When Girlfriends Chase Dreams (13 page)

“Fine, fine.” Conner isn’t up for a debate or an argument any more than I am, even in spite of my upset tone. “Never mind,” he mutters. “Have fun, and I’ll see you whenever you get back.”

“Thanks,” I say, trying to act calm. “Oh, and one more thing.” I know I need to leave, but I have to make sure.

Conner’s looking at me, a blank expression on his face. He actually looks a wee bit tired—probably the stress of all of the wedding stuff, although what has he got to be flustered or stressed about?

“When’s that appointment to have your fitting?” I ask him in somewhat of a stern voice.

“I’ll take care of it,” he says.

I want to retort with, “You haven’t even
made
it yet?!” Instead I compose myself as best I can and tell him he shouldn’t wait any longer.

“The waiting time for an appointment could be a while,” I say. “Better to play it safe and make one now.”

“Love you,” he says, which I take to mean, “I love you. I really do. But please go now and leave me in peace.”

I oblige, blow him a quick kiss goodbye, then run out the door, shutting it behind me before Schnickerdoodle can follow.

***

Luckily, Mom and I are only two minutes late to our meeting at the bridal boutique. I’ve grabbed the magazine from my trunk before running inside, to make sure the veil I ordered does in fact match the one in the picture.

And boy-oh-boy is it ever the perfect veil! It’s in ivory, just like my dream dress, and has a headband of organza-tufted and hand-beaded flowers with tiny sequins and shiny crystal things. It’s gorgeous, the ideal headpiece to accompany my wedding gown, which, by the way, the girls at the boutique say has been confirmed for a May delivery. Eek! And, after I show a hint of panic, they assure me there will be plenty of time for alterations before my August wedding.

I watch with round eyes as the girl behind the boutique counter carefully wraps my veil in tissue paper, folding it expertly. She then meticulously fits it into a rather large grey and white box, tying it off with a long, white ribbon. Then she places the box in an extra-large, rectangular, cream-colored carrier bag. Such pristine packaging. It
is
all in the presentation, as Mom says.

Mom hands over her credit card as I clutch the carrier bag holding my neatly wrapped veil. I’m so excited I could do a little dance. In fact, I do. I can’t help but bounce up and down on the balls of my Converse sneakered feet. I’m a princess!

“So, is it time for the meeting with your coordinator?” Mom says, taking the carrier bag from me so I can unlock the car doors. Thank God the temperatures have warmed up. No more crawling over the passenger seat to get in.
 

I start up the engine and watch as the clock shines to life.

“Yup!” I tell her, catching sight of the carrier bag she’s still holding. Yes! I have a veil! And I already have the perfect shoes. I’ll buy my garter tonight… The dress will be here for alterations in two months… Gosh, things are really coming together!

When Mom and I pull up at Starbucks, at first she gives me a twisted face. “We’re meeting
here?
” she asks, very unsure of the coordinator to whom dad (and she) have been shelving out the big bucks.

“We’ve already met here like a bunch of times,” I tell Mom easily. “Well, not
this
Starbucks, actually.” I point at the café. We’re at a different location now. One that’s more convenient today for Melissa, since she has to be near downtown later to meet with a caterer for another client.

And, again, that reminds me… I already know what I’ll be doing for catering. I’m going with Katie’s Kitchen, where Sophie works, because their stuff never disappoints, and, yes, Sophie insisted. We’ll also get a good deal.

“She doesn’t have an office?” Mom asks, the quizzical look still plastered on her face. I tell her not to worry about it, that it’s going to be a nice meeting nevertheless.

“What would you say…” Melissa says after we’ve been chatting and sipping on our beverages for a while. She’s drawing out her words as she rifles through her large Louis Vuitton handbag.

I notice that the to-die-for handbag must be new. Surely if a girl has that kind of a bag, she doesn’t leave it closeted. I decide it
must
be new when I consider the other handbags Melissa had brought to our meetings: one time a simple black purse, another a plain canvas tote filled with paperwork and magazines, and another time both a simply stated purse and another canvas tote. What’s with Louis?

Melissa’s still fishing around in her designer bag, as Mom happily pulls on her iced beverage. The meeting’s been going well, as expected. Mom eventually got over the fact that our meeting space is anything but conventional, although I think the coffee helped liken her to the environment.

