Page 37 of Winter Sun

“Oh, gosh.” Ida tugged her ponytail. “You were married in 2002, right?”

Sophie nodded.

“The styles were outrageous that year,” Ida hurried to say.

“But my dress was classic,” Sophie reminded her. “I sold it last year. Another bride said it was timeless. That’s really the word she used.”

Ida grimaced. “But something about that day was off. Maybe I’ve implanted it on the dress.”

Sophie caught Sam’s eye. “Is that how all of you remember my wedding day?”

“I mean,” Hilary stuttered, “you looked gorgeous, Sophie. Everyone thought so.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Sophie said with a laugh.

How clear had it been that her marriage was already off to a wretched start? Could they feel the fight she and Jared had had that morning? Had they seen a devastated bride walking down the aisle, headed for her doom?

It was true that she’d married Jared not long after they’d lost the baby. She’d been devastated, lost. She’d alternated between not sleeping and sleeping too much. And, of course, she’d been drunk that day. Terribly drunk. Aching for drugs. For darkness. It had eventually come.

“You just didn’t look super happy,” Sam admitted with a grimace. “I remember thinking I wanted to give you a hug.”

“Maybe that’s what I remember about the dress,” Ida said. “That no matter how beautiful it looked on you, you still looked miserable. Which is so unlike this dress you’re wearing right now. I mean, look at you! You’re so happy. And it shows in everything you do. You’re glowing.”

They were quiet, exchanging glances.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up your first wedding,” Ida hurried to say. “I feel like an idiot.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sophie said, straightening her spine. “To be honest, I’m just happy to hear you noticed. In retrospect, that was a horrible day. And I remember Mom fluttering around, telling me how happy she was. And how happy I was going to be.” Sophie’s eyes filled with tears. “I remember her telling me I would get pregnant again soon.”

“We should have said something,” Sam said, her eyes on the floor.

Ida nodded furiously.

“I feel so ashamed,” Hilary breathed.

The seamstress in charge of the fitting approached Sophie, interrupting the intense moment with bright words. “Look at you! You’re stunning!”

Sophie blinked back tears and smiled. The seamstress handed her a tissue. “Don’t worry about it. Most brides cry during their fitting.”

“Thank you,” Sophie said. “I love the work you’ve done. I think it’s nearly finished.”

As the seamstress worked, making notes on final adjustments on a yellow pad, Sophie couldn’t help but think of Katrina. The seamstress was approximately Katrina’s age, and right now, she doted on Sophie as though she really were her daughter. It made Sophie’s heart feel bruised.

Katrina should have been here. She should have seen Sophie’s dress and realized the depths of her happiness. Regardless, Sophie still hadn’t heard from Katrina since that horrible day when Katrina had said, “Not this again,” as though Sophie’s pregnancy was a costly decision made on the stock market or a badly cooked casserole. Grandmothers in their right minds didn’t say “not this again” about having more grandchildren. And because Katrina hadn’t reached out, Sophie had begun to try to re-arrange her mind. Perhaps her baby wouldn’t have a grandmother. But with Sam, Ida, Hilary, and numerous other Coleman family members doting on her, she felt sure her baby would be blanketed with love. It had to be enough.

After the fitting, Sam announced she’d made dinner reservations for the four of them at Rachelle’s restaurant.

“We need to celebrate!” she said, wrapping her arm around Sophie’s shoulders.

The restaurant was a five-minute walk east. They left their vehicles at the wedding dress shop and hurried together through the brisk March evening, chatting happily. After their conversation about Sophie’s first wedding, Sophie felt euphoricand free (a result, she supposed, of finally speaking the truth), and she joined her arm with Ida’s as they entered the restaurant.

The hostess at Rachelle’s restaurant led them to a table near the window and brought them a basket of sliced, rustic baguette and the most divine French butter Sophie had ever had.

“There are salt crystals inside the butter?” she whispered to the others conspiratorially.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to have ordinary butter again,” Sam groaned.

Just before they ordered, Rachelle snapped out of the kitchen, her face blotchy from the heat of the ovens and stove top, her hair in a tight ponytail that tugged her eyebrows back toward her scalp. She kissed her mother on the cheek and waved happily, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. Frantic was the word that came to mind. Sophie remembered meeting several addicts who’d worked as chefs. They’d told her it was the only way they could get through the stress of twelve-hour shifts in boiling conditions.

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