Table of Contents
When Girlfriends Chase Dreams
Also By Savannah Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
About the Author
When Girlfriends
Chase Dreams
a novel by
Savannah Page
Also by Savannah Page
When Girlfriends Find Love
When Girlfriends Let Go
When Girlfriends Take Chances
When Girlfriends Make Choices
When Girlfriends Step Up
When Girlfriends Break Hearts
When Girlfriends Collection, Books 1-3
Bumped to Berlin
When Girlfriends Chase Dreams
Copyright © 2013, Savannah Page
ISBN-13: 978-1483914695
ISBN-10: 1483914690
Cover Design by Pearls and Pages
All rights reserved.
License Notes
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, incidents, and places portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be used, reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, or stored in any information storage and retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Information about the author and her upcoming books can be found online at www.savannahpage.com
For my parents, with love and gratitude.
Acknowledgments
Dearest thanks to my family and friends for your never-ending support, love, and encouragement.
Hats off to Anne and Ginger for being absolutely amazing and helpful beta readers. Thank you!
Many thanks to my editor, Liam Carnahan of Invisible Ink Editing, for your fabulous edits and critique.
Thank you to everyone who participated in NaNoWriMo 2012. When Girlfriends Chase Dreams is my NaNo baby and I couldn’t have done it without such a supportive and wonderful organization and team of authors pushing and encouraging one another to get those novels done!
And forever thanks to my husband for truly being my number one fan. Ich liebe dich, Christian.
Chapter One
I can’t believe the reflection in the mirror. It almost brings tears to my eyes. I, Claire Linley, am actually wearing my wedding dress. All right, not really my wedding dress. But a wedding dress. I’m actually—really and truly!—wearing a wedding dress, inside a bridal boutique, standing on top of a pedestal in front of a massive tri-fold mirror, so I can glimpse all angles of my white and fluffy and crystal-y bridal self.
I swish from side to side, imagining that I’m on the ballroom floor. I watch about in a daze as the gorgeous pieces of material sway with my curvy body, dancing with my short movements. Even my curly hair sways in tune with the gown; and somehow the bright white shade of the material and the sparkly crystals seem to make my hair appear a type of platinum blonde. I look like a princess. I feel like a princess! Oh, this is one of the best days of my life! The woman who looks back in the mirror, the image I’ve been dreaming about pretty much from the very moment I started going out with my amazing and handsome fiancé, Conner, is almost too much to bear. This is actually happening. I’m finally engaged to be married!
Wow! Just listening to that word…fiancé. And engaged! Such sweet, sweet words… I always knew I would be over-the-moon when I’d be able to use those words in the same sentence as my name, but I didn’t think they’d sound this lyrical. I didn’t know being an engaged woman could feel so magical!
But, if I’m completely honest, it’s also a bit stressful.
Oh, but no matter. I’m engaged! I am going to become Mrs. Conner Whitley just eight months from now! Well, it could have been six, making for a clichéd dream of an outdoor, June wedding, but planning a wedding is really tough stuff. So much to coordinate! It’s not like planning a birthday party or even a baby shower, which I got to do a couple of years ago for one of my best friends, Robin Sinclair. No, planning a wedding is a huge ordeal, and it can get a little overwhelming from time to time, to say the least.
But, as I said, it’s no matter, really, since I’m standing right here, inside one of Seattle’s most glamorous bridal boutiques, wearing a breathtaking wedding dress. It may not be my dress. It may not be “the one!” that all the bridal magazines swear you’ll recognize when you see it. But it’s a wedding dress just the same, and it’s on me!
“Claire? Claire dear?”
I tear my eyes away from the almost-wedded-bliss image in the mirror to look to my mom. She’s looking up at me, holding a crystal-studded tiara in one hand and a waist-length veil in the other.
“Which one do you like best, dear?” she asks. She’s looking from left to right and smiling at me between takes, just like a game show girl who’s trying to strike up interest in the full set of Teflon cookware and the lifetime supply of canned soup—only a thousand times better. “The crystal tiara really makes your blue eyes shine.”
“Neither,” I breathe. I set my hands on my beaded waist, then quickly remove them. There are far too many beads and sequins on this wedding gown. How can a girl twist and move on the dance floor when she’s liable to scratch up her forearms and hands from such an ornate bodice? No, this dress won’t do. It’s beautiful, but not for me.
Mom makes a twisted face and brings the headpieces down to her sides. “You don’t like either one?” she asks dejectedly.
“They’re beautiful,” I quickly say. I look back at my reflection. “This dress is beautiful, too.” I turn back to Mom. “But they’re not for me. They’re not ‘the one!’ You know?”
Mom nods knowingly and hands the items back to one of the two boutique attendants who’ve been helping me for the past three hours.
