Of course, as I watch her busy herself with her phone, totally ignoring me (which is very vexing) and sending what I think, from my nosy glancing, is a text message (a damn text message! During our meeting!), I can’t help but wonder if that tall, froo-froo drink she’s enjoying is an invoiced item. It honestly wouldn’t surprise me. That and the rest of her gear that makes her seem so well put-together and so manicured. Compliments of Mom and Dad Linley, perhaps?
I’m really starting to tread into dangerous worry waters, wondering why this prim and trim girl is making a mess of my wedding. It’s a darn shame Melissa’s not as put together when it comes to planning a wedding as she is when choosing her outfits and accessories.
I won’t lie—part of me really wonders if I have a fitting appointment at all tomorrow. I’ll show up, as Melissa “planned,” and then the boutique will say, “Sorry, Miss Linley, but we just don’t have you on the books.” However! As yoga suggests, and as Conner vociferously insists, I need to relax and let others help me. That’s what I’m—er, my parents are paying Melissa for, after all.
“Claire?” Melissa says, finally setting down her cell phone. “Sorry. My boyfriend’s parents.” She rolls her eyes. “Love them so much—they’re really amazing people—but sometimes they don’t understand meetings. I have my own business now.” She flashes a smile. “It’s like, all the time, ‘Oh, don’t mean to interrupt but this is urgent.’” She snickers, and I stare back, willing myself to grin.
“Anyway,” Melissa says, waving about her hands. “Okay. I’m all yours right now. So.”
“So…” I raise my eyebrows, trying to still be nice and polite, but also trying to hint at my frustration. It’s not like I have all day here.
“Oh!” Melissa yelps. “Right! What’s next?” She pushes forward a pink file that has an intricate floral pattern scrawled across it. “We need to polish up your timeline.”
“Timeline?” I ask, puzzled.
“Yeah. You know. When you arrive, when you enter the reception, family portraits, bride and groom shots, cake cutting, first dance, exit. All that stuff.”
“Aww,” I say, perking up at the prospect of actually getting down to some real work.
Before we dive into plotting the perfect time for each event, I ask a question to which I know the answer, but I ask anyway. “Will you be joining me at the gown fitting?”
Not that I think I need Melissa there, but if I know anything about wedding planning and coordinators, wouldn’t she want to be there? To help in any way?
I guess I don’t really know why Melissa would need to come along. I can handle the wedding dress here on out, and I have all of my friends joining me tomorrow.
Still, I’m sure Franck Eggelhoffer would be there for Annie Banks. Franck was there when George Banks needed a suit. And when George went and did it on his own, trying to find any and all ways to save a buck on the exorbitant wedding, look what happened! He was dressed in a navy suit. Navy! Can you imagine?
That gets me to thinking. Crap. Conner. The suits. I know they already had their fitting, and I am sure his twin brothers are in the know with the arrangements. But Conner and all of his groomsmen still have to have the ordered suits tailored. They, like me, are not yet done. Oh no! What if they show up in navy suits? Or black, even? They’ll throw the whole theme off! The wedding design will all be for naught.
The repeated shouting from the barista for a “Gwen!” shakes me from my frightening daydream. I look at Melissa, and she’s saying, “Is that okay?”
“Uh, what was that?” I ask. “Sorry. It’s so loud here.” I give a wrinkled face, thinking, again, that The Cup and the Cake would be a much nicer place to meet.
“You can totally handle this one on your own, girl,” Melissa tells me. She pats my hand. “The appointment is for tomorrow. Ten o’clock.”
“Yeah…” I look out the window as a teenage girl with purple hair is struggling with a tangle of leashes with four—no five—excited dogs on the ends.
“I couldn’t make it for your appointment anyhow. I’m going to be out of town tomorrow,” Melissa says as I look back at her. She makes a closed-mouth grin. “To Santa Fe.”
Now she looks like she’s about to burst with joy. “I’m so excited!” she exclaims. “My boyfriend’s parents are doing a family trip to Santa Fe. That was what that text was about, by the way. It’s like a spa retreat in the mountains kind of thing. Going to be frickin’ a-maaa-zing. Oh, it’ll be just what I need.” She dramatically puts three fingers to her forehead. “I am so stressed out. I can really use this week-long spa getaway.”
