by Laura Briggs
“It’s not funny, Ama,” Natalie snapped. “This is the only decision Nadia’s made on her dress to date, the fabric she wanted. We spent three days looking at swatches, she took the book home before she picked this one, and we tried three different places until we located one that claimed to have it in stock. It took me forever to locate this vendor. This stuff is not the monumental decision I slaved over. It’s a… a sheep slumber party.” She snorted with anger.
“So it’s a mistake,” said Ama reassuringly. “We’ll send it back. Just like the party supplies. And they’ll send you a new bolt of fabric.”
“Fantastic—if this wasn’t the warehouse’s last six yards,” said Natalie. “I told you that this particular satin weave was discontinued. Something about the company’s hand-dyed satin being made by an eighty-five-year-old artist who’s retiring.” She tossed the receipt into the box, where it drifted over a sheep snuggling a teddy bear.
The tiny snowflake ornament frames had been irreplaceable, even after an exhaustive search by Tessa, so Nadia had chosen a substitute in the form of silver sacks filled with shiny winter blue and white candies. Tessa was still trying to find a way to hang them attractively from the branches of the flocked Christmas tree they had already purchased for the foyer, where the guest favors were originally intended for display.
“Maybe you can still find some secondhand rolls,” suggested Ama. “Try some of the online auction sites. It couldn’t hurt.”
“Why couldn’t I have persuaded Nadia to pick something else?” said Natalie. She was mentally kicking herself for being the latest victim of this wedding’s curse.
Natalie spent the rest of the day phoning every fabric supplier and warehouse she had ever met through Kandace’s Kreations. Most of them didn’t have anything remotely comparable, even the most exclusive website whose fabrics Kandace could never afford for her bizarre designs.
“Thanks anyway, Wanda.” Natalie hung up the phone after her latest try, and returned to scouring the web. Lots of beautiful fabrics were available, with more than one tempting Natalie from purely a designer’s standpoint. Exactly the kind of soft, rich material she had longed to sew with when Kandace was still obsessed with scratchy Lycra made from metallic threads and eighties synthetics.
What would it be like to see quality fabrics like these transformed into her designs… and, hypothetically, walking the runway at a show like the December fashion revue? Cal was forever telling her that she was good enough to create her own line of garments, but he was her friend and one of those supportive people who would always say nice things. As for her family and oldest friends, they did their best to be supportive, and more than one loved what she had sewn for them, but she knew that fashion design wasn’t a subject any of them followed with interest… except for maybe one person, whose opinion Natalie wasn’t dying to hear.
She clicked on a website specializing in wedding fabrics, as her phone rang. It was her brother’s number on the screen, and Natalie rolled her eyes in anticipation of whatever favor Rob was asking.
“What?” she said. “I’m working, Rob, so it had better be good.”
“Bad, actually. I have to bail on Uncle Guido this weekend. I can’t help with the Christmas pasta, because I’ve got a training seminar upstate.”
“Let me get this straight: you’re spending this weekend putting out fake forest fires, and you need me to cover for you with our family. The way I did last year when you had to study for your promotion, and the Thanksgiving before, when you couldn’t help with pies because your friend Tony had a bachelor’s party in Vegas—”
“Are you going to recount all my wrongs?” said Rob. “Please, Nat. It’s just a couple hours on Sunday afternoon, a little spinach ravioli. You could do it in your sleep.”
“Yeah, and so could you.” She clicked on a bolt of fabric, experiencing disappointment as she studied its close-up on the webpage. Poor quality—she could see that much.
“Just help me out, sis. You’re the best, and you know it. I’ll owe you one, and you know how much you love that.”
“You want to do something for me?” replied Natalie, cradling the phone with one shoulder as she typed. “Then get Brayden to change that ring tone on his phone.” She clicked the mouse on a new selection.
“What? Are you serious?”
“I am. It’s creepy and weird, Rob. I’m uncomfortable knowing that’s what he thinks of when my number comes up on his phone.” Not that it ever did, but that wasn’t the point. Natalie’s tone was firm on this issue regarding Brayden’s lovelorn gesture.
