Thirty-Four Going On Bride (The Spinster Series Book 3)

by Becky Monson

  “Well why not?” Patti asks. “It’s a far cry better from what ya looked like before,” she says, squinting at me through her glasses.

  I suddenly realize that I can’t say anything because if I insult any of it, I’m vicariously insulting Patti, since this is basically her look. Only it works for her. But it most certainly doesn’t work for me.

  “The newspaper’s here,” Kate yells over to us as she walks from the front of the bakery into the kitchen. She takes one look at me, eyes bugging out of her head, and turns around and goes back out front. She’s literally speechless.

  Oh no. What the heck am I going to do? I can’t get this off me without rubbing my skin so raw, I’ll look even more clown-like than I did with the makeup on.

  “Just give me a second,” I say to the ladies as I shut the door the bathroom and try to think if there’s anything I can do.

  Carefully, I run my fingers through my over-sprayed hair, trying to untangle the backcombing. It’s mostly a futile effort, but I’m able to bring it down a few inches. Then I blot my lipstick off on some toilet paper until it resembles a lighter shade of red. Using some of the makeup I brought I add a nude shade of lip gloss to the top, making the red look almost a decent shade of pink. Not a color I’d normally wear, mind you, but better than the bright red. I can’t do anything about the liner that has made my lips look only slightly smaller than Mick Jagger’s. But with the nude added to the red, it’s passable … I hope.

  I grab some more toilet paper and try to dampen the blue on my eyelids. Grabbing my favorite light neutral, I put some on top of what’s left of the blue. It helps me to venture out of the 1980’s and into the late 1990’s. Still more than a decade behind, but maybe that puts me ahead of the times.

  My phone beeps, signaling a text. Probably Jared sending me a text to grovel. Or maybe to tell me he’s on his way. Oh please, oh please, oh please…

  Save the dates need to go out next week.

  It’s Anna. This is so not what I need right now. I thought I nixed the save the dates in hopes that Bobby’s massive guest list wouldn’t be able to come because they had so little warning. I knew I wouldn’t get away with it, though. I just hoped.

  I don’t have time to go into it right now so I text back an “okay” to hold her off until we can actually talk in person.

  There’s a knock at the bathroom door. “Did ya fall in?” Patti asks through the door.

  I wish.

  I stand back and look in the mirror and assess. Hair less teased? Check. Makeup less scary? Check. Eye twitch? Check.

  My look still ventures on that of a prostitute, but at least it’s not as bad as it was. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders and open the door to the bathroom. Debbie and Patti are both waiting for me on the other side of the door.

  “Your hair,” Patti purses her lips and shakes her head. “It’s all flat now.”

  Good gravy, this is what she considers flat? I’m still teased to Timbuktu.

  “Sorry,” I say, looking at both of them. “I’m just not used to seeing myself like that. I only messed with it a little.” I look apologetically at them.

  “You look lovely,” Debbie says, though I can tell by her eyes that she’s mostly lying.

  “Thanks,” I say, and then swallow hard. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

  “You got this,” Patti says, giving me a quick pat on the shoulder.

  I’m pretty sure I don’t, but I’m going to fake it as best I can.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Okay, let’s get started,” Lisa says, sitting across from me at a table in the corner, lemon muffin in hand, her dark brown hair looking glossier than ever. I really need to find out what products she uses.

  Unlike Brown, Lisa is apparently a connoisseur of baked goods and eats them on a regular basis. Hard to believe by her tiny waist, but there are those people who can eat and never gain weight. I know—I was one of them … until I bought the bakery. Luckily, by the expression on her face and the moans of delight that come from her mouth, she’s thoroughly enjoying the muffin.

  She’s one of those noisy eaters that irritate me so. Good thing the café is quiet right now. We have just under two hours until the lunch rush begins.

  I guess Lisa has never worked in the service industry because some of the first words out of her mouth upon seeing the almost-empty bakery were about how quiet it was and that maybe business “isn’t going so well.” Her look of pity was palpable. I internally rolled my eyes, but I didn’t let my irritation play outwardly … I hope.

