I glared over at Gayle and pulled her into the circle of blame, too. “Don’t either of you see what’s going on? Adrienne, Donald’s ex-fiancée, just picked out my wedding dress. The woman Donald was going to marry—and might still marry, at the rate I’m going— is involved in something as intimate and personal and private as what I’m going to wear to my own wedding. Not only that, she’s infiltrating my group of friends—my best friends, the people I trust the most and hold dearest to me. She’s seduced the two of you and clearly Donald’s next. I mean, the second I’m out of town, he’s on the phone with her, planning God knows what.” I wanted to back up that allegation with the suspicious chocolates in her gym bag, but I was afraid it would damage my credibility instead of bolstering it.

Fran reached for a Merit Ultra Light, lit it. “Okay. I’ll grant you the fact that the situation as you’ve just described it is certainly unconventional. But I’m not convinced anymore that Adrienne wants to cause trouble.”

“Are you crazy? Of course she wants to cause trouble.”

“Now, when I first met her, it was a different story. The minute she walked into my store I said to myself, ‘This woman is up to no good.’ ” Fran flopped down onto the sofa, and rested an ashtray on her lap. “But now—I don’t think so. I mean, Elise, she just called one of the most famous designers in the world on your behalf. Do you really think if she wanted to break you and Donald up that she would have just saved your ass the way she did? Making sure you’re going to look unbelievably chic instead of letting you look like some off-the-rack Vera Wang loser?”

Gayle started nodding in vigorous agreement, but I shot her down with my sharpest look. I wasn’t in the mood for two-against-one right now.

“Maybe it’s more convoluted and more sinister than that,” I said, sounding increasingly insane by the second. “Maybe she did that for the exact opposite reason: to make sure I look terrible at the wedding. Maybe she just asked him to make an incredibly ugly dress for me. Or one that won’t fit. Or maybe, she’ll tell him not to make anything so I’ll have nothing to wear come April fifteenth.”

Fran shook her head at me. “You’re nuts. Look,” she said, stubbing out her half-smoked cigarette. “I hate and distrust everyone. I’d be the first one to tell you if I suspected something. But I just don’t think that’s what’s going on.”

“So what do you think is going on?”

“You want to know what I think? Okay. This is what I think.”

I sat down, braced myself.