The Afternoon of the Dress Fitting

I am going out of sequence to share with you one of my favorites. I have favorites. Is that bad? It feels a little tacky. But I do. And this is one of them.

This is Avalon, who you met earlier in The Engagement Announcement. I love her. She's very interesting to me because she tends to surprise me, which seems contrary to how I think an author should feel about their characters. But she does. And she isn't even easy to like, really, not always, not even often!  But so often she feels real and honest and is like a breath of fresh air to me.

But I sincerely hope you enjoy this one because I really do.

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It was the afternoon of the final dress fitting and Avalon was working hard to relax.  She wished now that she’d taken her mother up on her offer for a morning at the spa, but she’d been running around campus all morning, filling out leave-of-absence forms and passing in final papers and meeting with professors.

Finals were over, and for that she was grateful because the semester couldn’t have ended soon enough.  She didn’t know how poor Ben was managing his internship and his night classes and with waiting to hear from Business schools on top of all the wedding stuff.  She’d wanted to take the whole semester off but her father had been adamant she complete the year.  It had been difficult enough to convince him that she needed a year off after the wedding—he was so sure she wouldn’t return, wouldn’t bother completing her education.

“I didn’t raise a college drop-out.” He’d said to her one morning in his study when she’d gone to him with her plans.  He’d said it in that quiet, gentle way of his that always made her gut twist with guilt.

And so she’d promised up-and-down that of course she’d return and get her degree, she just needed time to honeymoon, look for a home and settle-in before trying to focus on the remainder of her studies.  She didn’t have the sass required to voice what she really thought, didn’t explain to him that wealthy women were never referred to as ‘drop-outs’, even if they had abandoned their scholastic pursuits somewhere along the way to their socially acceptable philanthropic lifestyle.

The truth of the matter was she had little interest in college now that she and Ben were marrying.  She very much wanted to follow her mother’s path: have children (though not nearly so many as her mother had!), have a beautiful home, chair various charities and volunteer for assorted causes.  And continue to collect the money from the appliance business without actually giving too much thought to the appliance business.  She still hadn’t settled on a major she could get remotely enthusiastic about anyway, and all the generalist liberal arts courses felt like a tedious waste of her time.

She did well in school of course, had a near perfect GPA, but it meant little to her.  That was for her father.  And she enjoyed the social aspect of being a college student, but really?  Two years of it was more than enough.  She was ready to move on to the next phase of her life.

Pushing her large, dark sunglasses to the top of her head the checked her watch.  She was only a few minutes early.  She’d rather that than late, but in her current mood she was apt to become irritated if she had to wait.  The ladies of the boutique were arranging a tea service and just setting out a large tray of delicate finger sandwiches when she breezed into the parlor.

“Oh, Miss Delaney! Hello!” Said the shop owner warmly, her eyes flicking to the clock on the wall behind Avalon’s head.

“Hello again Mrs. Greer.”  She responded politely, setting her purse down on one of the cream colored damask settees, but holding onto the little bag she’d brought along which contained all of the appropriate undergarments for the fitting.

“The bride should never be the first to arrive.” Admonished the older woman gently—her smile playful.

Avalon responded with a tighter smile than she would have liked.  She was frazzled and irritable and on the edge of a very sour mood.  The more she scolded herself for being bitchy, the bitchier she seemed to get.  She knew she should be thrilled.  It was almost her wedding day, there was little left to do now but enjoy the ride.

Enjoy, and let go of all those small, nagging doubts.  It was going to be fine.  It was going to be wonderful.  She was going to marry the love of her life and be happy and live in a gorgeous home and have a pair of perfect children and everything was going to be happily ever after and rainbows and white fluffy clouds, and shooting stars, and she sincerely wished the boutique ladies were serving something a little stronger than tea.

“Well, here I am.”  She said, trying her best to keep the edge off her voice.  “Where do you want me?”

“Would you like a bite first?  Some tea?”

Avalon stared at the woman and counted to ten silently to keep from snapping.  Did she think it was a wise practice to try to stuff food into brides who were skipping meals and exercising three times a day so they would look perfect on their wedding day?  Did she ever get a bride who eagerly gushed ‘ooooh yum, my favorite!’ and helped herself?  Avalon doubted it very much.

“No thank you.  I’d rather get the fitting done so I can relax.”  She smiled how she knew her mother would smile and old Mrs. Greer softened.

