A Veiled Deception by Annette Blair

small room off our parents’ corner suite near the front stairs. When we were old enough, we picked the bedroom we wanted.
    I still claimed the best, the corner suite at the back of the second floor. As big as the front-facing master suite, it boasted a view of Mystic River, a dressing room, and its own bathroom. The only thing I lacked was a getaway tree. In addition to my art deco bedroom set, I had three antique sewing machines, a Singer, a Remington, and a Wheeler and Wilson. Each had unique talents and comforting sounds. Sometimes I moved from one to the other to get an outfit just right. Unlike Sherry’s chintz, my room celebrated the craftsmanship of fine fabrics. Pleats, but no ruffles. Embroidered or woven textiles; no prints. I liked to feel the nap and weave, weft and warp on each piece of my hand-quilted spread. I’d textured my walls and used a jumbo knitting needle to draw hanging wisteria vines into the wet compound, then roller painted the walls mauve, leaving the design outlined in white. My antique button collection, sorted by color and kind, filled clear antique glass containers—swans, cats, ducks, boats, and apothecary jars. They dotted the room; a splash of red buttons here, blue there, yellow, green, brass, bone, and flowered china. I loved my personal space.
    Right now, Sherry didn’t love it so much.
    With trembling focus, she approached the garment bag hiding Deborah’s gown as if it might rise in a coil and strike.
    “It won’t bite,” I promised. “It exudes positive vibes.”
    She looked at me through the corner of one eye. “Since when do you get vibes?”
    I sifted through a carved sewing machine drawer of supplies. “Clothes and I, we’ve always had an understanding.”
    She unzipped the gray bag in slow motion as if she couldn’t bear more than a peek. The lower the zipper, the more her shoulders relaxed.
    “It’s a find,” I said, “if it’s in mint condition.” I pulled the bag all the way off the gown and found its cathedral train. “Wow. This could go for two, maybe three grand in New York.”
    “You’re patronizing me.”
    “I’m not. I’d pay that much for it, if I was getting married.”
    “You’d buy that gown for yourself?”
    “I would. I love it.”
    “Which proves two things,” Sherry said. “You’ve lived in New York too long, and it isn’t my style. It’s yours.”
    Good point, but I didn’t say so. “It’s everybody’s style,” I said. “Look at this. Custom made with the talent of a Parisian couture, French seams, hand-stitched silk peau-de-soie lining, extraordinary workmanship, and yards of handwork, inside and out.”
    “You really think it’s nice?”
    “I think it’s awesome. Listen, Cherry Pie; forget that it came from Deborah, or that she probably has an ulterior motive for giving it to you. Just look at these classic lines.”
    I laid it out on the bed and stuffed tissue in the bodice, but not in the pouf at the shoulders. Hopefully, Sherry would be willing to surrender the pouf. I’d rather pleat it at the shoulders or better still set it smooth into the cap. “Kiddo, this is imported ivory silk satin brocade aged to a papyrus undertone that collectors covet but can’t buy. I love the simple barely-there swirls in the weave. It doesn’t need the matching peau-de-soie slip, so if it’s warm, you won’t have to wear it. The trim at the neck and wrist is tulle, but the veil is a yellowed wreck.” I balled it up and tossed it in my wastebasket. “I’ll make you a new one.”
    Sherry surprised me with a choke hold.
    I chuckled. “Wait, where’s the vintage veil you said you bought?”
    She paled. “I laid it out on Brandy’s bed so I could show you.”
    “Of course. The one trimmed in pearls.” Scrap.
    Sherry fell against the wall. “Yeah, that one.”
    “Focus on the gown.”
    She nodded, eyes full.
    Determined to stay upbeat, I denied my instinct to take her in my arms and cry with her. “This is a lot like