by Laura Briggs
Her phone suddenly beeped with a text from Cal. He was still hinting about her finding him a job away from Kandace’s studio of chaos… for instance, if she ever opened her own design studio. Suddenly, that didn’t seem like the same pipe dream from weeks ago, when she was pinning the demented harlequin skirt around one of Kandace’s mannequins. She was a long way from her designs being showcased, of course—still, it felt like a more realistic goal now than her mother’s plans for her to finally settle down with someone.
Why wait for something that wasn’t going to happen? True love just wasn’t reality; it was a fairytale. Natalie couldn’t see a self-sacrificing, handsome, devoted Prince Charming materializing on her doorstep… if her current love life was any indication, casual relationships were something most guys preferred anyway.
And it wasn’t like her parents had some magic story, was it? Her father once joked that their marriage might as well have been arranged by the culinary gods—her mother was the passionate one with a head for business; her father from an easygoing family of bakers, pasta makers, and daydreamers.
So maybe Tessa was right about other things being more important right now than love. Now, if only she could end her serial addiction to dating and having fun… like that would ever happen! Natalie rolled her eyes at this idea.
* * *
As the evening bus taking Natalie home rolled past the Tandoori Tiger, an engagement party for a different sort of arranged marriage was taking place in the restaurant’s dining room, beneath the glitzy lanterns and flower lights that Ranjit loved so much. In the kitchen, Ama’s sister-in-law Deena hurried to gather another tray of spicy roast chicken and masala-seasoned potatoes.
“Ama, you have to see the bride’s sari,” she said, as she lifted the tray with one hand. “It’s this parrot green shade that would be perfect for you.”
“Really? Let me see.” Rasha was peering through the kitchen door’s crack. “Oh my gosh, it’s gorgeous,” she said. “That’s so much prettier than the one I wore for my engagement party. It was such an ick shade of yellow.”
“I liked you in that dress,” protested her husband, who was stealing a sticky rice ball from his mother-in-law’s tray of finger foods—before his hand was slapped away.
“Men know nothing about fashion,” his sister-in-law informed him.
“So we’ve been told,” said Jaidev, as he arranged flatbread slices on a tray. “Where’s the lentil paste?” he asked. “Ama, what did you do with my bowl? It was right here where you put this coconut barfi.”
“I moved it over by the rest of the masala dosa,” she answered. “Don’t panic, all right?”
“Ama, come look,” insisted Deena.
“No, thanks,” said Ama. “I’ve seen plenty of Indian fashions in your wardrobe.” Her sister-in-law’s collection of hostess saris for the restaurant featured every color under the sun, to Ama’s mind.
“Where is the rest of the food?” said Ranjit, pushing open the kitchen door.
“Out, out,” said Pashma. “Go host. Jaidev is bringing it.”
While her family argued about the flavor of the lentil paste, Ama slipped outside the kitchen’s back door, catching a breath of fresh air away from the smell of frying oil and the lingering odor of garlic, blackened chicken, and masala. The sounds of the wedding party’s festivities were quieter out here—she pictured them as the sounds of Paolo and Molly’s future celebration in another week.
Would there ever be one for her? Not that she wanted a loud commemorative celebration of sitar music mixed with pop tracks and her family’s loud friends dressed in Bollywood fashions—no, not that part, really. But the falling in love part… that was something she did want.
She hugged herself and sighed. Maybe somewhere out there was her destiny in the form of another person, thinking the same thoughts as he stood on his apartment balcony, or sat on a building’s steps. Only she was beginning to think he wouldn’t be dodging a loud, culturally vibrant family like her own. He would be longing to escape something else, and the two of them would build a new life together. Hand in hand, they would shake off old expectations and limitations, fingers intertwined as they seized the future.
That was a really beautiful picture. If only it would become reality, she thought, as she gazed up at the stars, barely visible in the city haze.
The back door banged open. “Ama, where is the red chili paste?” asked Rasha. “You were the last person to use it.”