“Claire?” It’s Sophie Wharton, my maid of honor. Even though I love and adore all of my girlfriends (and I seriously have the most awesome five girlfriends a woman could ask for), Sophie is the ideal BFF in the world. She’s the peanut butter to my PB&J, and I like peanut butter a lot! Sophie’s that best friend and super sister wrapped in one. And we really just, well, click. We first met when we were freshmen at the University of Washington, which feels like ages ago. We hit it off and eventually moved into a dorm together. Best friends, great roomies, and, nearly ten years later, we’re still a pretty dynamic duo, if I may say so myself.
“Claire,” Sophie says again, “maybe we’re going about this all wr
ong.” She gestures to the dress I’m wearing. “You’ve tried quite a few different styles just to make sure you know you want to go for the more vintage look.”
I nod enthusiastically.
“Then…why don’t we stop trying so many different styles and go vintage all the way now?” Sophie’s smiling brightly, taking charge of the situation as she often likes to do.
I sigh in a dramatic fashion and pick up the weighty pleats of the gown. This dress is beautiful but much too princess-like for my taste. I manage to twist around one-eighty on the pedestal and give a questioning look to my mom and the rest of the girls who’ve come along for the adventure today.
Robin’s making an expression that I can’t quite discern. She keeps cocking her head to one side and then another, maybe contemplating this dress for her own future wedding. I bet it would look really stunning on her. Although, I don’t think she’s really the princess and over-the-top kind of girl. And definitely not the conventional type of bride. Sometimes the girls and I (in a very loving way, of course) tease Robin and say she’s doing everything backwards. She gets pregnant, then finds a dreamy guy, then has a baby, then moves in with said dreamy guy (his name’s Bobby, by the way, and the baby, who rocks all of our worlds, is Rose), and Robin’s still saying that some day she’ll get married. “Just not too soon,” she always replies to our teasing.
I’m not sure what Robin’s thinking at the moment, but she’s not saying anything. She’s only meeting my questioning face with an equally curious gaze.
I look over at Lara. If anyone can give me strong and wise advice, surely it has to be Lara Kearns. Miss “I’ve got my career and life together.”
Okay, so the past year or so her life was a little on the rocks with this guy she was seeing from work. But that’s behind her now. She’s moving on and, as always, is more focused on her career than almost anything else.
Lara’s looking at me with a very sobering face, her arms crossed. She tightens her lips together before saying, “I think Sophie’s right. We’ve tried so many different styles. It was a good idea to get a feel for all types of cuts and designs out there—”
“Just to be sure!” Jackie cuts in.
“Yes,” Lara says, looking to Jackie. “To be sure you really want vintage. And I think now we know.”
“Pssht. Yeah,” Jackie says with a flutter of her eyelashes. She’s sitting on the plush, cream, carpeted floor, her small legs tucked underneath her. “We’ve been here foreeever, Claire. Time to change our strategy.”
“I only want to be certain,” I say. “I don’t want to miss my dress if it’s here. You know?”
“You’ve practically tried on the whole store, Claire.” Jackie’s whining now, just like a child. Although that’s Jackie’s style. She sometimes feels like the baby sister among us—always needing to be looked after, brought back down to earth, or given a talking to. She’s a soft and fragile little girl inside, mixed in with a wild and carefree kind of spirit.
“Surely there’s some dress here that you’ll love,” Jackie says with a smattering of persuasion.
“Jackie.” I plant my hands on my hips and instantly remove them after the decorative detail pokes me. “Not everyone can be so lucky to find the perfect dress in one shot and look fabulous.”
Jackie Kittredge née Anderson married her mogul boyfriend of a year-and-a-half or so only two weeks ago, on New Year’s Eve. She had a very understated courthouse wedding and an intimate celebration at their opulent townhouse downtown. It was a New Years Eve party/wedding reception. She was engaged for a month or something super short and pulled it all off without much of a hitch. I don’t know how she did it—I’ve already been engaged for six months! (I know, I know. And the question begs to be asked: What on earth have I been doing this whole time? I’m working on it.)
Anyway, Jackie pulled off a stress-free wedding ceremony and a fun reception in record time. And, as is signature Jackie, she looked A-list while doing it. Jackie’s wedding dress was a very sweet Chanel number in eggshell with jet-black accents at the cuffs and the faux pockets. It may not have been very traditional for a wedding, much less very bridal in any sense other than its off-white color, but Jackie pulled it off. A little birdcage veil and pillbox hat and Jackie looked like one of those model/wedding blog brides. Or Jackie O, even!
