Red flag.
Worse than magician.
“But he is a wonderful artist. He calls it a hobby, since his job is selling furniture, but I think his paintings could sell for a lot of money.”
Still—red flag.
“Well, that’s very romantic, isn’t it?” I said. It did have romantic potential. Imagine having been Renoir’s love interest!
She pointed a pink-lacquered fingernail at me. “That’s what I said. Tell that to the boys, though.” She snorted.
The boys.
The boys.
Burke and Frank. I hadn’t seen them, either of them, in ten years. Somehow I’d always been lucky enough not to be at the same place at the same time as them if they were in town. I heard about them from Dottie, of course, so it wasn’t one of those taboo subjects either. Frank was a lawyer at a firm in D.C.—a once-venerable firm now more famous for one of the partners having written a crazy bestselling novel about the U.S. president going on a Jack-the-Ripper-style murder spree in Georgetown.
Burke owned a contracting firm based in Leesburg, Virginia. I had no idea how big or small it was, how successful or toppling he was, it was a Google search I would not allow myself to do. It was enough to know he was just about twenty miles up Route 15, but it might as well have been a world away. I think he lived in Reston or something, but I tried not to get too many details about Burke because Thinking About Burke was not one of my favorite activities. It was a deep rabbit hole and there was more pain than fun in that.
“They don’t approve?” I asked Dottie.
She shook her head, her gray fluff of curls wiggling like springs. “They think he’s a gold digger.”
I opened my mouth to offer some sort of supportive outrage, but she pointed that finger at me again.
“You thought the same thing, missy, don’t say you didn’t. I saw it in your eyes.”
Reflexively I blinked. Erase. Delete. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m just taking it all in.”
She smiled. “And speaking of taking things in, I have lost four pounds and hope to lose at least another couple before the wedding.” She was not a thin woman and I admired her for allowing herself the accomplishment of losing four or five pounds instead of starving herself into a wedding dress she’d spend the rest of her life flogging herself for being too big for, like most of my clients. “But this is the dress I have in mind.” She reached into her purse and produced a cutting from a magazine. It was an old magazine. I remembered piles of old Good Housekeeping magazines in the back room of the farmhouse. I pictured her there, leafing through them, looking for a picture of the perfect dress to start her new life.
There was something cool about that.
She handed me the picture and I smiled when I saw it. It was very her. Ivory satin, drop-waisted, modestly hanging down to mid-calf, with a square neckline. The only thing that kept it from being completely conservative was the fact that it was positively festooned with small pink fabric roses. Little pinwheels of color that twisted around the dress in a way not unlike the little curls of her hair.
“It’s perfect!” I breathed.
“Can you do it?”
“Absolutely!”
“By June twenty-fifth?”
“You will be my highest priority.”
She beamed. “You always were such a doll to me. You’re family to me, Quinn.” She took my hand in hers. Her fingers were cold and dry, but the gesture still warmed me.
“So I’ll leave the picture with you, shall I?” She closed her purse.
“Please. Now, if we can just get a few measurements, I can be off to the races before you know it.”
“Virginia Gold Cup!” The annual early May race was her favorite because until about ten years ago she had always hosted a grand party in the field, her way of heralding spring.
“Virginia Gold Cup,” I agreed, and got out my tape measure.
“By the way,” she said, lifting her arms for me to measure her bust, “do you know of a good local mover?”
I jotted the measurement on my pad. “Mover?”
“You know, one of those big trucks to move furniture from one house to another.”
I wrapped the tape around her waist. “Not that I can think of off the top of my head.” I wrote the measurement. “But I could ask around. Why?”
“Well, the boys are going to do the packing, of course.” She shook her head and looked heavenward. “They are thrilled about that, let me tell you.”
I ran the tape down her arm. “What packing? I’m lost. Who’s moving?”
“Honey, I am! Haven’t you heard our conversation? Lyle and I are getting married”—she gestured at the tape measure, as if to point out the obvious fact that I was making her dress—“and, of course, we’re going to move out, get a place together.”
