by Cindy Kirk
He hugged her securely enough to assure her he was never letting her go.
“She’ll never believe this, Colin.” Flora glowed from a Maldives island tan and treasured time with Pete on their honeymoon. Colin couldn’t wait to whisk his own bride to Komandoo. “I hope she says yes.” He was terrified she wouldn’t—and glad she hadn’t asked questions when he called her after a catering event to say she should meet him at her house. Del and the teens had just arrived, barely ahead of Meadow’s probable arrival.
“She will. Right from the ER gurney.” Flora smirked.
He turned. “Why would you say that?”
“Because she’s going to faint when she figures out you single-handedly fixed all this food without burning down her brand-new catering kitchen.”
“Ha-ha.” He heard a car pull up. Excitement surged. “Everyone hide! She’s here.”
Del flicked lights off in Meadow’s new kitchen. The one she’d dreamed about, not the one she thought she’d settled for. Colin’s home across the street could be theirs together, her cottage the catering business. If she said yes, that is.
Seconds later Meadow stepped through the door to a chorus of, “Surprise!”
She blinked. Teared up. Sought Colin’s face. “A party? For me?”
“Yes.” He met her and motioned around the room to her family and friends, teen waitstaff, design and chef school pals, business colleagues, catering clients, and even former high school classmates—all crammed into her kitchen.
“How’d you get all these people here?”
“Sent invitations.”
“And they wanted to come?”
“Most people change for the better when they grow up, but you’ve isolated yourself so long you couldn’t see it.”
As the crowd moved into other parts of the house, Meadow seemed to nearly faint at the sight of her dream kitchen, understanding now why he had kept her out so long. After giving her the grand tour, time to gush over it, and a chance to greet everyone, Colin left the guests to Flora and led Meadow outside. Candles lit a path winding through her front yard.
When she saw where they ended, she burst out laughing. “You did not.”
Two snow people, man and lady, stood side by side. “Colin, really? A snow couple?”
He inched her sideways. Little snow people nestled between the two larger ones. The hole she’d kicked into Frosty was patched up nicely. It had been so cold the whole month of February that he hadn’t melted.
“What is this?”
“A big family. And a big hint.”
He reached behind the snowman and pulled out a big wooden box. “Open it.”
Meadow did so to find a nice set of Ruffoni Historia copper cookware. “Colin! These cost a fortune!”
He draped his arm around her shoulder. “Look in the little one.”
She tore the packaging away and ripped off the lid. Nested inside was a pretty set of red, white, and black damask neoprene pot holders. “They’re gorgeous,” she breathed.
“So are you. Peek inside the smallest pot holder.”
Her heart raced as she pulled the edges apart. A red velvet box greeted her gaze. She opened the container with trembling fingers. A heart-shaped solitaire winked up at her. “Oh! Oh my starch!” She held the ring under moonlight. “It sparkles like stars.”
“So do you.” He dropped to his knee. “Meadow—”
“I do! I do!”
He laughed. “I didn’t ask yet.”
“Oh, but I know you’re going to!” She squealed, grabbing his face.
Smush-cheeked, he grinned. “Glad we finally established trust.” He slipped the ring on her finger. “Be my Valentine forever, Meadow? Marry me and make a bunch of little snow angels?”
“I’d be honored.” She received his ring, his promise, his kiss.
“Wait. Who’s catering our wedding if you’re in a pristine white dress?”
“Del and the teens can handle it.”
“Meadow, you amaze me.”
“Trust me, beloved husband-to-be, I’m just getting started.”
“Hard to believe it’s been a year since your cave-in, sis.” Lake wove Meadow’s arm through his at Havenbrook Church’s entrance. She nodded beneath the archway Colin had carved for their wedding. The wood boasted purple and fuchsia flowers.
Speckles of snow remained from this winter, but unlike last February, flowers had cropped up in colorful echoes of an early spring. Warmth whispered through the trees, rustling the ringlets that framed her veil.
