In Her Shoes Jennifer Weiner Author by Jennifer Weiner In Her Shoes

Author:Jennifer Weiner In Her Shoes
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-08-31T21:53:58+00:00

PART THREE

I Carry Your Heart

I

FORTY TWO

Rose Feller had never wished for a mother as much as she did during her engagement to Simon Stein. Their first date had been in April. By May they were seeing each other four and five days a week. By July Simon had all but moved into Rose's apartment. And in September he'd taken her back to the Jerk Hut, ducked under the table, ostensibly to retrieve a dropped napkin, and reappeared with a black velvet box in his hand. "It's too soon," Rose had said, still not quite believing that this was happening, and Simon had looked at her steadily and said, "I'm sure about you."

The wedding was set for May, and it was already October, which meant, as the salesladies this afternoon had been quick to point out, that Rose was late in selecting a wedding dress. "Do you know how long it takes for the dresses to arrive?" the woman at the first shop had asked. Rose had thought of retorting, "Do you know how long it took me to find a guy to marry?" but decided to keep her mouth shut.

"This is torture," she said, struggling to haul up the panty hose that had developed an inch-thick run the instant she'd poked one foot inside.

"Shall I call Amnesty International?" Amy asked. Rose shook her head and tossed her sneakers into a corner of the peach-painted, 300

Jennifer weiner

lace-curtained dressing room of a bridal shop (or "shoppe," as Rose had learned to think of them), where the air smelled like lavender potpourri and the Muzak played only love songs. She was strapped into a bustier that hoisted her breasts to practically chin level and, as she would later discover, left nasty welts in her side, plus a girdle that the saleslady had tried to tell her was really a "shaper brief," except Rose knew a girdle when she saw one a

� nd when she felt one cutting

off her air supply. But the saleslady had insisted. "The proper foundation garments are crucial," she'd said, looking at Rose as if to say, and the rest of my brides-to-be have already figured that out.

"You don't know what I'm going through," Rose moaned. The saleslady bundled a dress in her arms and held it open for Rose. "Dive," she ordered. Rose tucked her arms by her sides, bent at the waist, wincing at the pinch of her double-barreled girdle, and shoved her head through the opening, groping. The dress's full skirt fell down to her ankles as Rose poked her arms through the sleeves and the saleslady started attempting to work the zipper up her back.

"What are you going through?" asked Amy.

Rose closed her eyes and uttered the name that had haunted her during the two months of her engagement, and who would, she felt certain, continue to bedevil her as the wedding date drew closer. "Sydelle," she said.

"Oy," said Amy.

"Oy is not the half of it," said Rose. "My wicked stepmother has now decided that she wants to be my beet friend.

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