by Amanda Tru
“I still say it’s an unprofitable discussion,” Miss Stella said to no one and everyone at once. “I’d much rather learn how many guests we’ll be expected to invite, or if Lara has chosen a caterer yet.”
“We’ve been engaged for approximately sixty-hours. How could she possibly know the answer to either of those? She’s only just reserved the church and…” He gave her a questioning look. “What do you call where we’ll be hosting the reception?”
How did I never realize that you look exactly like a Ken doll? When his lips moved, Lara managed to tune into the table frequency quickly enough to realize he’d repeated himself. “Oh, sorry. Thinking about… things. Um, we’ll be having the reception in the fellowship hall. It’s a beautiful room they designed just for weddings and things—lovely, open beams if you prefer a rustic look, but everything painted white to keep it elegant and neutral. It’s large enough to accommodate everyone in the church plus some.”
A plate of chimichurri-covered steak was placed before her, and once more, Lara wondered what had happened. Her salad plate, only half-finished, was gone. “Oh! It looks amazing. Filet?”
Preston leaned forward, “It’s a maitake steak. We don’t eat beef.”
“Meat. Right. Forgot.” Impressive self-control, if she did say so herself, helped Lara repress the crazy temptation to add, “I guess it’s lamb, then.” They’ve probably never seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding and wouldn’t know it was just a joke. I’d offend them. I don’t want to do that.
That decided, Lara tapped the sauce drizzled over the whole thing with the tip of her fork and tried to determine if it would be spicier than she could manage or not.
“It’s barbecue sauce,” Preston murmured. “It adds just a touch of tang. You’ll love it.”
Roasted asparagus and potatoes rounded out an unexpectedly delicious “steak.” Lara rhapsodized over it all until she’d embarrassed herself, and still, her mouth wouldn’t cooperate and shut itself. It began with wishing her chef would consider more serious vegetarian meal options and ended with gushing over the need to learn to cook vegetarian meals.
Miss Stella just… was it smiled? Lara couldn’t be sure. It might have been a honey-dipped grimace, as only a Southern mama can bestow. In fact, the more she thought of it, the more convinced Lara became that she’d actually received a scowl fried in a vat of bless-your-heart.
At least that mental tangent immobilized my tongue.
Not for the first time that week, Lara then whacked her water glass with her ring, and the resulting ting sounded twice as loud as ever. “I’m so sorry. I keep doing that. I’m not used to it yet.”
A grunt from Mr. St. James caught Lara’s attention as a silent exchange passed between Preston and his father. This time, Mr. St. James cleared his throat. “Well, things like that are designed to attract attention.”
“Preston!”
Miss Stella’s protest had been directed at Mr. St. James, causing Lara to realize that her Preston was a junior. “So you were named for your father?”
“Yes… and grandfather… and great grandfather. I’m the fourth.”
Dessert appeared, and this time Lara gripped her plate before it could be removed. “I’d like to finish, please.”
A piercing gaze from Mr. St. James almost made her rescind the request, but the stony face—a Mark Harmon semi-lookalike in an oxford shirt with rolled-up sleeves—rearranged into a picture of approval. “A girl who isn’t afraid to eat. That’s an improvement.”
She stole a glance at Preston and found him staring into his dessert plate—cheesecake with a couple of fresh raspberries and lemon zest on top. He’d just picked up his fork with the air of one who had an unpleasant duty to perform when it occurred to her that cheesecake wasn’t vegan. The St. Jameses were.
“Is this…” It seemed almost a foodist’s sacrilege to say it, but she did. “—tofu cheesecake?”
Preston snickered and dove in with much more relish than he’d shown a moment before. “No. No tofu was harmed in the making of this confection. Try it. You’ll love it.”
A glance at Miss Stella and Mr. St. James showed them with amused smirks lingering around their mouths—even full of cheesecake bites. “Oh. So… you’re not vegan, just vegetarian?”