The music started. Her heart leaped. Lake grinned. “Ready?”
“Ready,” she breathed.
They started the famed walk down parchment she’d seen so many other brides traverse. Today it was her. She smiled at her attendant siblings, each one grinning and glisten-eyed at her approach. Even tough-skinned Skye.
Meadow’s gaze affixed on her groom. Colin’s eyes shone as Lake kissed her cheek and handed her off.
As they faced the pastor, Colin clutched her hand as tightly as he held her heart.
Thirty minutes and two sets of vows later, she knelt before the candle stand Colin had fashioned with his hands.
Her husband. Smiles erupted inside and out.
She read his special inscription. Ran her fingers across each word, knowing they stood true and would always remain.
This day, I marry my friend.
Their Valentine’s Day wedding date was etched beside the words.
Their rings reflected light from an LED cross as their fingers mingled, symbolic of good things to come. Colin held her gaze before they merged the flames from two candles into one and rose.
After a kiss that sent the church into whistling, rowdy applause, the pastor announced, “I’m honored to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Colin McGrath.”
Grinning, Colin led her outside to a gorgeous horse-drawn carriage.
“A fairy-tale ride?” She ran hands down the necks of each horse.
“Yes.” He smiled, watching her reaction as he helped her into the plush velvet seat. “With Andalusians.”
Squealing, she hugged him, unwittingly giving him access to her neck. He planted a steamy kiss there.
Cheeks scorching, she grinned but dipped her chin.
Reins in hand, he lifted her face. “No shame, Meadow. Blushing becomes you.” Lifting emerald eyes to sapphire sky, he said, “Lord, thank you for serving up the blessing of my sweetheart.”
Cheryl Wyatt writes romance with virtue. She’s a USA Today bestselling author and has earned RT Top Picks, spots #1 and #4 on her debut publisher’s Top 10 Most-Blogged-About-Books list, Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Award, Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence final, and other awards. Cheryl loves readers! Join her newsletter at www.CherylWyatt.com Facebook: CherylWyattAuthor Twitter: @cherylwyatt
To Jean, Kathy, and Donna, who welcomed me into “Bridal Hall” and made eight years of my life so much fun! God bless you, my friends! You are beloved!
Greg Elizondo stared at the daily ledger on the front desk of his mother’s bridal salon. The white leather-bound appointment book taunted him. He swallowed hard and fought the rising surge of panic.
Six appointments were due in throughout the day and no one to handle them. Six future brides, along with whatever form of friend, family, or foe they dragged through the front door with them, coming to find the dress of their dreams for that oh-so-special day. And no one but him in the store.
Panic escalated to full-bore heart attack mode.
Call some of your mother’s former employees. Someone must be able to help.
They would, too, if only they were available. They had gathered around him at the midsummer funeral, professing their love for his mother and pledging their help. And his mother’s regular employees—her “bridal team,” as she’d called them—had done a great job keeping things afloat all fall.
Then Donna delivered twins at Thanksgiving, and Jean needed time off unexpectedly to care for her sick father. Kathy was down
with the current stomach bug, and the newest bridal consultant had called in yesterday, the last day of her vacation, to give notice, saying she was staying in Louisiana to save some fish from extinction.
Who did that kind of thing, anyway?
Maybe there was somebody else. Anybody.
His mother’s 1980s Rolodex lay in the top drawer. He leafed through it, searching for familiar names. Two of them had gone south for retirement, one had passed away the previous year, and the only other name he recognized had just been put into a skilled nursing facility near Valley Forge.
Doomed by your own ineptitude. You should have taken care of this yesterday. There is no way Kathy could or should have handled this on her own, so blaming the norovirus doesn’t get you out of the hot seat. At this point, you deserve what you get.
His fingers went numb. His head ached. He could handle boardrooms filled with Armani-clad executives. Toss him into dinner gigs staffed by tuxedo-wearing waiters who faded into the background while taking particular care to be attentive, and he’d be totally on his game.
