THREE

YOU’RE late.”

“I’m sorry. I got here as fast as I could.”

“I said four o’clock,” Leigh reminded her sister, square red nails tapping on the gold band of her watch for emphasis, then pushing newly streaked hair away from a face that was pinched with incipient hysteria. The impatience in her hazel eyes was underlined in heavy black pencil, and mascara sat like tiny lumps of coal on her lashes. Anxiety draped across her shoulders like a well-worn shawl. “It’s almost four-thirty,” she said. “Marcel has to leave at five.”

“I’m really sorry.” Cindy looked from her sister to the short, curly-haired man in tight brown leather pants who was conferring with his assistant in a far corner of the long, cluttered room. “There was a problem with my next-door neighbor. She’s acting very strangely. I’m afraid things just kind of got away from me.”

“They always do,” Leigh said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Look, you’re here now. Let’s not make a big deal out of it.”

Cindy took a deep breath, silently counting to ten. If you hadn’t picked a dressmaker whose shop is halfway out of the city, I might have been able to get here on time, she wanted to say. If you hadn’t scheduled the damn fittings for the height of rush hour traffic, I might not have been so late. Besides, you’re the one making the big deal out of it, not me. Instead she said, “So, how’s it going so far?”

“As expected.” Leigh lowered her voice to a whisper. “Mother is driving me nuts.”

“What are you whispering about?” a woman’s gravelly voice called from one of the dressing rooms at the back of the shop.

Cindy spun around, absorbing the details of the small dressmaking salon in a single glance: the wide front window, the bare white walls lined with racks of silk and satin gowns in varying stages of completion, bolts of bright fabric carpeting the floor and occupying the only two chairs in the room, a full-length mirror in one corner, three appropriately angled mirrors in another, another room at the back crowded with assorted tables, sewing machines, and ironing boards. Cindy sidled up to a rack of more casual suits and dresses that was pushed off to one side, wondering whether she might find something on it that was sufficiently stylish and sexy for her date with Neil Macfarlane.

“Cindy’s here,” Leigh called to her mother.

“Hi, dear,” her mother’s disembodied voice sang out.

“Hi, Mom. How’s the dress?”

“You tell me.” Cindy watched her normally vivacious, seventy-two-year-old mother push open the heavy white curtain that served as her dressing room door and frown uncertainly, her fingers pulling at the sides of the magenta satin gown.

“Tell her she looks beautiful,” Leigh whispered behind cupped fingers, pretending to be scratching her nose.

“What did your sister say?”

“She said you look beautiful,” Cindy told her.

“What do you think?”

“Naturally,” Leigh said under her breath. “What I think doesn’t count.”

“What’s your sister muttering about now?”

“I’m right here, Mother. You don’t have to ask Cindy.”

“I think you look beautiful,” Cindy said, genuinely agreeing with her sister’s assessment and reaching out to pat her mother’s fashionable blond bob.

Norma Appleton made a dismissive gesture with her mouth. “Well, of course, you girls would stick together.”

“What’s the problem you’re having with the dress, Mom?” Cindy asked, spotting a short red cocktail dress on the rack of more casual offerings, wondering if it was her size.

“I don’t like the neckline.” Her mother tugged at the offending area. “It’s too plain.”

The neckline might be too low-cut, Cindy thought, noting the daring bodice of the short red dress. She didn’t want to give Neil Macfarlane the wrong idea. Did she?

He’s really cute, Trish whispered in her ear.

“I’ve already explained to Mother a million times. . .”

“I’m right here, you know,” Norma Appleton said. “You can talk to me.”

“I’ve already told you a zillion times that Marcel will be adding beading along the top.”

Cindy mentally discarded the short red dress, her eyes moving down the rack to a long, shapeless, beige linen sack. Definitely not, she decided, picturing herself lost inside its voluminous folds. She didn’t want Neil Macfarlane to think he was dating a nun. Did she?

You haven’t had sex in three years.

“I hate beading,” her mother was saying.

“Since when do you hate beading?”

“I’ve always hated beading.”

“What about a jacket?” Cindy suggested, trying to still the voices in her head. “Maybe Marcel could make up something in lace. . .” She glanced imploringly at Marcel, who promptly left his assistant’s side to join them in the center of the room.

