How to Make a Wedding

by Cindy Kirk

  The middle-aged woman tugged the coat more snugly around her. “I’ll keep it. But thank you.”

  Tara led her to the area slated to become a prom display room in a few weeks. She turned, ready to ask questions about the wedding, the timing, and preferred styles, but was startled by the anguished look on the woman’s face.

  “Are you okay?” She stepped forward, unsure what to do. Mrs. Dreschler’s cheeks had paled. Her breathing caught as if she was fighting tears, and she seemed terrified, as if the twin racks of dresses might launch an attack at any moment.

  “Come here.” Tara took her arm and directed her to the nearby comfortable chair. “Sit down, breathe deep, and tell me what’s going on. I’m here to help.”

  The woman stared at her hands a few seconds, then shrugged as if conceding a long and drawn-out battle. “I had cancer a few years back.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Tara took the chair next to her and waited.

  “Breast cancer,” the woman whispered. “My insurance wouldn’t cover reconstruction, and so . . .” She winced, studying the dresses. “Nothing looks right. Nothing fits right. And the bride is a nice young woman, but she thinks I should be able to walk in here and get a suitable gown and it will be okay. And of course it won’t.”

  “Of course it will.” Tara added punch to the words with a soft call to Maisy working in the first alterations room. As Maisy strode forward in her typical take-no-prisoners style, Tara reached out a hand. “This is Maisy. Maisy, this is Mrs. Dreschler. We need your expertise to tell us which styles will work with post-surgical mastectomy, and how we can establish a normal and comfortable curve for her son’s wedding day.”

  Mrs. Dreschler stared at her, then Maisy in turn. “You can really do this? I know they sell prosthetic devices, but my skin is too sensitive after the radiation. Most days I don’t care,” she added. “My husband doesn’t care. He’s just thankful I’m alive. And my family understands, but for this occasion”—she stressed the last two words—“I want to look and feel normal. Just for one day.”

  And what did tough, drill-sergeant Maisy do? She reached right down and hauled Mrs. Dreschler out of the chair. “Toss off that coat, dearie. What size are you normally? A ten? Twelve?”

  “Twelve, yes.” The groom’s mother didn’t dare say no to Maisy. No one did. She removed the coat and draped it on the chair. Maisy gave her a once-over, then a crisp nod.

  “Good shoulders, that helps! And they cut these dresses small, a man’s choice, no doubt, utter foolishness. So let’s try some twelves and fourteens, because I can trim as needed.” She handed Tara pretty gowns in rapid-fire fashion. “This, this, this, and this. And that.” She pointed to the rack behind Tara. “And the gold too.”

  She turned back to Mrs. Dreschler. “Tara’s going to take you into my fitting room. I’ve got some wonderful ways of doing just what you want, but you’ve got to trust me to know my stuff!”

  Maisy’s take-charge attitude and self-confidence worked wonders. Mrs. Dreschler picked up her coat, laid it over her arm, and faced Tara. “Lead the way.”

  Within minutes they’d picked a flowing, blouson gown with tacked, pleated shoulders. The looser fit was perfect for the woman’s sensitive skin. With a bit of clever engineering using alteration supplies on hand, Maisy was able to build the look of a normal woman’s chest beneath the gown.

  “I don’t believe it.” Mrs. Dreschler caught sight of herself in the triple mirror and sighed. Tears filled her eyes, but they were happy tears this time. “When Mandy said you folks would help me, I thought she was being pushy. She wasn’t.” She fingered the soft pleats that allowed the top of the gown to fall stylishly, skimming instead of clinging. “This is perfect.”

  “Well, good!” Maisy beamed. “And, dearie, you look wonderful!”

  “I do.” Mrs. Dreschler’s smile of disbelief widened. “I really do.”

  Tara chatted with her as she bagged and tagged the gown, then hung it near Maisy’s sewing area for the necessary adjustments. As they approached the front, Mrs. Dreschler gave her a spontaneous hug. “Thank you.” She whispered the words, emotion clogging her voice again. “This means the world to me.”