But this?
Mermaid gowns with laser-cut lace? Dresses suited for a medieval drawing room with acres of organza? He wasn’t even sure what organza was, but he was pretty sure he hated it by default.
Satin-filled walls pressed in on him as the clock ticked on.
Why did Donna Martin have to go and have twins, anyway? Wasn’t the world populated enough?
With less angst than he was feeling right now, he had faced down oppositional executives and told them that his law firm was about to take over their company, slice it up, and sell it off piecemeal, like leftovers from yesterday’s garage sale. Nothing fazed him. Nothing but . . . well, but this.
The bridal team hadn’t listed phone numbers next to the names in the appointment ledger. If they had, he’d call these women, apologize profusely, and lock the doors on Elena’s Bridal forever. Except that doing so would break his heart.
If he had a heart . . .
He must have one somewhere, because it ached when he thought of his mother, the time he missed, the long weeks he barely saw her, even though they lived in the same quadrant of the city. His corporate ladder-climbing kept him forward focused, but now she was gone, unexpectedly, and there was no more time.
There were no more chances. He was surrounded by the business she spent thirty years developing after his father took off with a long-legged blonde. From three days shy of his fourth birthday, it had been him and his mother, taking on life side by side.
And now it was just him. What could be more distressing than shutting down? How could he even consider ruining thirty years of all her hard work in six short months? He hauled in a deep breath and checked the book again.
Yup. Still six brides scheduled for their initial appointments, a day his mother referred to as “feast or famine.” Shopping for a gown either brought folks together or ripped them apart.
Great.
He stood and squared his shoulders. He could do this. He needed to do this.
He didn’t have to dress the women. Their friends or sisters or mothers could do that. Worst-case scenario, they could dress themselves, right? The sight of an alterations room at the end of the right-hand hallway gave him an idea. He’d call the seamstresses and see if any of them were available to help.
No one answered. He left messages for all three, hoping someone would hear his plea and take pity on him. Having one of those talented alterations women on hand would be a huge help, but if none of them came through, he needed a Plan B.
What would his mother do?
He didn’t have to think twice. If Maria Elena Elizondo were here, she would do it herself. Her example had trained him to handle whatever came his way. Today was no different, but it was a whole lot lonelier.
So that was it. He would show the brides and their entourages through the store, let them pick out what they wanted to try on, then guide them through the sales process.
Could it be that simple?
Common sense said no. If selling a wedding gown were that cut and dried, why did his mother list follow-up phone calls as part of her training manual? With hundreds of gorgeous designer gowns to pick from, didn’t women usually just find one that looked great, plunk down their debit card, and leave?
Fittings and alterations. Hems. Veils. Tiaras. Jewelry. Shoes. Hosiery, hoops, petticoats . . .
His mother’s checklist went on to undergarments he didn’t know existed.
The panic re-spiraled. In twenty minutes the store would open, the first January appointment would walk through the door, and he’d be toast. And once word got around that Elena’s Bridal had no help, online reviews would tank and he’d be putting a For Sale sign in the front window.
So much for all his mother’s hard work. Everything he needed in life—everything he was—had come from this shop. Parochial school. Holy Ghost Prep. The University of Pennsylvania. Harvard Law.
His mother had gone the distance for him, working night and day, never a word of complaint. Losing her suddenly was bad enough, but ruining her hard-won business because he was clueless?
That would cost a bunch of jobs. No one wanted to be jobless in Philadelphia right now. Not in today’s tough economy.
So the economy is your fault? Don’t you have enough to do with the Weatherly merger? If you want a job alongside the heavy hitters in Manhattan, focus on what you do best: dissecting inept companies and selling them for parts.
A sharp rap on the front glass snagged his attention.
A young woman stood there, tapping her keys against the glass. A customer? He glanced back at the book and caught a glimpse of a name: Jasmine. It had to be, right?
