by Cheryl Wyatt
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 deep. “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 brighter. 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?”
It was so far from a “win” that Greg had to choke back the first thoughts that came to mind. “Tara, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but the bridal industry isn’t like anything else in retail.”
“And you’re an expert on retail and bridal?”
Her cool rebuff put him on guard. “Not an expert, but I’ve watched my mother and her friends run this business for years, and it requires a certain level of insider knowledge. I’m a lawyer, you’re a 3-L, and we both know we don’t take classes in silk and shantung in law school.”
“Really?”
She hiked a brow his way, and something in that arched brow told him that if he was shooting pool with Tara Simonetti, she’d be pocketing the eight-ball before he got half his stripes played.
“Is your mother’s staff here?”
He grimaced and clapped a hand to the back of his neck. “No. One has eight-week-old twins—”
“Oh, I love twins!” Tara couldn’t possibly be inventing the look of joy she shot his way. “Boys, girls, or a mixed set?”
“Boys. As I was saying . . .”
“Fraternal or identical?”
He had no idea. Why would he ask that? Why would she ask that? He started to bring the question back around to the matter at hand, but she put up a hand to pause him. “So she’s out for a while, I take it.”
“Yes.”
“And who else works here?”
“Jean, she’s marvelous, but her father’s ill and she’s got to have a few weeks to take care of him. He’s a great old guy.” He shrugged because Jean’s dad had been good to him for the twelve years she worked here. No way could he begrudge her time with him, even if it left them in a lurch.
She glanced around the roomy store, puzzled. “That’s it?”
“No, of course not.” Two people could never run a thriving bridal business. The idea was ridiculous. “There’s Kathy, she’s been the assistant manager for years. She’s the greatest lady.”
“Is she in the back?” Tara moved left and peeked around a corner, then turned back with a questioning gaze.
“Norovirus.”
“Ouch. So she’s out for—”
“A couple of days, most likely.”
“Which leaves you. Unless you’ve got other employees?”
“We’re in a bind, but honestly, Miss Simonetti . . .”
“Tara.” She corrected him as she flipped her head forward and down, the mass of hair tumbling halfway to the floor. He stared as she wound it into a twist, tucked it up and under, then wove a pencil through the hair, creating an old-fashioned and very professional knot just above the nape of her neck.
And a very pret
ty neck it was.
“Greg, you don’t know me. And I’m going to bet you don’t know bridal all that well, because the minute I saw your name I recognized it. Anyone who’s followed mergers and acquisitions would realize you’ve been too busy dissecting companies to have much wedding experience yourself.”
Was that a backhanded compliment or a clever dig? He wasn’t sure. “While that’s true, I—”
A young woman appeared at the entrance and peered in through the glass.
Tara glanced toward the door. It was the stroke of ten, Saturday morning. The first customer had arrived.
She smiled and offered a challenge. “Let me have a try with this one. If it’s a total bust, you win. I’ll leave and go flip burgers to earn food money.”
“And if you do well?”
“Then we settle on wages and compensation at the end of the day.”
“Compensation? Don’t wages qualify as compensation, Tara? Because they do in the corporate world.” He said it as a challenge, but he had to admire the way she tossed the barter out there, as if she had bargaining rights.
“I was thinking along the lines of a cheesesteak from Sonny’s and a Rita’s frozen ice. I’m planning to be hungry by five.”
She turned and greeted the first bridal group as they stepped through the inner door. Taking her jacket and theirs, she hung them in the closet to the far left. She let him enter the bride’s information into the computerized system while she walked around the cavernous bridal room to his right.
She slipped on a pair of dark-rimmed glasses as she surveyed the displays, and his heart about fell out of his chest.
The tucked-up hair, well-done makeup, and “I’m-smarter-than-you-thought” glasses made him draw a deep breath.
She said she was a 3-L, a third-year law student across town at Temple. That meant she’d be leaving in a few months, going back to wherever she came from, her law degree in hand. But if looks could sell wedding gowns?
Tara Simonetti would get a solid commission check come February.
The story continues in All Dressed Up in Love by Ruth Logan Herne . . .