When Melissa finds the file folder she’s looking for, she opens it and runs a finely polished acrylic fingernail down the sheet of pink paper. She taps at a spot and turns the paper around so Mom and I can take a look.

“Photographers I recommend,” Melissa says. She’s still tapping the paper with her perfect nail, and it’s starting to grate on my nerves. It’s reminding me that I need to do something about my own nails. At least for the wedding I can make them look nice. I need to ask Lara where she goes; hers always look really pretty, yet simple.

“Oh,” I say. “I’m glad you have some recommendations. My friend wanted to take the photos.” I look at Mom and tell her, “Emily.” She nods once. I look back at Melissa. “She’s also a bridesmaid, so I told her no,” I say, giggling to myself.

“Oh, no,” Melissa says, aghast. “You
never
want an amateur to take your wedding pictures.” She now has her manicured hand melodramatically pressed to her chest. “No. Never. You want a
pro-fe-ssion-al
.” She taps the paper again.

I shift in my seat uncomfortably. Melissa’s acting a little too high on her horse. What makes her think Emily’s an
amateur
? I correct her, saying, “Emily Saunders is a
very
good photographer. She actually works for a local magazine.” I sit up taller in my seat, feeling proud. “She’s very good,” I add. “She’s going to take my bridal portraits, actually.”

Mom gasps and whispers, “That’s such a good idea!” Then she adds that it’ll be a nice way to save money. I think,
Not now, Mom, please.
But I brush it aside and tell Melissa, with a smile, “But recommendations are great. We still need a photographer. So who do you suggest?”

I look over the paper with the list of two names. I expected more, but I guess we were two for the church… Maybe these two really
are
the best photographers in town.

Mom’s thinking alike and says, “Only two? What if neither work out?”

“Oh,” Melissa says, returning that polished hand to her chest, “they can’t
not
work. These two are
the best
in Seattle. You can’t beat them.”

Before Mom can go into a series of questions about cost, I thank Melissa, take the piece of paper, and ask when I should meet them.

“I talked to Sandy this morning. Sandy Sandivan.” Melissa takes a sip of her drink after gesturing to the paper. Her bright pink lipstick leaves an unsightly mark on the lid. It looks like little pieces of sparkly bubblegum are stuck to it. It’s a flattering shade, but that’s one reason I’m not a very big fan of lipstick. Who wants to accidentally take a taste of their lipstick when they’re trying to enjoy a drink? And who would ever want to scrub and scrub at long-lasting lip color on glasses and mugs at home? Some of that stuff never comes off; it’s designed and marketed so.

“Sandy Sandivan?” Mom asks, innocently. “Is that his
real
name?”

I laugh and Mom joins in, then Melissa joins in for the heck of it.

“Yes,” Melissa says. “He’s a really great guy, though. And I think you’ll
love
his work.”

“Okay,” I say, ready to call it a day on the meeting and get to work on booking a photographer. “We’ll give Sandy a call and…you won’t come with us to these meetings, correct?” I don’t know why I bother asking. It’s been the standard procedure for almost every vendor so far that Melissa leaves the meetings to me.

“No,” Melissa says. “This is a moment for the bride and groom. You two go together, look at Sandy’s work—and Living Moments, too. Look at their packages, see if you’re a fit for either of them. But,” she rests a hand on top of mine, “I am
sure
Sandy will work out. And, if he does,” she winks, “you’ll get a nice ten percent discount. On either of those two photographers there, actually. I’m on the in-and-in with them.” She winks again. “I get special deals.”

Mom’s ears prick up at the words “discount” and “deals,” and I can’t help but feel a wash of relief, too. I know Dad said he’d pay for the wedding and all, and Mom had offered to help with a portion. But it still feels too entitled or too arrogant or unsettling to whip out your parents’ credit card and say, “Charge it up!” I mean, I don’t want to spend them to the poorhouse, no matter how much I honestly protest using Francine the Lily Grower Friend to save money, and no matter how irked I may be that my father dates women who are young enough to be his daughter.

Before Melissa packs up her luxe handbag, I inquire about the birdcages from Etsy.

“Oh!” Melissa says. She retrieves her notepad and scribbles down a reminder. “I’ll do it today.”

“Uhh…” I start.

