Under the Bali Moon

Minutes later, all in the shop would see that mother really does know best. Lisa’s simple suggestion looked easy on Zola. When she stepped out of the dressing room in the rose-gold sheath, which looked whimsical, soft and romantic against Zola’s mahogany skin, Madame Lucille covered her mouth as if she was about the cry.

“Magnifique! Magnifique!” Madame Lucille shouted. “It’s perfect. Like it was made for you, mademoiselle! We can add some layering, a little fall from the shoulders. But I love it!”

“I know! I know!” Zola was back to her giddy self, nearly dancing her way to the fitting pedestal. “I love it, too!”

Zena watched her sister’s glee as she floated by in rose gold. Zena always thought the talk about the moment the bride finding “her” dress and bringing everyone in the room to tears was a bunch of crap. It was just a dress. But in that moment, looking at Zola, she felt some of that sappiness. Lisa’s selection made all the other dresses look silly. It was somehow an expression, an extension of Zola’s beauty that pushed her into some new status of womanhood. It made Zena’s thoughts toss through memories of Zola growing into her femininity: her first time wearing Zena’s lip gloss, her first lace bra, Zena twisting Zola’s hair up in a bun before her first high school dance.

As Zola posed for Lisa, Zena felt something like tears creeping up the backs of her eyes, but she held them back.

“You love it, Zena?” Zola asked.

“It’s okay,” Zena offered. “Nice.”

It was a weak approval but enough for Zola, who turned and went back to smile at herself in the mirror behind the pedestal. The assistants went on pinning the dress to her thin frame for proper alterations and some personalized touches from the swatches Zola liked, and Madame Lucille assured Zola she’d personally handle everything within th

e next three days.

After hearing this, when the fitting was done and everyone naturally gathered at the front of the shop, Zena inquired about the dress Madame Lucille quickly sketched on a pad for her.

“It’s special,” Zola said. “I wanted you to have something really special.”

“But it’s your wedding. Shouldn’t you be in the special dress?” Zena asked.

“I know, but you’ve always been way more fabulous than me,” Zola explained.

“Well, how much does it cost?” Zena asked Zola, remembering that Madame Lucille had promised to make and fix a dress in just days. “How much is all of this costing?”

“I already told you—don’t worry about it,” Zola said.

“It’s taken care of,” Madame Lucille said, and the tone of her voice made it clear that some astronomical fee she’d imposed had cleared someone’s bank account.

“Taken care of? By whom?” Zena asked, looking to Lisa suspiciously, but she knew there was no way she could pay the thousands it was likely costing to cover these charges. “Who is paying?”

“Me.”

A male voice shot into the small shop like a flock of seagulls suddenly taking flight. The door was wide-open as if it had always been that way, and in the frame stood a person, a being that brought a bounty of confusing sensations to Zena’s body and mind. She was stimulated by the sight, excited, awakened, pulled to life the way anyone would feel seeing an old friend, but then she was angered and agitated, dragged through the past the way anyone would feel when that old friend was an ex-boyfriend.

“Adan!” Zola cheered, bulleting past Zena and jumping into Adan’s arms, as if he was a big brother returned home from the war.

Lisa looked on, smiling, but Zena could feel her mother’s eyes somehow focusing on her.

In fact, Zena felt as if everyone’s eyes were on her at that moment—the assistants’, Madame Lucille’s, even God in heaven who’d stopped time so everyone in the shop could also hear her heart beating, her throat closing and her spinning thoughts: the shop suddenly smelled like the cologne Adan wore in college; his eyes were the same; his smile was so big. He looked happy. Why hadn’t he gotten married? Why was he there? He was too handsome. How’d he get to be so handsome? He really wasn’t married? There was no wedding band on his ring finger.

Zena pursed her lips tightly as if these thoughts were in danger of being spoken aloud. And though she’d relaxed a little and admitted that neither her mother nor Madame Lucille and her assistants were looking at her, there was no denying where Adan had set his eyes. They were on Zena.

“Z, I’ve been looking for you,” he said really casually.

“Guess you found me,” Zena replied, mocking his tone.

“The groom?” Madame Lucille asked, stepping between them and sort of grinning at Adan.

“No. I’m the best man.” Adan shook Madame Lucille’s hand. “I’m Adan Douglass. We actually spoke on the phone earlier.”

Madame Lucille smiled. “Oh, yes. The financier. My favorite person in the room.”

“That’s me,” Adan confirmed. “I just wanted to stop by to make sure everything was satisfactory with the payment.”

“Everything is fine, Mr. Douglass,” Madame Lucille said. “I just need your signature on a few things and we’re all set.”