“Jackie hates this stuff too. At least she does now that she’s single. I just couldn’t bring myself to put her in charge of my wedding details. It seemed…insensitive to ask her to sit around planning someone else’s big day after she had such a bad breakup. And you’ll see—Dawn is good at this. It’s her job.”

As Hannah soon learned, dresses, eyeliner, and ceremonial duties were actually Dawn’s job. The twenty-three-year-old proud native of Roanoke was a professional pageant coach—meaning, she prepared young girls to compete in beauty pageants. Families who wanted their daughters to have an edge during the competition paid Dawn thousands of dollars for pageant tips and polishing lessons. Dawn taught the young women how to groom themselves and strut. She helped them choose the necessary outfits, from gowns to tasteful-but-cleavage-baring bikinis. She worked with girls to develop a talent competition routine, even if they didn’t have any talent. She quizzed them about their hopes and dreams, because at some point during every pageant they would be asked.

“Never mention your politics,” Dawn advised. “Never mention world peace. You have to choose a real cause and stick with it. I recommend something that has to do with animals or military families, especially here in Virginia.”

Dawn had never been to college. She’d started her one-woman consulting business as soon as she was too old to compete in pageants herself. She was making enough money by the time she was twenty to buy a cream-colored Ford Expedition, which had a personalized license plate: “TRUBUTY.”

“Can I be honest with you?” Dawn said to Hannah when the two first met at Bee’s bachelorette party two months ago.

Bee and her bridesmaids had arrived one by one from their various East Coast hometowns and had gathered at the lobby bar at the Atlantic City Hilton, where they’d be spending the night. Hannah, who had been fixated on Dawn’s profession ever since Bee had disclosed it over the phone, couldn’t help but ask why pageant contestants needed professional help—from anyone besides a therapist.

“Pageant coaching is not what you’d think,” Dawn answered, pretending to ignore the tone of Hannah’s question. “You’re with these girls from start to finish—I mean, for months and months. You’re like their mother, I swear it. You’re there for the concept planning. You’re there for the shopping. You help with weight watching. You help with the heels and the hair. You do speech training. You’re like a fairy godmother. And then, when they win, all they want to do is run into your arms.”

“So you’re like a fairy godmother who demands weight loss?” Hannah asked, already tipsy from two glasses of Riesling, prompting Bee to throw her a warning glance from across the lounge table.

“I don’t demand that anyone lose weight,” Dawn responded calmly, just before taking a sip of her fluorescent martini. “Most girls want to look their best. Some girls don’t need to lose weight before their big day. Some do.”

Hannah accepted this answer with a nod and let her eyes roam to the front door of the hotel lobby. She was anxiously awaiting the arrival of Jackie, Bee’s best friend from high school in Maryland.