“I know it’ll be a little more hassle than necessary, but—”
“Mom?”
“Did you go to the link I emailed you? Check out her work? She really is a very talented florist…”
I shake my head and mindlessly flip through one of the many bridal magazines sprawled across the dining table.
That’s a pretty veil, I think, as I come across a page filled with short, antique-looking veils. I wonder if my boutique has any of these in stock…
“Claire? Claire?”
“Yes, Mom.” I dog-ear the page of pretty veils and attempt a two-way conversation with my mother once again.
“Don’t you think this is a splendid idea?” she queries. “It’s a great way to save money, you know?”
I’m not one for confrontation. I don’t want to ruffle feathers—that’s the nature of the peacemaker. The peacemaker likes things calm and collected, and the status quo shouldn’t change much, because the status quo should always be smooth sailing, positive, and approachable. Get my mom in the middle of wedding planning and using finances as her anchor, and what can I do? Be an innocent bystander? Listen and nod and say, “Mmhmm, yes, you’re right”? Normally, probably so. So a party doesn’t go according to plan? It’s not the end of the world and it’s better to have peace among everyone than to have a party planned just the way you imagined. Or wanted.
But it’s my wedding. It’s that special day a girl dreams about. When she’s sitting in the sandbox at five with other pink-dress-wearing girls, holding the plastic shovel like it’s a bouquet of roses, draping the hood of her jacket over her head to mock a veil, and slowly shuffling along the sand as if it were a petal-covered aisle, all the while humming the wedding song to her small female audience. This is the day I’ve been dreaming about for at least twenty years! At least since the first time I got a Ken doll to accompany Barbie. This is my wedding day, and while a lot isn’t going according to plan or shaping up exactly the way I pictured, some things just have to. Some things, right?
“Mom,” I say as firmly as I can muster, “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
She doesn’t say anything. Oh no. Have I hurt her feelings? Will she take me for a spoiled and selfish child? There’s no question that my mother is in fact my mother. She, too, is the calm and usually positive and peace-making type. But sometimes when she gets an idea and thinks it’s brilliant, getting her to let go is like getting Schnickerdoodle to release the dead bird in the backyard. It can be a tricky task.
So I repeat myself, but in a less firm way. Yet I still don’t receive an answer.
“I just think—” I begin, trying to make myself heard while at the same time keep my mom from shutting down completely. “I think that—that—that— Maybe it’s a better move…a better move both financially and logistically that we choose a Seattle-based florist.” When Mom still doesn’t reply, I quickly add, “And neither of us wants to put any unneeded stress on your friend’s shoulders, you know?”
“I…suppose…” Finally! A response.
“Just imagine all of the extra stress she would have, packing up all of the flowers just right, then transporting them so many miles… That’s too much to ask of a friend.”
I think I’ve made my point and saved myself from a blowout or a row with my mother.
“But she is coming to the wedding, Claire,” Mom counters. “It wouldn’t be any more of a hassle for her to just bring some flowers with her. She’s a Class One gardener in our club, too.”
I heave a very heavy sigh, then cradle my cell phone in the crook of my shoulder and start to gather the plethora of magazines from the table. Mom continues to carry on extensively about the reasons for hiring a florist who’s located in Timbuktu.
“Great news, babe!” Conner says as he emerges from the office, taking me by surprise.
I give him a signal to hold on a minute, and return to my mom. She’s still making points, however irrelevant, as to why I should consider her florist friend for the wedding, and the latest one leaves me no choice but to firmly put my foot down.
“Mom,” I say, “I don’t want lilies at my wedding.”
“But that’s her specialty.”
“Their scent is too powerful. They’re big. They look cheap. There’s no place for them in my wedding. End of story.” When I finish and linger over the delivery of my words, I wonder if I’ve crossed the line. I could have said that I’d already chosen my flowers and lilies weren’t among them.
“All right,” is Mom’s curt response. “I was only trying to help. You don’t have to be so ungrateful.”