“A lace jacket is a lovely idea,” her mother agreed.

“I thought you didn’t like lace,” Leigh said.

“I’ve always liked lace.”

The last time she’d had sex, Cindy recalled, she’d been wearing a lace peignoir. The man’s name was Alan and they’d met when he came into Meg’s shop to buy a pair of crystal-and-turquoise earrings for his sister’s birthday. Cindy found out that he didn’t have a sister when his wife came by the following week to exchange the earrings for something subtler. By then, of course, it was too late. The peignoir had been purchased; the deed had been done.

“What do you think, Marcel?” Cindy asked now, her voice unnaturally loud. The poor man took a step back, glancing anxiously at Cindy’s mother, trying not to fixate on the deep creases her fingers were inflicting on the delicate satin of his design.

Without hesitation, Marcel reached for the tape measure that circled his neck like a scarf. “Whatever you desire.”

Whatever you desire, Cindy repeated silently, savoring the sound. How long had it been since anyone had offered her whatever she desired? Would Neil Macfarlane?

He’s to die for. I swear. You’ll love him.

“Did I hear you say something about problems with a neighbor?” her mother asked, lifting her arms to allow Marcel to measure their length.

“Yes,” Cindy said, grateful for the chance to get her mind on something else. “You remember the Sellicks from next door? They had a baby a few months ago?” she asked, as if she weren’t sure. “I think she might have postpartum depression.”

“I had that,” Leigh said.

“You had haemorrhoids,” her mother said.

Marcel winced, wrapped the tape measure across Norma Appleton’s expansive bosom.

“I had postpartum depression with both Jeffrey and Bianca.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Of course not. Now if I were Cindy. . .”

“Cindy never had postpartum depression.”

“And speaking of Bianca,” Cindy interjected, “just where is the beautiful bride-to-be?” She looked around the salon, realizing for the first time that neither her niece nor her daughters were anywhere in sight.

“They got tired of waiting and went to Starbucks.”

“Heather looks so beautiful in her dress,” Norma Appleton said.

“And the bride, Mother?” Leigh asked pointedly. “How does Bianca look in her gown? Or doesn’t she rate a mention?”

“What are you talking about? I said she looked beautiful.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I most certainly did.”

“What about Julia?” Cindy interrupted.

“Julia?” Leigh scoffed. “Julia has yet to honor us with her presence.”

“She isn’t here yet?”

“I’m sure ‘things just got away from her,’ ” Leigh said, forcing a smile.

“I said I was sorry.” Cindy reached into her purse for her cell phone. “She had an audition. Maybe she had to wait. . .”

“What kind of audition?” Her mother turned around so that Marcel could measure her back.

“For Michael Kinsolving, the director. He’s in town for the film festival.” Cindy pressed in her daughter’s number, listened to the telephone ring.

“You and that stupid festival,” Leigh said dismissively.

“Isn’t Michael Kinsolving dating Cameron Diaz?” their mother asked. “Or maybe it’s Drew Barrymore. Ever since Charlie’s Angels, I can’t keep the two of them straight. Anyway, I hear he has quite a reputation with the ladies.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mother,” Leigh exclaimed impatiently. “How would you know anything about this Michael whoever-the hell-he-is?”

Her mother pulled her shoulders back with just enough righteous indignation to cause Marcel to lose his balance and drop his tape measure. “I read about him in People magazine.”

“Michael Kinsolving is a very important director,” Cindy said, as Julia’s breathy voice caressed her ear.

“I’m so sorry I can’t answer your call at the moment,” the recording whispered seductively. Cindy immediately hung up, dialled Julia’s cell phone, listened to the same breathy message.

“He hasn’t had a hit in a long time,” their mother said knowingly. “Apparently he’s some sort of sex addict.”

“I believe that’s Michael Douglas,” Marcel piped up enthusiastically, regaining his footing and retrieving the tape measure from the floor.

“Really?”

“Before he married Catherine Zeta-Jones.”

“Are we actually having this conversation?” Leigh threw her hands into the air in frustration.

“What’s your problem, dear?” her mother asked.

