Page 68 of Threads of Kindness
“It’s the wrong dress,” Sunday sobbed. “It’s completely wrong.”
Anita nodded. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen this happen.” She glanced over Sunday’s shoulder at the dress. “Itisbeautiful and would look lovely on you?—”
“But it’s not me,” Sunday said. “I hate that dress. I’d feel so out of place in it.”
“We can’t have that,” Anita said firmly.
Sunday stepped back, wiping her face.
Anita’s head seamstress, who had heard the commotion from the break room, rushed forward with a box of tissues and handed it to Sunday.
Sunday took a tissue and blew her nose. “I’m sorry about this,” she said. “I’m acting like a petulant child.”
“You’re doing no such thing,” the seamstress said. “Anyone would react the way you did. This is awful.”
“I agree completely,” Anita said. “What will you do?”
“I’m going right back to my office to contact the seller.”
“Do they have a phone number?” Anita asked.
Sunday shook her head. “Just email.” She pressed her eyes shut and groaned. “Based on how unresponsive the seller was when the dress was lost in transit, I don’t know if I’lleverget the one I ordered.”
“Did you pay with a credit card?” Anita asked.
Sunday nodded.
“At least you won’t get stuck paying for something you don’t want,” Anita said.
“But what am I going to do for a dress? I’m getting married in six weeks.”
“We have a few sample gowns we can sell,” Anita offered. “But we don’t have anything like the photo you showed me. Do you want to try onthisdress? Just to see how it looks on you?”
“That’s a good idea,” the seamstress said. “People come in with an idea of what they want and end up saying yes to the exact opposite.”
Sunday sighed. “I guess I should.”
Anita showed her to the fitting room. Sunday stepped onto the raised platform, and the seamstress helped her into the slim satin dress. Sunday studied herself from every angle.
Anita watched Sunday’s face in the mirror. The dress looked stunning on her—anyone could see that. And Sunday knew it too. But there was no sparkle in her eyes. She looked like a cashier relieved her register had balanced—satisfied but not overjoyed.
“Did you see it from behind?” Anita asked, adjusting the three-way mirror. “It’s not as low in the back as I first thought. We can shorten the straps to bring it up even higher. Other than that, it fits you perfectly.” Anita stepped onto the platform behind Sunday and lifted the dress by the straps so she could visualize the suggested alteration.
Sunday wiped the tears from under her eyes. “It’s not as bad as I thought. Istillwant my dress, though. I’m going to go back to my office, find a phone number for the seller, and raise hell.” She looked at Anita. “If they send me the correct dress now, will you have time to do the alterations?”
Anita glanced at her head seamstress.
“We’ll get your dress ready,” the woman said. “Even if we have to work the entire night before your wedding.”
Sunday stifled a sob. “That’s very nice of you,” she whispered. She glanced at herself in the mirror again. “Really, this dress is fine. I mean—I’m marrying the man of my dreams. I’m being silly. It doesn’t matter what I wear.”
“Honey,” Anita said gently, “if what a woman wore to her wedding didn’t matter, we wouldn’t be in business. Of course it matters. Let’s get you out of this dress. Leave it with me for now. Go back to your office and see what you can do to get yourrealdress.”
“Okay,” Sunday said in a small voice.
The seamstress helped her step out of the dress and carried it to the workroom.
“I’ll let you get dressed,” Anita said, pulling the curtain closed behind her.
