My daddy always said that if you want to round up some liars head to a wedding or a funeral. So as I sat in a back pew at Seacliff First Baptist, I got to wondering how many liars were in attendance this afternoon. Seeing as how I’d been invited to the rehearsal dinner for this little shindig, I believe I’d already met a few candidates.
Thanks to a frigid wind sneaking between every door crack and window sash in the old church, my teeth were chattering like dice in a crap game. The building sat a few blocks from Galveston Bay and a blue norther had barreled through last night, leaving behind a genuine taste of winter.
Most of the hundred people in attendance, including me, still wore their coats, and I shoved my hands in my pockets. Leaning toward my sister, who had reluctantly agreed to come with me, I said, “Remind me never to get married in January.”
“You did get married in January,” she whispered.
“That never really happened,” I shot back.
“Oh, I forgot. Denial is Abby’s best friend.”
“Denial’s the perfect friend once you discover you married a greedy, womanizing alcoholic,” I answered.
Before she could respond, the gentle organ music abruptly crescendoed.
A bridesmaid swathed in Christmas green rustled down the aisle so fast you’d have thought she was trying to catch her own echo. This would be Courtney, a cousin of the bride. The one who liked margaritas. And wine. And studly groomsmen. Next came the other cousin, Roxanne, a stripped-down model of her sister—pallid as the moon, skinny as a bed slat, and suffering from a very bad hair day. She looked ready to cry, her spider mum bouquet trembling at her waist. If I had hair like that, I’d be ready to cry, too.
The maid of honor, Margie, looked, well... happy in contrast to everyone else, including the nervous lineup of tuxedoed men waiting near the altar. The groom kept pulling at his coat sleeves and even from where I sat, I could see sweat glistening on his forehead. He’d better watch out or it might freeze right there.
From the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of a woman in a beige wool pantsuit wearing this retro chocolate brown cloche hat. She tiptoed into the church and sidled behind the bride and her father, carefully avoiding Megan Beadford’s train. After the woman slipped into an empty pew on the groom’s side, I realized she had not signed the bride’s book on the lectern.
Didn’t she know you had to sign in at weddings? Ordinarily this detail wouldn’t have bothered me, but I had been assigned to oversee that book, a small task I suppose Megan felt I could handle after so far failing at what she’d hired me to do. The bride had wanted her biological mother here today, but though I’d been successful with several other cases in my new profession as an adoption PI, I still had no decent leads on Megan’s background.
So why am I an adoption PI rather than the mean-street variety? Because some things change you forever, lead you down the road you’re supposed to take. The events of last summer did that for me even though they nearly shredded my heart. Those wounds make my ticker beat a little faster, a little harder, and a little more urgently now. It all started when my gardener was murdered. I’d wanted to find out why. One thing led to another, and in the end I discovered that my adoptive daddy lied to Kate and me about our biological parents up until the day he died, learned that our birth mother had been murdered when she’d tried desperately to find the twin baby girls (me and my sister) who had been stolen from her. My daddy didn’t do the stealing, but he didn’t ask enough questions about the babies he was adopting, either.
And then there were the betrayals. We had a slew of those. Our aunt Caroline knew the truth and never spoke up. A dear family friend helped daddy with our illegal adoption and never came clean until I confronted him. But my ex-husband was the biggest liar and cheat of all, even more worthless than I’d realized when I divorced him. He had blackmailed my adoptive father, killed the one person who wanted to tell me the truth about our mother’s death, and then tried to murder me when I figured out exactly what he’d done. And all for money. That’s all I had ever meant to him—money.
But as horrible as all those things had been to endure, they had led me here today, to my new job as an adoption PI, to a real sense of purpose for the first time in my life. I might have come to this church as Megan’s friend, but the job she’d hired me for still hovered in my brain like a hummingbird buzzing in the background. She would get her truth if I had anything to say about it. People deserve the truth.
Just then the latecomer dropped her handbag, the long leather clutch bag falling with a thump onto the old oak floor.
“Is she carrying rocks to throw at the bride and groom rather than rice?” I whispered to Kate.
“Shhh,” answered my sister, who was staring over her shoulder.
