“I did like it.” Mom had a pout in her voice.
“I know, I know.” I patted her hand.
“Rachel. When do I get to meet your boyfriend?”
I was so taken aback I was quite breathless for a moment. I mouthed wordlessly at her; she was doing her stern, unblinking look. And then I was saved by the sound of the curtain being thrown open once more.
“Wow,” I breathed, as Mom said, “Oh, Jane.”
Jane was beaming, turning this way and that to see her reflection. The gown had a silk bodice with thin straps, delicate tiers of silk-lined tulle flowing down the length of the skirt.
“You look like a princess.” I beamed.
“I didn’t think I liked tulle.” Jane spread her hands over the skirt.
“That happens a lot,” the assistant said. “What you think you like can be very different from what you actually like when you’re trying the dresses on.”
“It’s beautiful,” Mom said. “Very tasteful neckline.”
Jane caught my eye and I smirked. The neckline scooped gently down to show just enough cleavage to satisfy everyone.
“It really is perfect,” Jane breathed, admiring herself in the mirror.
“Yes, it is, but you have to try on the rest.” It was lucky I was there to take charge, really. What would my family do without my leadership? “There could be an even better one in there.”
“Okay, okay.” Jane couldn’t stop smiling as she closed the curtain behind her.
I felt the smile on my face too as I turned to look at Mom again.
“Wow, that one was—”
“Rachel Renée Weiss.” Mom’s voice was hard and clipped, completely incongruous with the touching moment we’d all just shared. My heart jumped to my throat. Somehow, even as a fully grown adult, nothing scared me more than my mom’s stern voice.
“What?” I’d reverted to the whiny tone that should have been left well back in my teenage years. It was her fault: she did this to me.
“It is inconceivable—inconceivable—that you would treat me this way,” she hissed.
“What way? What are you talking about?”
“Hiding things from me. Not telling me a single thing about the man in your life. Heaven forbid you should think of introducing him to the family.”
“Mom…,” I moaned.
Jane reappeared, the assistant crowing, “I think you’ll like this one!”
Mom and I snapped to attention. It was a minimalist silk number with some sort of cape hanging down the back.
“Oh, darling.” Mom’s voice was thick with emotion—I stared at her in disbelief. Was it possible my mother was actually a sociopath? “You could be on the cover ofVogue.”
Jane flushed with pleasure.
“What do you think, Jane?” I asked.
“It’s—it’s really nice…,” she began hesitantly. As I suspected.
“It is, but it’s not reallyyou, is it?”
She grasped this statement gratefully. “Maybe not. Not really my style. Really pretty, though.”
