Brown-Eyed Girl (Travises 4)

This arrangement, however, left no room for doubt.

I dragged my gaze back to the clerk in front of me. He returned my credit card and gave me a form to initial and sign. I had meant what I’d said to Hollis – I wasn’t going to mention anything about this to anyone. But it made me feel guilty and sordid to be part of this secret.

“See y’all later,” Bethany said. “Don’t expect Kolby and me for lunch – we’re ordering room service.”

“Let’s meet at the concierge desk in two hours,” I said. “The fitting appointment is at two o’clock.”

“Two o’clock,” Bethany repeated, walking to the bank of elevators with Kolby in tow. They paused to look at a display window filled with glittering jewelry.

Hollis came to stand beside me, tucking her phone back into her bag. “You try to raise a daughter someday,” she said, sounding tired and a little defensive, “and tell me how easy it is. You’ll teach her right from wrong, how to behave, what to believe. You’ll do your best. But someday your smart girl will do something stupid. And you’ll do anything you can to help her.” Hollis sighed and shrugged. “Bethany can do whatever she wants until she’s a married woman. She hasn’t said any vows yet. When she does, I’ll expect her to keep them. Until then, Ryan has the same freedom.”

I kept my mouth shut and nodded.

At two o’clock on the dot, we were welcomed into Finola Strong’s studio and bridal salon on the Upper East Side. The salon was decorated in understated smoky colors, the furniture in the private seating areas upholstered in velvet. Jasmine had referred me to Finola, who had agreed to turn my rough sketches into an appropriate design. Known for her love of clean lines and opulent detail, Finola was well suited to pull off the period beading and intricate paneled construction of the high-waisted skirt. Her team was second to none at creating couture gowns that started at thirty thousand dollars.

Two months earlier, an assistant from the studio had flown to the Warner home in Houston to render the drafted pattern into a muslin mock-up, pinning it meticulously to fit Bethany’s body. Since Finola had been told about the pregnancy, she had designed the gown to be easily adjusted to Bethany’s changing shape.

This fitting was the first for the actual gown, with much of the beading and trim already added. Today the garment would be adjusted so the fabric would drape and fall perfectly. One of Finola’s assistants would fly down with the finished gown a few days before the wedding, for one last fitting. At that time, additional alterations would be made if necessary.

As we lounged in a dressing room with a giant three-way mirror and a private seating area, an assistant brought champagne for Hollis and me and a flute of club soda and juice for Bethany. Soon Finola appeared. She was a slender, fair-haired woman in her thirties, with an easy smile and a lively, discerning gaze. I had met her three or four times during the years I had been in design, but each encounter had lasted for mere seconds during Fashion Week or at some crowded society function.

“Avery Crosslin,” Finola exclaimed. “Congratulations on the new gig.”

I laughed. “Thank you, but I’m not nearly as convinced as Jazz that I’m going to get it.”

“You’re no good at modesty,” she informed me. “You look positively smug. When do you meet with the producers?”

I grinned at her. “Tomorrow.”

After I introduced Finola to the Warners, she pronounced that Bethany would be one of the most beautiful brides she had ever dressed. “I can’t wait to see you in this gown,” she told Bethany. “It’s a global creation: silk from Japan, lining from Korea, beaded embroidery from India, an underlay from Italy, and antique lace from France. We’ll leave for a few minutes while you try it on. My assistant Chloe will help you.”

After a tour of Finola’s salon, we returned to the dressing room. Bethany stood before the mirror, her figure slim and glittering.

The gown was a work of art, the bodice made of antique lace that had been hand-embroidered in a geometric pattern and encrusted with crystal beading as fine as fairy dust. It was held up with thin crystal straps that glittered against Bethany’s golden shoulders. The skirt, adorned with scattered beads that caught the light like mist, flowed gently from the high-cut bodice. It was impossible to imagine any bride more beautiful.

Hollis smiled and put her fingers to her mouth. “How magnificent,” she gasped.

Bethany smiled and swished her skirts.

However, there was a problem with the dress, and Finola and I both saw it. The drape of the front panels wasn’t right. They split much wider over her stomach than I had sketched them. Approaching Bethany, I said with a smile, “You’re gorgeous. But we’ll have to make a few alterations.”

“Where?” Bethany asked, perplexed. “It’s already perfect.”

“It’s the way it drapes,” Finola explained. “In the month between now and the wedding, you’ll grow enough that the overskirts will fall on either side like theater curtains, which, adorable as your tummy is, will not be flattering.”

“I don’t know why I’ve gotten big so fast,” Bethany fretted.

“Everyone’s pregnancy is different,” Hollis told her.

“You’re not big at all,” Finola soothed. “You’re slender everywhere except your stomach, which is just as it should be. Our job is to make this dress fit like a dream, which we will certainly do.” She went to Bethany, grasping folds of the paneling, repositioning fabric and viewing the drape with an assessing gaze.