Making a mental note to corral the lady in the hat after the ceremony, I followed Kate’s gaze and focused on Megan. She had seed pearls woven into her fine blond hair, and a cathedral-length veil billowed out behind her. The dress was ivory silk, an A-line devoid of sparkle or beads. This elegant simplicity suited her personality, and by the admiring smile on Kate’s face I guessed she agreed with me.
We had become friendly with Megan and her fiancé, Travis, in the last few months. Who couldn’t be friends with folks as sweet and innocent and full of hope as those two? When I’d first met Megan, I figured she was about sixteen, but she came to me with a copy of her birth certificate proving she was twenty years old. That piece of paper had been my only clue in the adoption search, mainly because Megan was adamant that her adoptive parents not know she’d hired me. Besides being sweet and innocent, she was also as stubborn as a two-headed mule, a trait we happened to share.
Kate and I tried to convince her not to keep secrets, arguing that maybe her parents would understand Megan’s need to find out about her past and would then help us with valuable details about the adoption. But Megan wouldn’t budge, saying she knew it would hurt their feelings. When her parents had told her she was adopted—they’d waited until she was a teenager—they requested she not look for her biological mother. But asking a teenager not to do something is sort of like asking a gator not to bite you. She couldn’t stop thinking about a reunion and finally hired me without their knowledge.
I may not have delivered on Megan’s request in time for the wedding, but we talked every week. When she mentioned that the woman who was supposed to do the wedding book delivered a premature baby last weekend, I volunteered to fill in. That’s how I’d ended up at that disaster of a wedding rehearsal dinner last night and this chilly affair today.
Mendelssohn’s overture began. Everyone rose to face Megan and her father as they slowly walked toward the preacher and groom. Once they reached the altar, the balding, stern-faced James Beadford kissed his adopted daughter and placed her satin-gloved fingers into Travis Crane’s outstretched hand. The bride and groom stared into each other’s eyes, then turned to the preacher.
Here’s where the lying starts, I thought to my cynical self.
Thirty minutes later, I did the driving while Kate directed us to the reception at the Beadford house. She was using the tiny map insertion from the invitation. The lady with the hat had gotten away from me during the crushing exodus after the ceremony, but I assumed there would be others besides her I would have to catch up with to sign the book—those folks who skip the ceremony and just show up for the booze and the food. I knew about those types because of my own January wedding several years back, the one I hadn’t really forgotten. The one I could only hope to forget in time.
I maneuvered my Camry through a sparsely populated upscale neighborhood ever closer to the ocean and finally came upon parked cars lining both sides of a dead-end street. Folks who had dragged their dress-up winter coats out of mothballs were walking up the hill to a monstrous white house at the end of the cul-de-sac. We’d found the spot. I turned the car around and parked down the block so we could make a quick getaway after we’d made nice with all these strangers.
My sister knew Megan almost as well as I did since she’d done a psychological profile on her, something Kate does on all my clients. Kind of handy having a shrink for a sister. Texas’s Central Adoption Registry requires a similar screening before they hook up long-lost relatives. Since Texas is a closed adoption state, all records are sealed by the court, but the registry offers a legal means for adoptees and their biological relatives to meet if both sides independently send in paperwork expressing their wish for a reunion. Once the registry finds a match, they interview both sides and arrange the meeting, thus avoiding a lengthy court petition to unseal records.
Kate’s psychological profile of Megan confirmed what I had already decided—that she was stable enough to handle bad news if it came to that. I’d gotten a firsthand taste of her maturity already. She’d dreamed of a private meeting with her biological mother after the reception, maybe at a hotel in Houston before she and Travis took off on their honeymoon to Hawaii. But when I told her last week I still couldn’t get anywhere in my document searches, she didn’t go off the deep end. She just calmly told me to keep trying.
As Kate and I trudged up the hill toward the house, she said, “How did Megan explain your presence at the rehearsal dinner last night? Has she changed her mind about telling her parents who you really are?”
“No. She introduced me as a new friend she’d met at the health club.”
Kate laughed. “It’s a good thing they don’t know you like I do.”
“Hey. Since Jeff and I have been together, we run a couple miles two or three times a week, so I’m more fit than you think.” Jeff Kline, whose cologne still clung to my pillow this morning, works Houston Homicide. He’d investigated the death of my yardman, the one who’d been unlucky enough to get in my ex-husband’s way, and we’d been spending plenty of time together since last summer.