“Smart girl!” she said, waggling a finger. 

Avalon shuddered a little.  She hoped she would never look as ancient as Mrs. Greer.  In fact, Avalon sincerely wished to die when she reached fifty years old.  When she was a girl she had wanted to die by thirty, but now at twenty she thought fifty a much more reasonable end date.  Afterall, her mother was forty now and looked spectacular, so Avalon figured she stood a good chance of looking acceptable at least until her fifties.

She fancied being mourned.  She loved the idea of tearful funeral attendees lamenting that ‘she was so young, she still had so much life left…’.  She wanted to be remembered, she wanted her passing to feel like a real loss, a shock even, rather than a blessed inevitability.  She had always been attracted to widowers, too, in literature and film, and liked to imagine how beautifully grief-stricken and heart-broken Ben would be as a widower, forced to carry on without his love, measuring all other women by her unattainable standard.  When she was a little girl she’d often wished her father was a widower, a melancholy but noble creature doing his duty to his late wife and raising their children but missing his beautiful partner every day. 

Besides all that, the thought of growing infirm or incontinent or senile or any of those awful things made her queasy.  She refused to allow it.  She was dying at fifty and that was that.

Wrinkled old Mrs. Greer led her to the largest fitting room, the one with the tri-fold mirror set-up, and Avalon saw her gown was already there waiting for her.  She sighed out some of her tension when she gazed upon it.  It was perfect.  She was going to look stunning.

“Let me know when you’re ready for help, alright?”  Mrs. Greer smiled her saccharine smile and slipped out of the dressing room.

Avalon took a long moment before beginning to undress.  Two and a half weeks and she’d be Mrs. Sinclair.  To her relief the thought made her smile.  She loved Ben.  She did.  And she was going to be his wife.  She placed the bag of underthings on a hook along the wall.

She moved toward the dress while unzipping the long concealed zipper down the right side of her blouse.  Standing in front of the gown, admiring the intricate detail work of the tiny crystal beading she slipped the blouse up and over her head, folded it lightly and placed it on the small padded stool nearby.  Next she slowly untied the sash of her breezy wrap skirt and pulled it open first to the right and then from around herself to the left.  She folded this garment too, and then placed it gently atop the blouse.  Carefully she reached out and ran two fingers along the fitted curve of the gown’s bodice, admiring the way it tapered inward so alluringly.  It almost made the dry salads and skipped meals seem like a reasonable sacrifice.

When she’d carefully removed her bra and underwear, folded those and hidden them between the neatly piled shirt and skirt, she placed herself in front of the tri-fold mirrors and looked herself up and down discerningly.  She turned slowly this way, then the other way, examining herself shrewdly.  Her breasts were looking slightly less full than she’d prefer, less pert.  She supposed that might be from the lack of eating.  It helped the waistline, but not the bust line.  Oh well.  For the wedding she’d use that handy product that pushed them up and rounded them out; she had no doubt they’d look wonderful in pictures.  And when she got back to her regular diet she hoped they’d fill back in.  She prayed her bikini would still fit well enough.  They were going to a tropical island for their honeymoon.  She smiled again.

She narrowed her eyes and evaluated her ass.  It looked pretty good.  Firm and smooth.  She’d been doing the buns exercises every day for the past four months.  Not that anyone at the wedding would see that; the gown had a huge, princess-puff taffeta and tulle skirt.  But Ben would appreciate it, she supposed.  The bottom half of the bikini would look incredible.

Her arms were flawless, no jiggling when she waved.  And her stomach was flat.  Not toned, really, not as much as she would have liked, but at least there was no pooch.  Ben said he missed it but she was fairly certain he must be joking about that.  She missed the subtle softness there just a bit, but had no idea why, and didn’t believe anyone else would miss it in the least.  Her body looked good.  It looked ready.  She wished she were just a bit taller, but the shoes would help with that.

She caught her own eyes in the mirror and looked for a long time.  Then she scrutinized each facial feature in turn.  She had her father’s eyes.  All the girls did.  The color, more than the shape.  In shape they were very similar to her mom’s, round and set somewhat widely apart, though they were not nearly as over-large as Velvet’s.  Her nose was her mother’s, but just a bit longer, a bit stronger.  She wasn’t sure where her mouth shape came from.  It didn’t much look like Granny Calder’s.  Maybe it was more like her father’s mother.  She’d died when Avalon was fairly young. 

