parted ways. I don’t know the details of their argument. It’s not important. In the end, though, your mother came around. Or at least that’s what I was told.
(Again, Angela—I apologize if anything I’m telling you here is incorrect. I’m aware that I’m relaying your own history to you at this point, and it makes me self-conscious. You surely know what happened better than anyone—or maybe you don’t. Again, I don’t know how much you were shown of your parents’ dispute. I just don’t want to leave out anything that you might not be aware of.)
And then, in early spring of 1971, Frank told me that you were getting married to Winston in a small private ceremony, and he asked me to create your dress.
“Is this what Angela wants?” I asked.
“She doesn’t know yet,” he said. “I’m going to talk to her about it. I’m going to ask her to come and see you.”
“You want Angela to meet me?”
“I have only one daughter, Vivian. And knowing Angela, she will have only one marriage. I want you to make her wedding dress. It would mean a lot to me. So yeah, I want Angela to meet you.”
You came into the boutique on a Tuesday morning—early, because you had to be at work by nine. Your father’s car pulled up in front of my shop, and the two of you entered together.
“Angela,” said Frank, “this is my old friend Vivian that I was telling you about. Vivian, this is my daughter. Well, I’ll leave you both to it.”
And he walked out.
I had never been more nervous to meet a client.
What’s worse, I could instantly see your reluctance. You were more than reluctant: I could see that you were deeply impatient. I could see your confusion about why your father—who had never interfered with a minute of your life—had insisted on bringing you here. I could see that you didn’t want to be here. And I could tell (because I have an instinct for these things) that you didn’t even want a wedding dress. I was willing to bet that you found wedding gowns corny and old-fashioned and demeaning to women. I would have wagered a million to one odds that you were planning to wear the exact same thing on your wedding day that you were wearing now: a peasant blouse, a wraparound denim skirt, and clogs.
“Dr. Grecco,” I said, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I hoped you were glad that I had called you by your title. (Forgive me, but having heard so many stories about you over the years, I was a bit proud of your title myself!)
Your manners were impeccable. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Vivian,” you said—smiling as warmly as you were able to, given that you obviously wished you were anywhere but here.
I found you to be such a striking woman, Angela. You didn’t have your father’s height, but you had his intensity. You had those same dark, searching eyes that signaled both curiosity and suspicion. You nearly vibrated with intelligence. Your eyebrows were thick and serious, and I liked the fact that you appeared never to have tweezed them. And you had restless energy, just like your dad. (Not so restless as his, of course—lucky for you!—but still, it was notable.)
“I hear you’re getting married,” I said. “Congratulations to you.”
You cut right to the chase. “I’m not much of a wedding person. . . .”
“I understand completely,” I said. “Believe it or not, I’m not really one for weddings, either.”
“You’ve chosen a funny line of work, then,” you said, and we both laughed.
“Listen, Angela. You don’t have to be here. It won’t hurt my feelings in the least if you’re not interested in buying a wedding dress.”
Now you seemed to backtrack, perhaps fearing that you’d offended me.
“No, I’m happy to be here,” you said. “It’s important to my father.”
“That’s true,” I agreed. “And your father is a good friend of mine and the best man I know. But in my business, I’m not so interested in what fathers have to say. Or mothers, either, for that matter. I care only about the bride.”
You winced slightly at the word “bride.” In my experience, there are only two kinds of women who ever get married—women who love the idea of being a bride, and women who hate it but are doing it anyway. It was obvious what kind of woman I was working with here.
“Angela, let me tell you something,” I said. “And is it all