Authors: Erin McKean

The Secret Lives of Dresses (21 page)

BOOK: The Secret Lives of Dresses

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Dora glanced down at her own ring fingers. She never wore rings. Gabby usually did—big cocktail rings, mostly, cheerfully fake. But her rings today were smaller than her usual rings. They looked almost real.

“Gabby, did you get some new rings?”

“Oh, no, just some old things I hadn’t worn in a while; I thought I’d take them out for a spin. . . .” Gabby quickly put her hands in her pockets.

“Well, anyway, good for Maux and Harvey!” Gabby said, then changed the subject. “Did you see that they’re putting an addition on the Gallaghers’ house? I don’t think it’s your Con Murphy that’s doing it, though.”

“He’s not my Con Murphy,” Dora protested.

“He could be if you wanted, I bet,” Gabby teased.

“I don’t know where you and Mimi get the idea that I’m some sort of femme fatale, you know. It’s not like I’ve paraded a string of men past you two.”

“And don’t think Mimi wasn’t grateful. When you think of all the trouble you could have gotten into, like that girl in the class ahead of yours, Missy what’s-her-face . . .”

“I think she’s in law school now, so it couldn’t have been that much trouble, Gabby.” Dora didn’t really remember Missy; she just wanted to get Gabby off the subject of her and Con Murphy.

Gabby drove to the hospital by a different route; instead of going on the parkway, she took the more scenic route, past the golf course and the campus. Dora didn’t mind; she wanted to see Mimi, of course, but at the same time she didn’t want to be in the hospital. Dora longed for Gabby to drive her home, and to see Mimi come to the door, and have it all be an elaborate practical joke.

Gabby pulled up in the hospital’s ambulance-loading circle.

“I don’t want you walking through that garage at night, Gabby. I know it’s only Forsyth, but . . .”

“It’s okay, honey. I’m just going to drop you off, and then I’ll come back for you whenever you call. I went in earlier today, and you should have some time with your grandmother without everyone crowding you.”

“You don’t crowd me, Gabby,” Dora protested.

“That’s as it may be, but I’m dropping you off. When do you think you’d like me to come back and get you?”

It felt like junior high again, with Gabby dropping her off at a dance, considerately out of sight of the other kids, so as not to “embarrass” her.

“Con’s actually going to stop by. . . . He asked if I wanted to do something afterwards.” Dora didn’t want to say bowling; it seemed absurd. First go visit your ill grandmother, then go bowling.

“Oh, would that be he’s-not-my-Con-Murphy Con Murphy?” Gabby teased. “Okay, okay. But call me if you need me.”

Dora kissed Gabby goodbye and went in.

Chapter Eight

T
uesday night at the hospital was weird. Mimi’s hall was quiet, deserted, a few nurses moving silently between the rooms, until the PA punctuated the silence with demands for various doctors to come to the ER, stat.

Dora sat next to Mimi’s bed, and held her hand. Talk to her, she told herself.

“I was at the store today,” she said. “Con Murphy gave me a ride this morning.”

Dora felt that if this was all she could manage, Mimi would never recover.

“Maux has some news! She’s engaged. To Harvey, of course. Maux and I did a little more inventory. There’s a fantastic bridal gown we found in one of the boxes, I can’t believe you didn’t have it on the rack. Very Grace Kelly princessy, but Maux looked at it for a really long time. . . . No matter what she wears she’ll make a gorgeous bride.”

In a normal conversation Mimi would have had a thousand questions already. Instead there was just her breathing, which sounded far too loud in the quiet room, interrupted by the clueless and insensitive noises the machines made. Dora felt her eyes fill up.

“Mimi, I’m sorry I bothered you about my parents. I know you had good reasons for not talking about them. I know what it feels like to have something hurt too much to talk about.”

Dora stood up. She leaned over and kissed Mimi’s forehead.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, Mimi. I love you.”

A nurse came in, intent on checking charts. Dora fled.

When Con arrived he found her sitting on the bench in the hall, tying knots in another handkerchief.

“Everything okay? Is the doctor in there with her? Did they say no visitors?”

“She’s able to have visitors. I’m just not able to be a visitor right now.”

Con sat down next to her and put his hand over hers. Dora marveled at how much it helped. His hand was warm, and a bit rough. “It’s okay, I know.”