  The photo shoot was first. I tried desperately to get out of it, giving Lisa the shortened version of my morning from hell, but she said I looked great and that the picture would be black and white anyway, so I had nothing to worry about. Of course the comment about the picture being black and white did make me realize that she must’ve thought I was a bit overdone. That’s the understatement of the century.

  “So,” she starts, pen to a pad of paper, recording device on the table, “tell me how this all came to be,” she gestures to the bakery with her eyes and a sweep of her hand.

  “Well,” I say, wondering what else she needs to know that wasn’t already told to her at dinner. Of course it had been more than a week since we went to dinner, and considering how she had forgotten my name in the first minutes after meeting me, I’m going to venture that Lisa doesn’t have the best memory. Especially for things she doesn’t truly care about.

  “First, I have to tell you that I love what you’ve done with the place,” Lisa says before I can even go into the story of how I became the owner of a bakery. “It’s quaint, you know?”

  “Um, yes, that was what I was going for,” I say looking around the room. It’s quaint, but not in a homey way. It’s more of a contemporary look with bright colors and straight edges. I’m not one for doilies and floral patterns.

  “You’ve done a great job of keeping it simple, and sort of plain, you know?” She nods her head at me.

  I’m not certain how to respond to that. My eye does though; it does a double twitch. I pray she doesn’t notice. I don’t think the space is plain at all. Lisa has a very interesting way of insulting me without thinking she’s actually insulting me. Or maybe she does?

  “Sure,” I finally say.

  One thing’s for sure. Each underhanded comment has made my eye twitch even harder. I didn’t think it was possible. I’m also slightly starting to freak out that it will never go away and this is how I’ll have to live my life forever.

  “Okay, so back to the question, give me a little history on this old place,” she sits back and takes a sip of her Diet Coke. The Diet Coke she insisted on having at nine in the morning. It’s her “coffee” since she said she doesn’t drink coffee because of all the issues it causes her stomach. As if Diet Coke is a better option. Who am I to judge though, really? I could totally go for a Dr. Pepper right now.

  I’m trying super hard to not be Judge-y Mc-Judging-pants, but it’s incredibly hard to do.

  I begin by telling her about the previous owner, Beth, and how I came to work here after my dad had brought some of my baked goods into work (Beth’s husband worked at the law firm with my dad, but is now retired). I tell her how this was supposed to be a temporary stop between jobs, but once I started working here, I knew I could never leave. Then when Beth decided to sell, and with the help of my family and a much needed nudge from Jared, I took a leap of faith and purchased the place.

  Writing notes as I speak and inserting a few “uh-huhs” into the conversation, I get the sense from her body language that Lisa is bored to tears.

  “And this all came to be because Jared got you fired from your job,” she throws out there, like it’s part of the story. I mean it is, but will that be going into the article?

  “Yeah,” I say, shortness to my tone.

  “How did you get over that?” she leans toward me, tucking some of her shiny dark locks behind her ear.

  “Well, it took a whi
le,” I say.

  “I’m sure it did,” she smiles, twinkle in her eye.

  Twitch.

  “I guess it didn’t take me too long. Maybe a month before he came groveling to me.” I give her a tight, smug smile when I see the shock in her eyes.

  “He groveled? Jared Moody groveled?” she asks, completely taken aback by this bit of info.

  “He did. He came here to the bakery every day for two weeks until I agreed to go out with him so he could explain,” I say. By the look on her face, this was not expected information. There’s something else there too. Could it be jealousy?

  She clears her throat, and with it, her facial expression. “That’s interesting,” she says, her tone and eyes indicating that she doesn’t really find it interesting at all. Or, at least, she doesn’t want to.

  “Tell me more about the bakery,” she says, eyes downturned, changing the subject as quickly as possible.

