The Art of Romance (37 page)

“But the fees to have the order and alterations expedited are not a problem,” Beth stated, standing up beside Zarah.

Jessica’s brows raised slightly. “Okay. So tell me, Zarah, how do you picture yourself on your wedding day?”

At the other end of the semicircle, Caylor could almost feel the heat radiating from Zarah’s face, she turned so red.

“Um…well, I had been picturing a small wedding, but things have changed and we’re having a big church wedding now. So I’m not sure.” Zarah turned to look at her future mother-in-law.

“She needs something elegant but that makes a statement.”

Jessica nodded then looked at Flannery and Caylor. “Best friends, what do you see her in?”

“Nothing strapless.” Caylor looked at Flannery, who nodded. “Nothing low cut. Something almost old-fashioned or Victorian. Zarah doesn’t like anything flashy. But not pouffy or frilly either. No princess ball gowns.”

“Lace,” Flannery added. “And exquisite detailing, because she is a very detail-oriented person.”

From the expression on Zarah’s face, she was about to lose it again. But Beth put her arm around Zarah’s waist and gave her a little squeeze, which seemed to help.

Jessica turned to the grandmothers then, and they reiterated much of what Beth, Caylor, and Flannery had said.

“And what’s our budget?” Jessica looked at Zarah—who looked at Beth.

“There is no budget,” Beth answered. “And Zarah is not to be told how much the gowns cost when you put them on her. I’m paying for everything, so she doesn’t need to know how much it costs.”

The consultant’s eyes gleamed. Caylor was a little surprised she didn’t rub her hands together at the thought of getting Zarah into one of their most expensive gowns and the commission that would bring.

“All right, then. Zarah, you’re with me. Ladies, as soon as I get her into a dress, we’ll be back to show it to you.” Jessica looked down at the clipboard in her hand. “Oh, I see we’re booked for a double appointment time. Excellent. Just that many more options we can explore.” She ushered Zarah off.

Caylor looked around the store at the several other groups of women either waiting for their bride to come back in a gown or critiquing the girl standing in front of them in a wedding dress. If Caylor believed in romance anymore, she might find this a fascinating place and be curious as to how each of these women met and fell in love with their fiancés.

But after yesterday…

She slumped a little in the baroque reproduction armchair. Shortly after Wyatt disappeared, Caylor had left the art museum and walked back to the hotel where she’d gotten on the computer and agreed to the exorbitant daily Internet access fee so she could do some research. She’d found only one Rhonda listed at the art institute in Philadelphia—Dr. Rhonda Kramer, chair of the painting department. The woman’s picture had been flattering but couldn’t hide the fact that she must be at least ten years older than Caylor. Why would Dylan have been romantically involved not only with the chair of his department, but with someone that much older than him?

“He’s no angel himself.”
Sassy’s voice rang through her memory.

Wyatt said Dylan had moved in with Rhonda. Rhonda had answered Dylan’s phone—Caylor assumed his cell phone. All signs pointed to the answer that Dylan and Rhonda had not been platonic roommates just trying to save money.

Movement caught her eye, and Caylor dragged her brain back to the present. Zarah walked toward them in an empire-waist gown with gold and dusty rose embroidery covering the bust and cap sleeves, and a sheer tulle over the silk skirt on the bottom. With her hair clipped up in the back and a few curls falling down in front of her ears, she looked like a character from a Jane Austen novel.

“Ladies, what do you think?”

On the few minutes of the television program about this shop that Caylor had seen, she had been dismayed at the way the bride’s large entourage had disparaged not only the gown, but also the way the bride looked in it. Zarah couldn’t survive anything like that. Not that any of them would do it.

“It is a lovely gown.” Zarah’s grandmother, Kiki, scooted to the edge of the sofa seat. “But I don’t know that it’s quite the right style for Zarah. She looks like she’s dressed for a Jane Austen masquerade ball, not a wedding.”

“What do you think, Zarah?” Flannery asked.