“Lighten up, Nat,” said Rob with a dismissive snort.
“Seriously? I’m not joking, Rob. It weirded me out.”
“Have a heart, Natalie,” he answered. “It’s not that weird, you know. Trust me, every guy on the planet has a fantasy at some point about a girl he can’t get, and thinks about her when he hears some mushy love song. So Brayden’s fantasy has just lasted a little longer than the rest, that’s all. You don’t have to make him feel like it’s a crime or something to have a crush on you.”
“I still don’t like it,” said Natalie, who was uncomfortable discussing it, although she couldn’t pinpoint the reasons why specifically. It wasn’t as if any of this was news to her, the idea that Brayden had feelings for her, as Rob would undoubtedly point out any second from now. Or that he had probably fantasized about kissing her, either. Why be frustrated because an awkward moment revealed that Brayden thought of her whenever some sentimental eighties pop hit played on the radio?
“Go easy on him,” said Rob. “At least he’s a nice guy, Nat. Some creep or jerk could be pining for you instead—especially after some of the guys you’ve dated. Just think about what good taste he shows by picking you as his dream girl.”
“Funny.” Nat’s voice was now sarcastic. “So, you’ll be having fun with Uncle Guido on Sunday, right?”
“Nat, please. Come on. Look, I’ll give you my frequent flyer miles for your next vacation—I’ll babysit your apartment next time you’re out of town. Anything, just give me a break this time.”
She sighed. “Fine. Sunday it is.” She hung up the phone, then remembered that Sunday was her birthday. Not that she had plans yet, but her potential plans had not included spending yet another weekend working at the bakery, either.
Terrific. Thanks to Rob, she was roped into holiday cooking duty once again, only this time rolling tiny little pasta bites for her family’s Christmas Eve dinner instead of baking Thanksgiving pies. At least she still had the promise of the handsome guy from the cafe, Chad, of a new Ecuadorian restaurant and a movie this week, and maybe he would like to make plans to see her on the evening of her birthday too… and maybe there would be time for a little piece of chocolate cake, then, since Brayden was right about her love for it.
Not that she wanted to give him credit for remembering that fact about her birthdays, after twelve years since her last real party. And she still had to find a way to make him delete that song from her number. Anything else would be better, she thought. Well, maybe not anything, given the number of songs about love, pining, and romantic dreams. How about something generic, safe, and a little bit depressing—say, Beethoven’s Fifth?
Twelve
“So you hit a bad patch,” said Bill, Tessa’s friend and former boss. “It happens to everybody, Tessa. Deal with it. It’s part of being a business owner. I thought you would have figured that out a long time ago.”
“I thought so, too,” said Tessa gloomily. “But everything’s going wrong, Bill. It isn’t just the little things, it’s the big things too. If I fail, this is big time. You know what I mean.”
“Turn the music off,” said Bill. “The businesses along here have complained the last couple of times that it’s too loud.”
With a sigh, Tessa switched off the soundtrack playing through the dachshund-in-a-bun truck’s topmost speaker—the music box version of ‘How Much is that Doggy in the Window?’ now dwindled to silenc
e as Party 2 Go’s vehicle turned onto the party supply shop’s lane.
All of this felt eerily familiar to Tessa, who had spent years mopping up soda spills and donning a terrible T-Rex costume for Bill’s birthday planning service before she found the nerve—and resources—to launch her own business. She would never forget the catalyst for taking that crazy career leap into the unknown: a humiliating birthday party encounter with her former childhood neighbor and college classmate Penny Newcastle. Standing before successful, stuck-up Penny in a pair of sneakers that were freshly festooned in neon icing from a dessert table mishap, the last of Tessa’s dignity had demanded a change. The rest was history, as they say… except now history was repeating itself, albeit temporarily, for Tessa to earn a little extra cash.
“You know, I can’t believe you actually agreed to help me out,” said Bill. “You seemed pretty eager to turn in your t-shirt, frankly.” He released a little chuckle. “I miss having you around, by the way. June’s a mess at picking out cakes. Tina’s got four new weird piercings, so now the kids are terrified of her when she dresses in the princess costume. Plus, that new guy Jared got busted for selling homemade wine out of the trunk of his car, so that’s a huge headache for us right now.”
