Which admittedly, was way bigger than Lisa’s size.
“All right,” Greer said. “But if I win, the offer still stands, and I’m sorry you can’t take me up on it,” she told Lisa.
Henny reappeared. “Is everything all right?”
“Fine,” said Greer.
“We were just discussing,” Serena said, “the best way to make sure the mothers of the couple getting married complement each other’s look at the wedding.”
Henny’s face brightened. “That’s always an interesting topic!”
The other women nodded but didn’t elaborate. For some reason, no one seemed to want Henny in on their new closer dynamic.
But she figured out it was happening. “Ladies, I’m glad to see y’all bonding,” she said. “I heard you stop talking about something when I came over again. Good for you. Brides need to support each other. You’ll be competing, but that shouldn’t stop you from looking out for each other.”
“Right on,” murmured Lisa.
Henny sat down in the circle and smiled. “All righty,” she said, “it’s time to get the bake-off rolling.”
Everyone clapped.
“Let me explain the voting first,” Henny said. “The people who come to the event get two ballots apiece. They can split their votes, or give you both. We want them to feel some power and extend the fun for them as they walk around the ballroom at Hibernian Hall, looking at your displays and trying to make up their minds.”
“Suits me,” said Toni, the Target bride.
“The number one thing you need to know,” Henny said, “is to be as creative as possible. Your goal is to get people to vote for you. It’s actually more about you and your overall display than the cake alone. So make a statement and pull in those votes, however you feel you can within your budget. There are no rules, really, limiting your creativity. Understood?”
They all said yes.
Henny smiled at all of them. “Okay, now I’m going to have you pick a number out of a hat.”
Greer got the number five, and it turned out that meant she got last pick of the five local vendors who would be baking the cakes. They’d bake two identical ones. One would be for display, and the other would be for the public to consume. The cakes had to be the right size to feed one hundred guests.
Greer got the doughnut store, and felt her heart sink. Yes, everyone loved doughnuts, but hadn’t that wedding cake trend passed? She’d cut out several pictures of different versions of the tiered, ringed creations several years earlier—and now the new trends were much more, well, cake-oriented. Real cake, the kind that had crumbs, and icing.
Beaded cakes were in. They were probably the hottest new look. But so were cakes inspired by geology that featured marble, geodes, and precious metals. Tropical cakes were trending, as were floral-and-fruit ones. Lace cakes and cakes covered by ruffles were all the rage as well.
The other ladies were excited about choosing from their vendors’ selections. They pored over the photos included in their vendor’s file, oohing and aahing, and generally had a ball selecting their cakes.
But what could Greer do? Her file held photo samples of doughnut-themed tiered cakes. They were almost identical to each other. Sure, the icing varied, but that was it.
How to make this wedding cake special? How to make everyone turn to her doughnut cake and say, “I’m voting for this one”?
She had no idea. She tried to logic it out even further, and all she could come up with is that everyone loved doughnuts, and her cake would cost less than the other cakes. They were each given five hundred dollars in their budget, which was to be used for the cake and to decorate their cake table however they wanted to reflect their wedding theme and personality.
What could she do to make people vote for her cake?
She thought about it while walking back home to the Baker House. And when she got there, she saw Jill’s car parked out front. Jill had come into Two Love Lane that morning to pick up the keys to Greer’s apartment.
“Tonight,” she’d said, “when you come home, everything will be in place. Your bedroom will be transformed.”
Now Greer stood in her living room. “You move fast,” she called toward her bedroom.
Jill came out, a big grin on her face. “Hi. Hope you had a good day.”
“Great. How about you? How’s Fern?”
“My day’s been good, “Jill said, “and you’ll be happy to know Fern’s staying in your room. I couldn’t move her. She’s like a queen, all dignified on your new bureau, with those beautiful fern fronds cascading around her.”
“See?” Greer was excited. “She’s like a person.”
“I’ve never met a plant like a person,” said Jill with a laugh. “She’s my first. And she looks amazing in her new surroundings.”
Some of Greer’s nerves departed her. Maybe this room transformation would work out, after all.
“As for moving fast,” Jill said, “I’ve been renting a storage room for a year and filling it with special finds I’d purchase every month with money I scraped together after I paid my bills. I’m glad I can finally use my inventory.”
“I am, too,” Greer said. She decided then and there that if her room was awful, she would simply tell Jill she couldn’t keep it that way and help her move the new furniture back to her storage room and get her old stuff back.
“Ready to see it?” Jill asked.
“Sure.” Greer’s stomach had butterflies. “But I hate to take some of your inventory, especially because you’re not letting me pay for any of this. You’re losing money.”
“I’m investing money in my business,” Jill corrected her. “You’re my guinea pig. Doing this free is the least I can do. And I have a re-buy program. If you ever get sick of this theme—or it outlives its usefulness—I’ll buy the furniture back pro-rated by the number of months you kept it.”
“I love how confident you’re sounding,” said Greer. “Good for you.”
Jill held out her hand. “Trust me, Miss Jones. Now take my hand and close your eyes.”
