Our Bridal Shop: Match Made in Devon Bridal Shop Book One

by Blair, Danielle

  “We can’t marry, Jonah. I’ve measured my entire life against the litmus test of marriage. It’s time for me to find my way. At least for a good while.”

  Jonah smiled then, crooked-like, the way he flirted when he teased. “Best things in life are worth the wait. You’re smart, Alexandra March, I’ll give you that. But you don’t know everything.”

  What she knew now was where her perfection had been hiding all those years. Not in life-changing decisions, in the permanence of cross-country moves and marriages and deaths, but in the simple moments when she felt closest to her authentic self. A swimming hole with friends, the realization that snow had a sound, Bear sniffing out new things through the open window of a car turned home, knowing every word to a David Allen Coe song, wrapped in a blanket between two of the strongest women she knew. Jours Parfaits. And Jonah had known, all along.

  “’Sides,” he added. “I’ll need to lose my hearing before I sleep beside someone who snores. Like a grasshopper with a bandsaw.”

  She play-punched his shoulder. He took her hand, gave it a kiss and a squeeze.

  “It won’t be easy, Jonah. A baby that’s not yours.”

  “No different than Ibby to you. But they’re the best parts of us, you and me, and love always sees that. I love you, Alex. I never stopped. I never will. No matter what happens, here on out, that love includes the baby.”

  This time, the kiss was hers to give. She tugged at the handle to the tool box and wheeled Jonah closer, almost until she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began. Everything about him was home—his scent, his warmth, his arms. She brushed her lips against his, a sweet southern gentleman who had nothing but time to offer and a welcoming smile. And when he answered with a devouring gentleness that belied the lost, hungry years between them, she resisted the temptation to catalogue every subtle current, every overpowering drive, every single tear-inducing sensation that made her feel eighteen all over again. Eighteen, paired with the decadence of two decades of both being comfortable in the instrument of their bodies. And nothing but time.

  The party of long-ago ended; music died. White lines across a black screen replaced the spirits of the past. Alex reached for the camera and clicked it off.

  She breathed in, a deep bellyful that fed her limbs and made her want to move. “What do you say to building me a fire? There’s something I’ve been meaning to do.” She reached in her bag and pulled out her bullet journal.

  A grin stretched Jonah’s lips clear to dimples.

  Embers floated upward that dark night. The fire was bright and hot, fed by plenty of pages, old and new. Though Alex knew Jonah would have ridden a wave of satisfaction torching her journal, himself, he reclined on the Adirondack, at an impossibly low angle, and watched Alex rid herself of unrealistic parameters, impossible expectations, a life lived in labels and checklists and encouragement stickers but not really lived at all. When she reached the ruins sketch, Jonah stopped her, asked if he could keep it.

  “What for?”

  “Might need it someday.”

  He smiled then, journal-worthy to be sure. She’d have to find a new way to catalogue mini-joys she elicited in him. Her first, to stay.

  22

  Charlotte

  Had Rachel Lee Copeland said Charlotte’s husband sprouted a third leg, big breasts, and an ethereal presence and became the lady ghost haunting Columbus, Mississippi, Charlotte would have believed her more than the words straight out of the actress’s mouth.

  “Nash was an absolute delight. You’re one lucky woman, Charlotte.”

  She knew the woman had high-caliber acting skills, but this was downright Oscar-worthy. Even Freesia had the wherewithal to sit down in the bawling and stonewalling chair, her mouth wide enough to catch a fly. Truth be told, Rachel Lee Copeland had just told her to expect a call from her L.A. stylist, her publicist, “Oh! And Jon Yu—a friend of mine who has his pulse on the intersection of fashion and philanthropy around the world. Entire villages self-susstaining on the craft of empowered native women.”

  Charlotte was pretty sure her GPS would never find that intersection. Her brain backtracked to Nash and delight. Couldn’t find that intersection either.

  The bridal party, sans Julia, who was already off on her honeymoon, had gathered at Match Made in Devon to turn in their dresses. The idea had been Rachel’s, born fresh on the heels of a wedding party toast of Bourbon-peach sweet tea in mason jars. Auction off the dresses that had caused a buzz on social media, proceeds to a bridal charity, publicity back to the little shop in Mississippi that had made it possible. Since no female on the planet ever wore bridesmaid dresses again, despite good intentions, it might even start a movement of giving. Charlotte had never heard of anything so blessed and bridal.

  “It’ll be huge,” said Rachel. “You’ll have so much business, you’ll practically have to move in here.”

  Charlotte doubted Nash would be a delight after he heard that nugget.

  While Alex gathered the dresses and tagged them to send to the dry cleaners, Rachel pressed Freesia for her plans.

  Freesia stood, circled the armchair, toyed with the piping detail around its edge. Never had she seemed so uncertain, so hesitant of her thoughts. Her gaze connected first with Charlotte then Alex. Collectively, the May Experiment ended today. Independently, their paths were anyone’s guess.

  “I might stay here awhile, start a collection of bridal gowns, see what happens,” said Freesia. “I want to name each one for a strong woman I’ve met on my travels.”

  “Inspired,” said Julia’s twin, Sierra.

