When Girlfriends Chase Dreams (11 page)

I’m panicked now, deathly afraid that the most perfect thing about this wedding so far is going to disappear. Somehow the dress will get lost in the shuffle, or some other bride will snatch it up, or there won’t ever be a record that I came in and tried on this beauty. I’m terrified I’ll have to start from square one all over and wait for this perfect dress to re-arrive. It took forever the first time. Oh dear! What if Vera Wang decided to stop making anymore of the—

“Claire?” Sophie says. She’s waving a hand at me. “I think we
should
try one size smaller.”

“Huh?” I look at the trifold mirror and try to turn to see the back, where Jenna is still poking and pinching.

“Yes,” Jenna insists. “I would feel much better if we got you a size smaller and then proceeded with altering then.”

I look to Sophie for reassurance. Is this really an okay idea? A better than okay idea? The best option for us? When she nods convincingly, I let the attendants place an order for the same exact dress, but in a different size.

“What if that one is too small?” I query. The question has to be considered. “And I end up needing this one, here?” I lift up the dress’s pinned skirt, feeling panic starting to settle it. “Or what if this one then gets bought by someone else? Then I’m left with nothing.”

Both attendants smile warmly and insist there won’t be any trouble. They’ll keep this one that I’m wearing as their sample and go ahead and order in two dresses—one in this size and one in a size smaller. They say that guaranteed satisfaction is their policy, with gowns ready for the bride on their special day,
just
the way they want them.

All I can do is trust that they know what they’re doing. I gave license to Melissa, and she’d already kind of screwed the pooch on the invites…but certainly everything here on out can go well. I mean, how many flubs can a girl have in one wedding?

Chapter Seven

Mr. Craddock is my third and last patient of the day. Mr. Crabby Craddock is more like it. Oh, what a tough day at work! But I suppose not every day can be as fun as finding your dream wedding gown.

Normally my patients are relatively amicable, as are my relationships with them. Mr. Craddock, unfortunately, is not one of them. He refuses, even after two years of care, to agree to a first-name basis. He’s a grouchy old man who has been left embittered by three divorces, a son whom he has disowned because of irreconcilable political differences, and an amputated left foot, because he refused to heed the doctors’ excessive warnings of what type 2 diabetes could do to his body. I’ve always tried to practice patience, understanding, and kindness, especially in my work, but Crabby Craddock sure makes it difficult sometimes.

“Mr. Craddock,” I repeat to the stubborn bald man who’s sitting in his wheelchair, his back purposely turned to me. I was trying to tell him that he needed to continue to eat his heart-healthy breakfast. His strict diet isn’t something to be cheated on.

I’m not the only caretaker of Mr. Craddock’s, however. I’m one of a handful the hospital sends his way, and unfortunately there’s one among us who doesn’t raise much hell when Mr. Craddock has a suspicious green and white paper carton protruding from his trash receptacle.

“I don’t know why you continue to hurt yourself,” I tell him, waving about the Krispy Kreme box for added emphasis of my point.

It’s not worth it, since Mr. Craddock’s chosen to tune me out. When he starts doing that, there’s no end. Once he’s chosen to say “See ya, girly!” (and he actually says that, with a spin on his two large wheels), there’s no going back. It’ll be a silent day.

“Mr. Craddock,” I repeat, still maintaining patience and composure, “I’m only looking out for your best interest.”

“Hmph.” He actually makes a noise in reply. That’s a rarity.

“Mr. Craddock.” I walk around to face him and he refuses to meet my eyes. “Sir?”

He gruffly crosses his arms and continues to deflect my questioning with an aggravating silence and a glare at the front room window.

I give up. If the man refuses to help himself, then how can I even try?

I toss the empty box of doughnuts into the recycling bin, where it belongs, and make a small scowl when I realize the bin is empty, whereas the garbage can is overflowing. Boy, that really peeves me. What will happen to our planet if we continue to trash it?

“Ugh,” I groan. I start to tidy up the kitchen: take out the garbage after attempting a sort of recyclables from the trash, wipe down the crumb-covered countertops, put in a load of dishes, and sweep up the equally crumb-covered floors.