“I feel your pain,” grunted Tessa. She winced a little as she tried to ease into the only available parking spot on this narrow little street—couldn’t One Stop Warehouse rent a building somewhere less crowded in the city? Worriedly, she cast her glance in the rearview mirror again and found, as usual, that the dachshund’s camper shell bun blocked half her view.
“You must really need this money badly,” said Bill, jotting something on the balloon-decorated notepad he had removed from his pocket.
“We just have a few extra expenses this month,” said Tessa. “I needed some fast cash flow.”
Natalie believed she was doing something for Blake, of course. A tiny part of Tessa thought she might die if either of her coworkers saw her today, while she was subbing for June, sick with the flu, as if seeing her go back to Bill’s party service would signal the death knell for the Wedding Belles. Ridiculous, irrational, and somehow managing to entirely grip her mind as she eased the dachshund truck’s nose forward a halting two inches.
She shifted into park. “Remember the plastic cups,” she said. “That kid who had too much pizza at the party threw up in the emergency supply bag.”
“Plastic cups, vinyl tablecloths, paper hats. Got it.” Bill climbed out of the truck. “If the meter maid rolls by, you’ll have to move,” he said. “If you circle the block, watch out for the construction on Fourth Street.”
“Got it,” answered Tessa. She slumped lower in the driver’s seat, catching a glimpse of herself in the side mirror. The ball cap emblazoned with Party 2 Go’s logo was pulled low, and her red ponytail looked frizzy, as if hopelessness had turned her curls into a frenzied mess. There was a big glob of jelly sticking to the front of her company t-shirt.
Back where she started only four months ago. It was almost as if she had never left for her dream of planning magical wedding receptions and special ceremonies. Like the one for Nadia, that was getting botched as quickly as marshmallows turn to sludge in cocoa. Was it a terrible sign? Just when she had finally escaped the endless grind of vomit patrol, messy neon frosting, and screaming, crying birthday guests, she was behind the wheel of the same vehicle with which she had once accidentally pushed over a streetside popcorn vendor.
“What’s happening to me?” she said, speaking aloud to herself. “Do I really think we’re jinxed? Or am I just crazy?” The girl in the mirror didn’t answer her, but merely brushed aside a few crumbs from the peanut butter sandwich that the last party’s bully had hurled at her for ordering him out of the bouncy castle.
“Crazy about what?” Bill climbed into the truck, holding a paper sack from which a plastic bag of balloons was peeking.
“Nothing,” answered Tessa. “Just thinking that you really need to disinfect that T-Rex head. It smells like mold inside.”
“Kevin must’ve forgotten to spray it out last night,” said Bill.
Tessa sighed. “Why did you hire me, Bill?” she asked.
“What? Because you asked if I had a couple of gigs you could help out with. I was being nice.”
“No. I meant the first time.” She lifted her head from the steering wheel. “Why did you hire me in the first place?”
He looked thoughtful. “I dunno. You needed a job. You were way overqualified, but I thought maybe I could give you a break. There wasn’t much for you to do that would use your degree, but it was better than nothing at all.” He chuckled. “I guess it didn’t work out too well, did it? I kept forgetting to give you things to do, like pick out cakes or party favors.”
“Other things got in the way,” said Tessa. She had mellowed a little in her long-held grudge against Bill for always letting June have those prime opportunities—it wasn’t as if he had taken her on to give her career ambitions a boost, was it? “You couldn’t help it. You probably saved me from a life in retail.”
Bill noticed Tessa’s glum expression, and reached over and patted her arm. “Hard times pass, Tess,” he said. “You know, when I first started out in this business, I was on the verge of failure myself.”
“You were?”
“Yup. First month, I had two parties total. I had to hock the cool party dog sign I bought for the truck just to cover the truck’s payment. Second customer stiffed me on the payment because he forgot to tell me his kid was allergic to strawberries, and there were some in the fruit cups. It was only me back then, cutting all those little Jell-O shapes and trying to frost dinosaur cupcakes.”