“I don’t think it’s going to be okay.” Dora concentrated, hard, on not sniffling.

“Maybe not in the short term, but in the long term, it will be.”

“How long term is long term?” Dora kept her hand very still, afraid Con would take his away, although he was giving no indication that he would.

“We can start on the geologic scale and work down from there.”

Dora tried to smile, but a few traitorous tears ran down her cheeks. Con took his hand away from hers . . . and put his arm around her shoulder instead.

“Hey, hey, it’s really gonna be okay.” Dora let her head rest on his shoulder. His shirt was cool and smooth.

They stayed that way for a minute, and then the nurse came out of the room.

“Miz Winston? You can go back in now.” As if she had been the reason for Dora’s flight. Dora sat up.

“You don’t have to, you know,” Con said, as the nurse padded down the hall in her plastic shoes. “You can sit right here. I’ll go in for a minute, if you don’t mind, and then we’ll go bowling. Have you eaten today?”

Dora tried to think. “It was so busy. . . . I had coffee. And a red-hot from Mimi’s candy dish.”

“Part of a balanced breakfast, sure.” Con gave her a squeeze. “Then we’ll definitely eat. Maybe some starlight mints, then we can move on to butterscotch discs.”

He moved easily into Mimi’s room, like it wasn’t a hospital room at all—like it was Mimi’s house, and he was invited for dinner. All he was missing was a bottle of wine.

Dora was still sitting on the bench when Con came out. Her handkerchief was one big knot.

Con didn’t say anything. He just offered Dora his arm again. Gratefully, she took it.

Chapter Nine

C
on’s truck was as close to the door of the parking garage as it could be without being in a handicapped space. Dora was slightly disappointed. Walking with Con—even in a parking garage—was nice.

They were in the car and out of the garage before Dora spoke.

“Would you mind if we didn’t go bowling? I just—the noise—”

Con stopped her. “Dora, it’s okay. We’ll wear ridiculous shoes another time, I’m sure. But you really should get something to eat. How about Lud’s—that okay with you?”

“Lud’s, oh, absolutely.” Dora looked out the window for a minute, until she was sure she wasn’t going to cry. Con seemed to understand.

“So did you hang out at Lud’s? In high school?”

“Not really,” Dora’s voice was slightly thick. “It was more of a guy place. You’d go with a guy after a movie, or with a group of girls who were all dressed up to be looked at but pretending not to be.”

“Ah, I remember that. Giggling and hair-tossing?”

“Well, those that could toss, did. Some of us were less gifted in the tossing department.”

Con reached over and pulled one of Dora’s curls, gently. He let it sproing back into place. “Hmm. I see. I never liked the hair-tossing myself. Seemed unsanitary.”

Something about the gesture made Dora smile. Con didn’t notice; he was concentrating on finding a parking spot.

Inside, Lud’s was crowded, even for a Tuesday night. Con looked dismayed.

“Hey, there’s a booth opening up over there,” Dora said. “If you go stand by it and look menacing, I can order.”

“I’ll order—you go menace. What do you want?”

“Italian, light on the peppers, and a Diet Coke.” Dora fumbled with her bag, but Con waved her off.

“I got it. Go grab us a seat. Go light on the menace, too, we don’t want to get kicked out.”

Dora got to the booth just as the previous occupants were picking up their last napkins and heading to the trash. She sat down quickly, and smiled at the busboy who wiped off the table.

Con sat down with the tray, and slid a sandwich across the booth to Dora.

“Italian, light on the hot peppers. Diet Coke. Plus chips.”

“Oh, perfect. I forgot chips.” Dora unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. “What’d you get?”

“Roast beef and cheddar with peppers.” Con pulled a napkin from the dispenser.

“That’s Mimi’s favorite,” Dora said. She hoped she said it matter-of-factly, the same way you’d say, “It’s Tuesday,” but she wasn’t sure she’d pulled it off.

“Really? I would have pegged her as a tuna-fish-and-sprouts.”

“No—Mimi hates tuna fish. Any fish in a can, actually. No sardines. No canned salmon.” Dora took a careful sip of her soda.

“Huh. That never came up.” Con smiled at Dora. Not a fakey “It’s okay” smile; a real one. “I know exactly how Mimi feels about the new traffic light at First and Cedar, but not her favorite sandwich. Or any of her favorite foods, actually.”