When I finish I look over at Mr. Craddock. He’s now wheeled himself to the television and is trying to turn it on, muttering to himself things like, “Confounded contraption!” and “This infernal machine!” and a single, but loud, “Dagnabbit!” as he waves a wrinkled fist at the confusing electronics.

I toss the drying towel onto the counter and offer to help him find the channel he’s looking for. Still refusing to meet my eyes, he shoves the remote at me, then points to the top of the DVD player and says something about how I should turn it on already.

Ah, yes. Of course. It’s that phase again where all Mr. Craddock wants to do is sit in front of the boob tube and watch
Patton
over and over and over again.

I turn on the machine, tuck a blanket around his waist, bring him a cup of tea that I know he won’t touch, then dash back into the kitchen. Making sure he’s not looking, I snag the small mason jar of sugar that I spotted on the counter upon my entry and hide it in a cupboard that he will certainly never find. It’s for his own good, I tell myself. Then I grab my car keys and purse and wish him a pleasant evening.

“Yeah, yeah!” he mutters, staring at the screen, probably just as happy I’m leaving as I am to be on my way home for some time with Sophie and baby Rose.

***

Sophie’s wiggling her fingers with her arms outstretched to Rose, who is slowly but surely trying to take a few steps towards her.

Sophie and I offered to babysit Rose so Robin and Bobby could go to a company dinner across town. There’s one thing Robin can count on since her very best girlfriends all live within an easy driving distance: There will always be a babysitter for Rose.

Emily, in fact, had even suggested that she could watch Rose all day when Robin and Bobby are at work (they work at the same publishing house as book cover designers, by the way). Robin insisted Rose stay in daycare, though, since it had been working out really well for a whole year already. (Wow! Time does fly. It always surprises me…) I’m sure Robin thought any minute Emily would have a one-way ticket in her hand to Mozambique or Guatemala. Best to keep Rose in daycare and Emily doing whatever she wished.

It’s working out for the best, I think. Sometimes Emily might offer to do daycare duties, say on a random Friday or something, just for some fun. She’s always up for babysitting duty like the rest of us. Emily’s job as a freelance photographer for a local magazine is going all right. It’s a little bit of work here, a little there, and quite commitment-free, so she can take off and travel when she sees fit, or babysit. Although, Sophie’s been chatting with her about possibly working a few hours a week at The Cup and the Cake once the doors open.

“So you really think May is going to be
the
month?” I ask Sophie. She’s still trying to encourage Rose to walk all the way to her without falling down or resorting to crawling.

“Oh, definitely,” Sophie says.

“When, exactly?” I lay out the heavy load of magazines I’d brought in from the trunk of my car when I got home from Cranky Craddock’s house.

“End of May,” she says breezily. “I’m going to have a big grand opening. With invites and all. So I need to solidify a date sometime.”

I guffaw and page through an older copy of
Brides.
“Be sure about your date before you go and print your invites.”

“God, you poor thing.”

Seeing Rose fall flat on her bottom halfway across the living room floor, Sophie picks her up and brings her back a few paces, trying to attempt the walking routine once again. “Did Melissa figure that out finally?”

“Ugh!” I groan. “That was a nightmare! Can’t believe I didn’t update you.” I flip open another magazine and search for the page that has instructions on how to create your own bunting. That could be a fun project…

“What happened?” Sophie’s back to wiggling her fingers and making smiley faces at Rose. One step at a time, Rose inches closer and closer to Sophie. “She’s going to do it!” Sophie gasps quickly, looking at me, then right back to Rose, who’s no more than three full steps away.

I watch in anticipation. She’s going to do it. She will and— Bam! Back on her bottom. But Rose seems cheerful about it.

Sophie sighs and says, “One more try, little one.” She places Rose back at the starting line. “And?” Sophie asks me. “What happened with Melissa? She causing more work than relief?”

“No,” I say, feeling conflicted. “She’s doing her best, I’m sure. That one mistake with the invitations kind of threw me, that’s all. But we have new ones being made.” I make sure my tone registers positivity. I have plenty of my own second thoughts about Melissa and her so-called wonder skills at putting together a wedding thanks to that little invitation shenanigan. I don’t need to provide ammunition for others to use against her; to only confirm my worst fears.