I paused, midmotion. Of course. I mean, that did make sense, most people got married and started a new life together. It just hadn’t occurred to me, not even for a moment, that she might have been planning to leave the farm. She was part of the place, and together the Morrison family were a big part of the town, and the town’s history. The idea of her not being there was just … it was unthinkable.
And I could well imagine that Burke and Frank felt the same way.
There was no way not to.
That place without Dottie, without all her stuff … Wait a minute. “Who’s going to stay at the farm?”
She made a dismissive gesture. “Selling it.”
“Oh, my god.”
“Time to move on!”
Suddenly I hated Lyle. I hated his smirky, smug face and his stupid “artist” act when he was really a salesman, and I was pretty sure his Bob Barker sounded just like Lyle using a funny voice, and not like Bob Barker at all. I’d never met the man, of course, but I hated him because apparently he thought he could come out of nowhere and steal Dottie and just make her get rid of a place so special, so historic in so many ways (many of them personal for me), just get rid of it, sell it to—whom? Some developer? In two years would those ninety acres be some fussy neighborhood full of one-acre McMansions on half-acre lots? Perhaps with big stone gates at the entrance, announcing the neighborhood as “Grace Farms,” a tiny, tacky nod to what had once been a noble tradition?
“What’s the matter, Quinn?”
I found my voice. “Dottie, I just can’t imagine you not being at the farm. I can’t imagine the farm belonging to someone else.” And it wasn’t like I could ever have any hope of buying it. My business was variable at best, but it would never generate half the income required to buy that amount of property.
She chuckled indulgently and put a hand on my forearm, apparently thinking I was just being altruistic, thinking of her instead of panicking at the dissolution of my old dream, which should have died ten years ago when I put my gum-and-grime-dotted wedding dress on a bonfire and vowed to never look back.
It was a lie. I looked back all the time. And the moment the tulle caught fire—like a News 4 demonstration of the dangers of flammable Halloween costumes—I’d wanted to drag it out and bat the flames down. But I’d already made my big “To hell with Burke Morrison!” declaration and couldn’t risk my life and limb to turn back on a stand I’d made for my own dignity.
“Honey, that place has become an albatross around my neck, I’ll tell ya. I am so damn tired of thinking about who’s doing the work and how much it’s going to cost. Lyle and I want to get a little place on Lake Michigan and then travel the world, see things we’ve never seen before.”
I flinched at the sound of his name, and I was afraid that was rapidly going to become a habit, but I could see in her watery blue eyes that she had dreams that didn’t involve remaining in a life that didn’t fit her anymore. A dream that wasn’t hers.
And I couldn’t be such a baby as to whine that the world wasn’t accommodating me by staying exactly in place so that I could take out my little box of ancient wishes every now and then and turn them over in
my hand like some pretty bauble in a consignment shop.
Besides, I had no voice here anyway. No horse in the race. But I knew Burke and Frank would fight for it. Somehow. They’d keep this from becoming the catastrophe it threatened to become.
“I don’t blame you for that,” I said, trying to picture her in some “little place on Lake Michigan,” but failing. I could, however, picture her traveling the world, a feisty old cat, eager to see, hear, taste, and try everything. If that was what she wanted, she deserved it. Not everyone gets a second chance. Believe me, I knew it. “I’m sorry, Dottie, it’s just so sad to think of you going that I’m probably raining on your parade.”
“Don’t you worry, missy.” Another indulgent pat on my arm. “This is nothing compared to the stink Burke put up.”
“Just Burke?”
“Mmm.” She nodded absently. “I don’t think Frank is eager to stop what he’s doing in the city and come here for manual labor, but he gave me a few bits of practical advice about the financial aspects of selling and I think he’s going to be all right with it.”
That surprised me, but what did I know? I hadn’t seen Frank or Burke for a long time, I had no way to know or guess what their positions might be on anything. “It’s good that he can help you with that.”
