The bell above the glass door of The White Orchid chimed as I stepped in at eleven, the boutique warm and smelling of lavender water and expensive starch.

Karina was already at the rear racks, flipping through heavy satin gowns, her silver pen in the pocket of her tailored blazer.

“The silk on these is exquisite,” she said, in her sharp professional ring, loudly enough for the associate at the counter, and I said, just as loudly, that I wanted to look at something simpler first, an ivory slip dress for the reception.

The associate smiled and waved us toward a private dressing suite in the back, and the moment the heavy velvet curtain fell closed, Karina’s voice dropped.