“You’re more of everything since you hooked up with our cop friend. Don’t let go of that guy if you can help it.”
“Believe me, I won’t.” My nose started to run and I sniffed. The wind off the bay was cold enough to make a lawyer put his hands in his own pockets.
Kate offered me a tissue. “So am I allowed to be your sister once we get inside this place? I’m sure you and Megan will want to have a consistent story. We wouldn’t want to alert the relatives that she hired you.”
“By your sarcasm I’m guessing you’re still convinced Megan should have told her parents.”
“Keeping secrets from your family is never a good idea.” Her coffee-colored shoulder-length hair was practically horizontal as she bowed her head against the wind.
“Maybe not, but Megan shouldn’t have to learn the same way we did about our past. No one should.”
“It’s not like her parents lied to her, Abby.”
“Okay, so they didn’t lie like Daddy did, but they waited way too long to tell her the truth and then made her feel like she’d be betraying them if she tried to learn about her past.”
“Are you substituting your judgment for theirs?”
“Guess that’s not fair,” I mumbled. “I just don’t feel comfortable at weddings and it’s reduced me to whining. What say we go for some food, a little small talk, then get the hell out?”
“Now, there’s a plan I won’t argue with,” she said.
We approached the wide stone stairs leading up to the house, and the sounds of stringed instruments drifted out through the open front door. Just as we reached the steps, the limo carrying the bride and groom arrived. Travis helped Megan out of the backseat, and Roxanne appeared in all her greenness from out of nowhere. She eagerly lifted Megan’s gown to keep it from dragging on the pavement. They all went inside to a round of applause.
Not only was the wedding photographer busy doing his job, the hat lady was standing right behind him snapping her own pictures. Seeing her reminded me of my mission: to seek out all guests and get their signatures and well wishes in the embossed book clutched at my side. Not exactly a job for Superman, but I felt obligated. “Come on, Kate. I have to catch up with that woman in the brown hat.”
But before we reached her, she disappeared into the throng following Megan and Travis inside. When we reached the front door, Megan’s mother stepped out to greet us.
“Thank goodness you’re here,” said Sylvia Beadford. “I see you have the book.” She nodded at the album under my arm.
An apple-shaped, overly made-up woman, she wore a turquoise silk suit that complemented her dusky pink complexion. But Sylvia’s ruby lipstick was smeared and her rose corsage was already wilting. The frosted hair hadn’t wilted though. She had enough hairspray on those beauty-shop curls to put a new hole in the ozone layer. From her tense demeanor, I guessed she was having far less of a good time than those inside whose laughter nearly overpowered the music. Note to self: Never have girl babies who put you through wedding torture.
I held up the album. “I missed a few people and Megan said she wanted—”
“I’ll handle that.” She took the book, saying, “Meanwhile, I could use your help.”
“Sure—and by the way, this is my sister, Kate.”
“She can help, too.” Sylvia grabbed my wrist and pulled me inside; then despite her dyed-to-match spike heels, she bulldozed through the guests lingering in the foyer.
I caught a glimpse of twin staircases with white wrought-iron banisters flanking the foyer on both sides. Beyond was a great room filled with guests. A balcony above that huge center room was also packed with people holding wineglasses and plates of food.
Megan’s mother led us down a hallway, past a spacious dining room. We ended up in a kitchen worthy of a television chef and found ourselves surrounded by caterers in black and white uniforms. Seems the lady who delivered the baby too early had only half-finished one of her jobs. Kate and I set to work putting handfuls of birdseed in small squares of netting and tying each packet up with ivory ribbon.
“Birdseed is a good choice,” Kate said, already getting busy. “More environmentally friendly than rice.”
“That’s what Megan said,” Sylvia agreed, before hurrying off. But two glasses of champagne arrived beside us a minute later. Tying ribbons and drinking champagne? I could handle that.
The breakfast area where we sat and worked on our task overlooked a screened porch complete with umbrella table and chairs for balmier days. A family room could be seen through the double doors straight ahead and huge picture windows dominated the far wall. The Gulf of Mexico was an angry green, the sky a grouchy gray, while the strings played on, their music calming and gentle above the din of crowd noise.
Silver trays of canapes kept leaving the room on the raised arms of the waitstaff. I managed to snatch some finger sandwiches and a few pastry puffs stuffed with shrimp salad. Kate munched on two of her favorites, broccoli and carrots, sniffing them first as if her practiced nose could actually discern whether they were organic.