“Mom, please.” My tone is soft and caring. I really don’t want to hurt her feelings; she just needs to listen and think clearly. “I don’t want to put you or your friend out, and I’m certain I can find a really good florist here for a really good deal. Okay?”
“No lilies?”
“No lilies.”
“Okay.” She doesn’t sound like she’s hurt. “But if Francine does personally gift you some lilies as a wedding present—”
“I’ll be very appreciative,” I tell her, meaning exactly what I say. Lilies can be beautiful in a garden; I even plant them on occasion. But they belong in the dirt.
“And if her daughter, who is also an aspiring gardener and lily-grower, brings them as a present, you’ll be okay with that, too?”
I furrow my brow. My mom’s friend’s daughter is coming to the wedding? I’m not even sure I know who the friend is. I think I’ve heard Francine mentioned once in garden club talks before—absolutely positive I’ve never met her. And now her daughter? I know I don’t know Francine’s lily-loving, gardening daughter.
I dismiss the question on the tip of my tongue—“Who the hell have you invited to the wedding now?”—and I tell my mom that I love her, miss her, and will talk to her again soon.
After I click off the line, I place my cell phone on the dining table and proceed to carry the magazines back out to the trunk of my car. I’ve done enough magazine homework for today, and I’ll want to make sure I have my veil photos with me when I make my next trip to the bridal boutique. Speaking of which… I kind of need to get that done.
Before I head out the door, Conner grabs my attention. “Great news!”
“Oh?” I say, snapping to. “Yeah, sorry. What’s that?” I ask, shelving any confusing talk about out-of-town florists, foul lilies, and a much-needed trip to the boutique.
“Talked to my parents,” Conner says, “and we’re all clear for the church wedding. I think that first one we went to will be perfect.”
I dramatically tilt my head back, then bring it forward and let out a big screech of joy. “Yes!” I dump my magazines on the couch and Conner pulls me in for a kiss.
Finally! Something’s going right, even if it’s a ceremony location I don’t want. The parental troubles are getting sorted out.
“Thank you,” I say, pressing my face against his warm, thick chest. “What did you say to convince them?”
“Ultimatum,” he says breezily. He kisses the top of my head. “Also, I kind of fibbed. Freaked ‘em out.”
“Huh?” I look up at him and he’s smiling like a clown. “What?” I stifle back a laugh.
“I said the options were slim. That we had this really cool reception site, but your parents insisted on a church. And with them paying there’s no choice.”
I nod and tell him to go on.
“So I said we only had two choices. Either this neat Lutheran one—the first one we saw, which I like best—or this gospel and soul place where everyone’s encouraged to dance and sing and let loose when the choir performs.”
I can’t help myself; I burst out laughing. “You liar!”
“Hey,” he says with candor, “I did what I had to do. My parents are silly when it comes to things like this. So we’re on for the church.” He kisses me again. “I think the reception site is really cool, too.”
Conner and I had visited the churches the other da
y, per Melissa’s request, and had even swung by Chanfield Manor so Conner could get a look at it. If, in fact, Melissa could coordinate the times so we could get married at the first church and party it up with a reception at the Manor, then one of our biggest and most stressful to-do’s was officially done.
“Thank you so much for helping me out with this,” I tell Conner sincerely. “I’m so happy we have that done now.”
Conner pulls me tighter and we share a long and deep kiss. With all of the stress lately, I haven’t taken a minute to actually acknowledge Conner’s love or really enjoy being taken by a kiss. He has really smooth lips, and sometimes they can look really pouty and adorable, especially when he’s deep in concentration, staring at the computer screen at a comic in the making. Or when he’s trying to beat me at a game of Monopoly. And that reminds me…
“Hon?” I ask when we end our kiss.
“Mmm?” he replies, leaning in for another one.
I respond with a brief smack and say, “You up for a board game? Say…the game of Life? Or Clue? Or…Monopoly!” Conner and I are board game geeks. Both of us have been since childhood, and since the two of us became each other’s significant other, our penchant for good, old-fashioned, family fun has only gotten worse. “You still owe me a rematch at Monopoly, you know?”
