected Jillian in different wedding gowns. Each woman wore a classic mother-of-the-bride or -groom dress. Mom’s was all lace with three-quarter sleeves, while Geoff’s mom’s style flowed from a gauzy jacket down to a handkerchief hemline. Everyone approved of both options, agreeing the moms didn’t have to match, merely complement one another.

“Why don’t Johanna and Harper try on their picks next while Mom and Mrs. Hennessey change?” I slid the two random dresses I’d selected onto one of the chairs.

When Johanna and Harper appeared again, it was apparent they had completely opposite tastes in dresses, too.

Johanna wore an elegant, no-frills mauve A-line dress. Harper had gone the party-girl route, appearing in a short, off-the-shoulder turquoise number.

Harper twirled in front of the mirror. “It is a spring wedding, after all.”

“Springtime in the Rockies.” Johanna smoothed the front of her gown. “It could snow on Jillian’s wedding day.”

“I like them both.” Jillian was already appeasing both sides. “And I promise never to say, ‘You can wear it again,’ no matter what dress we choose.”

“Because that never happens.” Even Johanna smiled at the comment.

“Which is why I’m not going to say it.”

“Have you decided on your colors?” Harper moved away from the mirror.

“Geoff’s favorite color is blue. I was thinking either a royal blue or maybe a cornflower blue.”

“Oh, Pepper would have loved the off-the-shoulder style, wouldn’t she, Payton?” Mom’s words caused everyone’s attention to turn to me. “And the blue, too.”

The question faded into the silence as I struggled to answer. My throat seemed to be closing up, my mouth dry, making it difficult to swallow, much less formulate a reply. It was as if Mom had invited Pepper’s ghost into the group . . . or shoved me back into one of my unwanted dreams. I closed my eyes. Was I going to see Pepper walking through the bridal salon?

“Payton?”

As Jillian touched my arm, I jerked away. “Yes. Of course. Pepper would have loved the dress. And the color. Our . . . our club volleyball jerseys were blue . . .”

Everyone seemed to wait for me to say something else. But the one thing I wanted to say, needed to say, was buried so deep inside me I didn’t know how to exhume the truth and bring it to light.

“Not sleeping, Payton?”

I stared at the ceiling of the hospital room as the nurse adjusted my covers. “No.”

“Dr. Langley left a prescription for a sleep aid. It’s not a sleeping pill, just something to help you doze off.”

“No.”

When I blinked, my eyelids seemed to scrape against hot, dry eyes, although I knew I had oceans of tears somewhere inside me.

“Is there something on your mind? I’d be happy to listen if you want to talk about anything worrying you.” The nurse paused at the foot of my bed, standing half in the shadows.

Anything worrying me?

Just how to tell the truth to my parents. How to explain to them that my words, careless words, had caused Pepper’s death. That I might as well have been driving the other snowmobile, not Zach Gaines.

“No.”

“Payton?” Mom’s voice bore the weight of unshed tears.

“No.”

“No what, dear?”

“Nothing. I —I’ve got to go.”

“What?” Jillian stepped forward. “Why?”

“I’m not feeling well. . . . I’m sorry, Jillian.” I gave my sister a brief hug. I wasn’t lying, not really, what with the way my fingers tingled and how the faint odor of ammonia unsettled my stomach. “We’ll talk soon . . . about the bridal shower . . . and the . . . the . . .”

Johanna grabbed my wrist. “Sit down. Don’t go anywhere until you’re feeling better.”

My sister’s words were sharp, not offering comfort. I would not fall apart in front of Johanna. Not again.

I pulled away from her grasp and half ran to the exit, the Colorado air a welcome relief.

Please, please, please, no one follow me.

Key in the ignition. Jam the gearshift into reverse. Exit the parking lot as if everyone in the store had chased me to my car.

Careen into traffic and cut off not one but two cars. Cling to the steering wheel with hands that shook. Ignore the honking horns. The shouts. The glares from the drivers of other cars.

Exit traffic again. Pull up behind a building. Park beside a Dumpster. Slam the gearshift into park. Turn the car off.

And then I crawled into the backseat of my car, curled my knees up to my chest, and shook. Sun streamed in through the windows, but I shivered as if I were outside in a blizzard. My vision blurred as I gasped for breath, rubbing the heel of my hand against the pain building in my chest.

Was I having a heart attack? Would I die here, alone, in my car?

Some people said you could die from a broken heart. I’d been dying a slow, torturous death for years.

Even as I fought against the waves of panic, I wasn’t afraid of dying.

Let it be so.

What was there to be afraid of? Anything had to be better than this.