Long Time Coming

by Rochelle Alers

  “It’s beautiful, Bridget. I wish you and your fiancé the very best life has to offer.”

  Tears filled Bridget’s eyes. “Thank you so much.”

  “We’ll eat and talk at the same time.”

  * * *

  Tessa entered the information on the Sanborn-Cohen nuptials into her notebook computer. Bridget had selected her wedding stationery, flowers for her bouquet and her maid of honor’s, boutonnieres and floral decorations. She’d also brought her play list of the songs she wanted the band to play. The musical selections ranged from big band for Seth’s grandmother to hip-hop for the younger crowd.

  “You’re going to have to set aside time to see Simone Whitfield so she can customize a cake. You’ll have to let her know the design, the icing and the flavor for the filling.”

  Bridget set down her cup of tea. “We’re having a formal wedding, so wouldn’t the cake also have to be a classic multitiered white cake?”

  “It’s your wedding and you can have anything you want,” Tessa said to Bridget. “Just as the bride stands out amidst the assemblage of all at a wedding ceremony, the wedding cake, which is a work of art, becomes the center of attention at the reception. You can have a three-or four-tiered cake with a classic white frosting that may conceal delectable different flavors for the cake and filling within each tier. I recommend you bring your fiancé with you when you meet with Simone. She designed Jadya and Ashton’s cake, so you’ve seen—and hopefully tasted—her creation.”

  Jadya had requested that replicas of the covers of her children’s books adorn each layer of a towering eight-tiered edible architecture with white and chocolate roses perched around the base of each layer. The wedding guests were given individual servings as souvenirs, each with a cover of the sixteen bestselling books written by the bride.

  An attractive blush colored Bridget’s cheeks. “Jadya gave me an individual cake with the cover of the book I’d edited for her.”

  “Do you want individual servings for your guests?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask Seth.”

  Dabbing the corners of her mouth with her napkin, Tessa placed it on the table and pushed to her feet. “Now it’s time we see about your dress. I’ve selected a few I believe you would like and would fit you without too many alterations. However, if you want a custom-made gown, then I’m going to recommend that you secure the services of a wedding gown designer with a staff who will be able to devote the time to completing it before the holiday.”

  Bridget stood up. “Did you design Jadya’s dress?”

  “No. That’s was my mother’s creation. Come with me upstairs and I’ll show you what I have.” She’d learned how to sew as a child when Lucinda Whitfield gave her scraps of leftover fabric from the beautiful wedding gowns she’d been commissioned to sew for any bride lucky enough to wear an LCW creation.

  Tessa took a back staircase up to the third floor. When she’d purchased the brownstone five years before, it’d taken the contractor more than six months to renovate the three-story structure to her specifications. She’d had all of the walls on the third floor removed to create a loft effect. A black-and-white vinyl floor, redbrick walls, skylights and track lighting provided a setting conducive for her whenever she spent hours in her studio designing and piecing wedding gowns.

  Bridget gasped, then covered her mouth with her hand as she moved into the space as if propelled by an invisible wire. Her hand trembled noticeably when she lowered it.

  Tessa was hard pressed not to smile. “Do you see something you like?”

  Blinking back tears, Bridget nodded like a bobble-head doll. “Yes,” she whispered, recovering her voice. She touched a silvery silk-satin peau de soire ball gown with a halter neckline, a dropped waistline, inverted pleats and a chapel train.

  Tessa moved closer. “I selected this gown because even though you’re having a winter wedding you won’t have to travel from your home to a church, then a catering hall for your reception. It should show off the lines of your body to their best advantage.

  “The halter neckline is elegant, cut to flatter your shoulders and back, while the tightly fitted bodice and dropped waistline will emphasize your midriff. The skirt is cut so there’s no bulkiness at the front, yet the two deep inverted pleats add dimension, giving the illusion of added fullness and formality. I recommend you get a back facial a week before your wedding to make certain the skin on your back is smooth and blemish-free.”