“I’ll come find it.” Ama followed her back inside.
* * *
Across town, beneath the same starlight and streetlamp glow, the Wedding Belles’ new headquarters was dark except for two lights burning, one on each floor. In her office upstairs, Tessa was surfing the web for inspiration for their clients’ ceremony. Her office still smelled of fresh paint, so she propped the window open with a half-empty can of trim paint to let the breeze circulate.
Norwegian wedding traditions. Norwegian villages in the Voss region. Traditional Irish desserts. She downloaded some photos to her phone, scrolling past the ones she had taken earlier of the possible venues. Studying one, she released a sigh of expectation. It was up to Molly and Paolo now to determine if any of these choices were the right ones.
Blake was screwing the outlet plates around the sockets in the kitchen as she came downstairs. “You’re working late,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. “Shouldn’t you be home right now?”
“I work late on lots of jobs,” he answered. “Besides, I’m trying to finish this one in a day or two.”
“Move on to more profitable clients, eh?” said Tessa. “I guess we’re not your most lucrative contract, are we? No guarantee we can afford those fancy Victorian light fixtures, or whatever.”
A short laugh came from Blake. “Let’s just say I’ll be asking for half up front on my next job,” he answered. But he was joking, Tessa thought. “Shouldn’t you be at home, too?” he added.
I am home, would be the honest response. But Tessa didn’t feel like imparting that particular secret right now. With a shrug, she told him, “Like you, I prefer not to leave until the job’s done. I was actually checking out some ideas for the wedding. I found some pictures of Bianca’s village church where she would have married if she had stayed in her home country. It’s really pretty.” She showed him a photo of the Lutheran church’s hand-carved woodwork and old-fashioned pews on the screen of her phone.
“Pretty,” he agreed. “That wooden altar is a nice piece of craftsmanship.”
“Isn’t it?” said Tessa. “Especially that ornate floral pattern across its front. It would be amazing if I could locate a similar piece for Paolo and Molly’s ceremony. I’m sure they would love to pay tribute to that part of his grandmother’s past, especially since it didn’t have a chance to be part of her own big day. But apparently antique, hand-carved Norwegian altars like this one are hard to buy, even online.”
“This is Norwegian farming country, right?”
“You remembered,” she said. “Yeah. Bianca talked about her past a little when I visited her the other day. She said some things about missing her homeland. When she and Pietro moved to America, she knew she’d never see it again, probably, just like he would never see Italy again.”
“That would be tough,” said Blake. “Not seeing your home again. Or your family.” He turned back to the socket he was screwing in place, giving the hardware a few more twists. “She probably felt some regrets, even if it was worth it.”
“I’m hoping to find a way to give her a little piece of it back,” said Tessa. “That’s what we’re working on right now. I think I’m going to talk to Molly and Paolo and see if they have some ideas.”
“Better take along some suggestions,” said Blake. “I don’t think they’ve given any of it much thought. This whole wedding was Bianca’s idea… if it hadn’t been for her, they probably would have eloped like his parents.”
He’d been paying more attention to Molly and Paolo’s s
tory than Tessa gave him credit for. She felt surprised. “That’s what happens when you don’t have anything solid to anchor you, like traditions or family ties, I suppose,” she said. “Or a lot of money to impress your friends,” she added jokingly.
“I wouldn’t want a big wedding. All those champagne bottles and chocolate fountains—that’s not for me,” said Blake. “I think I’d want something small and simple. A girl who didn’t want all the flashy, perfectionist details.”
“You know, it’s not the money or the size that matters,” said Tessa. “You can make a wedding feel intimate and still have a big crowd… and a little flash, too.”
He shook his head. “I’d expect that remark from a wedding planner,” he said.
Tessa raised her brows. “What does that mean?” she asked.
“What? It’s your job. Of course you like the big splash,” he said. “That’s what you do—you even liked it when you were a kid, you told me.”