We were nearly done with our job when the best man, Holt McNabb, came into the room gripping a longneck beer, his other arm around bridesmaid Courtney’s waist. The tattoo on her back right shoulder, a cobra ready to strike, clashed with the strapless taffeta gown. Before Holt spotted us in the breakfast alcove, he planted one on Courtney, a kiss that left no doubt saliva was being exchanged. She in turn grabbed his well-toned butt during this semipornographic moment. It ended when he opened his eyes and spotted me.
He lifted her chin and smiled at her. “Hey, Courtney—could you get me a plate of those baby-back ribs? Meanwhile, I’ll give these ladies a proper thank-you for all their help.”
Courtney hesitated. “You’ll be waiting here, then?”
He smiled. “Maybe. And that’s final.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
He gripped her shoulders and turned her in the direction of the dining room. “Yes, I’m kidding. Now, get going.”
She left.
Kate hadn’t had the honor of meeting the rest of the rehearsal dinner crew, if you want to call it an honor. I’d met Daddy James, Momma Sylvia, the gruesome twosome cousins/bridesmaids, best man Holt, and Uncle Graham—the one who had tried all last evening to outdrink his daughter Courtney. I think Graham won.
“Good to see you again, Abby.” Holt set his beer bottle down on the table. But though he was addressing me, he focused on Kate. His pale blue eyes seemed to like what they saw, but then who wouldn’t be mesmerized by Kate’s classic Audrey Hepburn look?
“Hello, Holt,” I said. “Nice wedding.”
“Care to introduce me to your friend?” he asked.
“My sister, Kate Rose,” I said.
He placed both hands on the table and leaned toward her. “Thank the lord the stepsister brought Cinderella to the ball. Where did I put that glass slipper?”
“Make that twins, not stepsisters,” I said.
“Twins? Are you kidding? She’s got three inches on you and the nicest smile south of Dallas. Say, you doing anything later, Miss Kate Rose?”
Kate leveled him with a look that could have melted the cupid ice sculpture on the buffet table in the dining room. “You want me to join you and Courtney?”
Holt raised his hands and stepped back. “No crime to appreciate females. Happens to be a weakness of mine. And if you’re not interested, I respect that.”
The awkward silence that followed was broken by Travis’s appearance in the doorway.
He said, “Holt, we’re cutting the cake and you’re supposed to say something first.”
Holt nodded and flashed a GQ smile. “Ladies, it’s been a pleasure.”
I laughed when he was gone. “Does he like himself or what?”
“The nice thing about someone like him is that he doesn’t have much time to talk about anyone else. He’s too busy being consumed with himself.”
Since I’d seen plenty of cake cutting in my time, and Kate didn’t eat anything with white sugar, we stayed put. But I was as hungry as a goat on concrete, so I had a friendly waiter fill me a plate with boiled shrimp before he took the platter into the dining room.
Kate continued making the little net pockets and seemed to be doing a damn fine job, so I took my time peeling the shrimp and enjoyed every single one of those critters. About thirty minutes later Kate announced she was finished and went to the sink to wash her hands. Licking the remnants of cocktail sauce off my fingers, I followed suit, dodging several waiters on the way.
Kate told me she would arrange the little birdseed treasures in the crepe-lined basket Sylvia Beadford had provided if I wanted to find Megan and say hello. “And good-bye,” she added with emphasis.
“Good idea. Much as I hate to agree with Holt, I do kind of feel like a Cinderella relegated to the back of the house for menial tasks.”
I wandered out into the family room, my drink in hand. The string quartet had been set up in here, but most folks were in the adjoining great room to my left. The musicians had taken a break, and the noise of multiple conversations in both rooms filled the air. A fire crackled in the fireplace and a champagne fountain with golden liquid bubbling out of pitchers held by cherubs sat on a table perpendicular to the windows. Plates filled with slices of the now-mutilated tiered white cake surrounded the fountain.
I noticed Roxanne speaking with the violinist in a corner to my right. I knew he was the violinist because he had his instrument clutched to him like a life jacket. Roxanne’s stringy brown hair made me wonder if she’d sprayed her head with Pam rather than Final Net, and the violinist’s body language brought the image of a treed possum to mind. Nothing pretty about that scene.