  The past three years of study and testing and argument flashed through Tara’s mind. She’d done what she thought was right, but this—helping this woman, working at this delightful shop, surrounded by ribbons and lace—this was what felt right.

  She left Mrs. Dreschler in Kathy’s capable hands to ring up the sale, moved back to bridal, and ran smack into Greg around the corner. He caught her shoulders to keep her from falling, then didn’t let go.

  She looked up and met his gaze. Appreciation and approval brightened those big brown eyes. He flicked a glance toward the front and gave her shoulders a light squeeze. “That was a nice thing you did.”

  “Maisy, mostly.”

  His face said yes and no. “Teamwork is vital in a hands-on business like this. I don’t know much about bridal, per se, but I know business, and what you and Maisy just did was wonderful, Tara.”

  “Thank you.” She kept her eyes locked on his. Greg’s grip changed slightly, and the look on his face changed too. He glanced at her mouth as if wondering, and she had to work hard to step back, away from the growing temptation of Greg Elizondo. “Did you come to help shift things around?”

  His expression said he recognized her ploy, but his smile said they might revisit things later. The fact that she liked the idea meant she needed to keep her distance.

  “I needed measurements for the tuxedo dressing rooms and the hanging racks for displays. Then Kathy and I are interviewing people to staff the tuxedo area. I was wondering . . .”

  “Yes?” She moved toward the bridesmaids’ racks to replace gowns they’d pulled for earlier customers.

  “Can I buy you supper again tonight? After we close up? It’s been almost a week, and you must be hungry again.”

  A cozy late evening with Greg? Her heart said yes instantly. Her head reminded her why this was a really bad idea. “I should go straight home.”

  She saw his look of disappointment, and a longing washed over her. She’d love to cave and test the waters of romance with Greg, but it was a foolish idea.

  The irony of falling for an upwardly mobile lawyer pushed too many old buttons. Greg represented a side of law that struck first and asked questions later. After losing her father, she couldn’t take that lightly.

  She shook her head. “The store is booked solid tomorrow, and while Meghan’s a walking historical textbook and I’m glad you hired her, she’s technologically challenged.”

  He studied her face as she spoke, and the intensity of his gaze made her long to just say yes, to talk with him. Laugh with him. Commiserate over his losses and enjoy the gentle man living inside the tough-guy suit.

  “Understood.” Greg turned and walked up front, back to the designated tuxedo area.

  Disappointment filled her. She wanted him to convince her, talk her into going out together.

  He didn’t. He walked away, which only deepened her frustration. He started taking measurements as if inches and feet were the most important things in the world, and she went back to the bridesmaids’ gowns, wondering if she’d just blown a chance at something amazing, and knowing she didn’t dare find out.

  She wanted to say yes. Greg could tell by the look in her eyes. And still she said no. Leaving Tara to think about her refusal gave Greg time to do the same, except he was pretty sure he didn’t need time. When he wasn’t with Tara, he was thinking about Tara.

  His phone rang. He glanced at the Manhattan number and answered quickly. “Greg Elizondo.”

  “Greg, this is Marc Mitchum from the New York office. How are you?”

  His heart skipped into faster gear. He set down the tape measure and pretended to be calm, because Friday night calls from New York weren’t the norm. “Fine, sir. And you?”

  “I’m good, but I’ve got a few things to talk with you about. I know it’
s Friday, and Bert told me you’d gone home, so I hope this isn’t an intrusion.”

  Marc had been talking to one of the Philadelphia execs about Greg? Greg’s expectations escalated as Marc continued, “We’ve got an opening here in the downtown Manhattan office, and I know you were interested in being here years ago. Your résumé has come across my desk, so I’m assuming you still have your eye on New York?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good!” Mitchum’s voice pitched up. “I liked what I saw the first time around, but we weren’t looking at new grads that year. With our current updates, I’m pleased to revisit your work history.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re welcome. We’re meeting to review applications first thing on Monday. I wanted you apprised. We’ll notify candidates about interviews at some point following our initial screening.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He hung up the phone and turned. Kathy was watching him from the front desk. “Good news?”