“Oh, he’s a financial whiz, he truly is. You should see his place up in Northwest. It’s like a palace. All from his clever investing.”
And, undoubtedly, Burke’s design and contracting, but I didn’t want to ask. For some reason, Frank had always seemed to be the favorite in the family. Certainly he was viewed as the smarter of the two brothers, which was important in a family that valued cunning over something as unreliable as physical beauty, which Burke had in spades. But whenever the accolades were handed out, they went to Frank first, then leftovers were nudged in Burke’s direction.
I’d often wondered if he noticed that, but I hadn’t wanted to ask him, for fear that he hadn’t and my pointing it out would create paranoia about something previously unconsidered.
“I’m glad he’s doing well,” I said sincerely, setting my book of measurements down with the picture of the dress she wanted. “And I’m very happy for you, Dottie. It’s wonderful to see you so happy.” Impulsively, I moved toward her and gave her a hug.
Morrisons aren’t huggers—actually, Bartons aren’t really either—but she patted my shoulder awkwardly, just as she had my arm earlier. The same way she would have any of the fine-bloodlined horses they’d once raised. “Quinn, I appreciate your congratulations. I wish things could have worked out back then, but…” Her voice trailed off, leaving the echo of her implication: You had to go and ruin it. But I forgive you.
“But they did work out,” I said, more brightly than I felt. “Everyone’s doing great. Every one of us is doing great.”
She made a noise of disagreement, but I didn’t know what it meant.
“Well, the boys are coming over for supper on Saturday night to talk about the details of the move and the sale. I wish you’d come join us. You’re always so lively and fun and I have a feeling, with Burke there being surly about it all, it’s not going to be that much fun.”
Oh, I had a big picture of how that would go. Suffice it to say, I wasn’t going to be improving Burke’s mood anytime soon. Nor he, mine. We hadn’t talked since I’d tossed, “And the horse you rode in on!” over my shoulder at the church that day, after the guests had left and he’d offered qualified denials and made admissions I think I’d still, to that moment, hoped he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
No, I didn’t want to see Burke Morrison.
Ever again.
And I couldn’t really imagine facing Frank either. It seemed like 90 percent of my moments with Frank had involved profound humiliation on my part.
“I’m tied up Saturday,” I lied. “But thanks. Plus, as you know, I have a very important project to work on now, so I need as few distractions as possible.”
“You really think you’re going to have enough time? Those little bitty roses look like they’re going to take forever to glue on there!”
I shook my head and followed her to the door. “A couple of stiches each, it’ll be fine.” Though she was right, it was going to be time-consuming.
But with what was apparently going to be a sustained amount of time with the boys in town, I was thinking my being otherwise occupied was going to be a very good thing.
“Oh! One more thing!” She stopped and opened her purse and pulled a small piece of blue ribbon out of it. “Can you sew this inside somewhere? Maybe the hem or something?”
I took it. It was soft, well-worn satin. Like the kind of thing you’d find in tatters on a well-loved baby blanket. “Sure. Like maybe in the hem?”
“That sounds grand.”
“What is it?”
She hesitated and sighed. “That little blue ribbon was on the front of my dress when I married Joss,” she said.
“Oooh.” Involuntarily, I put my hand to my heart.
“I know that’s probably inappropriate, that’s why I want it hidden, but”—her voice grew quieter—“we had forty happy years together. If Lyle and I can have a few years half as happy, I will be over the moon.”
“Wow,” I said. “I think that’s really nice.”
“You think we Morrisons aren’t very romantic, and you’re probably right for the most part. We’re bullheaded, selfish, and too prideful for anyone’s good. But inside, we do have hearts. Sometimes tender ones, at that.”
With that, she winked and went out the door.
Chapter 3
The legend of Bridezillas is not exaggerated.