“Our son isn’t vegan,” Miss Stella admitted. “But we are. This is coconut yogurt cheesecake. The crust is made of Medjool dates and walnuts. The coconut yogurt is made from probiotic capsules and coconut milk.” The entire recipe followed, but Lara didn’t hear a word.
Instead, she tucked into her plate, ate every bite of everything served, thanked her hosts for the delicious meal and the kind welcome to the family—she’d repent of that lie later as well—and rode home in silence.
Preston led her to her door and held an umbrella over her as she unlocked it. There, with rain pelting the covering with a persistence that once only belonged to door-to-door salesmen, he pulled her close. It wasn’t the first time he’d managed to mesmerize her with his lips, and Lara prayed it wouldn’t be the last.
Once he’d gone, and once she regained coherence, Lara did the only sane thing possible. She pulled a frozen, double-pepperoni pizza from the freezer and popped it in the oven before she pulled out her wedding planner and began filling in her side of the guest list. I’d better keep my invites to a minimum. People like that will be cutting their bare-bones list by two-thirds as it is.
February skedaddled out of March’s path and disappeared in a whirl of arrangements and decisions. March roared its way through half the month before Lara’s scheduled trip home to Crossroads arrived. Next on the seemingly endless list of wedding responsibilities? Dress shopping with Brenna. It had taken Lara, Ty, Mitchell, and Lauren to convince Brenna to go, but once it was decided, even she seemed excited about the trip.
Until the morning they left, that is.
They’d made it almost to the parking “carriage houses” where Lara’s car was stored when Brenna remembered yet another thing she needed to tell Lauren and Mitchell. “I’d better run back and make sure Lauren knows how to—”
“If she doesn’t, Mitchell will. Just call. We’ve got to go, or we’ll miss our flight.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t go… You don’t really need me. I—”
Between grumbles about New Cheltenham and its anti-car rules, Lara bullied Brenna into her car, stowed their luggage, and pulled out of the row of carriage house and onto the road leading from New Cheltenham. I think we need to be sure Brenna gets away more often. This is insanity.
The insanity continued as they pulled onto the highway, zipped onto the Rockland loop, exited at the travel hub, and all the way up to the gate. Even as Brenna took her seat, she remembered that Lauren had a letter overdue. “Aunt (gimme) Mercy will pitch a fit if that doesn’t come, and soon.”
“She can—wait. Aunt ‘gimme’ Mercy? You really call her that all the time? When you said that last time, I thought it was just an exasperating day.”
“Oh, no. It’s a thing. And she’s the one who coined it— for her aunt.”
Only when she heard Brenna talking again—and not to her—did Lara realize that Brenna had called home. In an, “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em” move, Lara pulled out her phone and sent Preston a text.
Just about to take off. Next stop, home, and all things bridal. Are you sure you don’t mind yellow bridesmaid’s dresses?
A reply dinged just as the flight attendant announced that cellphones would have to be powered down or put in airplane mode. I want you happy. If yellow makes you happy, then those are what I want.
She passed the phone to Brenna. “My dad will ask why I want to marry a guy like Preston. Remind me of that. If only my parents cared so much about my happiness.”
Brenna said nothing as the flight attendants finished their safety speeches and they’d taxied onto the runway. The engines roared with rushing air as the pilots sent them speeding down the runway. But just at liftoff, she spoke. “Well, there’s a big
difference between a guy saying, ‘I don’t care what color dresses are’ and the person your daughter has given her heart to. If they have concerns, it’s not because they don’t care about your happiness, but because they do.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. They care about their ‘principles’ far more than the people in their lives. Trust me.” The bitterness in her words pricked her conscience. “I’m making them sound horrible,” she said after a moment’s reflection. “They aren’t—except when it comes to people with money. Then they’re unreasonable. If you aren’t union, or if you are wealthy, then you’re the enemy.”
Brenna shifted to look at her closer. “And… what about you? You’re not union.”
“No, but ironically, my employer pays me enough and gives me good enough working conditions to satisfy them… for now.”
“Sounds like a double standard to me.”
