as my mother had been by her parents, often formed attachments to objects instead of people. Malabar had been raised by an alcoholic and domineering single mother, so it came as no surprise that her possessions meant everything to her. This necklace symbolized her mother’s love. I understood it; in fact, I felt the same way. My mother was about to give me her most treasured treasure, and the very thought of it made my heart nearly burst. Finally, I would have material proof of her love.
“Close your eyes,” my mother said.
I lowered my lids. I heard the rustle of a paper bag and then got a whiff of an unfamiliar earthy scent.
“Okay, open up.” Malabar’s voice tinkled with excitement.
The purple box had not moved from its spot on the bed. Confused, I refocused my attention on my mother. She was holding up a bolt of fabric, a luxurious sheet of it draped across her arm. It was a raw silk, an iridescent blue-green with hints of purple shimmering beneath. As Malabar moved, the colors changed and the fabric looked alive. Never in my life had I seen more beautiful material.
“It’s gorgeous,” I whispered, rising from the chair to touch it. Looking at the fabric was like staring into a mirage, the colors disappearing and reappearing in ripples.
Malabar slipped out of her blouse and threw one end of the material across her shoulder, tucked a fold into her bra, and brought the rest up over her other shoulder, creating a deep scoop neckline that showed off her bronzed décolletage. “I’m picturing a tight bodice and a full skirt.” She spun so that the fabric wrapped around her small waist, the colors undulating in the late-afternoon light.
Then it struck me—I’d misunderstood. I had thought we were in her bedroom to talk about my wedding attire, but in fact, we were here to talk about hers. My wedding might be the last chance she would ever have to change Ben’s mind.
“The fabric is from India. I’m having a gown made especially for me,” she continued. “It’s going to be breathtaking.” She fanned out a half a dozen photographs from fashion magazines and pointed out details she admired.
“And the pièce de résistance,” Malabar said, reaching for the purple box, “will be this.” She gently removed the necklace and motioned for me to help her put it on. I clasped it behind her neck.
With her necklace on and tears in her eyes, she told me how she’d gone to New York City the previous month, knowing that Ben would be there for a board meeting and staying at “their” hotel. But he’d rebuffed Malabar when she called and kept his promise to his wife—there was no contact.
Once my mother composed herself, I stood behind her and we admired her reflection in the mirror as we had done so many times before. The image was something to behold. The gems sparkled, and the fabric looked like the ocean bathed in moonlight, shimmering against her skin in an otherworldly way.
I finally understood: My wedding would be Malabar’s battleground. She would be radiant, beyond stunning. She would dance with every man and show Ben what he was missing. She would smile, laugh, and flirt—and stand beside my dashing father during their toast. She would be the most glamorous and confident woman in the room. Her secret weapon would be wrapped around her neck, and I wanted her to have it.
“Mark my words, Rennie,” my mother said, addressing my reflection in the mirror. “Ben Souther will not be able to take his eyes off me.”
Twenty
July 21, 1990, turned out to be a picture-perfect day for a wedding on Cape Cod. The sun was brilliant; a few clouds scudded across a clear blue sky; a gentle breeze pushed away the day’s heat. Nauset Harbor, our backdrop, dazzled with reflected light. Skiffs bobbed on their moorings, fishing boats sped homeward, and canoers silently cruised the marshes.
Upstairs in my childhood bedroom, bedecked in elaborate white underthings and surrounded by my bridesmaids, I observed the spectacle unfolding outside my window as if I were watching a play from the front row of the balcony. My soon-to-be husband, along with my brother, Peter, and the other groomsmen, greeted our smiling guests and ushered them across my mother’s fertilized lawn into tidy rows of white chairs that faced a wedding arbor trimmed with delicate tea roses. Beyond the trellis, the bay, dunes, ocean, and sky expanded to form a colorfully striated panorama.
My hair was