A Small Matter (5 page)

Dee was pure California power sales stock,
with the sharp looks and firmness of demeanor required of the
territory, but also a force to be reckoned with by virtue of that
hint of humanity and depth found only in workers serving stores of
the highest echelon, such as those found routinely along Montana
Avenue in Santa Monica, California, the backyard and playground of
the mighty City of Angels. Dee understood the first principal of
upscale boutique hospitality--that in the City of Angels, where
some of the richest and most powerful people in the world
power-shopped in T-shirts and jeans--every stranger through her
door was a possible angel in disguise. Although she’d never met
Vickie, she knew when a customer was wearing a designer label, and
had already pre-determined by Vickie’s taste in clothing that this
was a woman accustomed to the finer things in life.

They were standing next to a bulletin board
featuring photos of happy brides. Along the wall, a Niagric panoply
of samples of the World’s Most Important Dress flowed copiously all
the way to the store entrance.

“More champagne?” Dee said. “It’s a Pierre
Jourdan Brut from South Africa. I think it has the most bubbles of
any I’ve tried.”

“And it’s creamy,” Vickie said. “Fill ‘er
up.” She extended her glass, enjoying the brief feeling of
sophistication imparted by the finely fluted Mikasa crystal, a
sensation enhanced by the submissive, yet attentive ministrations
of her acolyte. On Montana Avenue, where the stakes were high, the
Dees of the world preened their patrons with flattery and plied
them with the finest wines while discussing life and death as
though they were only issues, not ultimate realities. Vickie sipped
big. One more glass and the bonding would be complete.

“I don’t mean to pry,” Dee said, “but you
seem a little sad.”

“It’s not what you may think,” Vickie said.
“It’s not like I’m having second thoughts about the marriage, as I
suppose is typical with people who’ve been married before. No, the
truth is, I’m suffering from pancreatic cancer. I’m dying.”

There, she thought. She’d just announced it
to a total stranger. A real conversation stopper.

But Dee returned the serve easily. “How
soon?” she said.

Vickie had to give her a lot of credit. The
woman hadn’t flinched. Of course, this was L.A. and Heaven only
knew how many stories of such a nature Dee had absorbed.

“I don’t know how long,” Vickie said. “I
mean, it could be five days or five months.”

Dee commandeered a flute for herself and
filled it to the brim. “To you, Vickie,” she said. “To your courage
under fire.”

They basked in the warmth of the new-formed
bond between them.

“Have you set the date?” Dee said.

“Two days from today,” Vickie said. “It’s
like everything else lately. It’s rushed, as though it was the last
thing on earth.”

“Have you had much time to plan it out?” Dee
said.

“Not exactly,” Vickie said. “I only got the
proposal this morning. But my fiancé knows a good priest who’ll get
us through it.”

“I can work with that,” Dee said. “Believe it
or not, I once arranged a complete ceremony in a little over eight
hours for a certain well-known Hollywood brat who had to get
married to keep TMZ from running a certain story. How about the man
in your life--is he going to be able to keep up with us?”

“He’s a retired cop,” Vickie said. “He’s used
to high-speed living. Besides, all he has to do is throw on a good
dark suit. I know he has one, because he wore it to my late
husband’s funeral two years ago.”

“Does he know who’s the boss when it comes to
your wedding?” Dee said.

“He’s on a personal campaign to resurrect
chivalry in this city,” Vickie said, “not that he’s a wimp--he
doesn’t ask permission to go to the bathroom or anything--but he
knows it’s my show from here on out.”

“I can tell he must be one good man,” Dee
said. “To help you through your time of emotional devastation and
all.”

“Not only emotional but physical,” Vickie
said. “I had a severe episode of pain about an hour ago, and he
stoked me up with painkillers right on the spot. I feel pretty good
now. I’ve had lower back pain for a month, and right now I don’t
feel a thing. It’s amazing how life changes. Yesterday I walked
away from my doctor. I decided to refuse the cure and walk the
plank by myself to save my dignity, but while I was walking, my
fiancé joined me on the plank.”

“That’s beautiful,” Dee said. “You two are
honest with yourselves and where you’re at. You’re taking your
lives exactly as they are at this moment, with no unreal
expectations, no false hopes, no blindness. You guys are really on
the road to God--you’re working with the karma that exists in your
life space.”

