Page 39 of Dante

He smiles. Antoine has a nice vibe. Over the top, to be sure, but he pulls it off. In addition to the Fedora, he wears a tweed suit that fits him like a second skin. And sports a handkerchief in his pocket like you see on the covers of fashion magazines.

“Now, let’s get down to the matter at hand,” he says. “Your husband advised me that you’ll need a full wardrobe. Dresses for dinner parties and museum openings, that sort of thing.”

“And a winter coat.”

“Yes,” he says, looking at what must be a notes app on his phone. “I have that on the list. This way, ladies.”

Antoine leads us to two large doors. When he pushes them open, I see a beautiful salon that looks like an old-fashioned ladies’ tearoom, circa the 1950s.

Through the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Fifth Avenue, I can see the tourist crowds on the other side of the street.

“Good afternoon, Antoine. Gina,” says a sophisticated blonde saleswoman as she comes towards me. “I’m Nina Jones, head of fashion. You must be the new Mrs. Ricci.”

“I stand accused,” I say with a grin. But no one laughs.

I shake her hand, yet I’m miffed by the way she addressed me. It’s like everyone compares me to Dante’s first wife. I try to calm myself. Maybe it’s my imagination.

“Would you like some Champagne?” she asks, already walking to a silver bowl where a bottle rests on ice.

“Allow me the honor,” says Antoine, opening the bottle with the utmost grace. He pours glasses for us all and makes a toast to my fashion success. We raise our glasses, clink, and sip.

“Gina, Angie, take a seat, please, in front of the raised dais. Nina and I have taken the liberty of pulling some outfits that we believe fit the bill.”

Angie and I make our way to tall chairs that have been placed on a white lambskin rug. What follows, to my surprise, is a private fashion show.

A series of models, roughly my height and weight, take turns mounting the dais, spinning around so I can see the outfit from all angles, then stepping down.

As I watch them, I imagine myself in each dress. My imagination runs so wild I blush as I visualize Dante’s calloused hand raising the hem like he did the other day.

Then his hand traveling up my inner thigh. The vision is so vivid I feel my pussy moisten.

“Well, Mrs. Ricci, what strikes your fancy?” Nina asks.

I struggle for words. “They’re all nice...”

What I don’t say is that I’m not one for the color black, or dresses so structured I’d hardly be able to walk across the room.

But that’s not the point.

The point is, which one would Dante prefer?

“How about we send them all to the dressing room and you can narrow them down there?” Antoine says.

“Okay. But do they all have to be black?”

Angie laughs as she pours herself another glass of Champagne. “Ha! You can take the girl out of California, but you can’t take the California out of the girl.”

“Black will be a beautiful color on you, Gina,” Antoine says. “Very elegant. Dignified, as your husband requested. Now, for the winter coat...”

We work through outfits in an array of styles and fabrics. Just not many different colors. Eventually Antoine tells Nina to pack everything up and send it to the penthouse by messenger.

Then Antoine turns to me.

“Now the hard work is done. It’s time to relax. Would you ladies care to join me in the Saks Café?”

“We’d love to!” Angie says. “Right, Gina?”

I manage a nod, and as we leave the room, Antoine turns toward me. “I’ve taken the liberty of personally selecting your bridal trousseau.”