Bursting at the Seams
Chapter One
Wren
“Are you sure this is the place?” I murmur as the shop sign comes into view. My sister has guided me into an obscure part of downtown where most buildings were corporate, concrete fortresses with no discernable features. The dress shop that she’s dragging me to has a very plain, white block-letter sign that simply reads EFRON. At a glance, it could have been anything. A print shop, some sort of takeout restaurant, one of those weird survey research companies… There isn’t anything indicating it’s a dressmaker.
“I swear it,” Caroline nearly squeals from excitement when she spots it. Grabbing my hand, she drags me along as she quickens her pace. “This place is the new it place to get your wedding dress! People come from out of state to get an appointment with the Efrons. Everyone raves about them on social media.”
I can’t hold back a chuckle, shaking my head as I fire at her, “Don’t you already have a dress?”
“A premade one from online,” she scoffs. “This will be custom. Besides, I would be an idiot to pass up on an appointment with them. Just come on!”
The moment we pass through the doors of the shop, I'm stunned with the drastic difference to the exterior. It’s chic and modern. The floor is cream-colored tiles with a subtle glitter in the material, the walls are a pale sky-blue, and all of the angular, lavish furniture is coordinated in black and white. With a brilliant smile, Caroline heads up to the desk in the center of the room. The clerk smiles and asks her if she has an appointment. “Yes, Caroline Foster,” my sister beams at the woman.
“Ah yes, lovely to meet you, Miss Foster,” the clerk greets, shaking her hand. “I have to say, we have a lot of persistent potential clients, but you certainly have an otherworldly level of tenacity.”
I have to resist the urge to bury my face in my hands from embarrassment. Of course Caroline has been harassing this poor shop for an appointment. Caroline is what I’ve always considered to be the perfect all-American girl with her blonde hair, bubbly personality, and pursuit of nursing. She is, however, as stubborn as anything. No isn’t a word in her lexicon unless it’s coming from her mouth.
At least the clerk doesn’t seem to be outwardly showing remorse or frustration. She guides us to a set of couches and gestures for us to sit. With a pearly smile, she asks, “Would the two of you like some champagne while you wait?”
“Absolutely,” Caroline oozes.
The clerk heads off and returns with two flutes of effervescent champagne with raspberries bobbing to the top. Typically, I wouldn’t be one to day drink, but considering I’ve taken the entire day off work to run wedding-related errands with Caroline, I give myself a pass. The champagne is crisp, cold, and definitely not the bottom shelf bottle I used to buy with friends in college to have mimosas. I look over to Caroline. “So, what exactly are you hoping for out of a dress that isn’t the one you have now? I thought it was gorgeous.”
“It is,” she nods before taking a gulp of the champagne. “But it’s not exactly what I wanted. I couldn’t find anything that had the exact sort of fabric I wanted in the style. God, the style. Everything felt like patchwork, you know? I like a neckline of one, but the bodice of another, and the skirt of another one entirely. These guys will make it happen, I just know they will.”
Then, a woman emerges, and Caroline lets out a small gasp. I have to assume it’s the Efron she’s here to see not just because of my sister’s reaction, but just how artistic and glamorous the woman is. She looks around my age, maybe a little older. Her jet-black hair is pin-straight and cut into a long, blunt bob with bangs only someone like her could pull off. I can only assume the clothes she’s wearing are her own pieces, as they are tailored perfectly to her shape and look expensive, though aren’t obviously from some known luxury brand. “Welcome to my shop,” she states, shaking both of our hands. “I’m Hanna Efron, the fashion designer. If you’ll follow me, we can get this show on the road.”
In unison, Caroline and I stand from the couch. We follow the stiletto clacks of Hanna toward the back of the store. Once we are past a fitting area, the room expands into a massive showroom. Each dress has a mannequin, and there has to be at least three dozen of them placed in meticulous rows. A breath escapes me and Hanna looks over at me with a grin. “I know, it’s always jarring at first. Hell, still is. If I haven’t enough coffee in the morning, sometimes my tired brain swears they are moving.” As she turns back around, she gasps and fakes a stumble. When she stands back straight, she narrows her eyes and juts a finger at the nearest mannequin in an accusatory way. Shaking her head and looking back at me, she shrugs. “Have to stay sharp around here.”