“You make it sound like it’s the same as wanting some tacky affair meant to make guests green with envy,” said Tessa, suddenly indignant. “It’s nothing like that, I assure you.” She was bristling slightly, as if he had suggested she was the kind of girl who only liked glitz and black-tie events with printed invitations.
“I didn’t say that it was. All I said was you seem like the kind of girl who prefers things a little fancy,” he protested.
“You don’t know me well enough to know what I like,” said Tessa. “But it’s just in your nature to make assumptions like that, isn’t it? Goodnight, Mr. Ellingham.” She marched up the stairs, letting her office door slam shut behind her with more force than necessary, ignoring the handyman’s protesting defense.
To think she’d actually mistaken that tiny spark between them in the kitchen for anything but static electricity. It simply proved what she had already learned: that moments like that were imaginary.
Twenty-Three
The dress was the last big dilemma.
Natalie had paged through catalogs and visited friends’ boutiques, shopping for a dress that would match both Molly’s beauty and Bianca’s expectations. It was a disappointing search, because none of them were good enough. The sleek modern designs were a little too sleek and would wash all the color from Molly’s fair skin in such stark shades of white. The princess gowns she reviewed were far too plain—for Bianca’s standards, anyway.
They needed something different. Something unlike what was in the shops. In the end, Natalie could think of only one thing to try.
“What are you doing home at this hour?” Roberto checked his watch. “Don’t you have a date tonight?” He set his late-night sandwich on the counter as Natalie closed the front door.
“Don’t they ever feed you at the fire station?” asked Natalie, on her way upstairs.
“I have a big appetite,” her brother answered. “Anyway, you didn’t answer my question.”
“Not tonight,” said Natalie. “I’m looking for something I left in the stuff stored in my room.”
“You mean Ma’s second guest room, right?”
“Eat your sandwich,” Natalie answered.
She searched through the drawers of an old dresser before remembering the box in her closet. There was the green dress that Kandace had rejected, lying on top of a heap of garments and sewing supplies. She closed the flaps of the box these lay inside of, labeled “finished projects,” and lifted it in her arms, kicking a pile of old hangers back inside the closet before she shut the door.
“So what did you tell your date tonight?” said Roberto, when she came back downstairs with her armload.
“I told him I had a headache,” said Natalie. “You know, the same thing all your dates used to tell you whenever you called them.”
“Funny, sis,” he said. “Ma left some macaroons in a box for you in the kitchen. Oh, and she says to call her about dinner on Sunday.”
“Can’t make it. Got a thing at work,” answered Natalie, opening the front door by squeezing the box against herself. “You can have my macaroons, ’cause Ama gave me some leftover dessert from her restaurant.”
“Ma’s gonna be upset when she hears you’re not coming.”
“Like I’ve never eaten her lasagna before,” said Natalie, scoffing. “Tell her I have a big date.”
“Yeah, that’ll cheer her up. You wasting time with some jerk who won’t become her next son-in-law.”
“Funny, bro.” She pulled the door closed behind her with one foot.
In her studio at Wedding Belles HQ, she rummaged around for the right shade of thread in her sewing boxes after rolling out a bolt of fabric. She needed her good scissors, too. She slipped her pincushion on her wrist, and began working on the garment spread over her worktable, one which, thankfully, looked decent for something stored in a folded garment bag for ages.
Tessa claimed Bianca had loved the dress she made for her. Natalie only hoped she hadn’t exaggerated the elderly woman’s feelings to spare Natalie’s own, because that wouldn’t do her a favor in this case. Her hand shook a little when she picked up the scissors, forcing her to take a calming breath. Relax, Natalie. You’ve done this a hundred times before.
At least it wasn’t a design for Kandace she was working on. She thanked her lucky stars that it wasn’t the Wendy blouse made with see-through lace and trimmed with dozens of pink bows that Cal had texted her a picture of earlier in the week, along with a caption expressing his distaste for the finished product.
