Free The Lake Season by Hannah McKinnon Page B

day. Probably, she decided. Though the sight of Leah in her dress was enough to give even Miss Patty due pause.
    â€œSo what do we think?” Patty asked, lifting the modest train and spreading it elegantly across the carpeted floor. “The alterations girl did a wonderful job, didn’t she?”
    Leah turned left, then right, her brow knitting.
    â€œI don’t know,” she said quietly.
    â€œWhat’s not to know?” Millie asked.
    Leah lifted one shoulder. “There’s just something about it . . .” Her voice trailed off.
    The four women pressed into the confines of the mirror, studying Leah’s reflection. The creamy organza. The strapless bodice. The fitted waist void of any glittery distraction from the design’s impeccable lines. Iris had to agree with Millie; it was striking. In short, it was Leah.
    â€œI think it’s the waistline,” Leah said, and before she could continue, Miss Patty summoned a tiny Italian seamstress named Vera who lost no time kneeling beside the bride and tugging expertly at the fabric.
    â€œThere’s enough room to breathe,” Vera said. “If it’s any tighter it will crease.”
    Leah sighed. “What about this?” She pulled on the bodice. “Do you see this gap?”
    The women craned their necks, peering down Leah’s bust.
    Vera tucked two discreet fingers beneath the fabric. “No gap here,” she announced to the group.
    Deflated, Leah turned to scrutinize the view from behind.
    â€œThese pearl buttons, they need to come off.”
    Vera made a small noise in her throat, which made Iris wonder just how many perfectly good pearl buttons she’d been asked to sacrifice in her career at the mercy of an edgy bride.
    This time Miss Patty stepped forward to place her hands on Leah’s. She spoke softly. “The pearls line the seam. Exactly where you said you wanted them at the last fitting. Remember, dear?”
    Iris could feel the collective holding of breath in the tiny dressing room. She herself was feeling like she needed air.
    Millie broke the heavy silence. “You’re going to worry Miss Patty. The dress is perfect, dear.” Iris recognized the frustration in her mother’s tone, even if the others didn’t. It was a warning that Millie’s already thin brand of patience had worn. From here on out there would be no more hand-holding.
    But still Leah balked.
    Iris drew Miss Patty aside and whispered to her. “Maybe we should go through the racks one last time?”
    â€œThe racks ?” Miss Patty clasped her large bosom. “This gown is custom. And even if she wanted something in-store, the wedding is in three weeks. There’s no time to order and fit another.”
    Iris wavered, the tensions of Miss Patty and Millie pressing against her temples like bookends.
    Four sets of eyes fell on Leah again, whom Iris suddenly feared might bolt. Millie began fiddling with her purse straps, and Miss Patty squatted at Leah’s feet, frantically adjusting the train, as if this might somehow transform the bride’s angst.
    Leah turned to face them. “Iris? Tell me what to do.”
    Iris stiffened. Was Leah really placing all bets on her? Because Iris didn’t think that was such a great wager. While her bright, beautiful sister was about to embark on a brand-spanking-new marriage, her own was in shambles two hundred miles south.
    â€œCome on, Iris. Truth.”
    Iris felt the other women’s strained expressions shift in her direction.
    The truth. Oh, there were plenty of truths Iris could have shared, even more colorfully if, say, a chilled bottle of Grey Goose had been handy. Where to begin? The part about “till death do us part”? Or the part about the thousand little deaths you suffer, even in the marriages that last? And what about sisterhood, that ever-shifting bond that Iris’s sisterless friends seemed to believe held some