My mom returns to my side, this time holding up one of my many thick bridal magazines. I’m surprised that my car, which is almost on its last leg, hasn’t completely keeled over from the sheer weight of the bridal magazines that collect in the trunk and backseats. My idol, Martha Stewart, insists that a happy bride is a well-researched bride. So that means when I’m not rifling through bridal magazines, or bookmarking favorite weddings on “Style Me Pretty,” or organizing my Pinterest boards, I must carry around with me oodles of inspiration. Besides, you never know how long that line at the grocery store or the wait in that dreaded doctor’s office might take. It’s always wise to have your bridal battle kit within arm’s reach.
“What about this here?” Mom suggests. She’s pointing at a gorgeous Vera Wang that has vintage written all over it. “This is very chic.”
I take the magazine and look over the details. It is a chic vintage dress. It definitely boasts elegance and class. And I bet it’d be suitable for my body type, too. I’m a bit on the short side (almost five feet and four inches) and have womanly curves. (“Womanly curves”—the term my mother taught to call my round bottom, slightly bosomy chest, and defined waist.)
“It could work,” I say with hope in my voice. “Do you have this? Or something like this?” I ask an attendant, showing her the photo of the gorgeous dress.
“We could order it in, I’m pretty sure,” she says with confidence. “We’re always eager to have a new Vera to add to the collection.”
I look back at the girls. “Okay,” I sigh. “Let’s try one more then for today,” I point at the last dress hanging on the rack, “and then we can get some lunch.”
Emily gives a short applause and says that it sounds like a great plan. “I’m starved,” she exclaims.
Emily Saunders. I have to count my lucky stars that this girl is still here in Seattle helping out with the wedding. She is one of my bridesmaids, after all, as are all my girls. But Emily’s the unusual type. She’s a nomad. She’s the one who’s always jetting off to another country at the last minute. She’s big on exploring different places and learning about different cultures. “Widening her global perspective,” she says, or something like that. She’s even spent tons of time living in exotic locations and among tribes; she practically becomes a local wherever she goes.
Yet somehow I have managed to convince Emily to stick around, at least until August. When the wedding is over, then she has my consent to flee the scene, if she wishes. It’s not that Emily isn’t happy in Seattle or doesn’t want to be here with all us girls. She’s just a traveler at heart, and so long as she’s got her passport in one hand and her camera in the other, she’s a pretty happy camper.
“And we’re sure about the bridesmaid dresses?” Mom says. “You’re going with the same color, different styles?”
“I want to sleep on it a bit,” I say, and all of the girls suddenly look deflated. “Just to be sure.” I try to prove to them that the hunt for the ideal bridesmaid dresses won’t last much longer. They’ve been such troopers. “But I think I’m sure,” I add. “They’re such a pretty shade of green.”
I make my way back to the dressing room, more than ready to slip out of this heavy number and into the remaining dress. I’m almost certain it’s not “the one!”, but I still want to try it on anyhow. Besides, Emily’s been documenting the journey from fiancée to wife for me, constantly snapping photos of important events, like trying on dozens of wedding gowns. What’s one more to add to the album?
***
“I’m so excited that they’re going to order that to-die-for Vera Wang!” I gush, starting to daydream about slipping into the dress Mom had foun
d at random. Maybe I have too many magazines and therefore can’t thoroughly scour each one—clearly I missed that gem!
“Knowing you, Claire,” Lara says with moxie, “it won’t be ‘the one!’” She pops a French fry into her mouth.
“I didn’t think it’d be so hard finding the perfect dress. You know?” I chomp on a few fries myself. “It’s probably one of the most difficult tasks I’ve had to do for this wedding.”
“You’re still looking for a planner, right?” Robin asks.
Six months in to planning my dream wedding I finally realized I needed to stop doing everything by myself, and stop dragging my friends and family and anyone who would lend a hand into the planning mess. Don’t get me wrong—I’m still doing plenty on my own, and I’ll take all the help I can get, but I think it’s time to rally someone else to the Whitley Wedding Cause.
My fiancé Conner and I have estimated a headcount of a little over one hundred, and that’s proving to be too much to handle for one DIY-obsessed girl (and everyone else involved). As much as I love planning and crafting, this wedding is headed for the hospital. It needs a surgeon ASAP. That’s why I made it my New Year’s resolution to find a wedding planner. Someone who could design, coordinate, and pull off the most stunning fairytale wedding imaginable.
I’m only two weeks into January now, and I’ve already met with two of the three planners I have on list. Unfortunately, neither of them turned out to be the Franck Eggelhoffer I dreamed about. They weren’t even Howard Weinstein, funny-little-assistant material. When I rang up my mom, who lives back in my small hometown of Sisters, Oregon, to tell her that neither of the planners met my expectations, she very sweetly said I shouldn’t expect a Father of the Bride-style wedding, anyhow. “That’s Hollywood, dear,” she told me. “Make-believe stuff.”
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