Page 35 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

When we both get out of the car and join my mother on the porch, her face, which looked a little bit like a dog’s expecting to get kicked, breaks into a smile. Although she’s flashedher teeth numerous times since Spencer and I got here yesterday, this is the first true smile I’ve seen.

Her ridiculous ploy has worked. Somehow—and I know I’m not the only one of us who wonders how—made-up errands, a short ride in a car, and a series of short, unexpected sprints down memory lane have, at least for the moment, lessened the hostility between Bree and me. I have no intention of examining this temporary cease-fire closely or counting on it too heavily, but in this instant I feel lighter than I have in a long time. As if I put down a heavy suitcase and only realized how much it weighed after I no longer had to carry it.

When we enter the living room it’s clear my mother has been busy since she shooed us out of the house. She’s spent that time setting the scene for my “trying on of THE DRESS” and for a minute I’m sorry Spencer isn’t there to admire her stagecraft. Classical music floats from the Amazon Alexa I gave her for Christmas, each piece light and airy and romantic. Three champagne flutes sit on a silver tray on the cocktail table. Bree and I don’t throw our arms around each other or anything. But neither of us is scowling or trying to get farther away from the other as my mother fills the glasses.

We clink rims and raise them to our lips. I’ve never been a huge champagne fan but the bubbles tickle my nose like they’re meant to and there is something about champagne that elevates whatever you do while you’re drinking it.

We look at each other, unsure what to do next. We’re out of practice as a threesome. I think we’re all afraid of making a wrong move.

“THE DRESS is in my bedroom,” my mother says almost timidly. “Shall I help you put it on?”

“Hell, yes,” I answer, hoping to see the smile again. It flickers briefly.

“I’ll wait here with the champagne,” Bree says. “I may evenpour us each another glass while I’m waiting for you to come out and model.”

Bree’s eyes search my face then my mother’s. They turn back to the champagne bottle. Talking directly to each other without trying to inflict hurt is oddly strange and fascinating. It’s like being in a foreign country you haven’t visited for so long you’re not sure you’ll remember the language.

In the bedroom I shed my clothes and step carefully into the satin pumps. My mother bends down and holds the dress open for me, leaving a bull’s-eye of carpet inside the circle of pearl-colored satin to aim for. I take a breath and place my hand on my mother’s shoulder.

“I hope you know how very much I love you,” she says so softly I have to strain to hear her. “How important you are to me. You are by far the best thing I’ve ever created.”

I wobble slightly as I lift one foot. “I don’t know, your beignets with chocolate pot de crème are pretty spectacular.”

She laughs lightly as I balance my weight on her shoulder and step as carefully as I can into the circular opening.

Once I have both feet inside, I stand perfectly still while she pulls the dress up so that I can slide my arms into the sleeves. The satin is cool and slippery against my skin as I hold the bodice to my chest and wait for her to step behind me so that she can pull the sides together.

“Here we go.”

I hold my breath as she slides up the side zipper in the skirt then begins to button the long line of satin-covered buttons. She works quickly and though I’m prepared to suck anything in that holds her up or slows her down, there’s no hesitation and no snag or delay. The dress cups my body like a caress. Even before she’s finished buttoning, before I steal a first peek in the mirror, I feel like a fairy-tale princess.

There’s a gentle tug at my back as she arranges the train intoa rounded arrow of Chantilly lace dense with flowers behind me. Next she retrieves the ivory headpiece from the bed and lifts it up so that she can place it on my head like a crown. Then she fusses with the floor-length floral lace veil so that it skims lightly over my shoulders and flows down my back to puddle with the train.

I’ve never felt so feminine or so elegant. For the first time I can see myself walking down an aisle to a waiting Spencer.

My mother kisses my cheek before stepping back to take me in. “It fits you perfectly. We won’t even have to hem it.” I flush slightly as I remember my delight at how many times the hem had to be doubled up when Bree wore it. A reminder that she wasn’t a Jameson by birth or blood. Because real Jameson women are tall.

“Just like it fit you,” I say, and am surprised when I see her grimace.

“Better.” She says this forcefully as if saying it strongly enough will make it so. “Here, come look.”

I follow her toward the full-length mirror but I move even more slowly than I need to, afraid that the way it looks can’t possibly live up to the way it feels, but it does. The satin clings to my shoulders and shows a creamy expanse of chest without being at all revealing. My neck might belong to a swan. And the bodice drops and nips in giving me a 1940s pinup waist then falls to the ground in soft satiny folds. The lace mantilla is a sheer work of art in a fall of flowers that float over the satin. Every inch of it is beautiful. And in it so am I.

“Do you need a hand in there?” There are footsteps. “You shouldn’t have left me out here with the bottle I think I’m getting... Oh!” Bree stands in the bedroom doorway blinking rapidly and I’m not sure whether she really has already had too much to drink or she’s blinking back tears. “I’m very relieved that we’re talking to each other again,” she says with a slightslur that answers that question. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to tell you how gorgeous you look.”

“She does, doesn’t she?” My mother’s voice is thick. Her eyes shimmer with tears.

“Don’t move. Be right back.” Bree races out to the living room and comes back with her phone. Then she comes over and stands before us. “Stand over in front of the armoire so I can take some pictures of the two of you.” She waves us in the right direction.

Usually my mother avoids cameras but she swipes at the tears and says, “I’d love that. Here, Bree can pick up the train, you hold up the hem, Lauren, and I’ll keep the veil in place.” We do as she directs, sidestepping toward the armoire with its burled wood and antique brass handles. Then Bree steps back. My mother moves up beside me and slips her arm around my waist. I feel the deep breath that she draws and turn to face her while Bree backs up farther and lifts the phone into position. “Are you all right?”

My mother nods. “I am. I just don’t ever want to forget this moment.” She hesitates. Her smile falters. “Whatever happens, no matter what it is or how it sounds, promise me that you’ll remember how much I love you.”

This does not make me feel better. “Mom...”

“Okay, you two. Smile!” Bree is already snapping photos and so I flash my best smile and tilt my head at its best angle. I tickle my mother’s waist slightly in an attempt to make her laugh or at least smile.

“That’s it!” Bree exclaims without a shred of detectable resentment or envy or anger or any of the other things that we’ve come to expect from each other. For a second I feel like myself in a way I haven’t since I left for New York and Bree didn’t. In this moment, I believe that Bree and I can find our way back to what we once had, that Spencer and I will live happily ever after,and that my mother is young and healthy enough that I can get my imagination to give it a rest. A few too-solemn words at a moment like this are to be expected.

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