I almost burst into tears myself. I could not help but remember back to a day when I was fourteen, when I had stood outside a bridal shop, and looked in at a dress on a mannequin in the window.
The more discerning eye of the woman I was now could look at the memory and tell that the design was fussy and awkward, the fabric a shiny, cheap synthetic—but to the fourteen-year-old me it was the stuff of fairytales. I had looked at it, and my heart filled up with bleak despair, because I knew—just as surely as water flowed downhill and milk went bad when left out on the kitchen counter—I would never get married, because no one would ever love me.
How I wished I could go back in time to hug that girl, in her shabby, baggy clothes, and tell her that once she got through the bad times, there would be a wonderful future ahead for her—that she would be loved, that she would be happy…
"Oh, not you, too!" Bisitra swooped in to the rescue with a handful of tissues, to prevent me from dripping tears on The Dress.
After my bridal committee helped me choose which set of jewelry went best with that dress, Bisitra extricated me from it, and we began all over again with the reception gown, which was much simpler and less fraught with emotion. Then Ulrike wanted to talk make-up, in which area I was judged to have better instincts than I did with hair.
Finally we were done, and could relax in the sitting area of my bedroom and have afternoon tea. The kitchens sent it up so fast the scones were still piping hot—they were aiming to impress. Ulrike refused to join us—she said it wasn't proper—until I told her it was a direct order from me. Then she sat down and accepted a cup and a plate of goodies, and enjoyed herself as much as any of the rest of us.
As our teapot grew empty and our stomachs full, I set down my cup and saucer and sat up. "I have something to say. There are two things I have to tell the three of you. I couldn't keep them a secret from you even if I wanted to.
"First—when we were in New York, I met a woman there who's a clothing designer—Janet Van Dyne. She wants me to attend one of her fashion shows in a few weeks, wearing her designs. Not as a model, just as another attendee. I told her I would, so she's sending me some clothing. It's because we're going to have the same initials—J. V. D. She wants to play on that. I think there may be several outfits. Please don't be offended, Bisitra. I would never—."
"Offended? No, I'm relieved!" she said. "I was wondering what I was going to do if you expected me to make all your clothes. You have no idea how many outfits you're going to need—and how many pieces you'll only wear once.
"This past week nearly finished me, it truly did. Of course I'll still make things for you, and of course for you, too, Galina—but I have other women who depend on me, and I don't want to give up them, either. I was thinking about what I would have to do to keep up—and all I could think was I would have to get another workshop, and these days, all the Latverian girls are busy getting college degrees. I'd have to hire in Bulgarians on work permits. No, it's much better this way. I'm glad about it."
Well, people didn't always react the way I thought they would. I was happy she wasn't offended.
"Janet Van Dyne is quite an important designer." commented Ulrike. "This is so exciting! Do you know when the garments will be delivered?"
"Not in the least. I don't even know if they'll be sent here or to the New York embassy. Now, the second thing I have to tell you is—Mother, remember what you asked me when I told you I was marrying Victor? You asked whether I knew if he wanted children."
"Yes, I remember." she said, eagerly. "You said you didn't know."
"I didn't at the time. But we have talked about it since then—and the upshot of it is, he does, and we're going to start trying right away—I know I'm only twenty-five, and there's plenty of time, but rather than wait ten years until time is running out…" I let it trail off there.
"Oh, sweetheart, that's a very good decision!" My mother had to put down her cup and saucer and lean over to give me a hug. "I'm so glad to hear you say that!"
"My lady, I am very glad to hear this. A success won't just be good news for you—but for the whole country. " said Ulrike.
"This only confirms what I said before—I'm glad I won't be the only one making your clothing. My approach to maternity clothing is—I'm afraid you'd find it dowdy. That's what my regular customers have said, at least." Bisitra sat up. "But—not only as a subject, but someone who has known you as a friend and a client for so long—I wish you an easy success. I'm very happy to hear this too."
"Thank you." Now the news that would come in about a month—that I had missed a period and had a pregnancy test— would be no surprise. "I leave it up to your discretion as to who you share this with—you will have heard it from me. My last period was last week." The timing on this pregnancy was going to be awfully fine. People were going to have fun calculating whether she was conceived before or after Victor and I were married. It could be argued either way…and very likely would be.
