families.
At first on a whim and then in earnest, I purchased several special issues of magazines
devoted to nothing but weddings. I scrutinized each page, on work-free evenings, and
dog-eared those that contributed to my Carol Designed Blueprint for the Future. I even
took Mother to Bullocks Department Store in Century City, California, and combed the
racks for a periwinkle blue chiffon dress, the color and style I envisioned wearing in my
next and last wedding. If such a gown had miraculously appeared, I would have
purchased it without a second thought. After all, a bride needed a wedding dress.
“I don’t understand, Carol, dear,” Mother said, clearly bewildered. “When are your
nuptials taking place? I thought Ion was no longer in your life. You have been dating
other gentlemen. Recently, you have been packing your belongings, and today you are
shopping for a wedding gown. Is there something you want to tell me? Is this another
hasty–? You aren’t pre–?”
“No, no. Nothing like that, Mother. It’s hard to explain without sounding completely
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