  Bridget took a deep breath. “Can I try it on, Tessa?”

  “Sure. You can change behind that screen.” Tessa pointed to a decorative four-panel screen in a far corner. “I want you to try on a few others before you make a final decision.”

  Bridget gathered the gown off the padded hanger. “If this fits, then I want it.”

  Tessa placed her hand on her client’s shoulder. “May I make a suggestion?” Bridget nodded. “Try on more than one gown, because later on you may decide you don’t like it. And once I alter the dress to fit you, then it’s yours. Remember—all eyes will be on you, so if you don’t like what you’re wearing, then that will show through when you force yourself to smile when you don’t feel like smiling.”

  Running a hand over the delicate fabric, Bridget bit down on her lower lip. “I should’ve asked my mother to come with me. I always trust her judgment.”

  “Perhaps, in the interest of time, I can help you out.”

  “How?”

  “Try on several dresses, then select the ones you’d want your mother to see. I’ll FedEx them to New Jersey. Make your final selection, enclose a note, then FedEx them back to me in the same carton with the prepaid mailing label.”

  Bridget reached out and hugged Tessa with her free arm. “Thank you so much.”

  Patting Bridget’s shoulder—the gesture purely maternal even though she and her client were the same age—Tessa smiled. “You’re welcome. Now please go and try on your gowns.”

  Sitting on a comfortable armchair, she waited for Bridget to model the gowns she’d chosen for her. A smug smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. The gowns she’d selected were perfect for the bride-to-be. Bridget had slim, firm arms, good shoulders and a smooth back. Most of the garments accentuated her small waist and firm breasts.

  Simone had referred to Bridget as “ditzy,” but Tessa thought of her as impulsive. Ditzy, impulsive, spoiled and pampered Bridget Sanborn was sly as a fox, because she’d snagged one of New York City’s most eligible bachelors. Seth Cohen and two of his college buddies had founded a Google-type Internet company, and the net worth of the trio had exceeded a billion dollars before they’d celebrated their thirtieth birthdays.

  Bridget had confided to Tessa that Seth wanted to pay for the wedding but his future father-in-law wouldn’t hear of it. Edgar claimed he wasn’t going to be cheated out of the honor of giving his only daughter whatever she wanted for her very special day.

  * * *

  Four hours after Tessa opened the door to Signature Bridals for Bridget and Micah Sanborn, she closed it behind them. Bridget had quickly changed her mind about her first choice once she’d tried on several other gowns.

  Tessa had suggested she try on the gowns with the heel height she wanted for her wedding and with jewelry, especially if she wanted to wear earrings and a necklace, and decide whether she wanted to wear her hair loose or up off her neck and shoulders. She’d looked confused until Tessa had given her a printout of her recommendations. The maid of honor’s dress would not become an issue until after Bridget selected her gown.

  Returning to her office, she picked up the telephone and dialed the number to the graphic designer who handled all of Signature Bridals’ wedding stationery. Juan Cruz operated a very successful graphic design enterprise out of his loft in DuMBo, an area of Brooklyn undergoing gentrification.

  “This is Juan. Speak to me, beautiful. I hope you called to tell me that you’re going to be my bride.”

  Tessa smothered a laugh as she shook her he
ad. “No, I didn’t. I need you for a rush job.”

  “Juan no make love fast,” he crooned, affecting an accent. “I do it real slow and make you scream, ‘Ay, ay, papi.’”

  “Juan, please be serious for once.”

  “I am serious, mami. When are you going to stop playing hard to get and say yes? You know we work well together.”

  “You’re right, Juan, because I pay you very, very well.”

  “Ouch, mami! Why you have to go there?”

  “I went there because all we have between us is business.”

  “You really know how to hurt a guy, Tessa. What do you need?”

  “I need a wedding stationery trousseau for one hundred invitations for a formal New Year’s Eve wedding.”

  “Give me the specs,” Juan said.

