When Girlfriends Chase Dreams (18 page)

“It is going well,” Lara says. She pulls out a compact from her black, leather purse and begins to powder her nose.

“Is your therapist hot or something?” I kid. “Getting all fresh for him?”

“Oh.” She clamps shut the compact after taking one last look at herself in its mirror. “Only a little freshening up. I have a date with Nathan tonight.”

“Nice. Where to?”

“Simple dinner and a movie. Nothing fancy.” She points to the left, telling me to take the next turn.

“Already doing basic, non-fancy dinner and movie dates,” I say. “Must mean you’re headed for serious relaysh mode, eh?”

“What?” She has a perplexed expression on her face.

“You know?” I say. “First it’s all over-the-top dates, to impress you. Then it becomes the routine dinner and a movie. Dinner and Netflix. Dinner. Just coffee…”

“Whatever it is,” Lara says, pointing now to the right, indicating the next turn, “I’m just happy it’s happening. We’re hitting it off well, and it’s fun.”

“So you think you can stop therapy soon?”

Lara’s main (and maybe only) reason for seeing a therapist—Jackie’s therapist, in fact—is because of that loser she was seeing from work. Anyway, she was all hung up on him after they broke it off, and it got so bad she went to see a shrink about it. I mean, the girl was
stalking
him. She definitely needed some help.

The therapy visits have proven really helpful, and as far as we all know, that relationship is still over and done with. It’s probably a good idea that Lara keep seeing her shrink, though, just to keep up with the long healing process. Although, if she’s moved on from what’s-his-face and is now happily ensconced in a relationship with Nathan…

“I don’t know,” Lara says. “I’m doing so well, and Dr. Milbanke’s been a
huge
part of my healing. I’m kind of superstitious about stopping seeing him. You know?”

“I guess.”

“It’s this parking lot here on the right,” Lara says. She gathers her purse and briefcase from the floor in front of her. “Thanks a million for this. I really appreciate it.”

“Any time,” I say. “Oh, pull hard on the handle. Sometimes it sticks.”

Lara looks at her door handle skeptically and gives it a good yank. It opens, and she looks back at me.

“New problem,” I say with a sigh. “Darn thing decides to stick now and then.”

“Hon,” Lara emerges from the car, “if this door goes, what will you do then? Crawl through the rear?”

I shrug and say nonchalantly, “It’s only in the winter when the driver’s door sticks. I figure if the passenger goes in the summer it’s okay, since the other door stops acting up.”

Lara laughs and shakes her head. “Thanks again. Drive safe. And say hi to Sophie for me.”

She’s about to close the door and I shout out, “Wait! Don’t you need a pick up?”

“Nathan,” she says, bending down and peeking through the doorway. “See ya.” She waves goodbye, a coquettish smile on her lips, and gives the door a good shove to close it.

As I pull out of the drive, gather my bearings, and snake my way along the curvy roads to Sophie’s apartment complex, my cell phone rings. I glance at the caller ID. It’s Mom. I pick up the call, hitting the speakerphone, and leave the phone on the dashboard.

“Mom,” I say, excited to have her call me back.

I was having a little crisis this morning, fretting over the birdcages that I wanted Melissa to look into. I still haven’t heard back from her about whether she actually purchased them or not, and I still have no clue how the florist meeting went.

I went on to Etsy to check out the birdcage lot, and they were sold. Part of me hoped they were sold to Melissa, and part of me feared they’d been sold before she got a chance to snag them herself.
Don’t borrow trouble
, I remind myself.

So I decided to call Melissa to see if she’d taken care of it. That was yesterday, and I still haven’t heard from her. Ridiculous, right? Aren’t wedding planners supposed to be on call for you, like, around the clock? Aren’t they supposed to be at your beck and call in a way, at least getting back to you before the following day?

Whatever. I called, left a message, then sent a text, just to be sure. When I woke up this morning and
still
hadn’t gotten word from her, I freaked out and called Mom, for whom I’d also left a message. Thank God Mom was coming to the rescue. I so wish she just lived here in Seattle; it would definitely make planning this wedding and dealing with situations like this easier.

“You phoned, Claire,” Mom says sweetly. “Sorry I couldn’t call sooner. It’s been a very hectic day at work. How are you doing? Better?”