The first dress she’d ever sewn was still hanging in the closet at home. Even with all its flaws—including a pouched-out side seam—it was still better than her former boss’s first creation, she was willing to bet. She could picture Kandace’s now—some weird patchwork skirt decorated with mini skulls. Or maybe a chenille sweater shaped like a caterpillar’s bumpy body. Her superior “I’m an artist and you’re not” attitude probably convinced her home economics teacher that it was brilliant.
The needle slipped easily through the fabric in quick stitches. Natalie smiled to herself, as the fabric shimmered in the moonlight like an ivory stream.
* * *
“Now, this may be a little different from what you pictured,” Natalie said to Bianca. “I know it’s not the same as the dresses in some of your pictures, but it’s really unique. One of a kind. And I think… maybe… it’s special enough for Molly.”
Bianca nodded. “I want to see it, then,” she said. “If you think it’s what Molly would like.” She lifted her chin, tugging the sleeves of her faded sweater more neatly around her wrists as she glanced toward the curtain drawn across the neighboring room.
It opened, and Molly stepped out, adjusting the folds of her own outfit, a dress pinned to fit her. “What do you think?” she asked Bianca. She turned in a slow circle, showing the dress from all sides.
“How do you feel in it?” asked Natalie, in a voice that suggested she wasn’t dying to know, necessarily—which couldn’t be further from the truth.
“I feel amazing,” said Molly. “I’ve never worn anything like this before.” She glanced in the mirror again, as if she couldn’t tear her eyes away from her reflected image. The best sign of all, Natalie thought.
The fabric was somewhere between champagne and ivory in the daylight. The bodice featured ruches, with the sleeves gently off the shoulder, and an asymmetrical waistline, the skirt gently flaring to a train; no crystals or sequins or pearl beading. It was simple, but soft and elegant, the fabric shining in the light.
At first, Bianca didn’t say anything. Molly smoothed the skirts with her hand. “What do you think, Gran?” she repeated. “I think it’s really beautiful. I like it so much better than the one I tried on a few days ago.”
Natalie waited. Bianca had put her hand over her mouth when Molly emerged from behind the curtain. As she gazed at Molly, her eyes had begun to glitter softly. At last, she spoke.
“It is… so beautiful,” she said. Her voice trembled. “She looks lovely. Just like a
movie star.”
“Do you think so?” said Natalie. “I know it’s different from what you were searching for, but I thought maybe you would like it. It really looked like something perfect for Molly.”
Bianca nodded. “We will take it,” she said. “If Molly loves it, we will take it.”
“I do,” said Molly. “Same answer to the dress as Paolo. A definite yes.” She broke into a smile at this point, as did Bianca. The elderly woman rose to her feet and took both of the bride’s hands in her own. She squeezed them tightly, her beam as wide as Molly’s.
“I can get you a great deal on it,” said Natalie. “The designer hasn’t had much exposure, so it’s practically cost price.”
“We must take a picture.” Bianca was removing an antiquated film camera from her purse, turning on the flash button. “For your wedding album.”
Natalie snapped photos of Molly, then of Molly and Bianca together. “Let’s talk accessories now,” she said. She stepped aside to retrieve her catalogs, leaving Molly and Bianca admiring the dress in front of the mirror. In the doorway behind her, she found Tessa watching.
“That’s a gorgeous dress,” said Tessa. “Molly looks great in it.”
“I thought she would,” said Natalie. “When I saw it, I thought she would look like an angel: it wouldn’t wash out her color, it would look elegant with or without a veil. It was just what she needed.”
“It’s yours, isn’t it?” Tessa said.
Natalie stood before the bookshelf in Tessa’s adjoining office, her hand pulling out one of the bridal fashion catalogs. She didn’t say anything, pretending to look for something inside one of the issues.
“I would know one of your dresses anywhere, Nat.”
Natalie shrugged. “It’s a bridal version of my best reject from the Garland Boutique downtown, once upon a time,” she said. “They almost put it on the rack, but no dice. And it definitely wasn’t ugly enough for Kandace. So I thought I’d find somebody who appreciated it.”