She wasn’t.
“Eleanor, it’s beautiful, but I’m wearing my own dress.”
Her smile tightened.
“Claire, brides have worn Whitmore heirlooms for generations.”
“Then Vanessa can wear it if she gets married.”
Vanessa nearly choked on her wine.
Eleanor didn’t laugh.
She placed one hand on the gown.
“The dress belongs at a Whitmore wedding.”
“And I’m not comfortable wearing it.”
“You will be a Whitmore.”
“I’ll still be Claire.”
For one second, I saw something cold pass through her face.
Then it disappeared.
“We’ll discuss it later.”
We did.
Twice.
I refused twice.
Apparently Eleanor had translated refusal into temporary confusion.
Because on my wedding morning, I walked into the bridal suite at the Grand Bellamy and found my dress gone.
My garment bag was empty.
Hanging from the antique wardrobe instead was Eleanor’s gown.
I stared at it.
Sophie stopped behind me.
“Oh, hell no.”
My makeup artist slowly backed away.
“Where is my dress?”
No one answered.
I checked the bathroom.
The second wardrobe.
The closet.
Nothing.
Then Eleanor walked in.
Champagne couture.
Perfect hair.
Perfect makeup.
Satisfied smile.
“You’re welcome.”
I turned toward her.
“Where is my dress?”
“Safe.”
“Where?”
“Claire.”
“Where is it?”
She sighed as if I were embarrassing myself.
“The other gown wasn’t suitable.”
“Suitable for what?”
“For today.”
“It’s my wedding.”
“And this wedding joins two families. Sometimes adulthood means understanding that an event is larger than one’s personal preferences.”
Sophie muttered, “I am going to commit a felony.”
I touched her arm.
Not yet.
Vanessa appeared behind Eleanor wearing silver silk.
She looked at the gown and smiled.
“Half the women downstairs would sell a kidney to wear that.”
“Then auction it.”
Vanessa rolled her eyes.
Eleanor approached me.
“This gown has history.”
“So does the Titanic.”
Sophie coughed to hide a laugh.
Eleanor’s jaw tightened.
Then she reached for the sleeve.
That was when I noticed it.
A seam inside the bodice.
Tiny stitches.
Almost invisible.
But not quite.
The gown had been reconstructed months earlier. I’d seen photographs from Paris.
Those stitches hadn’t been there.
They were fresh.
My eyes stayed on them one second too long.
Eleanor noticed.
Her expression changed.
Barely.
A tightening beneath the eyes.
A pause in her breathing.
Then the smile returned.
That single second changed my life.
I looked back at the gown.
Then at her.
And smiled.
“Fine.”
Sophie turned toward me sharply.
“What?”
“I’ll wear it.”
Eleanor didn’t look relieved.
She looked frightened.
Only for a heartbeat.
Then she nodded.
“Excellent.”
After she and Vanessa left, Sophie locked the door.
“What the hell was that?”
I walked toward the gown.
“Something’s inside it.”
Her expression changed.
“Claire—”
“Look at the lining.”
We carried the dress to the sofa.
Sophie had worked three years in costume design during college before becoming an investigative journalist, which turned out to be an unexpectedly useful combination.
She examined the seam.
“You’re right.”
She reached into her bag for a tiny manicure scissors.
“Want me to open it?”
I thought about Eleanor’s face.
“Yes.”
Three stitches.
Four.
Five.
The lining loosened.
Sophie’s fingers slipped inside.
She frowned.
“There’s paper.”
She pulled out a cream envelope.
No writing.
No seal.
My heart began pounding.
