Bride & Groom

found nothing to her liking, nonetheless insisted that we try on a few bridal gowns for me and pastel atrocities (or so I thought) for herself and Leah. Our arms laden with Rita’s selections, we staggered to the dressing rooms at the back of Maurice’s and dutifully enrobed ourselves. At the urging of a salesperson, we then paraded out to a small, low stage backed by mirrors, where I examined us and thought that we looked dandy—but only when I managed to keep my eyes exclusively on our heads. Leah’s red-gold curls spilled from a becoming top knot. Rita’s morning walk with Artie and Willie had given her cheeks a healthy, ruddy glow. In evaluating myself, I tried to filter out my resemblance to a golden retriever.
    Just as I was succeeding in seeing the three of us as a lovely bridal party, two minor events ruined the perspective. The first was that Leah pointed a finger at Rita’s dress, a cocktail-length pale green affair, and said, admittedly in a hushed tone, “That thing looks like a high school prom dress, and it’s the exact same color as a lime Popsicle.”
    The second event was that I glanced toward the front of the store and spotted a tall, slim woman with long, silky blond hair identical to Anita Fairley’s. The next moment, the woman turned, and I saw that her face looked nothing like Anita’s. Still, the pangs of jealousy and envy soured my mood. Or maybe what hurt was the sharp realization that even on my wedding day, when I’d presumably glow with ephemeral bridal loveliness, even when I was wearing a gracious, simple, elegant, and flattering gown entirely unlike the one I now wore, I’d still never be half as beautiful as Anita at her very worst.
    “This place isn’t for us,” I said abruptly. “We have to go somewhere else.”
    New Yorker that she was, Rita decided that the somewhere else should, of course, be Bloomingdale’s. Wise counselor that she was, she turned out to be right. Indeed, the second we entered the Bloomie’s on Route 9, I felt myself catch Rita’s spirit of optimism and happily glued myself to her in the attentive manner of a well-trained dog heeling beside a trusted, capable handler. In a small, uncrowded department on the second floor, we immediately found a long, absolutely simple, and simply perfect silky white dress and, miraculously, short dresses for Rita and Leah in the same style and fabric, but tinted a pale apricot.
    When I tried on my dress, Leah, instead of announcing in her usual manner that it made me look like a monstrous infant or a nun about to take vows, said, “It’s so romantic! Holly, it’s perfect.”
    And it was, too. Even the fit was perfect. Leah’s apricot dress was, however, too tight, and Rita’s had a greasy spot on the bosom. Consequently, I was left alone in a cubicle of the dressing area while Leah, and Rita went in search of replacements. Having succumbed to the temptation to admire myself in the mirror, I was enjoying the sight of my very bridal and decidedly undoglike image when I heard the voices of two women and the rustle of the clothing they obviously intended to try on. But they were not discussing their proposed purchases. Rather, they were talking about the murder of Bonny Carr.
    The first woman expressed conventional sentiments. “Horrible,” she said. “I’m scared to leave home after dark. I make Harold take out the trash. It’s awful. You don’t expect something like this to happen in Brookline. All I can think is, it could’ve been any of us.”
    In hushed tones, the second woman said, “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”
    I couldn’t see the women, of course, but the first woman probably gave the second a questioning look.
    “Maybe she didn’t deserve what she got,” the second woman confided, “but she was no angel. I’ll tell you something about her, but if anyone asks you, I didn’t say it, and I’m not using names. I know about her because she had an affair with my best friend’s husband. And he wasn’t the only one. My friend was totally devastated. She lost fifteen pounds practically overnight. And besides everything else, she was terrified of AIDS. Her husband told her all about the affair, and she made him get tested, and he was negative. But it was strictly a matter of luck.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And do you know what Bonny Carr did for a living? She worked with traumatized animals. What a joke! Here she was devoting her professional life to supposedly