It would be a coup to make the wedding dress for Jared Brewster’s wife. The ceremony will take place at Mr. Brewster’s enormous and beautiful church, and with a venue like that, the dress is usually big and memorable—and expensive. The reception will be at the country club, and Mrs. Brewster says it will be featured in Town & Country and Hudson Bride, glossy magazines geared toward the 1 percent.

I could use that kind of business. Up here, it’s commonplace to rent a limo and head to the city, to Kleinfeld’s and Vera Wang, to find the dress of dresses—and possibly appear on a TV show. I need those clients to come to me. Moving here was a risk, and the blessing of the blue-blooded Brewsters would go a long way. A lot of mothers of brides will urge their daughters to go where Eleanor Hale Brewster tells them to.

“Excuse me, I need to help Charlotte. So nice to see you, Mrs. Brewster.” My sister zips away, her girls always good for the perfect escape hatch.

I notice that Ana-Sofia has knelt down so Grace can inspect her baby. My niece looks up at Owen. “Your baby is pretty, Uncle Owen,” she pronounces solemnly.

The title is like a shard of glass in my heart.

“So what can I help you with, Mrs. Brewster?” I ask. “I know Jared is getting married this summer.” Time to focus on business.

“That woman picked out a ridiculous dress,” she says. “We need something suitable.”

That woman, huh? An entire relationship explained in two words. “Well, my lead time is generally closer to a year, but for an old family friend, of course.”

She gives me a look as if she’s trying to remember my name. Message received: Your people were never friends with my people. “Of course, we can afford a rush charge or any other extra fees you see fit to add.” Message: You working-class types will do anything to pad your purses. She looks down her bony nose at me. “I don’t think...Kimber...understands just what it means to be marrying into the Hale-Brewster family.”

You’d think that this type of snobbery would’ve died out a century or so ago. You’d be wrong. “Well, I’d love to work with her.”

“You’d be working with me.”

“I’d love that, too.” I smile firmly. I’m used to the myriad emotions and egos involved in weddings, of course.

My husband—ex-husband—is now holding Charlotte so she can see the baby, too. Mom has joined the circle of admirers, too. Sigh.

Mrs. Brewster is still talking about Jared’s fiancée, whom I haven’t met. The words inappropriate, unsuitable and unbefitting are all used more than once. Not a surprise from the WASP Queen. Rachel’s told me that Kimber is quite nice.

Jared was more of Rachel’s friend, being the same age, but he never minded me tagging along with them back in the day. Every time I’ve seen him over the years, he’s always been warm and funny and nice. Kind of an all-around peach, that guy. I always appreciated how he stayed friends with Rachel.

I wish she’d married someone like him.

A hot knife of rage stabs me in the heart. I used to love Adam, and it’s quite easy to say that at this moment, I hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone.

Just then, a veritable rainbow of a woman comes in. Short black skirt, engineer boots, black fishnet stockings, denim jacket and a tattoo that circles her neck with roses. Her hair is pink. I like her immediately. She comes right up to us. “Hi. Sorry I’m late. Um, I’m Kimber Allegretti?” Her eyes bounce from me to Mrs. Brewster.

“Don’t say it like it’s a question,” Mrs. Brewster snaps. “Are you or are you not?”

“Yeah. I am,” Kimber says, flushing.

“I’m Jenny, Rachel’s sister,” I say. Kimber looks about twenty-five. And Jared is forty, or close to it. “It’s so good to meet you. Rachel’s told me a lot about you. Said she liked you right away.”

“For reals?” Kimber beams.

I swear, Mrs. Brewster growls. “Jennifer has agreed to throw together a dress that’s more appropriate than that joke you showed me before. You can’t really have planned to wear that in a house of worship.”

Kimber bites her very full bottom lip. “I guess I didn’t really think it through,” she murmurs.

“I should say not.”

“Well, I’m sure we can come up with something stunning that you both like,” I say. “It will be beautiful, Kimber. And I don’t throw together anything, Mrs. Brewster.” I smile firmly. “I have a master’s degree from Parsons Institute of Design. It will be incredible, not to worry.”

“So long as it covers those tattoos,” she says. “Honestly, young people today.”

I give Kimber a wink, and while I’d like to, oh, I don’t know...duct tape Mrs. Brewster’s mouth shut, I know it won’t help the situation. Part of my job is to be a family therapist and teach the art of the compromise. A woman who wants a low-cut, supersexy wedding dress goes up against her mother, who tells her she’ll look like a tramp. Hateful bridesmaids, who find fault with every aspect of the dress, seething with jealousy that they’re not the ones standing on the pedestal in front of the mirror.

And there are those brides who’d rather wear the ugliest dress on earth than upset a relative.

My job is to make everyone happy, to have a bride who cries at her own reflection, a mother who says she can’t believe her baby is all grown-up, a dad who bawls all the way down the aisle and a groom who can’t contain his surprise and awe at that first glimpse of his soon-to-be wife.