Blue Heart Blessed Read Free Page B

soon as the woman in the dressing room handed the gown back to me I ripped the tag off. I put it back on again a few weeks later. And took it off. And so on and so on.
    I took the tag off again on the first day of June, two days before Vanessa came to the boutique.
    On the day that should have been my one-year anniversary.

Four
    A fternoon sunlight begs to flood the floor of Something Blue but my window awnings keep it off my inventory—and off the woman in front of me, who, doused in shadow, begins to cry.
    This happens sometimes.
    I’m not the only one who has a hard time parting with her wedding dress.
    “I’m sorry,” the woman whispers.
    “Don’t worry about it,” I whisper back. I hand her a tissue.
    “You’re not the first to cry coming in here,” my Aunt L’Raine says. L’Raine was my mom’s best friend all through high school and was married to my father’s twin brother. I have known her all my life. She and my mother are my only other weekday employees. Monday through Friday it’s just the three of us at Something Blue: One ditched bride and two seventy-four-year-old widows.
    “And you won’t be the last,” my mother coos, laying an arm across the woman’s shoulders.
    The woman dabs at her eyes. “I told myself I was ready for this.”
    My mom pats her gently.
    I reach out to touch the woman on her arm. “You don’t have to do this, you know.” My marketing professors would never approve of such a line. In theory, it totally kills the sale. But I’ve held a wedding dress in my arms that I absolutely love. I’ll say what I want. Besides, it’s my store.
    “No, I do.” The woman straightens her frame, inhaling deeply.
    “You don’t have to do it today.” I keep my voice soft, reassuring.
    “That’s right, dear. You can come back another day,” L’Raine’s eyes are bright and misted over. She simply can’t be around a crying person and not join them. She and I have had some wonderfully pathetic times together the last few months.
    “I’ll be all right. Really.” The woman breathes in deeply again and raises her eyes to me. They are still glassy with pain.
    “Why don’t we just chat for a few minutes,” I offer. “My name is Daisy Murien. This is my mom, Chloe. And my aunt L’Raine. And you are…?”
    “Darlene Talcott,” she answers, and a tiny smile frames her mouth.
    “Darlene, it’s wonderful to meet you.” I employ my lightest, yet sympathetic tone. “Would you like some flavored water? I’ve got lemon, peach and raspberry. Sorry we don’t have coffee or tea but those are a bit of a hazard around white fabrics.”
    Darlene’s smile widens. “I’m fine, thank you. Really.” She unzips the garment bag in her arms and there is silence in the room except for the rustle of material. The gown is now out, exposed and glistening under my track lighting. She lays the dress on the table in front of us. It’s an exquisite gown. Studded with tiny, iridescent beads and pearls. Sweetheart neckline. Empire waist. A full skirt with flounced edges. Cathedral-length train. It fills the surface of the oak table; cascades across it like a river of white foam.
    “Oh, my!” My mother is enthralled. “How absolutely divine!”
    “Lovely, lovely,” L’Raine whispers.
    Darlene is smiling but fresh tears ring her lids. She reaches up a free hand and whisks them away.
    The gown looks like it’s in perfect condition but I do what I must. I lift it and inspect its zipper, check its seams and scrutinize it for tiny tears and stains. I catch a faint whiff of perfume. I lean down to inhale. The bride wore Beautiful by Esteé Lauder.
    “She was going to have it professionally cleaned, but things got hectic.” Darlene is apologetic “And then she just… I ran out of time.”
    “She?” I raise my eyes just as Darlene lowers hers. She is staring at the dress.
    “This was my sister’s dress. She wore it eighteen months ago when she got married. She, um… she died just before