  Without her verbal gymnastics partner, the comment lacked zing but captured what they were thinking. They all nodded.

  “And the first dress?” asked Rachel. “What will it be called?”

  “Alex.”

  If there was hesitation in Freesia’s answer, Charlotte didn’t hear it. Not even a blink—except when Charlotte had to remove something from her eye that wasn’t really there. She felt like Nash had parked his 250 Cummons Turbo diesel right on her vocal cords.

  Alex pressed her lips together, made that frowny-face smile like she used to when Charlotte tried on every bit of her big sister’s clothes, left them in a heap on the bed, then followed it with something syrupy about being the best sister in the world.That this time Alex’s true smile wasn’t directed at her but the woman she had once called “Daddy’s bastard child” was better than a sugar-dusted confectionary from heaven’s bakery.

  The bridesmaids said their goodbyes and met The Silver Swarm on their way into the shop. It was a visual clash of silk faille and polyester, svelte and frump. Oh, and one cotton shirt with a sketch of the Virgin Mary with the caption Mary is My Homegirl. They carried cardboard boxes and directed the Devon High School wrestling team up the stairs with the rest—from the looks of it, at least three dozen containers of various sizes.

  Charlotte took a few steps and stopped next to Freesia.

  “What on earth?” asked Charlotte.

  Alex joined them, arms folded, surveying the parade of brawn and bouffant.

  “It was long past time to turn the second floor back to being perfectly imperfect.”

  Freesia said, “Does this mean…?”

  “A lot of hard work to take this place beyond breaking even?” Alex said. “Yeah.”

  “And a red bandana knotted into a circle?” Charlotte heard the hope in her voice. The artifact represented better days when her and Nash were moving toward something, together, not in parallel lines. When delight would have been the precise word she used to describe him, precisely the zing she needed.

  Alex nodded. Smiled, too. She was doing that more now. Like Mama’s pair of sparkly earrings after they’d been buried in a drawer.

  Charlotte felt like she’d won the Powerball. As close as she could come without ever playing. She made a big celebration of the news. Hollered, “Match Made in Devon is open for business!” Turned up the music until the voices attached to every si
ngle lady, every two-hundred-pound jock, and every last octogenarian was singing.

  Whoa-uh-oh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh-oh.

  Charlotte Evangeline March Strickland knew at that moment that urban legends were based on a little sliver of real life. Husbands could surprise. Half-sisters, once strangers, could stitch the first threads of friendship. Hollywood-style dreams could come true. Only one more thing would put a ring on that bitch of a fantasy.

  Sprouting big breasts? She’d take that in a heartbeat.

  23

  Alex

  If there was one thing Alex couldn’t leave behind in her quest for fewer plans and more living, it was organization. Part of her DNA, she supposed. She relegated herself to one list inside her cell phone because pregnancy brain was a thing and a real bitch. But in the case of the second-floor exhibit of Match Made in Devon, a viral social experiment that began with history but incorporated so much more, organization guaranteed each visitor an emotional journey.

  On this November night, though Alex felt as big as the Hindenburg, most of Devon and a few local reporters and one from the AP wire gathered at the shop to celebrate the exhibit’s grand opening. She left the merriment downstairs, waddled past the red velvet ribbon draped across the steps, and went upstairs for one final peek.

  At the top of the staircase were professional displays of early courtship. The room’s natural architecture funneled visitors along the evolution of marriage—the trials, expansion of family, finding each other when lost, and the reverent stage of late love. People from around the world offered their advice and photographs, archived and real-time, on various screens. Paper cards and pencils occupied one table at the exhibit’s conclusion for visitors to add their advice, right alongside keepsake books for sale, the stories hand-picked by Stella Irene’s posse and illustrated with Isabel’s black-and-white photography—which she found to be a far more lucrative business venture than bracelets. A comfy sitting area for marriage seminars added pops of much-needed color. Jonah’s museum-quality lighting gave the entire floor a warm glow.

  Her favorite? A black-and-white photograph Isabel had taken of Alex, Charlotte, and Freesia at Julia’s spring wedding last year—a fifth artifact to the pinnacle display of Stella Irene and Elias’s story. A story not yet over but just beginning.

  From behind, Jonah kissed her neck. She knew it was him by his citrus-woodsy scent and the adorably annoying way he had of not leaving her side when she was two days past her due date. Also, by the tingle she felt all the way to her swollen ankles.

  “It’s missing one thing,” he said.

  Alex smiled. “What’s that?”

  Out of his blazer’s pocket, he produced a folded paper. Not just any paper. Her drawing of the ruins that had nearly ruined her.

  “Someday is here,” said Jonah.

  Baby March tightened the vice clamp on her uterus. It had been a thing all day—mwah ha ha, then just kidding, increasingly falling on the not-kidding side. Alex smiled through the contraction; sweat surfaced at her brow. The moment was too sweet to interrupt.

  “Problem is, I don’t know where it goes.” Jonah stepped through the exhibit, stopping at each of the markers, holding it up for added effect, disarming her discomfort with his dimples. “It fits everywhere.”

  “Jonah?”

  “Does it fit here?”

  At the display of young love.

