Page 4 of The Housemaid's Wedding
“I’m not supposed to see you at all,” he reminds me. “Anyway, I saw it already. Remember? You did fashion show when you came home.”
“Oh, right.” That makes me feel a little better. “I guess I should stop being so superstitious.”
He grins at me. “It is cute. Anyway, this is your wedding day. You are allowed to bepazza.”
He has used that word multiple times to refer to me. I haven’t looked it up because I’m not sure I want to know. I don’t think it’s a compliment, but I let it slide.
The towel falls from my body, and Enzo lets out an appreciative whistle. I take the blue dress off the hanger and slide my legs into the silky fabric. I purchased a brand-new pair of pantyhose just for today, and then an extra pair in case I get a rip. I have thought of everything. I am prepared for any emergency. Today is going to be perfect.
Except…
Oh no. This stupid dress doesn’t zip up anymore!
3
“What is wrong?”
Enzo looks at me with concern as I struggle with the zipper in the back of the blue dress. I tried the dress on only one week ago, and it was fine. It fitperfectly. So why am I struggling now?
“Can you zip me up?” I ask him.
He jumps off the bed, eager to help. He’s wearing only a pair of boxers, and it distracts me for a moment from my distress about the zipper, but then he is behind me, and the distraction is gone. His fingers linger on the small of my back.
“Last chance for sexy time,” he breathes in my ear.
I’m a little tempted, but I shake my head. “Just zip up the dress.”
That’s when things get real. Enzo tries his best, bless his heart. He struggles to pull up the zipper without ripping the fabric, but nothing is happening. It’s not budging. Over the last week, my stomach has grown to the point where this dress no longer fits.
“I am sorry.” He lowers his hands in defeat. “It does not go.”
I bury my face in my palms and sink down onto our bed. “Oh my God, what am I going to do?”
He frowns. “Another dress?”
I shake my head. “I don’t have anything else that looks good.”
“You look beautiful in everything.”
His voice is so earnest that I want to cry. He’s trying his best to make light of a bad situation, but there’s no fixing it. There’s nothing else in my closet that is wedding appropriate. I hadonedecent dress to wear today, and now it doesn’t fit me anymore. I can’t afford a second dress. I couldn’t even afford the first dress.
I suppose I could go back to Macy’s and try to exchange it. Except I bought the dress weeks ago, and it seemed to leave more than enough room for growth, so I tossed the receipt. I had no idea I’d suddenly “pop” over the last week. Anyway, I can’t try to return it now—the last thing I want is to go into some store and they accuse me of stealing the dress. What if they call the police? What if Igo to jailon my wedding day? That’s even worse than a death threat. Or at least, it’sasbad.
“I really wanted this dress,” is all I say.
“Okay, then.” Enzo sits beside me on the bed and takes my hand in his. “Give me the dress, and I will fix it.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize you were a seamstress.”
His lips twitch. “I know a guy who is a tailor. He owes me favor.”
I am highly skeptical, but what can I do? EitherEnzo’s friend will come through, or I will get married in jeans and a T-shirt. Okay, I have a nice skirt and blouse I could wear. But it’s not my pretty blue dress.
Enzo calls his friend right away, who amazingly thinks he can get it done in time for the ceremony, which is now inonly three hours. He asks for a bunch of measurements, which Enzo takes using the tape measure from his tool kit. Then he leaves with the numbers scribbled on a scrap of paper, my dress in a plastic bag, and his car keys, promising to be back in half an hour.
Honestly, I don’t understand why I can’t go with him to have the measurements taken by a professional, but Enzo had some convoluted reason why I can’t visit his friend. When he tries to explain it to me in Italian, I give up. It seems impossible that this dress will be ready in time, but I have to admit, Enzo rarely fails me.
While he’s gone, I return to the bathroom to style my hair. You know how some women hire professional stylists to fix their hair prior to their weddings? Well, that does not happen in Casa Calloway. It’s just me and my cheapo curling iron, doing the best we can.
