dragged her up the next escalator
before Sarah could even begin to say to her sister about the
whimsical, un-bridal dress, “Imagine this in ivory instead of
goldy-cream, it could be bridal, don’t you think? And it’s on sale,
Emma, you wouldn’t even consider it for your dress?”
But no. They’d
arrived at the designated bridal salon on the seventh level
instead.
There, despite
already having spent months narrowing down options, Emma took so
long about ordering her dress that the sky had colored and the city
had lit up for the evening when they emerged. The crowds on Fifth
Avenue were even worse than they had been before. As Emma and Sarah
pushed their way past Saks, a symphony of white neon snowflakes lit
up on the front of the building. They glowed and faded in rhythm
with the music, which was an angelic, ethereal carol whose name
Sarah didn’t know.
They skirted
the tree in Rockefeller Plaza and plunged into the Rockefeller
Center building to shortcut the crush, via the Art Deco flooring
and empty walks. At Sixth Avenue an Andean band played flutes and
the sound seemed so pure in the cold air. Sarah wanted to stop and
listen but with her bridal business finished Emma was suddenly in a
self-absorbed hurry to get to the Port Authority. “Come on,
Sarah!”
Sarah came
back into the city the following day and went through it all again
– the crowds, the freezing air, the snowflakes and caroling, even
the same Andean pipes. She bought the inappropriate dress on Level
Four for an exorbitant sum that was still a lot less than Emma’s
fifteen-thousand dollars, and…
Yeah.
Dumb.
Asking for
it.
Buying a dress
to be your wedding gown because you love it, and it’s on sale, and
your sister wouldn’t stop to see how gorgeous it was, before the
guy has even said, Let’s get married.
Angie let
Ashlyn sleep until eight, helped by the low light from the dark,
rainy morning. Lunch was provided at Ash’s vacation program but
they had to bring snacks, so she snipped grape clusters, and made
blueberry muffins and some dainty little pinwheel sandwiches. She
did not want her grand-daughter to attend vacation program with the
wrong kind of snack box contents.
As a
seven-year-old, Angie’s snack boxes had been so horribly wrong
compared to those of the other little girls. One girl in
particular. Oh, it still stung if she thought about it. Every day
this baby princess came to school bearing darling little
sugar-dusted cupcakes, or cookies cut in the shape of Christmas
stars and angels, or homemade cheese pastry straws. Meanwhile,
Angie had cheese and tomato sandwiches, where the tomato made the
cheap white bread go soggy, or plain peanut butter without even
jelly, and usually she had made those sandwiches herself.
And during one
glorious week, for four days in a row – she was only seven – she’d
discovered that if she was careful, she could steal the little
girl’s treats, hide them under her sweater and eat them herself,
secretly, in a cubicle in the girls’ bathroom. Oh, she ached for
the child she’d once been!
Occasionally
she still had a crawly, flush-faced feeling when she thought that
maybe the school had been suspicious, although nothing was ever
said. On the last day of that week, however, the little girl
started keeping her snack box in the teacher’s desk, and the class
was given a talk about honesty. Angie hadn’t taken anyone’s lunch
treats after that, and she’d never done anything like that
since.
And Ash would
never need to.
Angie would
never need to ache for Ash. “You are the best thing in my life,”
she sometimes whispered to her grand-daughter, and the times when
the jealousy surged – when she had found out that Charlie was going
to be a goddamned brain surgeon, for heck’s sake, when he just kept
turning out so successful and good-looking and bright even though
Lainie barely knew who his father was – she said to herself that
Lainie had nothing like this, precious Ash, and
before Sarah could even begin to say to her sister about the
whimsical, un-bridal dress, “Imagine this in ivory instead of
goldy-cream, it could be bridal, don’t you think? And it’s on sale,
Emma, you wouldn’t even consider it for your dress?”
But no. They’d
arrived at the designated bridal salon on the seventh level
instead.
There, despite
already having spent months narrowing down options, Emma took so
long about ordering her dress that the sky had colored and the city
had lit up for the evening when they emerged. The crowds on Fifth
Avenue were even worse than they had been before. As Emma and Sarah
pushed their way past Saks, a symphony of white neon snowflakes lit
up on the front of the building. They glowed and faded in rhythm
with the music, which was an angelic, ethereal carol whose name
Sarah didn’t know.
They skirted
the tree in Rockefeller Plaza and plunged into the Rockefeller
Center building to shortcut the crush, via the Art Deco flooring
and empty walks. At Sixth Avenue an Andean band played flutes and
the sound seemed so pure in the cold air. Sarah wanted to stop and
listen but with her bridal business finished Emma was suddenly in a
self-absorbed hurry to get to the Port Authority. “Come on,
Sarah!”
Sarah came
back into the city the following day and went through it all again
– the crowds, the freezing air, the snowflakes and caroling, even
the same Andean pipes. She bought the inappropriate dress on Level
Four for an exorbitant sum that was still a lot less than Emma’s
fifteen-thousand dollars, and…
Yeah.
Dumb.
Asking for
it.
Buying a dress
to be your wedding gown because you love it, and it’s on sale, and
your sister wouldn’t stop to see how gorgeous it was, before the
guy has even said, Let’s get married.
Angie let
Ashlyn sleep until eight, helped by the low light from the dark,
rainy morning. Lunch was provided at Ash’s vacation program but
they had to bring snacks, so she snipped grape clusters, and made
blueberry muffins and some dainty little pinwheel sandwiches. She
did not want her grand-daughter to attend vacation program with the
wrong kind of snack box contents.
As a
seven-year-old, Angie’s snack boxes had been so horribly wrong
compared to those of the other little girls. One girl in
particular. Oh, it still stung if she thought about it. Every day
this baby princess came to school bearing darling little
sugar-dusted cupcakes, or cookies cut in the shape of Christmas
stars and angels, or homemade cheese pastry straws. Meanwhile,
Angie had cheese and tomato sandwiches, where the tomato made the
cheap white bread go soggy, or plain peanut butter without even
jelly, and usually she had made those sandwiches herself.
And during one
glorious week, for four days in a row – she was only seven – she’d
discovered that if she was careful, she could steal the little
girl’s treats, hide them under her sweater and eat them herself,
secretly, in a cubicle in the girls’ bathroom. Oh, she ached for
the child she’d once been!
Occasionally
she still had a crawly, flush-faced feeling when she thought that
maybe the school had been suspicious, although nothing was ever
said. On the last day of that week, however, the little girl
started keeping her snack box in the teacher’s desk, and the class
was given a talk about honesty. Angie hadn’t taken anyone’s lunch
treats after that, and she’d never done anything like that
since.
And Ash would
never need to.
Angie would
never need to ache for Ash. “You are the best thing in my life,”
she sometimes whispered to her grand-daughter, and the times when
the jealousy surged – when she had found out that Charlie was going
to be a goddamned brain surgeon, for heck’s sake, when he just kept
turning out so successful and good-looking and bright even though
Lainie barely knew who his father was – she said to herself that
Lainie had nothing like this, precious Ash, and
Similar Books