Greer felt a stirring of excitement. Or dread. She wasn’t sure which. She did as Jill asked, following her across her hardwood floors, felt herself pass over the threshold into her bedroom, and waited for more orders.
“Okay,” said Jill. “Before you open your eyes, do you remember what I said about once you commit to making your living space your loving space, you’ll start noticing changes across the board?”
“Yes.”
“I can see a change in you already. You’re not wearing one of your executive-looking pantsuits. You’re in an A-line skirt. With flowers on it! What happened?”
“I forgot to go to the dry cleaners, is all,” said Greer.
“Why?”
Greer thought about last night and couldn’t help smiling. “I had other things to do.”
Jill laughed. “The way you said that, I know exactly what those other things were! It’s already working. Remember that when you open your eyes. It’s already working and no way do you want to stop the momentum, no matter how shocked you are by what you see.”
“Okaaay,” said Greer.
“Now open your eyes!”
Greer did. She did a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn. Her bedroom was now a … a boudoir. Or a bordello. A very pink one. It definitely wasn’t a regular bedroom anymore.
Jill smiled broadly. “Welcome home to ‘The Working Diva Without a Man’ theme, guaranteed to bring a man into your life faster than you ever would otherwise. Go lie down on your new bed.”
Which was covered in a leopard print coverlet and about eight toss pillows in various shades of pink. A big black velvet portrait of Elvis in a gilded gold frame hung above it. And opposite the bed was the Elvis-decoupaged bureau. Fern sat on top of it, her pot wrapped in a giant pink velvet bow.
“My goodness,” said Greer, lying down on her bed. “This is … everything I expected. And more.” On the ceiling above her head was a picture of
the entire Baywatch crew in their red bathing suits.
“Do you know how valuable that Elvis picture is?” Jill said. “It’s a collectible. I’m not even going to tell you; you’d get nervous. And that Baywatch poster is giving you California vibes. We all need some of that. What do you think of the mattress?”
Greer had sunk into it. “It’s very fluffy,” she said. She wasn’t used to fluffy. It was kind of fun.
“I almost gave you a water bed instead.”
Greer sat up. She definitely felt perkier. Who wouldn’t? “I didn’t know they still made those.”
“Oh, yes.” Jill sat on the bed next to her. “So do you feel the energy?”
Greer bit her thumb. “I think I do. Actually”—she looked around the room, at the pink ottoman studded with fake diamonds, the fringed lamp, the faux white sheepskin rug in front of her small fireplace, and the big, inviting pink armchair—“I know I do.”
Somehow, this bedroom was making Greer feel a little more loosey-goosey. But that was neither here nor there when she had a bake-off to worry about, and she had only the next day to get ready.
When Jill left, she ran to the arts and craft store on Calhoun Street and picked up some supplies. Ford called while she was there.
“Still coming over?” he asked.
“Yes. See you there at eight.”
She ran home and worked on her bake-off stuff, then finished up a Perfect Wedding album—her nineteenth one. She filled eight pages with pictures of flower arrangements. Then she rode her red Vespa to the cigar factory. She waited on the elevator, and when it opened, Ford was standing there.
She almost jumped.
“I saw you coming on your Vespa,” he said and tugged her into the elevator.
She laughed.
“Need any help with this bake-off?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I’ll let you—”
He pulled her in before she could finish.
It was a very slow ride to the studio. The elevator kept stopping between floors.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The evening started out totally wrong, and Ford knew it was all his fault. What was he doing pressing all the floor buttons and making out with Greer in the elevator? He needed to have a productive evening of painting, not one in which he spent all his time either imagining making love to her or initiating foreplay.
But she was so delicious.
And so right for you, a forbidden, ridiculous voice in his head said.
He managed to pull himself together when they got to the studio and he saw a missed call on his phone from Anne. He knew what that was about. She was checking up on him. She’d ask questions: How far along was he with the sketches for the portrait? Would he make it in time for the showing? He’d need to figure in the stretch it took to ship the canvas over the ocean, too, and get it to the site as well.
And then worse, he saw a text from Teddy: Feeling good, considering I’m eating for three.
* * *
Dear God, it was nearly impossible to imagine Teddy pregnant. She had a big heart beneath her tough exterior, but she simply wasn’t interested in revealing it very often, even to him. She found it a show of weakness. Even so, he’d been her biggest fan. Along with her stubborn reticence came a fierce independence he’d found refreshing. And when she did show her softer side, she’d been irresistible—at least to the old Ford.
New Ford—post-wedding disaster—recognized that he’d fallen for her out of sheer ego on his part. She was gorgeous, chased after by many men, and he was the privileged one she’d decided to open up to. They made a beautiful couple. The English tabloids thought so, as well as their friends.
But never again would he get involved with someone because he felt flattered by all the attention. The stupidity of it, the shallowness.…
He was embarrassed to have been reeled in so easily. But the hard lesson he’d learned had brought him to a new place. He was more humble now. Looking back, he saw that in a way he’d been as careless with women’s hearts as Teddy had been with his. He’d never wanted to love anyone. Not really. He’d only wanted to play when he wasn’t busy painting, with people who mattered little to him.