Mom looks at me with very earnest eyes. “Something wrong, dear?” she asks.

“Erm…the…uh…the seller said he’d hold them for forty-eight hours.” I look at Melissa and am about to bring my fingers up to my mouth, ready to initiate old nail-biting habits, but I quickly pull them back down into my lap.

Melissa responds with a bright smile, then says, “Then I better hop to it!”

“That
was
forty-eight hours ago,” I say remorsefully, tightly winding my fingers together. “About forty-eight. Remember? I emailed you about them? You said you’d check them out?” I bite my lower lip, hoping I’m not about to see another disaster unfold before me. Weren’t the invites enough?

“Don’t you worry, Claire!” Melissa says. She sounds convincing, and the two large stars that she now sketches next to the reminder note do show some kind of proactive immediacy.

“Yeah,” Mom says, chirpily. She lovingly pats my leg under the table. “Don’t you worry, Claire.”

***

When Mom and I return home late afternoon, she sets about getting situated in the guest room. Schnickerdoodle is enthused to see Grandma Mary again, and he’s thrilled to share his bedroom with a woman who taught me all there is to know about dog-loving.

I already warned Mom on the way home that we had a busy evening ahead with glittering duties, and if we found the time she could help me start my bunting project. I haven’t done bunting since I was in high school, when I became quite obsessed with unique fabric patterns and how they looked, all torn into strips and displayed together in one big mesh of a curtain. It was a mindless task, so we could definitely chitchat and catch up while doing it.

Almost the instant we get home, I receive a callback from Sandy Sandivan, whom I’d contacted right after our meeting with Melissa. I really can’t believe that Conner and I’ve waited so long to book a photographer. All of the wedding blogs and magazines I’m consuming on a constant basis reiterate how important it is to book the venue
and
the photographer well ahead of time. Without those two vendors, you might as well call off the wedding. Yet somehow it just slipped by.

I take in a big breath of air before I answer the incoming call. I hope Sandy’s available to shoot our wedding. Gosh, I don’t even know if his work is any good. All I have to go off of at this point is Melissa’s golden recommendation and a few slow-loading portfolio photos I could pull up on my cell phone during the meeting.

But if Mr. Sandy Sandivan
is
in fact a great photographer, then we need to book him right away! I noticed while passing the Jack Russell Terrier calendar in the kitchen that tomorrow is March sixteenth. That means our wedding is
exactly
five months away! Eek! And still so much to do.

I stop daydreaming and finally answer the phone. “Hello, this is Claire.”

“Claire,” says a chipper voice on the other end, “Sandy Sandivan here. I hear you’re looking for a wedding photographer in August.”

I’m crossing my fingers, literally.
Please be free, please be free
…

When Sandy says, still in a very chipper voice, that he is indeed available on our date, I almost leap into the air I’m so overcome with excitement and relief.

In a flash, Sandy and I make an appointment for Conner and I to meet with him tomorrow afternoon. Absolutely no time to waste.

Before I can think a step further, or even consider asking Conner, who’s only down the hall in the office, if he can make an appointment tomorrow, I profusely thank Sandy, tell him that I’m looking forward to meeting him, and hang up.

“Yippee!” I scream, tossing my cell phone onto an empty chair in the living room. “Yippee! Yippee!”

Schnickerdoodle emerges at lightning speed from the back room and starts yapping. Mom peeks her head out the bedroom door and says, “What’s going on, dear?”

I rush to tell her the good news as Conner comes up from behind. He rests one hand on my back and I just about jump from surprise mixed in with too much excitement over our upcoming photography appointment.

“Conner!” I say loudly, turning to him.

“Claire!” he imitates in a high-pitched voice. He grins broadly.

“We have an appointment with the photographer tomorrow!” I clap my hands together. “Isn’t that
great?
”

“I didn’t know we had a photographer,” he says. His voice is calm.

“We don’t,” I say. “Well, not
yet
. But if all goes well tomorrow we might!”

“Everything
will
go well,” Mom reassures.

Conner looks confused now. “What’s going on tomorrow?”

“Oh, gosh,” I breathe, putting a hand to my forehead. “Great news! Melissa recommended two photographers and I’ve called them both. I made an appointment with one of them just now, for tomorrow. Tomorrow at one. Kay?”