“And the old invitations?” Sophie inquires. “You deducted that mistake from her invoice, didn’t you?”

I’m reluctant to say, since the truth isn’t rosy, so I reply with, “She says she has a good business relationship with the invitation people. That she can get a deal.” I shrug. “Apparently they’re the people who made her logo and business cards. Well, like five or six
versions
of her logo and business cards.”

“Damn,” Sophie almost whistles out, “a little difficulty making decisions, huh?”

“Who knows,” I say disinterestedly. “She was babbling on about finding the perfect logo or something like that. I don’t know. I’ve started to become a collector of her business cards. Version 1.0, 2.0—”

Sophie interrupts with a throaty laugh. “Well at least she can get you a good deal on the invites. With
that
much business she’s giving them,” she wags her head, “I’m sure they don’t mind her coming back over and over.”

So what’s the truth? The invitation mistake only ended up costing three-quarters of the original price. Not
exactly
a deal. I didn’t know how to tell Melissa that I expected her to eat it. I mean,
I
was the one who actually ordered the invitations, after all. She only offered to stop the order. So it could be my fault, really…

Sophie breaks my train of thought, gratefully, as she whoops and cheers for Rose, who has successfully walked right into Sophie’s outstretched arms.

“She did it!” Sophie cries. “She did it! She did it!” She’s swooped Rose up and is hugging her tightly, giving the cooing baby kisses all over her face.

“Hey!” Conner says, barging through the front door and heading straight into the bedroom.

“What are you doing here, baby?” I call out. Conner is supposed to be out for the night with Chad.

He seems out of breath and his hair is damp.

“Is it raining again?” I ask. Sophie and I were considering taking Schnickerdoodle for a walk, and taking Rose with us in the stroller Robin left with us.

“Headed for a downpour soon,” Conner responds, briskly returning from the bedroom with a small piece of paper in his hand. “Forgot my rewards card.” He flashes the card and heads back to the door, stopping to give me a damp kiss along the way. “One more pizza and they give me a free Guinness.”

“Have fun!” I tell him as he disappears back into the rainy night.

“March Madness,” I tell Sophie with a half-roll of the eyes. “Game night down at the pub.”

“Chad with him?” Sophie asks, obviously making herself sound impassive.

“Would it be anyone else?” I say with a chortle. “Come on, I want to show you the glitter clothespins we’re going to have at the wedding. They’ll hold these adorable postcards I got at this secondhand shop the other day.”

“Another DIY project?” Sophie asks, eyebrows raised. Rose has escaped from Sophie’s embrace and is quickly crawling towards the kitchen. Before she can make it to the dining room, Sophie scoops her back up.

“Yes,” I say. “Another wedding project that the maid of honor just
has
to help with.”

Sophie situates a squirming Rose on her hip. “Deal,” she says. “Then after we glitter these pins, we’re baking a batch of cupcakes.”

“New recipe?” I snag one of the magazines from the coffee table and lead her into the office.

“Cotton candy flavor.”

“What are you trying to do, Sophie? Kill me before I get into that gown?”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m sampling things constantly and I still have to fit into that bridesmaid dress.”

“Oh!” I gasp, turning to her halfway down the hall. “Don’t you agree they’re all adorable?”

She nods her head and says that the blue dresses, each their own unique vintage cut, were an excellent choice.

***

By half past eight, Sophie and I have successfully glued dozens of clothespins and coated them with a thick, gold glitter. The two of us superwomen not only pulled glitter duty, we also did a fresh guest count. I was thinking we were at one hundred and twenty, maybe thirty guests. But one hundred and fifty-two people? How is that possible? Even if I add in the names that Mom and Dad had suggested we invite…even the recent dozen or so….and if I include the few from Conner’s side of the family that they’ve recently added…okay. It adds up quickly. Frighteningly fast.

I write a quick reminder note to update Melissa on the headcount, then stick it on the fridge. It’s unbelievable.

 
As if wedding chores weren’t enough to keep us busy, we fed Rose dinner, gave her a bath, and even rocked her to sleep. Robin told us that it’d probably be tough for her to sleep tonight, since she’d taken three naps already during the day. Apparently Sophie’s Workout for Babies did the trick, though, and wildly walking Rose was tuckered out.