“Do you want to know her all-time favorite thing to eat?”

“You know I do.”

“Pigs in blankets.”

“You mean those little hors d’oeuvre things?”

“Exactly. When I was little we’d have ‘parties,’ just me and her, and she’d heat up a package of those frozen ones and we’d drink ginger ale on the rocks and I’d feel terribly, terribly sophisticated.”

Con laughed.

“I know, I know—I think she did it just to get out of cooking. And of course I loved it—what kid wouldn’t?”

“Mimi should meet my brother,” Con said. “He’d give her hors d’oeuvres until her head spun.”

“Where does he work?”

“At a a very, very fancy restaurant—some of his plates are more ‘architectural’ than anything I ever made. It’s in Savannah.”

“Does he come back here much?”

“Once or twice a year. If we’re lucky.” Con smiled. “Do I sound bitter? I hope not.”

“Is he older, or younger?”

“Oh, he’s older. A couple years. Just enough to give him an advantage in every fight we had as kids . . . and for him to already be an established chef when my dad died.”

“Now you sound bitter.”

“I’m sorry.” Con tried for a smile. “Kevin worked every summer with my dad, and spent the winters training as a chef. I don’t think my dad ever took the chef thing seriously, but Kevin did. So, when he decided to leave construction and be a chef full-time, my dad was pretty mad. I was just finishing up architecture school, so my dad was left to run the whole business himself.”

“And then he got sick.” Dora’s voice was flat.

“And then he got sick, and I came home.”

“Do you mind it—living here again? Especially after living in New York?”

Now Con really smiled. “The funny thing is, I love it. I love the work—even for Mrs. Featherston. I like making real places for real people, instead of making imaginary places for imaginary people, like I did before. And I like being near my mom, even if she does spend half her time down in Savannah with my niece and nephew, and the other half nagging me about why I’m not married.”

Con’s eyes dropped to his sandwich. Dora felt awkward.

“So—why aren’t you married?” Dora tried to sound jokey, but it didn’t quite work.

“No bride price saved up. You know how long it takes to amass a herd of cows?”

“Couldn’t you hang out for a big dowry instead?”

“Hmm, hadn’t thought of that.”

“Not very romantic.” Dora carefully adjusted the bendy angle of her straw.

“If anything, an arranged marriage would be good for me—but please don’t tell my mom that! I tend to fall in love with ideals and then be heartbroken when they turn out to be just plain real.”

“Oh?” Dora took another bite.

“Yeah . . . I once spent a semester in school in love with the sister of my roommate, based only on his description of her. Then, when she came for a visit . . . it was terrible.”

“How terrible?”

“Well, I found out later that he had two sisters, but I had mixed them into one person. Who obviously fell short of my expectations. But in my defense, their names were Bella and Della. How was I expected to keep that straight?”

Dora laughed.

“Names aside, I should have figured that it would be hard for the same person to be a symphony oboist and training to be a doctor to help sick kids in Africa.”

“People surprise you,” Dora said.

“They do, at that.” Con’s voice was considering. He paused, and grinned at Dora. “So that’s me. Family business and nagging mom. I could be a sitcom. Tell me more about your childhood.” Con was mopping up the melted cheese from his sandwich with a potato chip.

“Well, I used to have to read Mimi bedtime stories.”

“Huh?”

“After I learned to read, she said that reading stories out loud was so much fun that she didn’t think it was fair to hog them all herself, so every other night it was my turn to read to her.”

“That sounds like a very sneaky way to get you to read.”

“Mimi’s very sneaky,” Dora laughed. “Gabby and I used to say that if she went to college she would have majored in reverse psychology.”

“Mimi didn’t go to college?”

“No—her parents couldn’t afford it—and they spent their money on her half-brother, my uncle John, since he was a boy. They thought college would be wasted on a girl who only needed an ‘M-R-S degree,’ anyway.” Dora sighed. “Which is probably why she was so flat-out insane about me going to Lymond.”

“Lymond’s a good school,” Con said.

“Yeah, but it’s kind of overkill for me. You can be just as aimless and undirected at a mediocre school, and you have to write fewer papers.”

BOOK: The Secret Lives of Dresses

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