  “New York. They’re interviewing for new positions. I’m on the list.”

  She rounded the desk and hugged him, and that made him miss his mother more. “Greg, how exciting! What you’ve always wanted, a chance to show your stuff in New York.”

  “Yes . . .”

  The moment he said it, Tara appeared in the bridal room with another customer, a bride. She was fluffing the train of a fairly inexpensive gown, and even though her commission rose based on sales figures, nothing in her manner said she wanted the bride to trade up.

  Kathy followed the direction of his gaze. “She’s such a wonderful addition to this store.”

  He nodded, unsure what to say.

  “It’s rare to meet a person that comfortable with themselves these days,” Kathy continued. “Although she absolutely hates the idea of being a lawyer, so that’s problematic because graduation isn’t far off. No offense,” she added as she bumped shoulders with him.

  “None taken. She’s got a flair for bridal.”

  “And a heart of gold.”

  And he didn’t, which made him undeserving.

  Tara’s warmth and common sense set her apart. Was that what intrigued him? Besides the bright and engaging smile, of course, and the great figure, and the skirts that swished when she walked.

  His friends would love her, but she’d take one look at his power-hungry coworkers and recognize the lack of everything except money.

  Mixed emotions filled him as he walked home later. His chance was finally coming. His years of hard work could come to fruition soon. The dream of landing an office in lower Manhattan was close . . . so close. And it wasn’t the money, although he liked to make a good living. It was the prestige of making it to the pinnacle of his field in seven years. His sacrifices were about to pay off, and unlike his father, he hadn’t surrendered a family to become successful.

  He walked two blocks, then crossed to his side of the street. A neon-colored flyer on the door of the small, storefront Christian mission stood out. Down the road, two elderly men sat huddled around a heat vent, talking, the cold, wet night offering no reprieve.

  The situation didn’t add up. Greg paused and read the notice, a jumble of pseudo-legalese that said the mission was being closed due to lease infractions. He stepped back and raised his eyes to the sign above the broad, wooden door.

  Old City Mission, est. 1987

  Nettie Johnson, director

  All are welcome

  Two churches flanked the ends of the street. Upscale housing, a small park, and high-end stores had migrated to the quaint setting of the new and improved Old City, but the mission had been a Christian mainstay for people as long as he could remember.

  He approached the two men. Heads down, they ignored him, as if eye contact put them at risk, and they were most likely right. He squatted so he wouldn’t tower over the two older men. “Guys, who closed the mission?”

  “Landlord.” One old guy spit to the side in disgust. “I expect he don’t think we’re proper clientele anymore.”

  “Nettie said she was gonna fight it, but she’s just normal folk,” added the second man. “Normal folk got no chance against money. She knows it, but she’ll do her best. And in the end, it won’t be enough.”

  Normal folk got no chance against money.

  Tara’s story came back to him, how her father’s attorney caved to the higher bidder, and he lost his fight for disability benefits. Was this what it came down to in the streets? People in dire circumstances forced onto the pavement because a landlord got a better offer?

  He’d look into it further over the weekend. He hooked a thumb left. “My car’s in the garage over there. Do you guys need a lift somewhere?”

  The men gaped, then the one with the longer beard shrugged. “Too late to get into a shelter tonight.” He looked at his companion. “We could use the bridge overhang. If Toby’s not there.”

  “Toby don’t like strangers under his part of the bridge,” the second man explained.

  “Gentlemen.” They all turned toward the voice from the nearby brick church. “Come in. Get dry. Spend the night. It’s not luxury, but you’ve got great company.” The middle-aged priest smiled toward the statues flanking the door. “And it’s warm.”

  Greg stood. He reached down to help one of the men up and realized the man was missing a limb. The other man followed the direction of his gaze. “Ollie’s a war hero, but we don’t make a lot of it, do we, Oll?”