Avalon had a well defined jaw, much more clear-cut than her mother’s girlishly soft jawline, and her chin was prominent too, both features she got from her dad’s side.  One of her favorite features though was her cheekbones, for which she grudgingly thanked her mother.  High and haughty and just wonderful.  She had good coloring too: her mother’s dark brunette hair and peaches and cream skin tone.  Sometimes she wished she had a few freckles across the bridge of her nose like her sisters did, but then, she enjoyed all the compliments she continually received on her ‘perfect’ skin, on her ‘flawless’ complexion.

People told her she looked like her mother.  Years of meticulous study such as this had led Avalon to the conclusion that the people who told her that were just being polite.  Just being kind.  Because she didn’t really look that much like her mother.  Velvet Delaney was arguably the most breathtaking woman in Cedar Falls.  Possibly in the entire state.  She was perfect.  Avalon might be attractive, she’d decided years ago, she might be lovely and good-looking and not offensive on the eye, but she was nowhere near the beauty her mother was.

She hoped Ben’s eyes followed her around a room the way Jonah’s eyes always followed Velvet.  She glared a little at the mirror.  She hoped Ben’s eyes didn’t follow Velvet around the way Jonah’s eyes followed Velvet.  She’d lost two boyfriends in high school for that very reason.  So far she’d yet to catch Ben staring openly at her beautiful mother, or even sneaking surreptitious glances, or looking at her mother in any way that was even slightly inappropriate.  It had better stay that way.

With a heavy sigh Avalon reached up and withdrew the clip that held her hair up and let the heavy locks tumble down around her shoulders.  She tossed the clip onto the clothes pile and she ran her fingers over her scalp several times, enjoying the sight of her nude body in the mirror.  She shivered a little and her nipples hardened, making her look positively provocative.  Even the small patch of hair that was growing in where her legs met seemed sensual in this moment, though she was planning on waxing that before the big day.  She was going to a tropical island for the honeymoon.  She needed to be waxed and plucked all over for goodness sake.

She let her eyes unfocus and allowed herself to remember the very first time she’d groomed herself completely bare down there.  She’d been young, sixteen, and, a heat in her belly coiled silkily as she thought about it, it had been for him.  She’d let him do it to her.  It had been terrifying and embarrassing and she’d never felt so completely exposed, so utterly owned and objectified.  She remembered forcing a shy little smile and a soft, passive voice as he parted her legs wide and approached her with that razor, with those small scissors, with that gleam in his dark eyes.  She’d wanted to please him.  Wanted to look good, to feel good for him, so she’d said yes.  But she had been terrified. 

She knew now that her terror had stemmed from the fundamental distrust she’d harbored.  She knew she wouldn’t have any trouble at all letting Ben groom her most intimate parts, but him?  He was sure and strong and confident and powerful and she just hadn’t ever really trusted him, not really.  But she’d spread her legs and watched with half-terror, half-arousal as he moved the small silver scissors toward her, held her breath as she heard the soft snip, snip, snip and flushed with embarrassment when he’d noted her uncontrollable trembling.

She remembered liking that wooden handled brush he’d used to lather her up—the same one she’d often watched him use on his face.  That had thrilled her, made her feel naughty and erotic, and she’d tried not to giggle like a little girl when it tickled so very much.  To this day the sight of one of those shave brush and bowl sets, in a ‘gentleman’s shave kit’,  always made her a little giddy, always made that invisible string that stretches between belly-button and vulva pull taut and thrum with arousal.

And she’d had to struggle hard against the panic of having someone approaching her genitals with a razor.  She’d groomed her bikini line since she was about fourteen, but she’d always done it with a depilatory.  Having something sharp down there made her skittish, made her heart beat quadruple, her breath thin and tight.  She’d had to force herself not to jerk away, to let him spread her open and minister to her.  It had felt strangely clinical as well as patently vulgar and intensely erotic.

And he’d used his own shave soap, she remembered, hadn’t been interested in the foaming gel she liked to use on her under arms and legs.  He’d taken that variegated animal hair brush with the carved dark wooden handle and ritualistically worked his soap into a thick, creamy lather to spread over her.  Bay rum and almond.  Even after he’d finished and rinsed her clean and then spent a good long time licking her and kissing her down there, she remembered that her femininity had smelled distinctly male, he’d made it smell like it was something of his.

