Chapter 13: The Dress

Friday went by without a check.

There was no call from Preston either, and Claire noticed that she did not miss it.

On Saturday at four, Weston's mother let herself into the penthouse with her own key.

Ross came in behind her with a long garment bag held out in both arms.

"Don't look yet," his mother said. "Wash your face and stand on the stool."

She had a cushion of pins strapped to her wrist and a tape measure around her neck.

The dress was midnight blue silk with sleeves to the wrist and a back that dipped to the waist.

Claire put it on in the guest room and came out holding the front of it up.

"It's too much," she said. "And it isn't my size."

"It's exactly your size. The woman who does my alterations had it two nights."

"How did she know my size?"

"Ross measured the coat you left in the hall."

Ross, by the door, looked at the ceiling.

His mother knelt and began on the hem, talking around three pins.

"Thurston will be charming. Don't eat anything he hands you."

"Is he poisonous?"

"He's generous. It's worse."

She pinned another inch and looked up.

"I waited thirty-four years for five minutes of that man's attention. You got them in one morning."

"I only asked him for a microphone," Claire said.

"Hm," said his mother, and her eyes were bright.

"You'll do."

The door opened, and Weston came in wearing a black dinner jacket that fit him exactly.

He stopped when he saw her on the stool.

"Close your mouth," his mother said. "This isn't a bakery window."

"I'm told it's a good dress," said Weston.

"It's a good wife in it. Take her down to the car before I cry on the silk."

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