He stared, spellbound, wondering why she was so early. He started to point up to the clock, then realized that was a horrible way to do business and went to the door. He unlocked it, swung it open, and leaned out. “We’re not open yet. Sorry. But would you like to wait inside?” He added the last as a gust of arctic-cold January wind swept down the narrow side street filled with rustic-looking shops. “It’s really cold out here.”
She stepped in, glanced around, then turned his way, expectant.
“Are you Jasmine?”
She frowned, shook her head, and pulled down the scarf she had tucked and wrapped around her collar. Honey-brown curls spilled forth, a lot of them, like in one of those shampoo commercials that promised the best hair ever if you bought the product. Whatever product she used, worked, because this woman had the best hair ever.
“I’m Tara. Tara Simonetti.”
He frowned. There was no Tara Simonetti in the book. “Are you meeting a bride here, Miss Simonetti?”
She looked startled, then laughed and shrugged out of her coat. She tossed the coat and scarf on one of the chairs inside the door, turned, and stared at the bridal room beyond him.
“Whatever I do from this moment forward, please don’t hold against me.” Reverence marked her gaze and words as she swept the racks of gowns with a long, slow, almost comical look of appreciation. “I’m in heaven.”
She moved forward, and Greg wasn’t sure if he should call the police or a mental health facility. The look in her eyes said she was about to go ballistic. And if there was one thing Greg Elizondo purposely avoided, it was women who went ballistic.
You’re in a bridal store, buddy. Trust me. It happens.
He brushed the internal warning aside and started to move forward, but then she turned, shoved her hands into her pockets, and breathed deeply. “Are you the owner?”
“Not intentionally, but yes.” A jab of pain struck his midsection. “I am. Greg Elizondo. This was my mother’s shop.”
“Your mother?” Tara stopped. A look of realization passed over her face, a very pretty face, alive with emotions. Bold eyebrows, strong and sharply etched. The mass of hair framed a slightly squared face that seemed perfect for her. Golden-brown eyes that would have matched her hair, except for the points of ivory making them brigh
ter. A generous mouth for her petite face, and she wasn’t afraid to use just enough makeup to enhance features that didn’t need embellishment.
“Is she gone?”
He nodded, still unable to say the words out loud. No one should just up and die suddenly in their midfifties, before they had the joy of retirement and the fun of bouncing a grandchild or two on their knees. But the unexpected cardiac arrest said otherwise, and the admission made his throat grow tight. “Yes. Last summer. It was sudden.”
“Oh. I’m so very sorry.”
She looked sorry. Her face, her gaze, the way she reached out a hand to his arm, as if his mother had meant something to her. She hadn’t, of course, but still, the sincerity of the emotion seemed nice.
“Is that why you need help, Greg?”
He stared, perplexed.
She crossed to the chair and withdrew a sheet of paper from her coat pocket. Suddenly things began to look clearer. “The ‘Help Wanted’ flyer I posted in the commons area at Temple.”
“Which has now been taken down because the minute I saw it, I knew I wanted this job.”
Relief flooded him. “You’ve got experience in bridal, Tara?”
“Doesn’t every girl?” She laughed, eyes bright. “Barbie 101. I could dress her and Ken with the best of them.”
“So . . . you don’t have experience.” He’d been almost hopeful for just a minute.
“Not hands on, as yet. But here’s hoping that will change.” She flicked a sunny glance around the broad, open shop where white walls met natural wood in a calming effect of neutrality. “I’ve always wanted to work in a bridal shop, but I’m from a tiny northern Pennsylvania town and there was nothing like that there. I’m in my third year of law school doing work I could have completed my second year without breaking a sweat, and my student loans and grants have been sliced and diced by federal budget cuts. On top of that, I have a great appreciation for regular meals. Working here will give me the taste of bridal I crave, the hands-on experience of working with fabric, and the added bonus of food money. Total win, right?”