  She gave him the color, paper stock and type of print for the invitations, reception and reply cards. “As soon as I hang up I’m going to scan the names and addresses of the guests. You’ll get them as an e-mail attachment.” Having Juan address the envelopes would save the Sanborns having to handwrite each address. He had a software program with calligraphy so refined that it mimicked handwriting. “I’m also going to include the food and cocktail menu. My client also wants place and seating cards and a map with directions.”

  “The silver with the black trim and ribbon is going to be pricey, but it’ll look spectacular, Tessa.”

  She ignored his reference to money. “How soon can you get them to me?”

  “How soon do you want them?”

  “Can you do it in a week?”

  “For you, mami, I will have them done mañana.”

  Tessa tried to suppress a giggle. “A week will do. I’m going to messenger over a check tomorrow as a deposit. Please give him an invoice for the job when he gets there.”

  “Okay.”

  “Thanks, Juan.”

  “I should be the one thanking you. If you hadn’t used me for the Fyles-Cooper wedding, I would’ve been forced to go back to a nine-to-five.”

  “I used you instead of my regular guy because you’re a perfectionist.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “I’m not as finicky as you, Juan. I’m going to ring off and e-mail you that information. Call me if you have any questions.”

  “Talk to you later, mami.”

  “Later, papi,” she teased, then disconnected the call.

  She met Juan when both were graduate students at the Parsons School of Design. They’d earned MFA degrees in graphic design, but it was Juan who’d made graphic design his career, while Tessa’s love of fashion design had lured her back into the family’s wedding business.

  She sent Juan the information he needed to begin the Sanborn-Cohen job, then cleaned up the remains of the repast she’d put out for her client. A copy of the contract and the check Bridget had given her lay on her desk. Tomorrow she would call her favorite band to find out whether they were available for New Year’s Eve.

  Her mind was reeling with ideas, but she decided not to jot them down or she wouldn’t get any sleep. Bridget’s formal wedding would provide the perfect ending to what had become Signature Bridals’ most successful and profitable year in its very short history.

  She climbed the staircase to the second floor. Within minutes of showering and getting into bed Tessa fell asleep. However, she slept restlessly. Images of Micah Sanborn came and went, leaving her breathing heavily.

  What, she thought as she lay in the dark, was there about him that kept her from a peaceful night’s sleep? The question bombarded her and she wasn’t able to come up with an answer.

  Hopefully she would find the answer to her question when she saw him again.

  CHAPTER 9

  Micah maneuvered into a parking space in front of Tessa’s brownstone. Leaving his sheepskin-lined jacket in the space behind the seats, he opened the door, got out and left the engine running. Using a remote device, he locked the doors. Bounding up the stairs, he rang the bell.

  “The door’s open,” came Tessa’s voice through the intercom.

  He pushed opened the door and stepped into the foyer. Light and warmth enveloped him like a blanket. The vase on the table filled with wildflowers in autumnal colors added a homey touch to the space.

  “Tessa!”

  “Come on back to the kitchen.”

  He found her in the kitchen drinking coffee. His gaze lingered on her curvy hips in a pair of fitted jeans she’d tucked into a pair of low-heeled black suede lace-up boots. A cashmere pullover in a soft peach shade complemented the yellow-orange undertones in her complexion. She’d brushed her hair off her face and secured it in a curly ponytail.

  “You’re taking a chance leaving your door unlocked.”

  Lowering her cup, Tessa smiled at Micah. “And where is your coat, Micah Sanborn?” He stood in the middle of her kitchen wearing a pair of black wide-wale cords, a matching chunky turtleneck and Timberland boots.

  “It’s in the car. And don’t try to change the subject, Tessa Whitfield.”

  “I opened it minutes before you rang the bell.”

  “Why didn’t you wait for me to ring the bell?”

  Tessa took a long swallow of coffee as she massaged the back of her neck. “I wanted to finish my coffee.”

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Micah approached her. “I thought I told you we would eat breakfast on the road.”

  Tilting her chin, Tessa met his penetrating stare. “I couldn’t wait. I didn’t sleep very well last night, so the caffeine is what I need to keep my eyes open.”