“I knew you started it alone,” said Tessa. “I didn’t know your first few parties had been so awful.”
“So see? Tough it out. It gets better,” said Bill. “You’ll figure out what you need to do to make it work.”
“Okay. Maybe you have a point.” Tessa managed a tiny smile and a shrug of improved confidence as she turned the key in the ignition again. “I’m probably being too dramatic and too worried this early in the game.”
“And if something goes wrong, you can always come back to work for me,” said Bill.
“You really know how to suck the mood out of a person, Bill.” Tessa eased the dachshund’s rear slowly away from the bumper of an expensive Mercedes parked beside them. If she came back to Bill, would he remember to ask her to pick up the cakes? Or would he stick with June’s taste in neon frosting and gummy fillings?”
“Just trying to give you a safety net.” Bill checked his list. “Make a left on Maple. The Phelps kid’s party is almost over and we have to pack up the inflatable dinosaurs and the indoor mini golf stuff. I hope nobody put a golf ball through anything, because I’m sick of having to explain that liability clause to customers.”
Tessa shifted the gears into forward and attempted to navigate her way out of the parking space while avoiding the front fender of the tiny car on the other side of her, nearly invisible in the mirror thanks to the hotdog’s nose. That car would crush like a pile of empty aluminum cans if she hit it.
She pushed the truck’s gears into reverse after the dog’s tail eased its way into the narrow street without traffic, and an empty parking space on the opposite side. The gas pedal gave an extra jet of fuel when she tapped it with more force than she intended, and the tail of the dog narrowly missed the tiny car’s headlamp in the neighboring spot to scrape against a light pole on the sidewalk instead.
A scrunching, crunching metal squeal. Tessa slammed on the brakes and pulled forward again hastily. The slam of brakes that followed jerked both passengers forward roughly. In the mirror, Tessa could see the tip of the dog’s tail now dangling from the rest of it, and a streak of reddish-brown paint on the streetlamp’s pole.
A long sigh from her former boss. “Good job,” said Bill dryly. “Here I was, afraid that denting the dog’s nose would be enough for your career.”
Te
ssa turned off the ignition and unfastened her seat belt. “You drive,” she said.
Several hours later, Tessa pulled up outside a residential house with a lawn surrounded by iron fencing—in a car borrowed from a friend and not the hotdog mobile, since she had vowed to herself that today would be the last time she would ever again drive it.
Peeling off her old ball cap, she stuffed it and her cleaner’s apron in the trunk of the car. She zipped her old canvas coat over her shirt to hide the jelly stains that had seeped through it, and the ones on the thigh of her jeans, and made an attempt to smooth her frizzy hair. Drawing a deep breath, she checked the result with a glance in the side mirror, and tried not to feel too disappointed by it.
Blake’s renovation project was even more magnificent in reality, despite the scaffolding along the outside where it was being repainted, the chimney work in progress, and the construction work trucks crowded together outside its gate. There was an elaborately carved bookcase face and a beautiful walnut buffet partly covered by a tarp loaded in the back of one of them, which Tessa recognized as Blake’s from its dents. As she approached the front gate she saw his worn red-painted metal toolbox in the back, and the familiar Skilsaw with flecks of white paint dotting its blade’s safety guard.
Three workers were busy removing a ladder from the house’s interior as Tessa ducked past them and inside the house itself. This was clearly a different kind of job from the Wedding Belles’ renovation project—the elaborate chandelier, the massive carved fireplace, and the intricate crown molding all looked authentic and very nearly pristine, with the exception of a little peeling paint.
Blake was measuring the rails of the staircase, making a mark on a pad he now tucked in the back pocket of his jeans. He glanced up, seeing Tessa’s approach, and smiled. “Hey,” he said. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have big plans for your client?”
“Not today,” said Tessa. “I was just… running some errands.” She zipped her coat a little higher and pulled its hem lower, in case the grape stains were still showing. “So I thought I would stop by. I remembered the address of this place, since you showed it to me online.” It was hard to make an afternoon of wrestling Bill’s inflatable stegosauruses sound more like a day of running errands—especially if Blake was noticing the finger paint on her shoes.