“Kiki’s right. It’s a beautiful dress, and I like the way it looks on me—except that it shows my upper arms too much—but it isn’t quite what I was picturing.” Zarah tried to shield her quite nice upper arms with her hands.

Jessica nodded. “All right, let’s get you in another dress.”

Two hours later, they seemed to be no closer to finding something that suited both Zarah’s sensibilities and Beth’s vision of something grand that would make a statement in the enormous auditorium at Acklen Avenue. Flannery had gotten a call from work and was pacing the lobby area while she talked on the phone.

After half an hour with no reappearance from Zarah—Caylor imagined she was discarding multiple dresses without even bothering to come up and show them—Beth stood, a determined expression on her face.

“Caylor, come with me.” She headed toward one of the gated-off display rooms beyond the showroom.

Startled, Caylor rose and followed Bobby’s mother.

Beth started going through the dresses hanging on the rack. “We’re going to find a dress for Zarah, even if I have to look through every one of the thousands of gowns they have here. You know Zarah’s tastes. Find something that looks like her but has a sense of presence about it.”

They looked through a few of the galleries—one of the clerks tagging along behind them and taking the few dresses Beth pulled as possibilities.

As soon as she entered the third gallery, Caylor stopped and stared at the dress on the mannequin in the center of the room. The ivory gown had an empire waist—though one in which the champagne-colored satin ribbon sash angled down from a small rhinestone accent in the center. The gown had a V-neck with a lace insert serving as a modesty panel, and—unlike most of the strapless gowns they’d put on Zarah with a lace or satin shrug, promising they could alter it to add sleeves—this dress had cap sleeves, which Zarah had said she could deal with. The skirt was A-line, though nowhere near as full as most of the supposed A-lines they’d been putting her in, with the beautiful floral lace continuing all the way down to the floor.

Caylor held her breath as she rounded the dress and, for the moment, forgot all about Dylan and this woman named Rhonda. “Beth, I think I’ve found it.”

Beth entered the room. “It’s pretty, but…” Then she walked around behind it. She grabbed Caylor’s wrist, bouncing on her toes like a teenager. “I think you’re right.”

She asked the clerk to take the dress off the mannequin and take it to the dressing room. She then hooked her arm through Caylor’s and led her back toward the showroom. “Thank you for helping me. I probably would have walked right past that gown.”

“My pleasure.”

“When are you going to be doing this kind of shopping for yourself?”

“Me? I’ll probably never marry.” Especially now. “I live with my grandmother and take care of her—she can’t drive anymore, so someone has to be there.”

Always before when she’d thought about living with Sassy and the sacrifice she’d willingly made five years ago, along with the decision to forgo serious relationships to avoid complications, she’d been content with it. But today the future felt bleak and empty.

Flannery still hadn’t returned when Caylor slouched back into the chair. Which was probably a good thing—it gave Caylor time to compose herself and cajole herself into a better mood so that Zarah and Flannery wouldn’t pester her about what was wrong. She should work this out on her own. No need to drag them into a mess of her own making.

Lord, I’m confused. At first I thought You wanted me to stay single and take care of Sassy. Then I thought You might be telling me You wanted me to fall in love with Dylan. Now it’s looking like that’s not going to happen, yet I can’t imagine spending the next fifteen or so years—or the rest of my life—alone. A little help here would be appreciated
.

Flannery made it back to her seat just as Zarah came around the corner. “Ooh, that’s pretty.”

“Just wait,” Caylor whispered.

The style of the dress was perfect for Zarah’s size 14 figure, even if the sample gown was a little small for her, just as Caylor had envisioned. But when she stepped up on the dais, turning her back to them—Kiki, Lindy, and Flannery all gasped. Beth reached for the box of tissues on the end table beside her chair and dabbed her eyes.

If the front of the dress was all about Zarah and her sensibilities, the back of the dress—four tiers of bustle leading to an almost cathedral length, detachable train—was all about Beth and her desire for something grand.