  Micah reached out and took the cup from her hand, placing it on the countertop. “Turn around,” he said softly.

  “What?”

  He crooked a finger. “Come closer and turn around, Tessa.”

  She gave him a sidelong glance. “Should I be afraid of you?”

  “No. Who you should be afraid of are perps looking for an easy score. And you’re like a glaring bull’s-eye when you leave your door open.”

  Smiling, she turned and presented him with her back. “Is perp the same as a perpetrator?”

  Micah nodded. “It’s hard to lose the police jargon after twenty years.” He rested his hands on her shoulders, massaging the muscles in her back and neck. Lowering his head, he pressed his mouth to the nape of her neck. “Gosh, you’re tight.”

  Tessa closed her eyes, moaning softly under the soothing ministrations. “How much do you charge for a massage?”

  “There’s no charge. By the way, why are you so tense?”

  “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “Is Bridget giving you a hard time?”

  She moaned again when he kneaded a knot under her shoulder blade. “No, but Bridget’s brother is.” Tessa’s eyes flew open when she realized she’d spoken her thoughts aloud.

  Micah’s hands stilled. “What have I done to give you hard time? If you don’t want to go upstate with me this morning, then you don’t have to go.”

  “It’s not that, Micah.”

  He turned her to face him. His gaze lingered on her parted lips before moving up to her eyes—eyes that mesmerized, held him spellbound. “What is it?”

  Tessa’s lids fluttered wildly as she struggled to bring her thoughts in some semblance of order. How could she explain to a man she’d known a week that he’d made her reassess her stance when it came to interacting with a man? That going out with him went against her own rule for becoming involved with a man associated with a client?

  “I’m uneasy because I’ve broken my promise to myself.”

  Micah’s eyebrows lifted. “Which is?”

  “Not to get involved with a man.”

  “We’re not involved, Tessa. Not yet, anyway,” he added as a hint of a smile parted his lips.

  “Do you want to become involved?”

  Attractive lines fanned out around his eyes when his smile grew wider. “Do you want a lie or the truth?”

  Her smile matched his. “I want the truth,
the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

  Angling his head, Micah brushed a light kiss over her parted lips. “Then the answer is an unequivocal yes.”

  Rising on tiptoe, Tessa pressed her mouth to his. “Can you promise me that it won’t get too serious or complicated,” she whispered, “and that we can still be friends once it’s over?”

  Looping his arms around Tessa’s waist, he pulled her closer. “I don’t make promises.”

  “Why not?”

  “There is no guarantee that I’ll be able to keep them. The only thing I’ll attest to is an absolute.” He lowered his head to kiss Tessa again, but her hand came up, stopping him.

  Easing back in his embrace, Tessa studied his impassive expression. “Are you still on friendly terms with your ex-girlfriends?”

  “No.”

  “Was it because you didn’t want to be friends?”

  “Just say it was by mutual agreement.” His expression changed, softening. “Why are we talking about breaking up when we haven’t begun dating?”

  There was a beat of silence. “You’re right, Micah. I’ve been known to obsess about things that don’t need obsessing over.”

  “Now that we’ve solved your dilemma, can we go?”

  “Yes. If you let me go, I’ll get my coat.”

  Micah wanted to tell Tessa that he didn’t want to let her go, that he liked holding her, that he wanted to really kiss her and communicate wordlessly how he actually felt about her.

  She’d confessed to not sleeping well at night when it’d been the same with him. He went to work early and stayed late, hoping that when he returned home he would be so exhausted that he would fall asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.

  Lately he’d found himself sitting up in bed watching late-night and late-late-night TV shows. At first he thought he’d become an insomniac, but when he backtracked as to when his sleeplessness began, the evidence pointed to the night of the blackout, the night he’d slept with Tessa Whitfield, the night he’d felt a rush of desire for a woman whose face he couldn’t remember. What he did remember was her sultry voice and her perfume.