Toss the Bouquet (6 page)

“The store's reputation got it listed in Philly's Five Best for ten years in a row,” she continued. “It didn't make the cut last year, and it won't make it this year because we're out of date with some of the top designers for our niche clientele.”

“But Mom was always on the cutting edge,” he protested. “She and Kathy talked about that all the time.”

Tara's face told him that was no longer the case. “I called Kathy. She said that money got tight when two corporate bridals moved into town, one in Cherry Hill and one in King of Prussia.”

His mother had never breathed a word to him. Why not? He could have helped, could have gotten her marketing advice from experts in business.

“Your mother and Kathy closed ranks, keeping things more minimized than they had in the past. And then a wave of brides came in, tried dresses on, got sized, then ordered them off the Internet at a discount price.”

“So the store takes the brunt of overhead cost for time, employees . . .”

“And the online site gets the sale. Pretty much.”

“How can you fight that kind of thing?” He stared at Tara as the decision to close the store loomed bigger. “It's a tiny store surrounded by fire-breathing dragons. Who can win that battle?”

“How did David beat Goliath? Faith, guts, and the will to survive.” She sat back as her food cooled, and she locked eyes with him. “But that's what I need to ask you. Are you in this for the long haul? Because bringing things up to par to survive takes hands-on work, sales, and energy. If you're not keeping the store, then it's probably better to liquidate what you can, give the women who worked for your mother a severance, and sell the shop.”

“You discovered all this in four hours of checking bridal gowns?” Suddenly her spiel sounded a little too convenient. How did a sharp young woman like Tara Simonetti, with admittedly no experience in bridal, come up with an entire dynamic for his mother's three decades of hard work and dedication in one afternoon? Impossible.

“Who are you really, Tara?” He leaned in, delving for answers. “Who do you work for? May's? Filene's? Because no way did you walk in off the street yesterday fresh from the sticks of Pennsyl-tucky and figure this out in a few hours.”

He thought to shock her into the truth.

Wrong.

She burst out laughing and he sat up straighter, baffled and not one whit amused. “This isn't funny.”

“Oh, it is.” She took a sip of water, giggled, then sat back and wiped her mouth carefully. “If you could just see your face right now.”

“Angry? Disappointed? Disillusioned? Take your pick.”

“All three,” she assured him. “First, you're being corporate lawyer silly, and it's downright preposterous but kind of cute too. In a vintage TV show kind of way. Although I prefer my alpha males to have a clue. That keeps them from jumping to conclusions that have no basis in fact.”

He started to sputter and she held up a hand. “My turn.” She waited for his nod, then ticked off her fingers. “You're too close to the situation to see it. You've suffered a keen loss, your heart isn't in any of this, your workers are wonderful women, or at least they sound like it from everything I've heard, but they know more about the store's bottom line than you do, and that's because they don't look at last year's numbers. They look at this year's appointments.”

He hated that she made sense, but she did.

“You can't sell gowns to empty chairs, so if you're going to keep this going, we have to tempt girls in, show them the goods and convince them that first-class service reduces the stress of their wedding day, then lock in the sale.”

His head went instantly to major-league-style ad campaigns. “You're talking some big expenditures,” he warned.

She shook her head. “Not necessarily. I can arrange to have the website done by my friend Truly. She's a whiz at graphic design, and she'd do it for the cost of her wedding gown from stock. She's getting married next fall, and bartering is great for a bride on a budget.”

“Okay . . .”

“I can put us on Facebook. We can arrange trunk shows; we can call on former brides to model for us. Nothing like having brides dressed in Elena's Bridal gowns to do impromptu appearances at area fairs and festivals. It's not just about the
gown, Greg; it's the name recognition of quality and substance. Some folks will opt for cheap-as-they-can-get, then scramble to fix things when they go awry, but there's another type of shopper out there. Women who know what they want, who like the security of a good store that stands behind its work and respects the American wallet. We can be that store again, but that's really up to you.”

She sat back, splayed her hands, and waited.

She wasn't pressuring him. She wasn't begging him. She was laying the cards on the table and letting him make the choice that best suited their situation.

And she's not a shark from some other company. Come on, man, what were you thinking? Although it gave her a good laugh.

It had, and he couldn't believe he'd gone straight to that kind of suspicion. But considering the corporate pool he swam in, it shouldn't be such a big surprise. “I need to think about this. Weigh the options.”

“Understandable.” She went back to eating as if she hadn't just laid two divergent paths before him. “I know being a numbers guy means you've checked out the books, the debits, credits, etc. But bridal is a year-ahead-of-the-game merchandising scheme. Last year means little if this year isn't prepping for next year.”

“The sensibility behind this astounds me, and I'm still wondering how you know so much.”

“When you've been broke forever, you learn to examine deeply.” She faced him straight on, and the soft sheen of her golden eyes made him think of long, slow sunsets and tall, waving wheat fields. A nice combination, in his book. “And I've always had this little-girl wish to have my own place, dress
brides, plan weddings. So on one side of the coin I ace my law exams because our town could use a stand-up person to make sure folks are well represented when they need help.”