  “Only when the whiskey’s just right,” the amputee agreed, and his words offered a quick, cryptic explanation of his plight. “Nettie gave me what for ’bout two years back, and I gave it up, but I’m willin’ to start again about now.”

  “I expect being warm and dry will help.” The priest sent Greg a smile of gratitude as the men shuffled in. “But I’ll lock up the communion wine. Just in case.”

  The old men laughed, and the priest waved to Greg and shut the church door. Greg went back down the steps and turned right.

  Lights splayed before him, leading to the bank of the Delaware River.

  American history had been born here. Nurtured here. Fed here. This land before him had housed presidents and peasants. Independence Park had seen the labors of lawyers and landowners come to pass. A new country born from the gaping wounds of intolerance.

  His mother’s guidance came back to him, an immigrant woman’s counsel spoken to a young boy with great expectations. “Dream you can, and you’re halfway there.”

  Teddy Roosevelt’s words, brief and succinct.

  Tara Simonetti embodied those words. She saw, she believed, she acted, and all with a rich kindness that made him long to be a better person. And even if he wasn’t a better person, maybe he could do something over the weekend to help Nettie Johnson and her peers hang on to their mission.

  The push of back-to-back bridal party appointments the following Saturday should have kept Tara’s mind off Greg.

  It didn’t.

  Her ears strained to catch his voice, and her eyes strayed to the front desk regularly, hoping he’d come in. By late afternoon they’d racked up significant sales and Kathy had booked twelve new appointments for the coming week. “Greg will be pleased,” she exclaimed as she finished jotting number thirteen into the book. “And we’re plenty full for our afternoon tomorrow. This is a big step in the right direction for Elena’s Bridal.”

  “Is Greg working?” Donna asked as she organized the tiara case. “I thought we’d see him today.”

  Tara pretended disinterest as she filed the hard copy of each bridal party’s sales folder.

  “I expect he’s hunkered down, doing lawyer stuff,” Kathy noted. “He got a call from New York last week. He’s made the short list for a major opening there, and we know that’s been his dream from the get-go.”

  Tara’s fantasy ending dissolved.

  Greg was a ladder climber. He was driven. And while she liked his strength and aptitude, success at any cost went against everything she believed in. S
he’d taken up law for the exact opposite reason.

  And you hate it.

  She retracted the thought immediately. Hate was too strong a word. She put two sold gowns on the ironing rack and let her hand trail along the lace edge of the nearest one.

  She loved this. Who would have thought her heart’s desire lay in helping women plan for the least stressful, most perfect wedding day possible?

  “You’re quiet today, Tara.” Kathy exchanged a look with Donna. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” She aimed a bright smile their way, but their expressions said they weren’t fooled, so she kept the subject on business as usual. “Meghan offered to do the decorating for the reopening. I was thinking of ways I can help her get it done.”

  “She’s got flair, that’s for sure,” Jean offered as she came up front. “I’ve got a growing list of reception venues, caterers, rental companies, bakeries, florists, photographers, and linen providers who’ve accepted the invitations. That’s the makings of a great kickoff party.”

  “We’re going to build Meghan’s historical display on Monday in that front corner.” Tara pointed left. “Unless someone else had their eye on it.”

  “All yours,” Donna replied. “Her sketch is a showstopper. That corner is the perfect place to spotlight it.”

  “They’ll be installing new tuxedo racks while you’re building a medieval forest.” Kathy smiled. “Elena would love this.”

  “She would,” Donna agreed. “And with every change we make, I miss her more.”

  “Was she nice?” Tara turned toward Donna and Kathy. “Like Greg?”

  “She was far nicer than I could ever hope to be.”

  Tara turned, surprised. “I didn’t know you were here.” She touched a hand to her collar, embarrassed because she’d been looking for him all week, and of course he came in the minute she started asking about him.

  “Well.” He extended his hands. “I am here. I’ve been working extra this week, but I’ve got some time now, so I’m going to rough in those tuxedo rooms tonight. That way the drywall guy can finish them on Monday. And yes, my mother was one of the nicest women you’d ever meet. I’ve always been more like my father.”