"Speaking of sharing," said Galina, "I never finished reading that article from the Daily Bugle. I'd like to print it out and take it with me. May I—?"
"Of course." I gestured in the direction of my desk.
She went over and clicked a few times; I heard the printer fire up. Then she made a funny little noise. "This is odd—a news story from America just popped up. 'Pennsylvania Woman Claims Doom's Fiancée As Missing Daughter'. I beg to differ! 'Rhonda Mckenna, age forty-three, claims Joviana Florescu is actually her daughter—.'"
"What?" I asked, trying to sound startled but amused.
" 'who has been missing since 2003.' Why would this have popped up?" She looked over at me.
"I have a search program looking for mentions of my name on line, I'm embarrassed to admit." I said. Almost true—it looked for mentions of my birthmother's name. "What does it say? Poor woman—she must be mentally ill." I went over to the computer, and looked over her shoulder.
"Not much—there are some photos." There was my birthmother. She did not look well in that photo—she looked puffy around the face, and her eyes were too bright. Something twisted in me at the very sight of her, but I did not let that show.
There was also an old picture of me, when I was at my worst. Overweight, acne, short, frizzed-out hair—heavy make-up—the semi-Gothic colors that were in about ten years ago, like bruises and dried blood. I still had that Tori Amos T-shirt, but it was only good for a rag these days. Next to it was a picture of the new me—the same one that went with the Bugle article. I would not have recognized us as the same person, had I not known.
"I have to say, my lady, I don't see why she would imagine you were her daughter. You look nothing like her." Ulrike said, joining us.
"The funny thing is, Joviana did look a bit like that girl, when she first came back from America. She was a bit overweight then, but she lost it when she got away from the land of junk food." Galina said, her brow furrowed.
"What are you going to do about it?' Bisitra asked.
"Do?" I shrugged. "Nothing much, I suppose. Give the public relations people a recent photograph of the two of us together, and tell them to tell the world I have a mother, and she's alive and well and lives in Doomstadt. Does it require more than that?"
"I suppose not." Bisitra conceded. "I suppose things like this will happen—didn't some boy light himself on fire to be like the Human Torch?"
"Yes—I remember that. It was tragic." said Galina. "I feel for her, though. It's terrible to lose a child under any circumstances—but to have her just disappear—and not know what happened…Still, to focus on you—I suppose things like that will happen when you're in the public eye, as you are."
"I suppose," I agreed, noncommittally. "I'll tell Victor about it—he may have some experience in these matters."
"That's a good idea." my mother said. I was not going to stop thinking of Galina, gentle, sane, loving Galina as my mother—I wasn't.
But the specter of the other fluttered around the edges of this happy new life…
The party broke up; several footmen assisted Bisitra in carrying everything back to her car—the garment bag with the ceremony gown took two of them to carry to her satisfaction. She promised she would be back the next day with everything finished. The day after was the wedding—provided the world as we knew it didn't come to an end again.
Galina took the printout of the Bugle article and went home as well. I expected she would soon be on the phone with various friends, reading parts of it to them over the phone—and perhaps hinting that a grandchild was in the planning stages. Ulrike said she was going to the castle laundry and see about some of my things—I suspected she would soon be dropping hints as well.
I went to find Victor—and, as I cut through the throne room to get to the cyborg labs, instead I ran into a man who looked like Leonard Nimoy as Spock, circa 1967— haircut, pointy ears and all—wearing tiny little green-and-gold Speedo swim trunks—if you could call them trunks—and who had little wings on his ankles. Mind you, he was better built than Nimoy…
It was the Submariner—otherwise known as Prince Namor of Atlantis. Curiously enough, like Spock, he was half one species—Homo Sapiens, on his father's side—and half another Homo Atlantsis, on his mother's. His mother had been a Princess of Atlantis, his father, a sea captain.
He was another one of those heroes who has just about enough brains to move all of his muscles around. He was also known for having been in love with Susan Storm Richards for years—and now he was staring at me.
TBC….those dreaded letters…