But James and Travis had them beat. The new father-in-law and son-in-law were outside on the deck that overlooked a covered oval swimming pool. Either the wind had stung their faces an angry crimson, or both their blood pressures were sky-high. James kept poking his finger into Travis’s silver-vested chest.
Then Travis glanced back toward the house, took hold of his father-in-law’s elbow, and led him toward the other end of the deck.
I immediately scanned the room for Megan, feeling protective all of a sudden. No bride should have her wedding day ruined by some silly family dispute that probably could have waited until the appropriate time. That’s what Thanksgiving and Christmas are for, right? I soon spotted her talking to her uncle Graham in the next room.
I made my way around clusters of guests engaged in animated conversations or playing with their digital cameras. I reached Megan and her uncle in time to hear Graham Beadford loudly proclaim he was related to Thomas Jefferson by way of a different mother than Sally Hemmings, a “damn prettier” slave girl, according to him. For Megan’s sake, I hoped no one was videotaping this embarrassing moment. Uncle Graham was so drunk he’d probably grab a snake and try to kill a stick.
Megan blushed and said, “Hi, Abby. I was hoping to convince my uncle to try the coffee. We rented this huge silver urn and it’s filled to the brim, but no one seems interested.”
“Maybe he and I could sample the coffee together,” I offered, setting my champagne glass down on a small side table near the wall.
Graham attempted to focus on me, his head wobbling with the effort. “Don’t I know you?”
“We met last night at dinner. Abby Rose.”
“That’s right. Megan’s little rich friend. So you want to force-feed me some caffeine? I’ll bet you could ante up for a whole Starbucks. Gold mine, those Starbucks. Who’d have thought us Texans would willingly pay five dollars for steaming coffee in our ninety-degree summers? Shoulda got in on that action when they first came to town.”
“Uncle Graham, forgive me, but there are guests I haven’t even spoken with yet,” said Megan.
He gulped the last of whatever he’d been drinking and slid the rocks glass on the table, nearly tipping over my champagne flute. “Well, forgive me for monopolizing you.”
But Uncle Graham didn’t move and Megan seemed reluctant to leave him, though if I were in her place I would have done so in a heartbeat.
I took Graham’s arm. “Let’s you and I chat.”
Megan mouthed a thank-you once he seemed willing to depart with me.
I wasn’t simply being a Good Samaritan. He’d called me the “rich friend,” and I wanted to know how he’d learned about my financial circumstances, considering I hadn’t mentioned my background to anyone last night. I hadn’t even told Megan. Despite being well-off, I charge for my services, using everything I make to support a home for unwed mothers in Galveston—a home I have a special interest in. Kate and I were born there.
“So, Mr. Beadford,” I said, my hand on his upper arm. I guided him in the direction of the dining room. “What’s your line of business?”
“Not computers like you, that’s for sure. Computers are getting to be like goddamn cars. Too much maintenance to love ’em, but you can’t live without ’em.”
Had I still been working for CompuCan, my late daddy’s company, I might have said he obviously needed one of our computers. But I’d spent the last several months shedding myself of anything but minimal involvement, deciding I was never cut out to be a CEO. But obviously Graham Beadford thought I still worked there.
“So what do you do, Mr. Beadford?” I repeated.
He stopped in the middle of the room, his square chin raised. “Plenty. I do plenty. I’ve owned my own business and I’ve worked with my brother, James, on the oil equipment supply side. But if you need a computer man, I can do that, too.”
“Sorry, but I’ve changed jobs. Can’t help you there. I’m in... social services now.”
“Really? The Internet is behind on their information, then.” It was his turn to pull me toward the dining room. “But even so, you inherited some big bucks, Ms. Rose.” Graham made a sudden weave to the right and slammed his shoulder into a woman wildly overdressed in black sequins and a mink stole.
Graham was a small, burly man, similar in stature to Megan’s father—and he hit the lady square on the collarbone. When he failed to offer an apology, she shot him a “go directly to hell” look, readjusted the dead animals around her shoulders, and resumed her conversation.
“Excuse him,” I whispered as we passed, wondering what else this guy had turned up on me. There were plenty of news stories to be found considering the home I’d recently vacated in ritzy River Oaks had become a crime scene after the gardener was killed. But why was this man plugging my name into some search engine in the first place?