There, Lara sank back against the cushions and sighed. “Yep. That’s about right.”
As Lara drove through Crossroads, they passed Snow White Bridal on the way through town, so she zipped around the next corner and looped the block before coming to rest in front of the store. “Let’s just go in and confirm our appointment and see what’s in store for us tomorrow.”
Brenna did not object. She was too busy blowing up the airwaves with a flurry of text messages to assure herself that Lauren hadn’t burned down the shop or invoked the wrath of the business association in their six-hour absence. In sheer desperation, as they met at the shop door, Lara snatched Brenna’s phone from her grip and dropped it in her purse.
“If you even reach for it, I’ll put it in mine,” she added as Brenna’s fingers twitched.
“Okay, but…”
They blocked the entrance, and therefore the exit, of the store as Lara popped one hand on her hip and reached for the handle with the other. “Do you really think Mitchell wouldn’t tell you if he needed you? I mean, we’re talking Mitchell here.”
“What’s wrong with Mitchell? He’s responsible!” Brenna kept talking at Lara’s pointed stare. “What? He is. Sure, he’s a bit laid back about things that I think should be taken more seriously, but he’d never let anything… aaaand. You got me. Okay. Point taken.”
Lara winced as a giggle escaped. “Good. Let’s go look at lace and chiffon and organza and all that stuff that means something to the people who can create beauty from it.”
They hadn’t stepped two feet inside the door when a voice reached their ears. “—you want more sleeve than that. With your slender arms, perhaps a Princess Diana sleeve.”
Before Brenna could grab her arm and drag her from the store, Lara whispered, “We’re going to my friend’s side…” She pointed left, where London stood bent over the desk, only the top of a messy bun showing. “She’s an amazing designer. Deep breath. In… out…”
“So help me, if you put a butt bow on me…”
“Wouldn’t dream of it—except in my nightmares.” Mrs. Snow, the owner of Snow White Bridal, sent a look their way and Lara bolted for London’s side.
London stood with a spinet desk to her front and a large counter behind her, a cloth measuring tape draped around her neck, tablet at the ready. She’d measure the cloth on the counter, turn to type in a few things, and turn back again. Right up to the second that she glanced up and saw them. “Lara! You’re here! I’m so excited!”
In the weeks since she’d been engaged, Lara had learned the routine. First, congratulations. Second, admiration of ring. Third, “How’d you meet?” Always in that order, always with the most significant emphasis on “second” for reasons Lara couldn’t understand. London was no exception.
However, at least London’s excitement extended beyond the “rock” and to Lara’s dream dress. She reached for her sketchbook even as she asked if Lara had any ideas. “Do you know what you want or—?”
“Tomorrow,” Lara insisted. “I just wanted to show Brenna what you do. So… show us what you’re working on now.”
Out came the sketchbook. “This one is almost done. We had a tricky time getting that seamless waist with all that fullness, but it really turned out great. I’ll show you.”
The peau de soie silk gave off hints of blush pink as the light reflected off the folds. Lara’s breath caught. “I thought I knew what I wanted, but…”
“You’ll do that a dozen times tomorrow,” London warned her. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll walk out of here with the dress of your dreams. Or,” she corrected herself. “You’ll walk out of her knowing that I’ll create the dress of your dreams.”
“And Brenna?”
“Once I know what you want for yourself, I’ll have an idea of what to do for your bridesmaids but…” London gave Brenna a close study. “I have to say I really hope your dress fits the aesthetic I see for her.” To Brenna, she added, “You’ve got great style. It reminds me a little bit of…”
“Jane Marple?” Brenna tucked her purse a little closer to her side. “That’s what most people say.”
“I was thinking more of that author… the one who has such an eclectic style.”
Brenna nodded. “Alexa Hartfield. I’ve heard that one, once. I think people consider me too sedate to fit that style.”