“My problem,” Leigh began, as little beads of perspiration began breaking out across her forehead, causing her newly streaked bangs to curl in several awkward directions, “is that my daughter’s wedding is less than two months away, and nobody seems to give a good goddamn that time is running out and there’s still tons of stuff to do.”

“It’ll all work out, dear.” Her mother tugged at the long taffeta skirt. “Doesn’t there seem to be an awful lot of material here? It makes me look very hippy.”

“She’s not answering.” Cindy returned the phone to her purse and stared at the front door, as if willing Julia to walk through.

“She’s forty minutes late.”

“Maybe she got lost.”

“Lost?” Leigh asked incredulously. “She gets on the subway at St. Clair; she gets off at Finch. How could she possibly get lost?”

“Maybe she missed her stop. You know Julia. Sometimes she gets distracted.”

“Julia’s never had a distracted moment in her life. She knows exactly what she’s doing at all times.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Leigh, why don’t you show us your dress?” their mother suggested.

“Yes,” Cindy agreed wearily. “Mom says it’s wonderful.”

“Mom hasn’t seen it.”

“Good try,” her mother whispered to Cindy as Leigh retreated to the dressing rooms at the back of the shop, shaking her head and muttering to herself. “You’ve got to say something to your sister, darling. She’s driving me nuts.”

Cindy caught her reflection in one panel of the three-sectioned full-length mirror, and advanced steadily toward it, horrified by what she saw but unable to turn away, as if she’d stumbled across the scene of an accident. When did I get so ugly? she wondered, hypnotized by the creases clustered around her large eyes and small mouth, staring at them until her still-delicate features blurred, then disappeared altogether, leaving only the telltale lines of middle age. She squinted, trying to find the young woman she’d once been, remembering that at one time, she’d been considered beautiful.

Like Julia.

When was the last time a man had told her she was beautiful? Cindy wondered now, backing away from the mirror, and pushing a bolt of fabric off one of the chairs. She sat down, her head heavy with conflicting emotions: impatience with her sister, anger at her older daughter, curiosity about Neil Macfarlane. Was he really as smart, funny, and good-looking as Trish claimed? And if so, why would he be interested in a forty-two-year-old woman with less-than-perky breasts and a collapsing rear end? Undoubtedly such a prize catch could have his pick of any number of perfect young females eager to make his acquaintance. Certainly Tom had considered the choice a no-brainer.

Cindy checked her watch. Almost four forty-five already. By the time she finished up here and got home, assuming she wasn’t a raving lunatic and was still capable of handling an automobile, she’d be lucky if there’d be enough time to shower and change, let alone make sure there was something in the house for the kids to eat. She sighed, thinking that Heather and Duncan could order in a pizza, and remembering that Julia had mentioned she might be having dinner with her father. Was that where she was?

“Ta dum!” Leigh announced, pulling back the dressing room curtain and appearing before her mother and startled sister in yards of pink taffeta.

This is not happening, Cindy thought. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words emerged.

“Of course, I’m planning to lose ten pounds before the wedding, so it’ll be tighter here.” Leigh pulled at the tucks at her waistline. “And here.” She flattened the taffeta across her hips. It made a swishing sound. “So, what do you think?” She lifted her hands into the air above her head, did a slow turn around.

“I wouldn’t do that, dear.” Norma Appleton pointed to the underside of her daughter’s arms.

“Do what?”

“Your ‘Hi, Helens,’ ” her mother said, grimacing.

“My what?”

“Your ‘Hi, Helens,’ ” her mother repeated with a point of her chin.

“What are you talking about? What is she talking about?” Leigh demanded of Cindy.

“Remember Auntie Molly?” Cindy asked reluctantly.

“Of course I remember Auntie Molly.”

“Remember she had this friend Helen, who lived across the street?”

“I don’t remember any Helen.”

“Anyway,” Cindy continued, bracing herself for the explosion she knew would follow, “whenever Auntie Molly saw Helen, she used to wave to her and say, ‘Hi, Helen. Hi, Helen.’ And the skin under her arms would jiggle, and so Mom started referring to that part of the arm as the ‘Hi, Helens.’ ”

“What!”

“Hi, Helen,” her mother said, waving to an invisible woman on the other side of the room. “Hi, Helen.”

