The next shop had gold lettering on its display window proudly stating it had been in business since 1919. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but inside was a wondrous textile emporium.
A seamstress’s dream.
Eleanor made a beeline for a bolt of white gauzy material. “I need some of this English bridal net. It’s fantastic. Actually I’ll need lots of it.”
It struck me for the first time that Eleanor worked with brides-to-be all day long, yet she’d never been married. I knew she had a fiancé who had died at the very tail end of the Vietnam War. But at this point, it didn’t look like she’d ever get to wear one of her beautiful creations.
She was always so self-contained, yet how much pain did that prickly façade hold?
Even though Martha and Eleanor were both my good friends, I was probably closer to Martha. But of the two, Eleanor was the one who understood the thornier, crueler side of life.
We also shared a love of history, and a wedding gown could hold a wealth of stories and meaning. It truly was a piece of the past that needed to be conserved. Eleanor had a master’s degree in textile science, and sometimes gave lectures to local colleges on fabric preservation.
True bridal net crackles satisfyingly against your fingers, and I played with it while she picked out some seed pearls. Eleanor paid the forbidding old man at the counter for her purchases, getting the customary ten percent trade discount, and we moved on to the next store.
“I’m experimenting with different herbal teas to dye lace,” she told me. “I need to get an exact match on that lace I bought from you to repair some missing sections on Bettina Waters’s wedding dress. Apple cinnamon seems to work well, but I’m anxious to try orange pekoe.”
“How’s the dress coming along?”
“Almost done, and not a minute too soon, as a matter of fact. The woman had a complete meltdown in my shop the other day.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, when she was getting changed, I commented on the beautiful gold cross necklace she always wears. Apparently she’s extremely religious and it’s vitally important to her that the baby is born legitimate.”
“What would she have done if Harriet hadn’t conveniently died?”
Eleanor looked at me, her gray eyes somber. “Exactly. She told me how frustrated she was by Harriet’s refusal to grant Birch a divorce, and then she burst into tears. I mean, she went completely hystérique, screaming about how she couldn’t possibly wait two years. I fully expected her little head to turn around three hundred and sixty degrees.”
“Do you think it’s just pregnancy hormones?”
She shrugged. “When I reminded her that she was, in fact, getting married next month, and assured her that the dress would be ready in plenty of time, she calmed down. But it was touch and go there for a while.”
“Wow.”
Eleanor picked up some changeable silk, or shantung, of raspberry and chartreuse woven together. “Feel this, Daisy.”
“It’s gorgeous.” There was an almost guilty pleasure to the sensual slide of the fabric against itself.
“Better than sex, right?” she murmured.
“Well . . .”
“No, you’re right. But better than chocolate?”
“Not sure about that either, but I can picture the stunning lady’s evening jacket this would make. And there’s only one person who could carry it off.”