“And the flip side?”

“I studied bridal in print, I watched every bridal reality show produced, perused bridal blogs, and drew my own conclusions about what makes a store successful. Your mother had the formula down pat until the rules of the game changed a few years ago.”

Her reasoning made sense.

His mother had been a smart, industrious bundle of energy, but she'd been old-school in many ways. He could see how Tara arrived at her conclusions. But now he had some serious thinking to do.

Tara boxed the remainder of her meal in the Styrofoam carton the clerk provided and stood. “I have to get home. I need to prep for my business law clinic tomorrow.”

“Of course.” He stood quickly. As she moved through the door, a new wave of wind-driven rain began to beat against the dark street. He touched her arm. “Let me get the car. Stay here where it's warm and dry.”

“Either that or—” She reached inside the neck of her coat and tugged the hood of her fleece over her head. “We race!” She sprinted down the sidewalk ahead of him and beat him to the car, but then had to wait as he fumbled for his keys to open the electronic locks.

“You're crazy.”

She climbed inside, pulled the wet hood down, and adjusted her seatbelt. “Safe is good, but sometimes life just dares you to run in the rain.”

Her words made him pause. When was the last time he ran in the rain?

Undergrad. A lot of years back. He'd been a little foolish then, a little reckless. He'd had a few run-ins with bad choices, so when he decided on the straight and narrow path to the corporate top, he had hugged that path with a ferocity that didn't look left or right. Tara's take on facing storms was downright refreshing.

She had her own way of handling things. She had the guts to dare the soaking Nor'easter with nothing more than a thin fleece hood. She talked frankly about his mother's beloved store, and while he didn't necessarily like what he heard, he was glad she'd confronted the situation. Kathy had kept the whole thing to herself as a promise to his mother. Now that he understood the dynamics, he could figure out the best way to go.

He hoped.

As Tara walked toward Old City Monday afternoon, her
cell phone rang. She peered at the screen. Her mother. “This has to be a record,” she said. “You're the third call I've gotten from Kenneville today.”

“Why is that?”

“Mr. Garbowski is wondering if he can sue Mrs. Fowler.”

“Why would he do that? She's such a nice old gal.”

“She cut down her Norway maple, the only shade for his yard, and she didn't have the decency to consult him first.”

“Did you tell him to grow his own tree?”

“I did. It seems he tried, but the shade from her tree killed any seedling he planted. Starved for sunlight, kind of like me right now.” She tucked her chin deeper into the collar of her coat as today's wind and rain lashed the city.

“I'm stunned. The only thing I can say is that everyone is so proud of your accomplishments that they're jumping the gun.”

“I reminded him that with hers gone, a new seedling should thrive, and not to be sue-happy.”

“I can't believe he interrupted your schooling for a call like that.” Her mother sighed. “Who else called?”

“Mrs. Bushing is leaving Mr. Bushing and wondered if I'd be ready to represent her in a divorce by June. I kindly refused.”

“They've been married forever. They can't split up.”

“Mom, you're missing the point. I never intended to be a divorce attorney. Or to have neighbors suing neighbors over trees.”

“Well, what else can you do here, honey? Kenneville's small. It's not like we'd have lawyers who specialize. This way you get a smattering of this and that. It keeps life interesting.”

“Or downright crazy,” Tara told her. The thought of dealing with chronic complaints and grumpy neighbors hadn't entered her mind when she took up her noble cause three years before. “I'm not out of school yet, and I can't offer legal advice without actually being a lawyer. It's frowned upon.”

“Well, folks will take what you say with a grain of salt anyway,” Michelle Simonetti assured her, as if that was a
good
thing. “Half won't listen and the other half will disagree. I called to tell you I sent money. I know this year's tight, and I picked up an extra shift at the diner. I sent you a check that's good to cash by Friday.”

Tara's heart went soft. “Mom, I'm fine. I got a great job at a bridal salon, and it works out perfectly because the hours are the opposite of my law clinics.”

“You're working
and
trying to finish law school?”

“You're working full-time at the bakery
and
waiting tables at night?” Tara replied, knowing her mother would get the point. She did.

“I'm doing this so you and Ethan won't have to do it,” Michelle retorted. But then she took a breath, and Tara couldn't miss the pride in her voice. “Good for you, honey. I'm proud of you.”

“Back atcha. I've got to go, I'm at work. I'll talk to you soon and don't send any more checks. I'm good here. I promise.”

“All right.” Her mother couldn't quite hide the relief in her voice, and Tara felt good giving her a reprieve. She tucked her phone away and walked into Elena's. Greg had called a meeting of all the employees, and she'd spent the last six hours wondering what he'd do. Would he close the store? Stay open?

Whatever he did, she prayed he could find peace of mind in the decision. The loss of his mother had blindsided him. To let the business she built slip away had to feel like losing her all over again, and Tara understood how difficult that would be.

The sun broke through the thick clouds about the same time Tara walked through the door, and the combination made Greg feel better about just about everything.