Chapter 13: The Dress

The Birmingham morning host leaned over his desk and asked the question every radio man in Alabama had been waiting to ask.

"Miss Breckinridge, Miss Crowell, when's the big day?"

Joanna did not blink.

"Saturday," she said. "Twelve days from now, at my mother's farm."

The host whooped so loud the engineer jumped.

"You hear that, folks? The most famous fake kiss in country radio is getting a real wedding!"

I smiled for the microphone, and under the desk Joanna's hand found mine and squeezed.

Nobody had said the word fake out loud on air before.

It rang in my ears the whole way out of the studio.

The bridal shop was on a quiet street downtown, with a curtained fitting room and a white velvet bench.

Roz was already on the bench with her boots up and a flute of sparkling cider she was pretending was something stronger.

"Bridesmaid reporting for duty," she said. "I'm wearing black. Don't argue."

"You're the maid of honor," I said.

"I'm the maid of honor in black. It's a look."

Then Marjorie came out from behind a rack of veils, in a cream suit and her pearls, and put both hands on my cheeks.

"I drove down at dawn," she said. "I wasn't going to let anyone else pick your dress."

"Mother, you could have called," Joanna said.

"I did. You were on the radio."

The shop owner brought out eleven gowns, and I hated ten of them on sight.

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