As Melissa continues to gush about her upcoming trip—her much-needed vaca from the everyday stresses of, oh, I don’t know, doing her job!—I smile politely, throw in a few understanding nods, and nurse my coffee, all the while thinking, Why are we talking about your vacation? I thought we were planning a wedding?
I keep on nodding, keep on smiling, and keep on drinking the coffee that is the only thing keeping me awake as I listen to how unbelievable the Sangre de Cristo Mountains are.
***
“I don’t think I can take it anymore,” I say, flustered. I’m pacing the living room, rubbing my temples. I don’t know why I’m rubbing them. I don’t have a headache. It just seems the appropriate action when pacing a room, letting off steam about the people who grate on your nerves. “I don’t think I can.”
Conner’s lying on the couch, leisurely flipping through a sports magazine. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a well-worn Hollister t-shirt that I’ve begged him more than once to downgrade as a lawn mower cleaning rag. He’s been such a trooper, listening to me rant and rave about Melissa. Every now and then he mutters an “ah ha” or says, “Yup,” or pulls down his magazine and says something like, “Forget about it,” or “Chill out, babe.”
“Conner,” I say, abruptly halting my pacing. I’m burning a hole in the floor.
“Yup?”
“Can you look here for a second?”
I know hearing me nag and bemoan the wedding planner troubles is not exactly a new activity, and I know it’s among Conner’s items of most-hated things, but I need to talk to someone. I tried to call Lara up to ask for her wise advice (she’s usually really great about this kind of stuff), but all I got was her voicemail.
To be honest, though, I want to talk to Conner about this. He should be involved in the wedding, too. If he can’t really plan it all that much, he can at least be privy to the information of what’s going done in Wedding Land, especially if it’s really messy stuff—like a wedding planner who is losing my confidence (and maybe even my parents’ money) as the days roll by.
Conner doesn’t budge. I fear he didn’t hear me, which means he might not have heard half of what I’ve just spilled. I suppose, if I judge his short and distant, single synonym replies, he hasn’t really been listening all along, anyhow.
“Conner?” I whine loudly. “Please. Can we talk for a second?”
“Claire,” Conner says in an equally whining tone. He sets the opened magazine on his chest and, with a hand propped up under his head, looks over to me. “How many times have you griped about Melissa?”
I purse my lips, mentally trying to count the innumerable times.
“Exactly,” he says. “I don’t understand why you don’t just fire her.”
“Ugh.” I return to my pacing. “We’ve been over this, Conner. God, aren’t you listening to me? I can’t just dump her! I mean, I’d be left with all the work. And then there’s the matter of the nonrefundable deposit! I can’t do that to my dad. My mom!”
“You’ve got to trim the fat somewhere, babe,” he says, opening up his magazine once again. “And this woman has done nothing but cause you anguish. More work than you probably would have had without her.”
“She has helped in some ways,” I say. “And she’s not totally wretched. I just think…well…”
I haven’t told Conner the real and latest reason for my blowing up this
evening over Melissa. I’d told him about her texting in the middle of our meeting, about the whole not coming with me to the boutique tomorrow, about how she seemed more interested in her spa vacation than our own wedding. I hadn’t told him yet that the major reason for my graying hair over Melissa Cresswell of MC Design and Coordination is because she’d told me that she had made taste-testing appointments for wedding cakes with three different bakers in town. This is after I’d told her countless times that Sophie and Katie’s Kitchen had it all handled.
“Can you believe that?” I say after sharing the news with Conner. “She actually told me at the meeting today, which, by the way, I was so miffed with her to begin with that she didn’t want to meet at Sophie’s place. I mean, seriously? How difficult would it be for her to move her ass one neighborhood away? Right?” I shake my head disconcertingly.
Conner has since closed his magazine and set it aside on the couch, his eyes set on me.