  Glad to be off the Jared subject, and away from the venom that seemed to pour from her eyes the more I talked about it, I tell her more about my experience on Cupcake Battles and how business has been crazy busy ever since (the look of uncertainty as she glanced around my empty bakery did not go unnoticed).

  “Do you love it?” she asks, writing something down on her notepad.

  “The bakery? Yeah, I do. It can be stressful at times, but I could never go back to a desk job after working here,” I say, looking around the room, a welcomed feeling of peace in my stomach as I realize I’ll never sit at a desk again doing accounting. Unless you count my desk in the back that I do all the accounting at … which doesn’t count to me.

  “So when’s the wedding?” Lisa asks after scribbling some notes on her pad of paper.

  “Huh?” I ask, not sure what this has to do with her article and my bakery, but neither did the conversation of how I snagged Jared. She’s kind of all over the place.

  “Your wedding to Jared?” she questions me with brows creased as if she thinks I need a reminder about my own wedding.

  “Oh, uh, September fourth,” I say with a quick nod of my head.

  “So less than three months,” she states, looking as if she’s doing some sort of calculation in her head.

  “Yep,” I say, sitting back in my seat. “I’m sorry, what does this have to do with the bakery?” I ask, trying to get her back to the conversation at hand. I have a lunch rush to get ready for. And prostitute/clown makeup to scrub off my face.

  “Oh, no reason,” she says, batting her hand in the air as if it’s not a big deal. “I was just curious. It’s just so crazy—Jared, my Jared—finally getting married.” She shakes her head in wonder.

  Her Jared? Seriously? He hasn’t been hers for over a decade.

  “It probably took him a while to ask you, right? He was always so slow.” She purses her lips in a smug, all-knowing way, and sits back in her chair, arms folded.

  “Actually from the time we started dating to the time we got engaged was just around a year,” I say. I feel a pinch of self-satisfaction at that statement. I want to throw in something about how obviously when he knew it was right, there was no need to go slow, but I’m trying to take the high road here.

  “Impressive,” she says, her tone ringing of conspiracy, like I’d somehow tricked him into it.

  “Uh, thanks?” I say, unintentionally turning my voice up in the form of a question.

  “Back in college he wanted to marry me, you know,” she says, her eyes looking directly at me, seeking the surprise she was looking for.

  She found it. I’m quite taken aback by this bit of info. My eye gives a little twitch in surprise as well.

  “He did?” I say, trying not to sound disbelieving, but failing miserably.

  “He did. He asked me more than once,” she says, clearly enjoying the upper hand she thinks she has right now.

  “You were engaged?”

  “Yes … well, not for very long. I broke it off with him.” She tilts her head to the side inquisitively, a smirk on her lips. “He never told you anything about it?”

  She can obviously tell by the shock on my face that he didn’t.

  “Yes,” I lie out of the blue, “I mean, I’m sure he did. I must’ve forgotten.” Oh gosh, I’m sinking to her level with the underhanded jabs. It doesn’t matter because from the look on her face, she can tell that I’m lying.

  “Oh, that Jared,” she shakes her head slowly from side to side, “he was never very good at being open about the past. I guess things haven’t changed.”

  A sinking feeling hits my stomach. My heart is telling me not to make a big deal out of any of this, but my mind is racing.

  “Why did you break up with him?” The words pour out of my mouth before I can take them back. By asking this, I’m acknowledging that I believe this crazy story.

  She looks to the side as if deciding how she wants to explain. “Things got complicated,” she finally says and then moistens her lips with her tongue.

  “Complicated,” I echo.

  “Yes, complicated,” she repeats again. I get from her tone that this is all she plans to offer to the conversation. I want to dig deeper, but I also don’t want to add more fuel to the fire—the fire being this conversation, and the growing pit in my stomach.

  We sit there in silence for a bit, me dying to ask more but not allowing myself to, and her looking as if she wants to say more. I’m not giving her the satisfaction.

  “Well, I think I have enough for the article,” she finally says, and then starts to load her pad of paper and recorder into her black leather satchel.

