The dress symbolizes everything about the couple. Hope, love, beauty, promise, commitment.

I glance over at the photo of Rachel.

Shit.

“Well,” I say, clearing my throat, “let’s find a time for a consultation.”

“Tomorrow at eleven,” Mrs. Brewster says.

“Let me check my calendar,” I answer patiently. I know I’m free, but I don’t want to be treated like an indentured servant, either. “Is there anyone else you’d like to have with you, Kimber? A bridesmaid or your mom, maybe?”

“Um, no, just Mrs. Brewster,” she says, picking at her thumbnail.

“Sometimes the groom comes, too, you know,” I suggest. This girl is going to need an ally.

“Really?” Kimber’s face brightens.

“I hardly think Jared should be here,” Mrs. Brewster says.

“Mrs. Brewster, why don’t you look around and see if there’s anything that sparks your interest?” I suggest. “Have some champagne. Andreas? Would you show Mrs. Brewster around?”

My lovely assistant comes over and ushers her away. “Mrs. Brewster! Such an honor to have you join us today!” He just earned a raise.

“So how did you and Jared meet?” I ask Kimber.

“Well, I sing in a bar sometimes? Miller’s, down by the river?”

“Sure. I used to sneak in there when I was underage,” I say with a smile.

“Really? You seem so classy.”

“It’s the shoes. Don’t be fooled. So you were singing?”

“Yeah, ‘Son of a Preacher Man’? And Jared, he came over after and he said, ‘You know, I actually am the son of a preacher man,’ and he asked me out.”

“What a great story! He’s such a nice guy. I’ve known him a long time.”

“I love him,” she blurts, then grimaces. “I mean, duh, right?”

“No, it’s great! I’ll see you tomorrow. Hey, bring the dress you already bought, okay? You can tell me what you liked about it, and maybe we can incorporate some of the same elements.”

“Mrs. Brewster had me return it.”

“Ah. Okay. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, and we can start fresh.”

“Thanks, Jenny,” she says with another wide smile. She may have a tongue piercing, since she has a little lisp. “It was nice to meet you.”

“You, too.”

My eyes find Rachel again. She’s got Charlotte on one hip and is tucking her daughter’s hair behind her ear.

I go over. “Lottie,” I say, “Andreas can do a magic trick. Go see!” My niece wiggles out of Rachel’s arms and bolts over to my child-fearing assistant.

“I should get going,” Rachel says.

“Want me to come over later?” Not that I want to see my asshole brother-in-law, but Rachel might need the support. She looks exhausted. Then again, if I see Adam, I can accidentally stab him in an artery. Bet my sewing shears would snip right through his penis, come to think of it. “Or you can come to my place. I’m all unpacked. I have wine, and if you wanted to vent—”

“No. I need to be with Adam.”

I wonder if he’s sexting his mistress. If Rachel’s afraid to leave him alone for long. If he’s with Emmanuelle right now, having porno sex. “Okay,” I say.

“Don’t judge, Jenny.” Her voice is already resigned.

“I’m not! Rachel, I’m not. I just want to help.”

“You can’t.” She sighs. “Look, I’m sorry. The shop is gorgeous. I’m proud of you.” Her expression is shell-shocked, as if she just came out of the London Underground after the Blitz.

“Can we have coffee tomorrow?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

My eyes fill again, and my sister gives me a sad smile. “I’ll talk to you later,” she says. “Love you.”

“I love you, too. Thank you so, so much for coming.”

I help her herd the girls to the car, scooping up Grace, holding Rose’s hand, and buckle them into their car seats. I give Rachel a hug, and she squeezes me back.

“All I ever wanted was for Adam and me to have what Mom and Dad did,” she whispers, then lets go of me and gets into the car. “Bye. Talk to you soon.”

There are tears in her eyes.

I watch her drive away.

She’s got more in common with our parents than she knows.

* * *

When I get home that night, my feet are telling me that wearing four-inch heels all day long is a life skill with an expiration date, and mine is just around the corner. I start up the front steps, then freeze.

I hear music.

In the two weeks I’ve lived here, I haven’t heard anything other than those horrendous, repetitive Teaching Little Fingers to Play songs. One would think that living above a Juilliard-trained pianist would at least get me a little free music, but Leo’s usually just welded to that lawn chair when I come home, drinking a beer, his stinky, ill-tempered dog by his side.

But right now, there’s music. At first hesitant, and sad, and familiar. The melody rises gently, and my heart hurts, it’s so sad and beautiful. Goose bumps break out on my arms.

My God.

In a little bit of a trance, I go through Leo’s gate, tiptoeing so my heels won’t tap on the slate, and sink down in his doorway, not wanting him to know I’m here. The music twines around me, a little faster now, less sad, but then changing, a hint of darkness and sorrow, then back to the wistful strains I first heard, and good Lord, if I could play like this, I’d never stop.

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