She moved her gaze over her lithe body and licked her lips.  She’d seen him.  Today.  That morning, outside the little coffee shop by the college.  And he’d seen her.  He’d looked her up and down, openly appraising, and then he’d grinned that arrogant, predatory grin at her and nodded his head ever so slightly.  And she’d flushed from head to toe.  She hated that the sight of him still made her body react against her will.  He’d looked flawless, as usual.  He was aging more gracefully than a man who drank bourbon for breakfast and smoked cigars habitually should be allowed to.  He always dressed well, clean and comfortable and unquestionably male.  Old school.  His hair was always in place, but he made it look effortless.  He was clean shaven.  And she knew he’d used that brush and that soap and that little ivory dish.

And she’d frozen at the sight of him, stood there as stunned and paralyzed as if she’d seen a ghost.  Though Cedar Falls wasn’t a city it was generally large enough, and her social circles separate enough from his that she usually didn’t worry about running into him.  He didn’t hang out around town all that much.  She knew his habitual haunts, avoided those locales as a matter of course, and was able to conduct her life neatly, as though he didn’t exist.  She imagined this was how her father conducted his business as well, for similar purposes.

And in the event of a major gathering where she suspected he might turn up, expected their social circles to overlap or collide, such as the charity golf tournament or some country club social, she had a carefully cultivated ritual she conducted in order to prepare herself mentally, emotionally and physically for the arduous experience of being near him, around him, breathing the same air.

But today.  That morning.  Outside the little coffee shop near campus.  She’d been caught off her guard.  And he’d smiled and he’d known her to be flustered.  Effected.

“Miss Delaney.”  He’d practically purred at her. 

She hadn’t been able to bring herself to speak.  She’d stared at him from behind her blessedly dark sunglasses and he’d chuckled, deep in his throat.  He’d looked her over again, not bothering to conceal the open sexuality of the gaze, the possessive nature of the visual perusal and she’d felt dirty, she’d felt like he was forcing her to commit an infidelity.  She’d felt like he could see right under her clothes and could tell that she hadn’t been to the salon for a wax yet this week.  And she’d wanted to cry.

She’d turned on her heel and walked away from him, tried not to out-right run away from him.  She could feel him watching her, felt his gaze molesting her backside all the way down the street and finally had to escape his rapacious stare by ducking into a random boutique.  It had been a maternity shop.  She hoped he’d been unable to tell that from where he’d been leaning against his cherry-red sports car outside the little coffee shop.   She’d shopped around a little, thinking of Maggie and her brother and that only made her more irritable.  She’d purchased a nice skirt and top for Maggie, despite her disdain for the woman, just to avoid drawing suspicion from the sales staff.  She’d chosen very Maggie colors and style.  She didn’t want anyone thinking she’d been stupid enough to get herself knocked up before her wedding.  She’d made a point of chatting to the salesgirl, a patchouli-scented granola looking college senior, about how excited she was to be expecting a new niece or nephew soon.

When she’d exited the shop, a little calmer, a fraction more prepared to deal with him, he was no longer there.  She quickly scanned both sides of the sleepy tree-lined boutique-laden avenue and breathed a half-sigh of relief.  She’d just wasted a good half hour in a god damned maternity store and she needed to get to her dress fitting. 

Now she ran her hands over the most alluring planes of her body and tried to put Vaughan Grey outside of her thoughts.  She liked the way her hips bloomed out of her long waist.  She felt the smooth, high curve of the side of her ass.  She lifted one arm and ran the opposite hand all the way down her arm, over the sensual swell of the side of her breast and then swept it down along the inward arc of her waist to those exquisite hips.

She toyed with the idea of taking a picture on her phone and sending it to Ben, to maybe brighten his day—the poor guy had so much running around to do today, but then the small bell above the shop door tinkled softly and Avalon heard the gregarious banter of her twin sisters and the sulky sounds of Viola arguing with her mother and all thought of a sexy nude pic flew out of her head.  Instead she hustled to put on her wedding undergarments and get in the damned gown, little humming bolts of annoyance sliding from her scalp, down her spine and all the way down to her toes.

She should be cheerful, she told herself.  But telling herself how she should feel didn’t help at all.