  “Okay,” I say and stand up from the table.

  “Thanks for humoring me today, Julia,” she says, her fake smile plastered back on.

  “Uh, thanks for interviewing me,” I say, but not really thankful at all.

  I walk her to the door and we say quick goodbyes. I have no plans to dilly-dally at the door.

  I have a phone call to make.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Jules, it’s not that big of a deal,” Jared says, his tone indicating that he’s tiring of this entire phone conversation.

  “Uh, it kinda is,” I say, not fully accepting how he’s downplaying the whole thing. “You wanted to marry her. Don’t you think that’s an important thing to tell me? That you were engaged once?”

  “It would be important, if it were important,” he says, his tone quiet but earnest.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, confused.

  “I mean, don’t you think that if it were a big deal, I would’ve told you?” he says, sounding insulted that I’d doubt him at all. “Besides, the engagement was like a millisecond long. It was foolish and stupid. We were both young.”

  “Were you in love with her?” The question slips out of my mouth before I have the sense to stop it.

  “Oh geez, Jules. No. No I wasn’t in love with her. I mean, I thought I was. But I was young and naïve and … no, it wasn’t love.”

  “I just wish that I would’ve known. I felt so dumb, and she really rubbed it in, saying something about how you were never good at revealing your past. My mind started wondering about other things you might’ve never told me,” I say.

  “Don’t worry about Lisa; she’s harmless,” he says. And I roll my eyes. He’s obviously clueless about that one. “And as far as my past, why don’t you assume that everything you don’t know is probably because it’s useless information that I’d rather not waste our time together on. Okay?”

  I sit in silence, nibbling on my bottom lip.

  “Yeah, okay,” I say, realizing that he’s right. I mean, it’s not as if I’ve filled him in on all of my past escapades. Mostly because there are so few it’s almost embarrassing. I truly had such a dull life until Jared waltzed into it.

  “Do you want to know how I know that I wasn’t in love with Lisa?” he asks, his tone soft. “I had no idea what real love—true love—was, until I met you.”

  Good gravy, how do I ever doubt this m
an? There must be a serious chemical imbalance in my brain.

  “You see? It’s those kinds of comments that make it impossible to be annoyed with you,” I say, a lighter tone to my voice.

  “Then my evil plan worked,” he quips.

  “Why don’t you and your evil plan come over so we can kiss and make up?”

  “I’m already walking to my car.”

  How did I let myself get caught up in all of this in the first place?

  ~*~

  “Well, if I were you, I’d be madder than a wet hen,” Patti says, nodding her head like I have a clue how mad a wet hen could be.

  I’m going to assume that’s really angry. Here’s the deal though: I’m not.

  “I’ll have a talk with her,” I say, hoping to appease her for now. I don’t want to have a talk with Kate, but I know it’s inevitable.

  “Look, I’m not tellin’ ya how to run yer business, but I think she’s stepping all over everybody’s toes, and I’d do something about it now before it gets worse,” Patti says, her pointer finger jerking in my direction and her other hand wrapped tightly around a broom.

  “I just don’t think it’s that big of a deal. So she ordered a few things we needed without asking me,” I shrug my shoulders. “It was stuff we needed.”

  “And she changed our coffee supplier,” she says, eyebrows higher than would seem humanly possible.

  “Our other supplier raised their prices.”

  “She also changed our napkin supplier.”

  “She did? Well, maybe she got a better price.”

  “She made a bathroom schedule for us to take turns cleaning.”

  The look on Patti’s face would indicate that this may have been the straw that broke the camel’s back.

  I let out a big long breath.

  “Like I said, I’m not trying to tell you how to run your business, but I’d be worried about that one,” she says pointing toward the front of the bakery where Kate is helping customers.

  “I’ll talk to her,” I say, hoping that will appease Patti for now. I don’t want to have a conversation with Kate. I hate confrontation. But if Patti thinks I should, then I probably should.