“No, that’s okay,” Jill says, laughing. “I’m good. So. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready if you are,” I say. “Let’s go.”

And I take her into the back, while Monsieur and Madame Henri offer Mrs. Higgins a chair and some champagne.

My fingers are shaking as I lower the rich ivory folds over Jill’s head, but I try to hide my nervousness by explaining, “All right, Jill, this cut is what we call an empire waist. It means the waistline falls just beneath the breasts, which on you is the narrowest part of your body. What this will do is allow the skirt to fall straight down your body, kind of flowing around it, which is what someone with your body type wants. The empire waist was made popular by Josephine, the wife of Napoleon Bonaparte, who adapted it from Roman togas she saw depicted on ancient art. Now, as you can see, we’ve gone off the shoulder, because you have such nice shoulders, we wanted you to show them off. And then this right here—this is the original tartan that was hanging off the old dress—and we’re using it as a sash beneath the breastline, see? It emphasizes your tiny waist. And finally, here are some gloves—I was thinking above the elbow, so that they almost reach the dangling straps there… Well.” I’ve steered her in front of a full-length mirror. “What do you think? I was thinking hair up, with maybe some curly tendrils hanging down, to sort of complete the Grecian urn look… ”

Jill is staring at her reflection. It takes me a minute to realize that her silence isn’t disapproval. Her eyes are as wide as quarters and just as shiny. She’s holding back tears.

“Oh, Lizzie” is all she seems able to say.

“Is it terrible?” I ask nervously. “It’s all the original dress. I just took out the seams… well, pretty much all the seams. It was hard, but I really think this style suits you. You have sort of classic proportions, and there’s nothing more classic than Grecian urns—”

“I want to show Mom,” Jill says in a choked voice.

“Okay,” I say, hurrying behind her to lift the four-foot train I’ve attached to the back of the gown. “This hooks up, you know, into a sort of drapy bustle off the back for when you’re dancing. I didn’t want it to get in your way. But I wanted you to have some presence, you know, because St. Patrick’s Cathedral is so huge—”

But she’s already tearing out of the back room and into the front of the shop, where her mother and the Henris are waiting.

“Mom!” Jill cries when she bursts through the curtain separating the shop from the back room. “Look!”

Mrs. Higgins chokes on the champagne she is in the act of swallowing. Madame Henri wallops her on the back a few times and the woman is finally able to recover enough to say, her eyes glistening as much as her daughter’s, “Oh, honey. You look gorgeous.”

“I do,” Jill says, sounding shocked. “I do, don’t I?”

“You really do,” Mrs. Higgins says, hurrying over to get a closer look. “That’s the dress she gave you? The old battle-axe—I mean, John’s mother?”

“This is the dress,” I say. I feel funny inside. I can’t really explain it. But it’s like a combination of excitement and joy at the same time. Really, the only appropriate way to describe it would be to say it feels like someone’s opened up a bottle of champagne—insideme. Or, as Tiffany would say, up my cootchy. “Obviously, I modified it a bit.”

“A bit!” Jill echoes with a giggle. Yes! A giggle! From Blubber! This is big.Really big.

“It’s just so lovely,” Mrs. Higgins coos. “She looks like… well, like a princess!”

“Speaking of which, we need to talk headpieces,” I say. “I was telling her she should wear her hair up, with just a few curly tendrils hanging down in back. So maybe a tiara isn’t a bad idea. I think it would look really pretty against her hair—”

But it’s clear no one is listening to me. The two Higgins ladies are staring at Jill’s reflection in the shop mirror, murmuring softly to each other, and giggling. To look at them, it would be hard to imagine that just weeks ago the bride had been weeping in a ladies’ room and often showed up for her fittings smelling of seal poo.

“Well,” Madame Henri says to me, when I walk over to join the couple, since it’s clear neither client nor her mother is listening to me. “You did it.”

“I did,” I say, still feeling a little bit dazed.

Then Madame Henri does something that surprises me. She reaches down and clasps my hand in hers. “For you,” she says with a smile.

Then Madame Henri slips something into my hand. I look down and see a check. With a lot of zeroes on it.

A thousand dollars!

When I look up again, I see that Monsieur Henri is looking embarrassed but pleased.

“Consider it your Christmas bonus,” he says in French.

Touched, I rush over to hug him—and his wife—spontaneously. “Thank you!” I cry. “You’re both just—fantastique!”