“Not better, not worse,” I say honestly. “I still haven’t heard from Melissa. We’re going on two days here. Mom, what should I do?”

“First, calm down. She’ll get back to you sooner or later.”

“Yeah,” I say with sigh. “It’s the later part that I’m worried about. I’m freaking out! I know she didn’t get those birdcages. Without the birdcages, the whole vintage-bird theme goes out the window!”

“Cute joke,” Mom says.

“Moooom,” I whine. As I make my next turn, my phone goes sliding along the dashboard and plunks on the passenger floor. “Mom! Can you hear me?”

Her response is distant, but she can still hear me. “You’re not talking and driving, are you?”

I wait until I come to a complete stop at the next stop sign before leaning over to retrieve my flying phone.

“Not really,” I say. I set the phone in my lap. “Can you hear me all right? I’m on the speaker.”

“You need to get one of those Bluetooth thingies,” Mom says. I can’t hear her as well as when she was on the dash, although it’s much better than on the floor.

“I’m not getting one of those dorky things,” I say. “They’re so cheesy.”

“Look, dear,” Mom says, “I’ll give Melissa a call for you, just to make sure everything’s all right.”
 

“Thank you. I mean, it
is
a bit curious that I haven’t heard back from her, don’t you think? She seems like the kind of girl who is never without her cell phone. Surely she’s gotten my messages.”
 

“I’m sure she has,” Mom says optimistically.

Or, perhaps Melissa
is
really busy with all of my wedding planning, and that’s why she’s too swamped to call back. She probably figures that since she
did
buy the lot of birdcages that there’s no sense in wasting precious time on telling me what I should assume. To be safe, though, Mom can get in touch with her.

“Besides,” Mom says, “I chatted with Melissa not even a week ago, and she is working hard on the wedding.”

“Yeah?” I ask, a hint of enthusiasm in my voice.

“She called to go over the second installment of the payment…the invoice is getting larger, you know, with the additions and all, so she wanted to advise me of the latest installment charges.”

“What do you mean ‘
additions’?
” I ask, wondering if she’s talking about the pending flower order that I hope Melissa has already arranged with the florist.

“Oh…” Mom’s voice starts to drift, and I know it’s not a poor connection nor the fact that my phone is occasionally muffled by the hem of my cardigan.

“Mom,” I say in an advising tone, “what
‘additions’
are you talking about?”

“A few more people have been added to the guest list.” She sounds meek. She’s guilty. Guilty of not adding “a few more people,” but guilty of growing the headcount to a possibly insurmountable level.

“Mom,” I say, fearful of what her answer will be when I ask, “how many?”

“Two.”

“Oh.” I drop my shoulders in relief. They had begun to inch higher and higher as the trepidation of a humongous guest list increased. “That’s not so bad,” I say. “Two more people. Who are they?”

“No,” Mom says. “Two…Two hundred. The count is now at two hundred people.”

“What?!” I almost swerve off the side of the road at her revelation. Good thing I’m in a practically vacant neighborhood. “What do you mean two
hundred
people?!”

“Claire, calm down,” Mom says in a sugary tone. “Don’t you worry. Dad and I are paying for all of this. It won’t cost you anything.”

“I know it won’t
cost
-cost,” I say, utterly gobsmacked, “but it’s costing more time. More work. More jelly jars and favors and…and…work!”

“That’s why we have Melissa, dear.” Mom continues to try to calm me down, tell me that everything will be under control and she’s going to hang up with me right now to call Melissa and inquire about those birdcages. She’ll let Melissa know that she may need to plan on even more food, more tables, more
room
, more centerpieces for the increased number of tables, more…
everything
…for what is quickly becoming the fattest wedding Seattle might ever see. Ten to one the guest list grows even
more
before I become Mrs. Whitley. Melissa better be prepared.

Yoga. Thank God its saving and calming grace is just two blocks away.

***

Unfortunately, yoga doesn’t really calm me down all that much. Even getting to hang out with Sophie briefly doesn’t make me feel very much at peace. All I can think about is what’s happening—possibly at this very minute—with Mom calling Melissa.

I told Mom that in addition to being fearful about missing out on the Etsy purchase of a lifetime, I was worried that Melissa didn’t have her facts straight about the peonies. Oh, the peonies! They’re (unlike lilies) one of my favorite flowers. They’re so fluffy and fresh and frilly and feminine. They’re gorgeous, and they look spectacular in bridal bouquets. I just have to have them!