“You’re saying my arms jiggle?!”

“Everybody’s arms jiggle,” Cindy offered.

“Yours don’t,” her mother said.

“No, Cindy’s arms are perfect,” Leigh agreed angrily, pacing back and forth in front of her mother and sister. “That’s because Cindy has time to go to the gym five times a week.”

“I don’t go to the gym five times a week.”

“Because Cindy only has to go to work when she feels like it. . .”

“That’s not true. I work three afternoons a week.”

“. . . so she has lots of time to do things like go to the gym and the film festival and. . .”

“What’s this problem you have with the film festival?”

“I don’t have any problem with it. In fact, I’d dearly love to spend ten days doing nothing but running from one movie to the next. I love movies as much as you do, you know.”

“Then why don’t you go?”

“Because I have responsibilities. Because I have four kids and a husband to look after.”

“Your daughter’s getting married, your sons are in college, and your husband can take care of himself.”

“As if you’d know anything about taking care of husbands,” Leigh said, then blanched visibly. “I didn’t mean that.”

Cindy nodded, unable to find her voice.

“This is all your fault,” Leigh accused her mother. “You and your damn ‘Hi, Helens.’ ”

“You take things much too seriously,” her mother said. “You always did. Besides, that’s no excuse for being mean to your sister.”

Leigh acknowledged her guilt with a bow of her head. “I’m really very sorry, Cindy. Please forgive me.”

“You’re under a lot of stress,” Cindy acknowledged, trying to be generous.

“Trust me, you have no idea.” Leigh hugged her arms to her sides, kept them absolutely still. “It’s been one disaster after another. The hotel double-booked the ballroom, which took days to get straightened out; the florist says lilacs are out of the question for October. . .”

“Who has lilacs in October?” their mother asked.

“My future in-laws haven’t offered to pay for a thing, and now Jason has decided he wants a reggae band instead of the trio we hired.”

“He’s the groom,” Cindy reminded her sister.

“He’s an idiot,” Leigh shot back as the front door opened.

“Who’s an idiot?” Leigh’s daughter, Bianca, marched into the store, followed by Cindy’s daughter, Heather, two steps behind.

Cindy smiled at the two denim-clad young women standing before her. Like Leigh, twenty-two-year-old Bianca was slightly overweight, the extra weight concentrated mostly in her hips, which made her appear shorter than she actually was. Also like her mother, Bianca’s eyes were hazel, her mouth full, her smile wide.

(Snapshots: Six-year-old Cindy, dressed in a Wonder Woman costume on Halloween, smiling shyly at the camera, while three-year-old Leigh, naked except for an awkward black mask, mugs outrageously in the background; thirteen-year-old Cindy and ten-year-old Leigh standing on either side of their mother in front of their new house on Wembley Avenue, Leigh’s right hand stretched behind her mother, her fingers raised above Cindy’s head like donkey ears; mother and teenage daughters sitting on a large rock at the edge of Lake Joseph, Cindy squinting into the sun, Leigh’s face hidden in the shadows.)

“Hi, Aunt Cindy.”

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Who’s an idiot?” Bianca asked again.

Leigh shrugged off her daughter’s question, pretended to be busy with the folds of her gown.

“Hi, Mom.” Heather greeted Cindy with a kiss on the cheek.

“Hi, darling. I hear you’re a knockout in your dress. Sorry I missed it.”

“I’m sure there’ll be other opportunities,” Heather said with a wink. “Julia here yet?”

“Of course she isn’t here,” Leigh answered before Cindy had the chance.

“You look nice,” Heather told her aunt.

Leigh raised one hand to her head, fiddled girlishly with her hair, before dropping her arm self-consciously back to her side, massaging the flesh above her elbow.

“Is your arm hurt?” Heather asked.

“Let me try Julia one more time.” Again Cindy retrieved her phone from her purse, quickly punching in Julia’s cell phone number. Again she heard the breathy voice, the fake regret. I’m so sorry I can’t answer your call at the moment. Where are you, Julia? she wondered, feeling her sister’s angry eyes burning holes in the back of her blue blouse. “Julia, it’s almost five o’clock,” Cindy said evenly. “Where the hell are you?”