He takes my hand and leads me into the bedroom. “Sure,” he says slyly. “We’ll get to that.”
“Conner…” my voice trails. “All right then.” I give him another quick kiss. “But then I get to be the banker. And I get to be the top hat piece!”
He chuckles and closes the bedroom door behind us.
Chapter Six
Phew! So the venue issue is closed. I’m making some progress on this checklist! Only yesterday did I get word from the upscale bridal boutique saying they could get the Vera Wang dream dress. The dress is expected to arrive in two weeks. I can’t believe it! Two weeks! My dress! Well, I hope it’s my dress.
Ever since Melissa nearly keeled over from hearing that I still hadn’t chosen a wedding dress, not to mention finalize the wedding party’s ensemble, I’ve started to lie awake at night and ponder my bridal fate. Would I ever find my dream gown? What if I don’t? What if I’m left with—gasp!—absolutely nothing come my wedding day? Omigod… See how easy it is to have small problems snowball into a major fit of panic?
Well, one thing’s for sure, when it comes to my wedding ensemble, at least I have my shoes! I vaguely knew what I wanted to prance down the aisle in, and when Sophie, Emily, and I went shopping the other day just for the heck of it, I found, fell in love with, tried on, fell even further in love with, and purchased my wedding shoes!
They’re a sleek pair of peep toe Jimmy Choos. They’re a silver-bronzy shade, depending on how you hold them up in the light. In the shop they looked a pinch bronzier, but now as I stand in front of my bedroom mirror and give myself a footwear fashion show they look more silvery.
I turn at the waist in a dramatic fashion and tip my right foot up and forward an inch or two. I twist it playfully from side to side, gawking at the sparkles that glitter in the reflection. God, these are fantastic shoes! They really are perfect and beautiful in every way. They also fit like a glove. I’m like a real Cinderella here.
I’ve locked our wonky bedroom door and voiced harshly to Conner that he’d better not try to enter. This is my wedding outfit! The feet part, at least. Conner has to be totally surprised and taken aback and, well, knocked off his socks when he sees me in my bridal number on our wedding day. No peeking beforehand.
Oh! That reminds me—socks. I picked up the most fun pair of pink and green argyle socks for Conner and his boys. They’re going to look so smashing. I told him to be sure to make an appointment for a suit fitting. Melissa and I compared notes and Pinterest boards and dog-eared magazine pages in search of the ideal wardrobe for the boys. We agreed that a sand-colored suit with green bowties and thin, pink pinstripes would be ideal, and a reverse pattern for Conner’s tie would look show-stopping.
Conner wasn’t elated over the choice, but he said he’d do it for me if it made me happy. And it does. It really does. Because this is one thing about the wedding that I really think I have a handle on. Getting everyone dressed (except for me, but at least I have shoes!) is something I can confidently say I know is going to be under control.
Melissa insists there’s nothing to fear about the venue, and I don’t really have a reason to disbelieve her. She says she’s already working on the invitations and flowers, too. I’m so happy that I have Melissa, even if she can be a little too princess-like for my taste. But she’s hired to be my planner, not my friend.
She even took charge of those invitations I prematurely ordered, by the way, and said she’d manage the changes. Phew! Here I thought I was good with a date and a venue, and then before I know it things change, and I’m left with an order for one-hundred-odd wedding invitations that are useless. I already had to re-do the Save-the-Dates; let’s not add the actual invites to the list, too. Thank God for Melissa and her stepping up to the plate! Things are shaping up, slowly but surely. And before I know it I’ll be married! Happily ever after…
***
“Babe!” Conner calls from the living room. “You’ve got a package!”
I toss aside my bridal magazine and pull myself up out of the beanbag chair slouched in a corner of the office.
“I don’t remember ordering anything…” I shout, rattling my mind for a clue as to what I could be expecting in the mail.