After a few more flips through the sketchbook, London took them behind a curtain where several nearly-finished dresses hung. “I keep them in boxes until I’m just doing the finishing touches, and then I let them hang so the wrinkles can fall out as much as possible. Look at this chiffon…”
Possibilities swarmed in her mind and mingled with the memory of four ripped-out magazine pages she’d stuffed in her suitcase. Lara grabbed Brenna’s arm. “I’ve got to get out of here. Tomorrow. If I stay now, I’ll change my mind about everything.”
London’s laughter, and Mrs. Snow’s evident displeasure at the ruckus they’d caused, followed them out the door. Once behind the wheel of their rental car, Lara stared out at the snow-capped mountains beyond the town. “Well, I’ve put it off as long as I can. Next stop, home.”
She’d heard the stories all her life—how her great grandmother wrote her fiancé every day from the attack at Pearl Harbor through the duration of WWII. “Those were the longest four years of my life. Sometimes months went by without a single letter. My only consolation was that if he were missing, or worse, we’d have gotten a telegram.”
“And today, we have FaceTime. I just tap the screen…” Seconds later, Preston’s face appeared, “And voila!”
“What?”
“Talking to myself. I had to get away, so I came up to talk to you. I left Brenna down with my parents.” Guilt twisted in her gut. “I’m a horrible friend.”
As she’d hoped, Preston assured her that she wasn’t horrible, Brenna would be fine, and he needed her more than anyone else at that moment. “My mother is working on the guest list. She found this drag-and-drop program where you just type in names and then move people around until you have your list prioritized.”
“Fortunately for her, I won’t have a large list myself, so she can probably have half of it.”
His almost too-perfect face contorted into a confused look that she’d initially taken for a scowl. “But your friends in New Cheltenham!”
“Most of them have to work. They don’t even go to church together every week. So, at most, half will come—probably the women. At most.”
Leaning back in his chair, Preston gazed at her. “I miss you. I got in the car and made it to the end of the street before I realized that you wouldn’t be there.”
How was it he always knew exactly the perfect thing to say?
“I was thinking about the bridesmaid’s dresses…”
Lara’s heart sank. I knew he didn’t like yellow. I just knew it. Blue. I bet he wants blue. Somehow, she choked out, “Yes?”
“You will be sure they look well with your dress, won’t you? We wouldn’t want them to eclipse you, of course, but if they’re too unique, the effect would be ruined in pictures. Oh,�
� he added, leaning forward. “I almost forgot. Mother found the photographer she mentioned last week. If you like his work, she’ll ensure it’s booked. I’ll text you his website.”
Uncertainty churned in her gut. Should she tell him that she’d already contacted the man she wanted?
“Lara? Did you hear me?”
“Yes…” The idea of not having Wes Hartfield as her photographer filled Lara with more disappointment than she’d expected. “I’ll look at the website, of course, but I’ve already contacted the guy I was hoping to get. I saw one of his wedding portraits, and it was so original that I just had to try.”
Without blinking, Preston just reassured her that the other photographer would be there as backup if her first choice wasn’t available. “I think Mother is realizing the drawback to not having a third child—or at least having or fostering enough children to ensure a girl in there. Dad, on the other hand, thinks it’s great. He keeps saying, ‘We get all the benefit without any of the work. If you want to help, write a check, but think of all you don’t have to do.’”
She’d been curious for a long time just why he was so formal when talking to or about his mother—the very woman who didn’t want formality, no less—but he spoke casually of, “Dad.” At that moment, it occurred to her that perhaps it was something you might expect to know about your fiancé. “Why do you call her ‘Mother,’ but him just, ‘Dad’?”
That smile—it twinkled first in Preston’s eyes and eventually worked its way to his lips. “When I was a kid, I called him ‘Daddy.’ That’s what she called her parents. Mother and Daddy. But around the time I turned ten, I figured out that it wasn’t common for kids my age and gender to call their fathers ‘Daddy.’ So I shortened it.” He winked before adding, “She’s never forgiven me.”
“Do our kids have to call me ‘Mother?’ I don’t want to be so stuffy. Mom or Mommy feels more natural.”