Page 10 of Whispers of My Skin

For better or worse, it seems Joel Sadger is taking care of me.

“Darlin’, that dress is simply divine,” my mother trills from where she’s sitting like the Queen of Sheba, sipping her third glass of champagne.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

I’m wearing an ivory dress with a fitted lace bodice, and a flared silk skirt embellished with thousands of crystal beads.

“Your waist looks so tiny in that dress. You’re going to make such a beautiful bride, although it’s such a shame that I can’t say the same about the groom.”

“Mom...” I warn her in exasperation.

From the moment I announced my marriage to Joel, she hasn’t stopped complaining. At all.

Not out of concern for me, but because this won’t be the extravagant kind of wedding she’s had planned from the day I was born. She’s beyond disappointed that I’ve insisted on a small, quiet affair, with far less pomp and fuss than she wanted.

“I don’t think this dress is the one. I’d prefer something much simpler,” I state.

“I don’t like it either. It sucks.” Camille, my baby half-sister and self-proclaimed maid of honor, adds her opinion. “You should try the one I found for you. It’s way nicer.”

She speaks with such conviction that I traipse back to the fitting room, if only to shut her up. But after being trussed up in her choice, I’m horrified by what I see reflected in the mirror.

“I look like a Barbie doll, the way my boobs are shoved up like this,” I wrinkle my nose in disgust at the strapless, corset style dress. “Besides, I’m practically falling out of it, it’s so low cut.”

“That’s sexy, Tara. You’ve got great boobs, so why not show them off? That’s what men like, it makes them fancy you even more.”

She carries on about the best way to flaunt your cleavage, how to paint your lips in forty-two different ways to seduce your man, how to keep his attention in the bedroom, and it sounds to me as if she’s quoting directly from some trashy TV program. She seems to know a hell of a lot more about it than I do, which is just plain wrong for a girl of her young age. What on earth has our mother been letting my baby sister watch?

“How old are you, Camille?” I ask.

“Fifteen, nearly sixteen,” she brazenly lies.

“No, you’re not! You’re only nine years old, and I’m concerned where all this inappropriate garbage is coming from.”

“Nine is the new sixteen. And I read magazines and watch television,” she replies archly. “Which you ought to do, because you’re soooo boring.”

She might think I’m boring because I don’t approve of her choice of dress, but aside from the fact that I hate it, I’m also being practical, because these ridiculously over the top dresses also come with ridiculously over the top price tags. Besides, what no one realizes is that I’m hardly your typical bride, head over heels in love and excited about her big day. No one can know that our wedding is nothing more than a means to an end, a business transaction.

It’ll be a very simple wedding with only about twenty guests, held in the grounds of the San Antonio property where my mother and Oscar live. Property that, incidentally, we were unable to sell because it belongs to his family, and while that man is very good at taking from my family, he’s not so good at giving. So, running his house has been yet another expense draining our depleted resources, as we’ve never yet seen a penny coming in from his supposedly successful business.

“Can you please fetch me the other one we saw?” I ask the sales assistant, deciding it’s about time I put my foot down about my wedding dress. “The one with the short skirt.”

“But, darlin’,” my mother cries out in dismay, but without letting go of her glass of champagne. “It’s your wedding and that only happens once in a lifetime.”

I look at her via the mirror in disbelief, raising an eyebrow to silence her. What a hypocrite she is, having been married two times thus far, with a good chance this second one won’t be her last.

“All I’m saying is that although regretfully you’ve chosen… that man… as your husband, when you could’ve done so much better, you should still have the wedding that you deserve. Even if, despite being the daughter of Spencer Rhett, you have chosen to marry a cowboy.” She actually shudders in disgust.

“Mom, we’ve had this conversation before. I’m going to marry Joel whether you like it or not, so I suggest you get used to the idea.”

“Well, maybe I could understand if I could see any sign that y’all were actually in love, but from what I’ve seen, you seem to be doing your level best to avoid him most of the time,” she observes. “It hardly seems a match made in heaven, so don’t you go thinking I’m only worried about what people will say. Although inevitably there will be talk…”

“For goodness sake, Mother! Shouldn’t you be used to it by now, since folk have been talking about us since time began? Sad truth is, while Joel’s fully prepared to do everything in his power to get Redlands back on its feet, not a single one of those wagging tongues have ever offered any kind of help. So, why pay them any heed?”

My mother shifts in her seat, clearly uncomfortable, but refusing to concede I’m right. Instead, she switches her attention to Camille, belatedly reprimanding her about behaving more appropriately. Camille ignores her, as usual.

It’s all so dysfunctional, and by the look on the sales assistant’s face, she’s worked out that we’re hardly your average happy wedding group. But what does she care, so long as she gets her commission? So, she scurries off to find the other dress and once it’s been located, we head back to the fitting room. She helps me into it, and as I stand in front of the mirror, my mind wanders back to happier times.

Happier times—when I was carefree and had no responsibilities.

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