“Oh!” I exclaim as I enter the living room. “You think it’s a wedding gift already?” I wonder what it could possibly be. A fancy piece of William Sonoma kitchen gear? A silver picture frame or tea set? Some classy crystal glasses from Tiffany’s? I’ve read in my bridal magazines that it’s not unusual to have wedding gifts start to stream in through the post several months ahead of the big day. I’ve also read that it’s not unusual for the really fancy stuff to come as a parcel.
“No idea,” Conner says, tapping the newly arrived package. “UPS brought it…and I can’t read where it’s from—”
“Oh, Cliff?” I interrupt.
“Huh?” Conner looks at me quizzically.
“Cliff,” I say in a tone as if he should know whom I’m talking about. “You know, Cliff? Cliff delivered it? Lara’s Cliff?”
Cliff’s the cute UPS delivery guy with the crooked smile, whom I tried to hook Lara up with. Yeah, she wasn’t very happy with me about that one, but hey, I tried. No one said playing matchmaker was an easy job.
“Never mind,” I tell Conner.
He shakes his head and shows me the package. “I don’t see how it could be a wedding gift yet. Don’t we need to register or something like that?”
Oh, that reminds me! Our wedding registry—one more thing to add to our busy list of things to do.
I tear into the box and remove the brown paper wrapping, exposing a heavy, rectangular, cream carton. Plastered across the center of it is a label that reads in a shiny calligraphy, “S.C. Papier.”
“I know I’ve heard that name before…” I say, drawing a blank. It was so familiar. But after I come up with zip, Conner and I eagerly break open the pristine carton and— What is inside?
One hundred and twenty wedding invitations.
For a ceremony and reception to follow immediately…
At Chanfield Manor!
“I thought you said that the ceremony was booked for the church,” Conner says.
“It is,” I breathe out. “Oh…no…” I drop my head and close my eyes. “Melissa forgot to cancel the order.” I toss the box’s top aside and sink listlessly into the couch. I want to scream and cry and curse, but all I can do is sit there, eyes closed, trying to inhale and exhale deeply.
“I take it these are the wrong invites?” Conner asks, his tone sounding like he’s treading on eggshells.
“She told me she had them under control. I can’t believe this!” I finally say after a long perio
d of uncomfortable silence. “I trusted her.” I wag my head and tightly cross my arms over my chest. “I was confident Melissa had this, Conner.” I can feel the tears coming, and I blink rapidly to keep them at bay.
“It’ll all be all right, babe.” Conner puts a warm hand on my back and makes circular motions. “It’s spilled milk.” I give him an empty glare. “Seriously. This is an easy fix. Invites? No biggie.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be a mistake to begin with,” I say. “Now I’m concerned there are other mistakes she’s making!” I can feel a surge of panic rise inside. Oh no. More wedding stress… Here it comes…
Conner increases the speed and pressure of his circular motions across my back. “Calm down, Claire.” He gives me a kiss on the cheek. “This is a super easy fix. No need to stress about it.”
“Easy for you to say. You won’t have to deal with…” I wave my hands about “…this! You just need to make your suit-fitting appointment.”
He chuckles and kisses my cheek once more. “And I’ll deal with that. Come on. One step at a time.” He pats my back in a way that tells me to get up and get on with my day. “You were just telling me how great Melissa is and how much easier the planning is on you now that she’s here. One mistake isn’t the end of the world, babe.”
“I suppose,” I mutter. I twist my lips to one side and contemplate the situation.
I guess this is just a bit of spilled milk. I mean, maybe I can get a refund. Or maybe I can deduct it from Melissa’s bill. I’m sure Dad won’t be too livid over a few hundred bucks.
Conner’s right; it is an easy fix. We can just order more invitations. Besides, the number of invitations in this box here certainly won’t end up being enough, seeing how Mom and Dad are still adding to the guest list.
“Now get ready to have your girl date,” Conner says, patting me encouragingly again. “Talk to Melissa about this, order new invitations, and that’s one wildfire put out, right?” He meets my eye line and draws a weak smile out of me.
When Girlfriends Chase Dreams Page 7