And then, in early spring of 1971, Frank told me that you were getting married to Winston in a small private ceremony, and he asked me to create your dress.
“Is this what Angela wants?” I asked.
“She doesn’t know yet,” he said. “I’m going to talk to her about it. I’m going to ask her to come and see you.”
“You want Angela to meet me?”
“I have only one daughter, Vivian. And knowing Angela, she will have only one marriage. I want you to make her wedding dress. It would mean a lot to me. So yeah, I want Angela to meet you.”
—
You came into the boutique on a Tuesday morning—early, because you had to be at work by nine. Your father’s car pulled up in front of my shop, and the two of you entered together.
“Angela,” said Frank, “this is my old friend Vivian that I was telling you about. Vivian, this is my daughter. Well, I’ll leave you both to it.”
And he walked out.
I had never been more nervous to meet a client.
What’s worse, I could instantly see your reluctance. You were more than reluctant: I could see that you were deeply impatient. I could see your confusion about why your father—who had never interfered with a minute of your life—had insisted on bringing you here. I could see that you didn’t want to be here. And I could tell (because I have an instinct for these things) that you didn’t even want a wedding dress. I was willing to bet that you found wedding gowns corny and old-fashioned and demeaning to women. I would have wagered a million to one odds that you were planning to wear the exact same thing on your wedding day that you were wearing now: a peasant blouse, a wraparound denim skirt, and clogs.
“Dr. Grecco,” I said, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I hoped you were glad that I had called you by your title. (Forgive me, but having heard so many stories about you over the years, I was a bit proud of your title myself!)
Your manners were impeccable. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Vivian,” you said—smiling as warmly as you were able to, given that you obviously wished you were anywhere but here.
I found you to be such a striking woman, Angela. You didn’t have your father’s height, but you had his intensity. You had those same dark, searching eyes that signaled both curiosity and suspicion. You nearly vibrated with intelligence. Your eyebrows were thick and serious, and I liked the fact that you appeared never to have tweezed them. And you had restless energy, just like your dad. (Not so restless as his, of course—lucky for you!—but still, it was notable.)
“I hear you’re getting married,” I said. “Congratulations to you.”
You cut right to the chase. “I’m not much of a wedding person. . . .”
“I understand completely,” I said. “Believe it or not, I’m not really one for weddings, either.”
“You’ve chosen a funny line of work, then,” you said, and we both laughed.
“Listen, Angela. You don’t have to be here. It won’t hurt my feelings in the least if you’re not interested in buying a wedding dress.”
Now you seemed to backtrack, perhaps fearing that you’d offended me.
“No, I’m happy to be here,” you said. “It’s important to my father.”
“That’s true,” I agreed. “And your father is a good friend of mine and the best man I know. But in my business, I’m not so interested in what fathers have to say. Or mothers, either, for that matter. I care only about the bride.”
You winced slightly at the word “bride.” In my experience, there are only two kinds of women who ever get married—women who love the idea of being a bride, and women who hate it but are doing it anyway. It was obvious what kind of woman I was working with here.
“Angela, let me tell you something,” I said. “And is it all right with you, that I call you Angela?”
It felt so strange to say the name to your face—that most intimate name, the name I had been hearing for years!
“That’s fine,” you said.
“May I assume that everything about a traditional wedding is repugnant and off-putting to you?”
“That’s correct.”
“And if it were up to you, it would be a quick trip to the county clerk’s office, on your lunch break? Or maybe not even marriage vows at all, but just an ongoing relationship, without getting the government involved?”
You smiled. Again, I caught that flash of intelligence. You said, “You must be reading my mail, Vivian.”
“Somebody else in your life wants a proper-looking marriage ceremony for you, then. Who is it? Your mother?”
“It’s Winston.”
“Ah. Your fiancé.” Again, the wince. I had chosen the wrong word. “Your partner, perhaps I should say.”
“Thank you,” you said. “Yes, it’s Winston. He wants a ceremony. He wants us to stand before the whole world, he says, and declare our love.”
“That’s sweet.”
“I suppose so. I do love him. I only wish that I could send a stand-in that day, to do the job for me.”
“You hate being the center of attention,” I said. “Your father always told me that about you.”
“I despise it. I don’t even want to wear white. It seems ridiculous, at my age. But Winston wants to see me in a white gown.”
“Most grooms do. There’s something about a white gown—setting aside the obnoxious question of virginity—that signals to a man that this day is not like any other day. It shows him that he’s been chosen. It means a lot to men, I have learned over the years, to see their brides walking toward them in white. Helps to quiet their insecurities. And you’d be surprised how insecure the men can be.”
“That’s interesting,” you said.
“Well, I’ve seen a lot of it.”
At this point, you relaxed enough to start taking in your surroundings. You drifted over to one of my sample racks, which was filled with billows of crinolines and satin and lace. You started sorting through the gowns with an expression of martyrdom.
“Angela,” I said, “I can tell you right now that you won’t like any of those dresses. In fact, you’ll despise them.”
You dropped your arms in defeat. “Is that right?”
“Look, I don’t have anything here right now that would suit you. I wouldn’t even let you wear one of these gowns—not you, the girl who was fixing her own bicycle by the time she was ten. I’m an old-fashioned seamstress in one regard only, my dear: I believe a dress should flatter not only a woman’s figure, but also her intelligence. Nothing in the showroom is intelligent enough for you. But I have an idea. Come sit down with me in my workroom. Let’s have a cup of tea, if you’ve got a moment?”
—
I had never before taken a bride into my workroom, which was at the back of the shop, and full of mess and chaos. I preferred to keep my customers in the pretty, magical space that Marjorie and I had created at the front of the building—with the cream-colored walls and the dainty French furniture, and the dappled sunlight streaming in from the street windows. I liked to keep my brides in the illusion of femininity, you see—which is where most brides like to abide. But I could see that you were not somebody who wanted to abide in illusion. I thought you might be more comfortable where the actual work was done. And there was a book I wanted to show you, which I knew was back there.
So we went back into my workshop, and I fixed us each a cup of tea. Then I brought you the book—a collection of antique wedding photos that Marjorie had given me for Christmas. I opened to a picture of a French bride from 1916. She was wearing a simple cylindrical gown that came to just above her ankles, and was completely unornamented.