Lucia, Lucia by Adriana Trigiani

Author:Adriana Trigiani
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Romance, Azizex666, Adult, Historical
ISBN: 9781588362872
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2003-07-08T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

Most people love autumn in New York City, but to me June is the most beautiful month. Girls’ hats change from felt to straw, winter boots go back in the closet and get replaced with breezy sandals, and wool skirts are traded in for glorious billows of crisp cotton pique. Everywhere you turn, women look like bright blooms bursting in a garden.

Weddings are on everyone’s mind. The society girls call this June Swoon; Delmarr calls it Bitch Witch Month, since we are deluged by cranky brides and their demanding mothers. We work around the clock to finish gowns in all categories, from the brides, their mothers, the attendants, down to the flower girls. Most brides have their final fittings ten days before the wedding, so the work schedule in the Hub is feverish.

Delmarr ordered up bolts of crisp voile by the ton, in pastel shades of pink, blue, mint green, and butter yellow. By the end of June, we will have used every inch of it. “Stick with the classics,” we hear Delmarr say to yet another nervous bride leafing through swatches in his office. After she’s made her decision and left, he comes out and ceremoniously declares, “Another wedding party. Pink voile.” Delmarr may be a terrific designer, but he is an even better salesman.

Due to the volume of clientele moving through, gossip is rampant. Ruth was doing a fitting for a society bride, and she overheard the girl swapping stories with her maid of honor about Amanda Parker, who was recently betrothed to a lawyer at one of the city’s big law firms. Hearing that she is off the market for good makes me smile. I don’t need any of John’s old flames reigniting and ruining our courtship.

A mere fifty blocks separate my life in Greenwich Village from the grandeur of the Upper East Side, but in truth they are worlds apart. There’s a luster and history to uptown life that we first-generation immigrant girls aren’t a part of, and we know it. As an Italian girl I’m welcome in the posh private clubs only if I’m on the arm of a member. Ruth is Jewish, so she’s out entirely. Helen Gannon’s father was a beat cop in Brooklyn, so she’s out, too. And poor Violet is the daughter of a widow on public assistance, so she never had an opportunity to secure the right connections and rise above her station. Still, I would choose my friends over any of the daughters of privilege whose clothes I have sewn. My girls have the kind of character that comes from having earned their place in the world.

Helen measures out three and a half yards of white dotted swiss on the cutting table. I’m on my way over to help anchor the fabric when she stands and turns toward us. “All right, I can’t keep this secret any longer.” Her tone is uncharacteristically chipper. “Girls, I have news. There’s going to be a baby Gannon.” We gather around and congratulate her.

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