No more. When he wasn’t painting these days, he wanted to think. To count off his blessings each day. To be with people who loved him for who he was—a painter on a lifelong journey—and whom he loved back.
Now that Teddy was pregnant, he had to wonder if she’d need to open up more. The babies would require demonstrations of love, wouldn’t they? Could she manage to be emotionally available to them?
“What is it?” Greer asked, her arms around his waist from behind.
He shook his head. “Teddy. She’s texting me about her appetite.”
“Oh,” said Greer, and dropped her arms.
He sighed. “She’s eating for three, but she feels pretty good.”
“I’m glad. It would be much worse on you if she were having complications.”
“Yes,” he said, striving to sound upbeat.
They both knew it was time to get to work. She undressed behind the screen, walked to the chaise lounge in her black robe, as he’d instructed her to the first day, and dropped the robe.
He swallowed, but his throat was dry. Her face was serene when she sat—like a princess, he thought. She swung up her legs and leaned back on the cushion.
Her strength, her sensuality, her beauty hit him hard. Could he get everything he saw in her in the portrait? He would do his best, but …
He didn’t think he’d be able to.
A feeling of failure assailed him. Sometimes his talent felt like a bucket of water with a hole in the bottom, carried in the desert. Such buckets were useless, weren’t they? They didn’t do what they were supposed to. You knew at the beginning, too, that there were no lasting alternatives—fingers in the hole would have to come out at some point—and yet who in their right mind would put down that bucket of water in the glare and heat of the sun?
Was it worse prolonging the time to the inevitable thirst and dehydration? Or better to get the suffering over with sooner?
He was desperate. He wasn’t in charge … the bucket was. The damned bucket with a hole in it ran his life. And that fact ate at him. It made him furious.
“You okay?” Greer asked.
“No,” he said. “Not really.”
She sat up a little higher. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“It has nothing to do with you.” He couldn’t help that his voice was clipped. “It’s me, feeling sorry for myself.”
“Can you tell me more?”
And so he did. He told her about the bucket. About the hole. About how he wasn’t able to achieve his vision completely—on any project he did—and it made him crazy.
She stared at the wall for a moment, then looked back at him. “Throw the bucket away,” she said.
“But that’s just as bad. In fact, it means I’ve given up.” He jabbed at the painting with his brush.
“No, it doesn’t.”
“How so?” He stopped painting. He didn’t feel like hearing anyone else’s well-meaning attempt to comfort him. He was ready to pounce on whatever she said and be bitter. He’d have to try very hard not to do so. It would be rude of him, and she didn’t deserve rudeness.
“Well,” she said, one of her hands resting lightly on her breast, “you throw away the bucket and cut into a cactus for water. They’re like sponges inside. Slake your thirst there.”
“Right,” he said. Accompanied by a very short laugh.
She waved a hand at him. “Pooh on you. You’re not willing to listen, are you?”
“Yes, I am,” he said, feeling stubborn. “But I don’t feel like dealing in metaphors anymore. You’re suggesting that I come at this from a whole new angle, but that’s much easier said than done. Finding a cactus in the desert is easy to do in a made-up story. Finding one in my life is much harder.”
“But not impossible,” she said.
“Th
ank you for caring,” he said, “but it’s time to move on.”
“I have one more suggestion, and then I’ll shut up about it.”
“You don’t need to shut up about it,” he said. “I do. Examining your talent level is one of those unsolvable things that all artists grapple with, I suppose, and I should just get on with it—with my painting.” And he did. He added a few brushstrokes. And he felt fine about them.
Fine.
It was such a lackluster word.
“So go ahead, tell me your suggestion,” he said, realizing he’d been talking too much to let her.
“Okay,” she said. “Drink, and drink, and drink before you go into the desert. Drink from life. Then you won’t need the bucket or the cactus. The magic is already inside you. It’s a part of you. Not something you have to carry around or look for. That’s your problem. You’re trying too hard to find it.”
He had to smile. She was onto something. He most definitely tended to try too hard, and she was the first person who had ever come close to understanding him. Anne, even though she was a fellow artist, had never related to his frustration with himself. Her creative muse was always at her beck and call. He’d never once heard her doubt that the universe was supporting her, and she could write reams and reams of stories that pleased her no end with little to no suffering for her art involved.
“Thank you,” he said to Greer. “You’ve made a good point.”
She sent him a pert smile. “You’re welcome.”
She had intuition coupled with a well-grounded intelligence, a compelling combination that spoke to him. He wanted a companion like that, he realized then. Someone he could express his doubts to. Someone he could bounce ideas off. Someone he could respect and learn from.
He hadn’t realized how much of a student of life he still was … until meeting Greer. He’d thought he’d known it all, hadn’t he? And then Teddy’s betrayal had happened, and here he was, raw and new. Starting over, really.
But it felt okay to do so with Greer. She was a comfort, a friend.
They kept working, and he felt more at peace. If he simply forged ahead and didn’t think too hard about it, his painting was definitely good. It was painstaking work, but it would be something worthwhile if he simply stopped thinking so hard and painted, one stroke at a time.
A Wedding At Two Love Lane Page 15