Along with the four women seated beside her and the bride standing in front of them, Caylor couldn’t hold back her tears. Or her guilt over the fact that the tears were more for herself than from the pleasure of seeing Zarah’s joy at having found the perfect wedding dress.

A day spent at the Frist Center followed by a hockey game. Could there be a more perfect Saturday?

Yes, as a matter of fact. Caylor’s presence could definitely have improved it.

Dylan leaned against the pillar holding up the electronic sign announcing upcoming events at the downtown arena. The temptation to call Caylor and tell her about the job offer and ask her out to coffee sometime when they would have time to sit and talk—truly talk—made his fingers twitch. But after talking to Ken yesterday about his immediate desire to tell Caylor about the job—even before his grandparents or parents—he decided to take the therapist’s advice and try to distance himself from the infatuation he felt for Caylor (even though he tried to explain to Ken that
infatuation
couldn’t even begin to describe how he felt for Caylor) and give himself time to adjust to being newly single and explore his rekindling relationship with God before diving headfirst into another romantic entanglement.

But he still wished Caylor were here.

He straightened at the sight of a beautiful blond coming toward him. Nervousness twisted his stomach—why did beautiful women do this to him? Well, all beautiful women but one. Admiration and longing were the only visceral reactions he had whenever he saw Caylor.

“Hey, Dylan!” Emerson jogged the last few yards toward him. He closed his eyes against the sight of the ugly sheepskin-lined tan boots she’d tucked her too-tight jeans into. When he opened them again, he focused on her angelic face. Yes, he could probably use her as a model for an angel if he ever took a piece that direction.

“Hi, Emerson.”

“Ems, remember?” She grinned, and he had to wonder if she’d had her teeth capped, because no one had teeth that perfectly straight and symmetrical naturally.

Was it the right or left side on which Caylor had a tooth with a tiny chip out of one corner?

He followed Ems into the arena. She seemed to know her way around, so this must be something she did regularly.

Did Caylor like hockey?

Okay, he seriously needed to get Caylor Evans off his mind. But at least he wasn’t comparing everyone he came in contact with to Rhonda anymore.

Chattering at him the whole time, Ems led him to the concession stand nearest the section their seats were in. She ordered two of everything—hot dogs, french fries, and bottled water. Dylan pulled out his wallet to pay, but Ems waved him off. “My treat.”

“Really, you should let me, since you got the tickets.”

“But I didn’t have to pay for them.” She handed her money to the bored-looking cashier before Dylan could get his out. “You can buy the sodas and popcorn in the second period and ice cream in the third.”

“You sound like you have a routine when it comes to the games.” Dylan took the box holding their food while Ems took the two bottles of water. He followed her to the condiments stand, and they each doctored their dogs—Dylan adding only ketchup and mustard, and Ems adding almost every condiment available except onions. He tried not to be grossed out at the amount of pickle relish she added to the dog and instead concentrated on pumping ketchup and mayonnaise over his fries.

“Mayo on fries? Gross.” Emerson wrinkled her perfect example of a nose. Her face was so symmetrical, he really should get her into his portraiture class for a study in creating a full-face portrait only from one side of the model’s face.

“I picked it up in Philly. It’s best when I can mix the ketchup and mayo together.”

“Add relish to it and you’ll have Thousand Island dressing.”

Now it was his turn to wrinkle his nose. “I’m not a big fan of pickles—of any kind.”

Though he’d been worried about what he might find to talk about with this stellar physical specimen of womanhood, the topic of food preferences—especially those they couldn’t stand—took up most of the remaining time before the game began, interspersed as it was with eating.

The seats were fabulous—only a little off center ice—and Dylan’s heart raced as the teams were introduced and the national anthem sung. He’d fallen in love with the game in New York, so naturally his loyalties still lay with that team. But he couldn’t care less about the other visiting team on the ice tonight, so he had no problem cheering for Nashville.