“Our marriage will be more than a special
friendship,” Vickie agreed. “A couple of times today, I’ve caught
myself and thought, Wow, Vickie--you’re getting married!--and I
realized in those moments that I’m somehow doing what I was made to
do.”

“I want to show you something,” Dee said. She
took Vickie by the hand and led her to a room in the back. There,
displayed alone in the center of the room was a dress of singular
beauty.

“Oh wow,” Vickie said. “It’s
breathtaking.”

“It’s called the Flower of Ireland,” Dee
said. “It’s fashioned from hand-spun Irish linen and double-silk
lined.”

The delicate craft of the dress, embellished
with a gold-filigree interlace design with stylized hand-made
flowers spiraling down the side panels took Vickie’s breath away.
The articulation was brilliantly clear, the work so fine it seemed
the artist must have been sent down from Heaven for just the one
job.

“It’s a fresh creation,” Dee said. “It even
comes with a twenty-four-carat gold replica of the Tara brooch.
It’s a new Irish designer who only turns out one dress per season.
His name is Kell.

“Look,” Vickie said, pointing to the shoulder
embroidery.

“Yes,” Dee said, “they’re peacocks--in
ancient Christian tradition, they represent the resurrection of
Christ.”

The tails of the cocks thrust down the rear
panels in a flurry of circles, spirals and curlicues of such
ingenuity as to defy the mind’s ability to assimilate the pattern,
rather, the whole had to be taken piecemeal, as though the artist
required from the observer a small exercise of faith.

The train hung from a silk-padded crossbar to
which Dee guided Vickie’s gaze. There, in symbolic abstraction,
embedded in the gossamer shades of linen, delicate and subtle, was
the simple intensity of the Blessed Mother in frozen dignity, her
tender look touching something in Vickie’s heart.

It was too much for Vickie, the finding of
the Irish dressmaker’s work of art on the very day she’d accepted
an Irishman’s proposal. “I shouldn’t think it would fit my body
type,” Vickie said. “I’ve got a short, thick waist.”

“You’re every man's dream,” Dee said. “But as
you’ll notice, the gown is cut low in the waist to allow for your
fuller figure.”

Vickie drained her champagne, observing a
slight tremor in her fingers.

“I see you before me on your wedding day,”
Dee said. “We’ve worked some life back into your blonde hair with a
fresh cut from a top stylist, and we’ve gone with a light lip
gloss, maybe a Creme Soda or an Iced Coffee, to preserve your
beautiful blue eyes. Your skin sparkles with shimmer powder, maybe
Chanel Pure Frost. For a fragrance, we could go with one of the
Arden scents, something old fashioned. Maybe Green Tea--something
light, but earthy.”

Vickie, caught up in this implanted vision,
circled the Flower of Ireland--the beauty of it making her spirits
a bit manic, as though she was next in line to receive a healing
from the Lord. She wondered idly if perhaps the Mulroney Specials,
combined with the Schnapps and the champagne were helping along
this beneficial feeling. She was marveling once again at the softly
flowing image of Our Lady when suddenly the image spoke.

“My Child,” it said. The voice, clear and
beautiful, conveyed a deep sense of peace to her soul.

“Did you hear that?” Vickie said. “The train
of the dress just spoke to me. I heard the Virgin Mary. She said
“My Child”.”

“I heard nothing,” Dee said, “but perhaps
your suffering has attuned you to a higher essence. I must say, I
do feel something in the room--it’s like a spiral of energy
generating a sense of love and well-being. And when I look at you,
I see a radiance in your face that wasn’t there a moment ago.”

They stood together for a moment, as each
woman sought to further intrude on that higher essence and absorb
the experience of the talking train on the Flower of Ireland, as
though the handiwork of the artist Kell would add a measure of
heavenly, superabundant life force to their souls.

“It’s going to be a small wedding,” Vickie
said. “Just me, my fiancé, my brother--and, if I’m lucky--a maid of
honor.”

“The quality of a wedding isn’t determined by
the number of people,” Dee said. “I can provide you with a complete
service. I’ll handle each detail personally. In two days, you’ll
have the wedding of your dreams.”