  “Or here?”

  Distant love.

  The man really had a flair for drawing out his point.

  Pain-pain-pain-pain.

  “Jonah?”

  “Quite sure this would be best….”

  Rekindled love.

  “Jonah?”

  His tour of the room returning full-circle, he placed his hands at her belly in that way of his: over hers, protective, nothing but love. No rings clinked. None were needed.

  “Hmm?”

  “You’re going to have to hang it in the maternity ward if you don’t get me out of here.”

  His smile? Definitely journal-worthy.

  Best one.

  Ever.

  End of Our Bridal Shop

  Our Bridal Shop, January 2nd 2019

  The Butterfly Dream, February 6th 2019

  The Family Wish, March 6th 2019

  PS: Do you enjoy women’s fiction? Please keep reading for exclusive extracts from The Butterfly Dream and A Mother’s Lie.

  Thank you!

  Thank you so much for purchasing my book. It’s hard for me to put into words how much I appreciate my readers. If you enjoyed this book, please remember to leave a review. Reviews are crucial for an author’s success and I would greatly appreciate it if you took the time to review the book.

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  About Danielle

  Danielle Blair escaped the slog of her former accounting job to instead pursue writing women’s fiction. She pens empowering stories about women, for women, that focus on a woman’s unique journey to find her place in the modern world.

  But this wasn’t always the case. Following a messy divorce, Danielle took to reading and writing to help sort out the whirlwind of emotions she was dealing with. What started as a coping mechanism turned into a passion and in 2017 she transitioned to writing full time. Along the winding journey to authorship she also met and married her current husband, who is the love of her life.

  She writes her books with the help of her two sisters—Jennifer helps to plot out the stories, while Linda is the beady eye behind the editing of them. Since setting up the tire swing in their back yard together as kids, they’ve always worked better as a team—so why not write a book together?

  She is the mother of two handsome adult sons, and three dogs that act like children (but she loves them anyway). When not lost writing her next book, Danielle can be found outside digging in the dirt, trying to coax her husband to just try yoga once, and cooking meals that may or may not end up burned every once and a while.

  You will find her hanging out on:

  BLURB

  Every family has its secrets, and the March family is no exception.

  Match Made in Devon has been more than just a symbol of everything magical about matrimony; it’s also a physical reminder of true love’s power to conquer all obstacles, and how perfect the March sister’s parents’ marriage really was. But for middle sister, Charlotte, the pressure to maintain her carefully cultivated public face of perfection is beginning to take its toll…

  Charlotte is working overtime to balance home, family, and her marriage to husband Nash – and the weight of it all is more than she can handle. Nash makes it clear that something has to give, that he wants things to go back to how they used to be.

  But Charlotte knows she has changed too much to simply return to being Nash’s stay at home wife. She still loves him deeply, but she needs more now. Perhaps more than Nash can give…

  With their marriage on the line, there seems to be no way out of the endless circle of responsibility Charlotte has drawn for her life. Now craving freedom for herself, the only option she can see is one that could tear her own family apart.

  Three women bound by fate and family will have to struggle together to redefine family and discover the raw truth where forgiveness meets love.

  The Butterfly Dream

  will be out February 6th 2019

  www.DanielleBlairBooks.com

  * * *

  EXCERPT

  Charlotte

  The young woman reminded Charlotte Strickland of a butterfly trapped in a mason jar, flitting and zagging and beating against the storefront windows of Match Made in Devon like there were no holes punched in the heavens for breath. She wore the colors of a ruddy daggerwing: black winter coat, scarf as pretty as a glass of sweet tea in a sunbeam, neck tattoo emerging like veins on a wing. Her eyes were big and desperate.

  Charlotte looked at her watch. Seven o’clock. An hour past the bridal shop�
�s closing time.

  Shoot.

  Her husband Nash already had his tail up because she hadn’t been home for dinner in a week of Saturdays, despite being close enough to walk home if one had a mind to—which she didn’t. Right around the time the March sisters had found out they had a half sister from their daddy’s mistress in Georgia, and had done everything they could to turn the bridal shop into a profitable venture, Nash had begun calling her promises the sweetest lies—well-intended on her candy pink lips, but always leaving him with sugar stomach.

  Charlotte thought that a kept man this side of spoiled should just about get over himself.

  She went to the front glass and unlocked the door.

  The woman entered on an exaggerated exhale and a breathy “thank you” and Charlotte felt the poor girl’s relief clear to her toes. Either she had a bladder emergency or someone was chasing her. The closest the town of Devon, Mississippi had come to a police blotter was the great bakery theft of oh-one when Bernice’s terrier made off with a bag full of poppyseed bagels from Taffy’s Diner. Nevertheless, Charlotte’s motherly instinct kicked in and she relocked the door, just in case. Couldn’t be too careful.

  “Ladies’ room is past the row of dressing rooms to the right,” said Charlotte.

  The woman had a spray of thick hair, dark at the roots, blondish-orange at the tips. Prominent cheekbones gave way to a nose ring and burgundy lips, the color harsh, all wrong for her skin tone. A crowded ring of keys clanked along with her pacing steps. Her chin quivered; her eyes watered.