I’m not a pro gardener, by any means. I do, however, have some sort of a green thumb. Not true green…maybe more like dying-grass-green. You know the sickly kind of green—the light shade that grass will turn before resigning itself to a sallow shade when it’s dying? That’s the kind of light green I’m talking about. I try to do really well at gardening, because it’s a lot of fun, and because my idol Martha Stewart says there’s nothing quite like the hobby of gardening to make you feel self-reliant and self-sufficient. But sometimes I totally miss the boat.

Like last season. Oh, God help me. I planted probably a dozen buckets of tomatoes and set them up on the deck in the backyard. It’s a really sunny place, when the sun actually decides to shine. Well, apparently it wasn’t sunny enough, or was it that I watered them too much? Either way, they keeled over. Plumb tuckered themselves out, I guess. Tired of growing, maybe? All they did was produce a ton of leaves and then—poof! Out of nowhere they decided to turn brown, and come September I was literally left with nothing but twigs of a dashed tomato-growing dream.

Now, there have been other seasons where I’ve had tomatoes coming out of my ears, and zucchini, too! Oh, poor Conner. That summer when we had so much squash growing in the garden plot he made for me... We ate so much zucchini bread, zucchini soup, zucchini pesto, and zucchini omelets I thought Conner was going to officially put an embargo on ever buying any form of squash again.

As for flowers, it’s as much a hit and miss as growing vegetables. Sometimes I find my flow and have the most beautiful yard (at least
one
of the most beautiful) on the block. I’ve even successfully grown peonies—and for two or three seasons at that!

One thing I know for sure regarding this delicate flower, however, is that come summertime and high temperatures, peonies don’t do so well. Having a June wedding in the Pacific Northwest means I
might
be able to have peonies for my wedding. Having an August wedding, though, in the middle of what is usually Seattle’s hottest month, means I can probably kiss my peonies goodbye. But there’s always hope.

Somehow Melissa insists that she can get me peonies for my wedding. I told her that was my dream flower upon her inquiry as she made a list to bring to her meeting with the florist. I also told her that I knew it was a shot in the dark, so hydrangeas would be perfectly acceptable. They’re good for all seasons.

In the end, it doesn’t
really
matter which flower I end up getting. But I’m more than happy to have Melissa give it a go. If only she would call me back to let me know how the meeting with the florist went. Ugh!

It’s sort of okay, though,
I think, calming myself down, yet again, as I prepare dinner for the evening. Mom will take care of everything, and she’ll call me when she hears something.

Conner ducks into the kitchen to see how dinner’s coming along.

“Five, ten minutes,” I tell him.

“Anything I can help with?” he asks. He strides up beside me and gives me a kiss on the back of my neck.
 

“Sure, if you want to grab the plates and set the table. The sauce is just about done.”

Suddenly my cell phone rings. “Quick!” I yelp, outstretching one arm in the direction of my blinking phone.

Conner hands it to me and I answer the call as quickly as possible.

It’s Mom.

“And?” I say after we exchange hellos.

Conner steps aside and watches on.

“Okay…okay…” I tell Mom. “So what’d she say? And what about the birdcages?”

“Melissa says she wants to meet with you about that,” Mom says. “Said she’ll call you to set up another meeting.”

“Okay, but did she say if she got them or not?” I hold my breath.

“She didn’t say. Sorry, honey. I didn’t press the matter. But…”

“Yes?”

Conner’s still watching, his eyebrows slowly arching in a bewildering way.

Mom says, “She did meet with the florist, and that meeting went very well. Everything’s shaping up nicely, Melissa says. Isn’t that great?”

“Well,” I say with a sigh, “that doesn’t really tell me anything. I mean, thanks, Mom, but I’m still clueless about the cages,
and
the peonies…”

“Claire,” Mom says. “You and I both know that peonies won’t work for an August wedding. Not for an outdoors reception.”

“Yes, but does Melissa know that?” I’m starting to panic. “She says she can work it out.”

“She told me the meeting with the florist went very well and that everything’s on schedule to work…oh, how’d she put it? To work…splendidly! Yes, splendidly.”