Vickie contemplated the notion of trusting
somebody she’d just met for something as important as the wedding,
but she realized the truth--she hadn’t the energy to plan lunch,
let alone a wedding.

“I want you to plan everything,” Vickie said.
“Pull out all the stops. I’ll call you later to tell you the time
and the place. I’m going to trust you completely.”

“You’ll be rewarded,” Dee said.

“I shouldn’t ask,” Vickie said, “but what is
the price for the Flower of Ireland?” Her voice broke a little as
she realized for the first time the course of her illness was not
in her hands. The tumor wasn’t working alone, it was simply a tool
in the hands of a much larger force, and she could feel deep within
her a connectedness to that force, the way, she thought, a fish
must feel connected to the energies of the mighty Pacific a few
blocks away from where she stood. Always before in such times, she
was able to take charge by moving on, by taking action. But she
couldn’t with this. The talking dress was no hallucination--she
realized suddenly that God was with her. This epiphany shocked her,
leaving her stranded between a desire to let go and a desire to
hang on. It made no sense.

“The price is two-hundred, twenty-five
thousand,” Dee said. “But each flower on the dress is hand-made
from rare, antique Irish brocades at a cost of over three-hundred
dollars each, and there’s over one hundred flowers. The gold chains
running from the hem all the way through the bodice and around
through the back are real twenty-four-carat gold. The price also
includes my wedding planning assistance and twenty-four-hour limo
service for a week. I realize it’s too much gown for the average
bride, but I really wanted you to see it before it winds up in the
Norton Simon or the Getty. I don’t show it to just anybody. You'd
be amazed at some of the people who have been turned away in spite
of everything.”

“Thank you,” Vickie said.

“I suppose we should tear ourselves away and
get to work,” Dee said. “The first thing we need to do is introduce
you to our inventory and see what suits you. I’ve got some
beautiful new styles in from Italy. The trend has moved towards the
simple this season, away from all the pouf.”

“No,” Vickie said. “This is my dress. I felt
it the moment I first saw it. This is my wedding gown. I’m taking
the Flower of Ireland.”

Dee gaped, composure shattered. Vickie once
again approached the driving vitality of the creation and felt of
the linen of the train--it was light and rich and pure, exactly
like the soul of Mary Herself.

“No one else is to view or touch this dress
from this moment on,” Vickie said. “My fiancé’s accountant will
call you in an hour or so.” She turned and left the room, having
the sensation of crossing an ancient Irish moat, leaving a safe,
defensible place to return to the world outside where the vast city
sprawled around her, busy in its interminable workings of thatch
and plaster, chilled as it was by the pervading winds of the
creeping October.

Chapter 8

She met Mulroney on the sidewalk. Kilkenney,
harnessed and leashed, sat passively beside the big man.

“We had a little stroll together,” Mulroney
said. “Long walks are out of the question. And he won’t heel like a
dog. Kilkenney prefers to walk alongside.”

“I had a cat once named Jaws 2,” Vickie said,
“who used to go for long walks with me--not on a leash, of
course--he’d simply follow along in my footsteps.”

“A lot of people don’t like cats,” Mulroney
said, “because, although they can be tamed, they refuse to be
conquered. It’s a documented fact that Hitler was terrified of
small felines.” He had in his non-leash hand a tall paper cup of
coffee with a cardboard sleeve and a white plastic perforated top
from Starbucks. He handed the cup to her and she took a small
sip.

“Never had that brew before,” she said.

“It’s the coffee of the day.” he said. “A
Guatemala Antigua--I spiked it with the Schnapps. I think it
presents a more convincing argument to the palate this way.”

“I found the dress,” she said. “It’s unique.
It even has a name--The Flower of Ireland. The price is
two-hundred-twenty-five thousand dollars.”

The universe of Mulroney’s face passed
through a range of expressions as his common sense took the heavy
beating. A couple of nanoseconds passed, wherein his
Schnapps-gaffed sensibilities weighed out the situation and found
all available responses to be not only inadequate, but simply
crushed out of existence. There was only one thing he could
say.

“I love you,” he said. “I wouldn’t care if it
cost a million. I’ll call my accountant and have it taken care of
immediately.”