We’ve all seen the shows, the viral videos, etc., where the overly tanned, thin, white-toothed bitch shrieks and yells at her bridesmaids, mother, and hapless fiancé over stupid things like whether or not the icing bow on her shower cake is Tiffany blue, as she requested, or just robin’s-egg blue.
And those brides exist, trust me, I’ve seen plenty of them.
But there’s another breed that is much more subtle, and much more dangerous.
Mindy Garrett was one of them.
Her gown was a simple sleeveless wrap of cream satin, with a fitted bodice and heavy drape from the waist down. It would have been beautiful on anyone, but on her it was particularly gorgeous because she had a body so sarcastically hot, I wouldn’t be surprised if MATTEL was stamped on her spray-tanned ass.
But, as she stood on the bridal stage looking at her perfection from all angles in a triptych mirror, her little bow mouth turned down at the edges.
“What’s wrong?” her maid of honor, Wendy something, asked.
“I’m so fat.” Mindy raked a mean glance over her own image and took a small, wavering breath.
I exchanged a look with Becca, my right hand at the shop—a harried mother of three boys under eight and who had little patience for foolishness or b.s.—and she was clearly trying not to laugh.
“No, you’re not.” Wendy hurried over to her and put her arms around her. “You are so beautiful. Do we really need to go over this again? You were the homecoming queen two years in a row, which you know never happens, you won Junior Miss Virginia a year younger than anyone ever did before, and then your boss, who everyone thought was so handsome, fell for you and took you out of the office and gave you that gorgeous ring!” She lifted Mindy’s limp left hand—which must have taken some muscle, given the size of the rock on it—and tipped it so the facets dazzled under the light. “You have a charmed life.”
Mindy looked at her friend with big, liquid blue eyes, her lip trembling ever so slightly. “You’re just saying that. He’s going to realize I’m a fatty and dump me.”
I hoped he’d realize she was a manipulator and dump her, but both eventualities seemed to have the same zero likelihood.
“Do we need to let the waistline out some?” I asked helpfully.
Her response was predictable. She turned a sharp eye on me (actually her friend did too; she h
ad a better fiancé and a better best friend than she might have deserved) and said, “No, I don’t need you to let it out. It fits fine. For now. But I’m just worried about what’s going to happen.” She looked down at the floor and I wondered if she used Latisse or something like that to make her lashes so long and dark.
Honestly, she knew all her angles, knew just how to look her most fetchingly attractive no matter what she was griping about and who was viewing her.
I wanted to tell her I could elasticize the waist, but she knew I was on to her, and that would have been unprofessionally obnoxious, so I held back.
Business had been somewhat rough lately and I couldn’t afford to alienate any customers, not even ones who popped in to buy a single pair of silk stockings.
Talk of the Gown was the only job I’d ever had, and all of my money was tied up in it. If it failed … well, I didn’t know what I’d do. I couldn’t bear to think of it.
The bells over the door tinkled, and we all looked at the tall, dark, slightly funny-looking man who walked in. I mean, I’m sorry to say it, but it was true. His lips were a little too bubble-ish for a man, and his nose seemed like it was placed slightly too far to the left.
But his bank account was, I imagine, a very beautiful thing to behold. He walked with the swagger of a man who’d never had to care much how he looked.
“Oh, thank goodness Lee’s here,” Wendy cooed.
“No!” Mindy shrieked. “He can’t see me in my dress! Close your eyes, Lee!”
He stopped and made a show of putting his hand over his eyes.
Becca took a shawl over to Mindy and she covered herself with it, at least enough so that he couldn’t see more than a peek of satin at the bottom, and there was no giveaway in that, almost anyone expects a wedding dress to be made of fabric something like that.
“Can I look?” he boomed.
“Yes, but not too closely,” Mindy cooed.
He took his hand off his eyes and Wendy immediately said, “Lee, please tell Mindy she’s not fat!”
Lee furrowed his brow. “Fat? That’s crazy.”
Chose the Wrong Guy, Gave Him the Wrong Finger Page 4