Chapter 22: The Gown

Romy read the card standing at the kitchen sink, with my father's dish towel over her shoulder.

She read it twice, and then she handed it to me without a word.

Romy,

You kept your eyes open and you told her the truth. Thank you.

Dance with her on the seventh.

Troy

She went out onto the back steps for a while.

When she came in, her face was washed and her eyes were red, and she asked my father for the last of the pot roast.

On Friday night I stood in the dressing room of the seamstress's shop with the gown on a hanger in front of me.

It was the cream silk dress, the one Romy had zipped on Broughton Street.

"I'm not wearing it tomorrow," I said.

"I know, dear," the seamstress said, pinning the last hem. "Take it home. It's yours."

"I'd like to wear it once."

"For whom?"

I didn't say.

She smiled around a pin and said nothing else, and I drove to the studio with the garment bag laid across the back seat.

Romy was at the window when I let myself in.

She had on a clean white shirt, with her sleeves rolled to her elbows, and no camera.

The studio was lit by the lamp and the streetlight and nothing else.

"Close your eyes," I said.

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to change in your bathroom, and when I come out I want you to look at me for the first time."

She shut her eyes at once, and held her hands up flat as if she were surrendering.

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