Page 115 of Meant to Be

As we sat in his swanky corner office, I cleared my throat andasked the question that had been on my mind. “Will you make my gown?”

Wilbur’s jaw dropped, and it took a second for him to speak. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” I said, smiling. “I’m serious.”

“Are you sure? There are way bigger designers out there—”

“I want you. Just say yes.”

“My goodness, yes.Yes!…It would be the greatest honor!”

Wilbur was prone to exaggeration, but as he pressed his hand to his heart and blinked back tears, I could tell he meant it.

“Thank you,” I said.

“No. Thankyou,” he said, immediately standing and pacing around his desk the way he always did when he was excited about a project. “So tell me. When and where will your wedding take place?”

I cleared my throat and said we were thinking about June or July—so as not to preempt Peter and Genevieve’s spring wedding—and that we had chosen a small, historic church on Shelter Island called Union Chapel in the Grove.

“Oh, I love Shelter Island!” Wilbur said.

“Me too. Joe took me there over New Year’s,” I said, thinking of the romantic weekend we had spent at the Ram’s Head Inn, a bed-and-breakfast looking out over Peconic Bay. I told Wilbur how we’d accidentally stumbled upon the little chapel on the western bank of the island. It had been established as a Methodist prayer hall back in 1875.

“How perfectly quaint,” Wilbur said.

I smiled and said, “Yes. That’s what we’re going for. Cozy and understated and private…so all of this is top secret.”

“Of course! I swear,” Wilbur said, holding up his right hand and placing his left on an imaginary Bible. “You know discretion is my middle name.”

I smiled.

“Do you have a florist? A caterer? Where will the reception be held?”

“We’re not sure yet. We’ve only made a few calls to the inn and the church. That’s as far as we’ve gotten—”

“Oh, honey. You’ve made calls? This is going to leaksofast,” Wilbur said, looking worried.

I shook my head and told him about our aliases—Sylvia and Dean Bristol—after his grandmother, my father, and the Parisian hotel where we first kissed.

“Iloveit,” Wilbur said, sitting back down at his desk. He pulled a sketchbook out of the top drawer and flipped it open to a blank page. Then he grabbed a sharpened pencil from a pewter cup next to his computer and gazed over at me. “So, let’s talk about the dress. What are you thinking?”

I smiled and said, “Well. You know my taste as well as I do.”

“Yes,” he said. “Elegant, streamlined simplicity.”

“Yes. I want simple. No lace or beading or other embellishments.”

Wilbur nodded. “Sleeveless?”

“Yes. But not strapless.”

“Spaghetti straps?”

“Yes,” I said. “Maybe a silk slip dress, cut on the bias? Floor length but no train.”

Wilbur nodded, his pencil flying over the page as he began one of his infamous croquis drawings.

After a few seconds, he looked up and said, “Veil or no veil?”

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