I must have looked concerned because Graham patted my back. “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything about your little brush with death at the hands of your ex-husband or mention your mountains of money.”
“Who says I’m worried?”
He stopped in the dining room entry and lifted my chin with his index knuckle. “Uncle Graham knows people. I’ll bet you’re scared I’ll blab to all these upper-middle-class schmucks about how filthy, stinking rich you are. And you’re afraid if I do, people will be hanging on you like snapping turtles. Asking for favors... donations... handouts. I had money once. I know what it’s like. Royal pain in the ass.”
He didn’t slur one word, and I realized then that Graham Beadford might not be as drunk as I’d thought—though from the smell of him, he was well on the way.
The coffee urn that looked like it could have provided enough java for a cruise ship breakfast sat on one end of a shiny teak table. The now-weeping ice sculpture rested in the center surrounded by silver platters of cold crab, pate and crackers, boiled shrimp, cubed cheeses, marinated mushroom caps, and cherry tomatoes stuffed with something swirled and yellow. The chubby photographer, his camera strapped behind him, was parked in a corner sucking the meat out of a crab claw.
I held up two fingers to the waitress manning the urn and she filled scalloped china cups and handed them to me.
When I gave Graham his, he pulled a pint of Southern Comfort from his pocket and spiked his coffee, sending liquid sloshing onto the saucer. After restashing his bottle, he lifted both cup and saucer to his lips and slurped off the top.
“Starbucks could learn a thing or three from me,” he said. “Make a bigger killing if they had more than those sissy-ass drinks on the menu.” His bald, freckled head glowed under the crystal chandelier hanging over the table.
I drank half my lukewarm coffee, then glanced back over my shoulder to make sure Megan wasn’t close by and still subject to him reinserting himself into her line of vision. She wasn’t. “Listen, Graham, I need to get home. Maybe I’ll see you again when I visit with Megan.”
“I live in Dallas, so I doubt that. But why not stay and keep me company a little longer? I could get to like you, little lady.”
“Sorry. I came with my sister and she has a client waiting.” Small lies are sometimes necessary. I reached over and set the cup and saucer on a tray by the wall an arm’s length away.
“She works on Saturday?”
“She’s a shrink. Crazy people sometimes don’t know if it’s Saturday or Wednesday.”
“That sounds like an excuse. Have I upset you? Because I could sure use some intelligent conversation. Every idiot here belongs to my brother. His clients. His line of credit. His wonderful life. Besides, Megan wanted you to take care of me—as I’m sure you noticed.”
His tone told me more than all his previous words or actions—bitter noise from a guy whose blood-to-alcohol ratio was probably permanently off-kilter. Having learned my lesson about alcohol abusers the hard way, I said, “Sorry, Graham, but I can’t stay.”
I turned and walked toward the kitchen just as the music started up again. Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” I sure hoped Megan and Travis had some of that joy in their hearts, because so far, this reception was proving to be devoid of happiness and warmth.
When I arrived in the kitchen, Kate was handing her artfully arranged basket of birdseed packets to the bride’s mother.
That’s when a hair-raising scream ripped through the house. Kate and Sylvia lost their grip on the basket and all those pretty little pouches scattered over the tile floor. Some of the netting opened, sending tiny seeds bouncing in every direction.
The music stopped.
No more laughing. No more conversations.
Sylvia whispered, “Oh my God,” then took off in the direction of the scream.
I followed, Kate close behind me.
We pushed by people who looked frozen in time, their collective silence almost oppressive. Maybe it was the adrenaline rush that heightened my senses, but the mix of seafood and booze and flowers seemed like an ocean I had to swim through. No one but us seemed to be reacting to what every single guest surely must have heard. But that’s how it often happens in an emergency. The more people around, the less response. Everyone expects someone else to do something.
Sylvia was about three feet ahead of me, but had ditched the high heels since I last saw her and was snaking through the crowd with ease, headed toward a closed room on the other side of the foyer.
When she reached the double doors, she pushed them open but then stopped in the entry.
Unable to get past her, I stared over her shoulder.
Megan was sitting on the floor by a fireplace, ivory satin puffed around her like a soft cloud. Her father’s head was in her lap, a huge, vicious merlot-colored stain damning that beautiful dress.