I stop pacing, right in front of the television, and say, “She actually told me that she wants—can you believe that?—wants me to choose from three of the bakers she has on her ‘Preferred Vendor List.’” I mock the last part with quotation fingers. “She was so…final! As if I have no choice!”
“Did you put your foot down?” Conner asks, looking just as peeved as I.
“You bet I did!” I cross my arms tightly over my chest. “Told her that all of the food and the cake were taken care of. Period. No discussion.”
“And?”
“And she gave me the three business cards, told me to at least meet with them, and then…that was it!”
“That was it?”
“Yes!” I throw my hands up. “Said the appointments are all set and ready to go. It’d be ruuude not to go, she said. Told me I just need to show up! Ugh. Frickin’ A…”
Conner shakes his head slowly. “Claire, forget it.”
“Forget what?” I plunk helplessly down onto the floor. “You actually think I should go to these meetings? And…” I rapidly shake my head. “What is she doing making appointments like this? Does she own my daily planner or something? She’s just so…so…damn inconsistent! I’m going to blow a gasket over her, Conner. I mean it. I’m going to blow.”
Conner retrieves the magazine and says, “I think this is the tipping point, babe. Let her go.”
“So inconsistent,” I continue in this angered vein, not really paying much attention to Conner’s steady advice. “Sometimes it’s, ‘Make your own appointment, Claire.’ Other times it’s, ‘What works best for you?’ And today it’s, ‘Oh, I took the liberty of making the appointments for you.’ Three friggin’ appointments! For a baker I don’t even need!” I cover my face with my hands and groan loudly.
Schnickerdoodle appears in my lap and nudges at my hands. I take a peek at him and pull him close.
“I’ll say it once more, Claire baby. Fire her ass.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “I think you’re right.” I look down at Schnickerdoodle. His happy, scruffy little face is looking up at me, he’s tilting his head side to side, telling me in his own doggie way, “I love you, Mom. But Dad’s right. Cut the lady loose!”
“Conner,” I say in a soft voice.
“Yup?” He looks engrossed in his magazine.
“Can you fire her?”
Chapter Eighteen
This time it’s for real. I totally knew the Vera Wang perfection that I tried on the first time around was the real deal. But now, as I’m standing on the same pedestal in the same bridal boutique where I first tried on the most perfect gown, wearing a gown that actually fits me and will soon be mine to take home, I’m in awe. Sheer awe. I can’t get enough of the special moment, as I stand up straight and proud and look at all possible angles of myself in Vera’s best!
“This is it,” I say to the girls, including Jenna, the boutique assistant. “It fits.” I carefully stroke the bodice of my gown. Did you hear that? My gown. “It fits in every way…” I look back at the girls, and I know I’m beaming. It feels so right and so perfect. Like the bride and groom, this dress and I are a match made in heaven.
“It definitely works better than the larger size,” Sophie points out. She takes a swift glance at her watch. I know she’s pressed for time. It’s a miracle I was able to steal her away from her new café. She’s now a full-time shop owner, and not only contending with the behind-the-scenes duties of a bakery, but also managing a very hopping café up front. It’s only been open a week now, but Sophie’s busier than any of us really could have imagined (and that’s saying a lot, because we all expected wonders). I had to plead and beg and grovel for Sophie to spare an hour on the busiest morning of the week to come be a part of the final wedding-dress-choosing moment.
“It’s perfect, right?” I ask Sophie, looking down at her as she picks up random sections of the flowing gown.
“Perfection,” Sophie says with a sigh. “You look like an angel.”
“You’re not just saying that because you’ve got to run?”
With a roll of her eyes, Sophie says, “You and I both know that couldn’t be further from the truth. But, I do have to run, dear.” She scrunches up her face apologetically.
“Who’s even covering for you?” Robin asks Sophie.
“Her mom,” Emily answers, “and Chad.” She smiles. “And me, eventually.”
“Gotta run!” Sophie says, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Swing by later today if you have the time. And, seriously, Claire, you look like a dream in that gown.”
As Sophie whisks by and makes a dash for the door, I hear a faint barking sound, like that of a puppy.