“So, you’re coming, right?” Jill asks me later as I’m carefully helping her out of the dress. “To the wedding, right? And the reception? You know you’re invited. You and a guest. You can bring that boyfriend of yours I’ve heard so much about.”

“Oh, Jill,” I say, smiling. “That is so sweet of you. I’d love to come. Only Luke won’t be able to make it. He’s going to France for the holidays.”

Jill looks confused. “Without you?”

I make sure my smile stays in place. “Sure. To visit his parents. But don’t worry. I wouldn’t miss your wedding for the world.”

“Great,” Jill says. “So I know I’ll have at least one friend. Besides my family and the guys from the zoo, I mean.”

“I think you’ll be finding out soon that you have a lot more friends than you know,” I say, meaning it.

Walking home that night, I feel as if I’m floating on a cloud. The thousand-dollar check and wedding invitation are the least of it. The fact that she’d liked it—really liked it!—is all I can think about.

And she’d looked so good! Just like I’d known she would. Mrs. MacDowell was going to DIE when she saw Jill coming down the aisle. Just die. She had given her future daughter-in-law that dress to humiliate her, because she didn’t approve of her son’s choice.

Well, who was going to be humiliated now, when “Blubber” turned out to be the most beautiful bride of the season?

And I was going to be there to watch it all take place! Honestly, I have the best job in the entire world. Even, you know, if it doesn’t pay what you’d call a regular salary.

I’m still floating as I head into our building and up the elevator to our apartment. I’m still floating when I unlock the door and find Luke inside, with the Christmas tree’s lights lit, holding a bottle of wine and going, “There you are! Finally!”

“Oh, Luke!” I cry. “You won’t believe it. But she loved it. Absolutely loved it. And Monsieur and Madame Henri gave me a Christmas bonus, and Jill invited me to her wedding—too bad you’re going to miss it. But the important thing is, she really, really loved the dress. And she looked great in it, too. No one will be calling her ‘Blubber’ ever again.”

“That’s great, Lizzie!” Luke has poured us each a glass of wine. It’s only then that I realize the lights are off—all except the Christmas-tree lights and a few candles. He’s set up a cheese board and some bowls of snacks he knows I like—spicy nuts and candied orange peel. It’s so festive—and romantic.

Then he says, as he hands me one of the glasses of wine he’s poured, “I couldn’t have picked a more perfect gift for you then. Do you want to open it now?”

Couldn’t have picked a more perfect gift for me? Because everything else is going so perfectly and proposing to me will just make my evening that much better? That’s the only thing I can think of that he could mean.

“Of course I want to open it now,” I cry. “You know I’ve been dying to ever since you put it there!”

“Well, have at it,” Luke says. Which is a strange thing to say to someone you’re about to propose to under a Christmas tree. But whatever.

Taking my wineglass with me, I go to sit on the parquet beside my gift and wait until he’s seated by his.

“Do you want to go first?” I ask, thinking that my gift to him is really going to be a letdown after the tears of joy that are going to follow his to me. But he says, “No, you first. I’m so excited to see what you think,” so I shrug and dig in.

When I peel off the wrapping paper to find beneath it a giant box that says “Quantum-Futura CE-200” on it, I begin to lose my happy, floaty feeling. But when I see that the picture on the box is of a sewing machine, the floating feeling goes away entirely.

And when I look up questioningly and see Luke beaming at me from across his wineglass, not looking at all like he’s about to propose, I actually start feeling… well. Pretty bad.

“It’s a sewing machine!” he cries. “To replace the one my dad broke. But this one is way better than the one he kicked. The lady at the store said it’s the top of the line. You can do all sorts of embroidery and stuff with it. It comes with a minicomputer inside!”

I blink down at the gigantic box. An investment for my future. That’s what he’d said.

And that’s what he’d given me, all right.

And before I know what’s happening, I’m crying.

Lizzie Nichols’s Wedding Gown Guide

Weddings are supposed to be a happy time. That’s why no one, least of all the bride, ever wants to admit that sometimes—well, weddings just don’t happen. Maybe the groom gets cold feet. Maybe the bride does. Maybe the couple decides the timing isn’t right after all. Maybe a beloved family member passes away, making everyone uncomfortable with the idea of holding a celebration during a time of mourning. In any event, things happen.