I peer back over at the girls. Robin’s found a comfy spot on a large wingback, poring over bridal magazines. (Hmm, maybe she’s getting ideas!) Lara’s sitting on the edge of a loveseat, typing madly on her BlackBerry. (Probably work-related since she’s an executive now.) Emily’s fiddling with her camera and snapping random shots of me—for documentation. And Jackie is—
“Jack?” I ask, taken aback at the scene before me.
Jackie, sitting cross-legged on the plush carpeted floors, has both hands deep in her large, beige Gucci Joy Boston bag. It’s an oldie but a goodie of hers. I’ve told her that whenever she’s tired of it she can retire it to my hands.
“Jack?” I repeat, but she’s still playing around with something in the large handbag. “What are you doing?” I ask slowly.
“There,” Jackie says in a sweet voice. She looks up at me and is smiling. “What?”
“You’ve had that bag for years,” I point out. “It’s no longer fascinating. What’s inside it?”
Emily immediately pulls it open with one finger and out pops a small puppy head.
“Omigod!” I gush. I almost fly from the pedestal. I love puppies—almost as much as I love getting to try on the wedding dress.
“What the hell?” Emily asks, pulling the bag open wider. “It’s a dog!”
“How on earth are we just now seeing this?” I ask, totally flummoxed. “Has it been in there this whole time? And since when did you get a dog, Jack?”
“Oh,” Jenna, the boutique attendant, says in a shaky voice. She timidly walks up to Jackie. “There’s a strict no pets policy here. I’m sorry.”
Jackie says to never mind. “There’s nothing to get all huffy about. She’s, like, trained and all,” she says to Jenna. “She won’t leave this bag.”
Jackie busies herself with the depths of the bag again. Jenna still looks nervous, but apparently uneasy about getting into a disagreement with a friend of a customer who’s dropping quite the sum on a Vera Wang, she retreats in hesitation.
“She’s a puppy!” Robin exclaims. She tosses the magazines aside in lieu of getting a look at the fur ball. “She’s really all trained and everything?”
“Oh, no,” Jackie says. “She’s not a puppy. She’s full-grown. But trained, yeah.”
I’m surprised it’s actually full-grown. There’s no way! The dog could easily be he
ld in one palm.
“Dammit,” Jackie mutters, rifling around the bag. The small dog is sitting there with ease, completely fine with Jackie’s poking about. “Bella’s getting into my cigarettes.” Jackie tousles the fur on top of the small dog’s head. “No, no, Bella,” she scolds in a very even-keeled voice.
“What is it?” Lara asks, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.
“It’s a Teacup Yorkie,” Jackie says. “Cute, huh?”
Cute? It’s the most precious little Teacup Yorkie (and the only one, actually) I’ve ever seen,
“Adorable!” Robin says. She makes a motion to retrieve the fragile-looking dog from the bag, but Jenna sidles up again.
“Uhh, please,” Jenna shakes out. “Really. Store policy and all.”
Jackie tucks Bella back into the bag and says, “A gift from Andrew.” She sets her pack of cigarettes in her lap and arranges the bag so Bella can’t leap out.
“Is it all right for her to be in there?” I ask. “I mean, that’s a handbag, Jack.”
“Yeah, Bella’s got her blankie in there and everything.” Jackie’s expression becomes deadpan. “She’s super tiny, anyhow. How much room could she need?”
I give a “that’s true” face, and Jackie says, “It’s only her temporary carrier until the new one I ordered comes in. Did you know Louis makes a to-die-for dog carrier?”
“What doesn’t Louis make?” Robin says dismissively.
“That’s an interesting gift-choice…” Lara says. “Did you even want a dog?”
Jackie laughs as I turn back to Jenna, just after I take one quick look at myself in the tri-fold mirror and let Emily snap another photograph. “The gown. I’ll take it,” I tell Jenna in a low voice, as Jackie proceeds to tell the story about how she became a dog owner.
“So it’s like some kind of ‘fill the void’ gift?” Emily asks, perplexed. “Are you that lonely, Jack, that you need a pooch?”
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