When Girlfriends Chase Dreams (30 page)

“Ugh!” I groan. “Gross.”

Robin takes a look and giggles. “Sorry, hon.”

I contemplate trying to clean it off with a napkin or a not-as-useful-anymore bridal magazine from the back, but I figure I’ll leave it up to the Handy Wash at the gas station.

“Hey,” Robin says as she unlocks her car with the remote on her keyring. “You should come over after work some time this week.”

I look at her, shielding my eyes with one hand from the bright sun. “Sure!” I say enthusiastically. “I’m long due to visit you and Rose at your place.”

It’s true. It’s been a while since I’ve been across town to visit Robin’s and Bobby’s home over in Phinney Ridge. It’s a neighborhood that’s at the more northern part of Seattle, over near Green Lake. It’s a beautiful family-oriented neighborhood—the perfect set-up for baby Rose and the future family that I just
know
Robin and Bobby will have. I’ve been meaning to swing on by some time, just for the heck of it, like we used to do all the time right out of college. With Robin and Bobby having a family now, and with them living somewhat far from where Conner and I live, it hasn’t exactly been convenient.

“And,” Robin adds, now also shielding her eyes from the sun, “I can help you out with that seating arrangement thing you need to do.”

“Oh,” I say, tossing a hand gesture. “I wasn’t griping about that earlier to make you feel like you need to help.”

“I want to,” she says. “Besides, I could use the adult time, even if it is time spent figuring out which cousins should sit where.”

“And which uncle to keep as far away from which aunt.”

“Exactly,” she says through a laugh. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Come over. Anytime this week will work great, and I’ll help you knock this project out.”

Chapter Nineteen

“Dad, I promise. Everything will be great.” I cradle my cell phone on my shoulder as I remove a load of laundry from the dryer. “It’s Lara’s mom—how wrong can I go?”

“I wish you would have consulted with me about this first, Claire, that’s all,” my dad says. His voice isn’t exactly stern, but he definitely sounds displeased.

“There’s no time, Dad.” I slam the dryer door closed with a swing of my hips and saunter into the bedroom with a basket full of laundry that smells like jasmine.

“And this other planner you had—what happened to her?”

“Oh, Conner and I let her go,” I say smoothly.

“Let her go?”

I don’t know why Dad sounds so keyed up. It’s all very simple, really. Melissa wasn’t doing a stellar job, so we let her go. So what if we hadn’t heard back from her since? Yes, it was odd, but what’s done is done, and being quite frank, I’m happy I
haven’t
heard back from her. I don’t do well with confrontation.

“How is this going to work with this new planner being located all the way in Chicago, by the way?” Dad asks.

“Oh, Dad.”

It’s a valid point, really, but one that Lara assured me I need not worry about. Her mom, Allison, knows dozens of wedding vendors here from when she worked as an event coordinator in Seattle years ago. What’s more, I don’t need to shop for that many more vendors, since, with a wedding only two months away, I have already nailed down the big and contract-y stuff. All that I need help with now is the small stuff, like RSVPs, thank you favors, linen and China patterns, and day-of planning.

 
I explain this to Dad in an effort to sell Allison (even though there was no arguing on this one).
 

“If all that’s left is the small stuff,” Dad says in his usual salesman tone, then why do you need a wedding planner at all? Didn’t you say you’re doing a lot of stuff yourself?”

“Yeah, and that’s the point.” I begin to fold the pile of socks. “I’m doing the DIY projects and all, and I have no time—not to mention I don’t even know where to begin—to do all of the rest of the stuff, like the fine details.”

Dad sighs heavily, so I say, “Trust me, Dad. It’s wedding stuff. It’s a big deal.”

“Well…” He can’t hide his reluctance.

“Dad.” I quickly try to figure out how to both make sure I nab Allison guilt-free and make him feel comfortable with the choice of switching planners (or even using one at all). “She’s Lara’s mom. A friend. She’ll do a great job. She’s honest, and Lara even said we’d get a great deal, especially since so much of the wedding is done already.
And
, another big reason,” I pause for effect, “is that we need day-of coordination.”

“I suppose we’ll have to fly her on out on our dime, right?” Dad’s back to sounding heavily peeved, just like he sounded when I first told him that I’d fired Melissa and had a new planner in mind.

“Lara said probably not.” I’m glad that I can deliver this piece of good news. “She and her mom have been wanting to plan a visit and this just might be the opportunity. It’s
perfect.
” I sound like a little girl begging her dad for a puppy or ten more minutes of after-school cartoons.

“All right,” Dad finally says, but not without a grumble. “You know where to send the bills.”

“Thanks, Dad.” A wash of relief overcomes me, and I plop down onto the bed, right on top of the pile of unfolded socks. “You have no idea what a relief this is to me, to have you be on board with this.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m only afraid this wedding is going to break me.”

“Dad,” I say wisely, “if we’d have kept this to the one hundred people, originally—”

“Oh,” Dad says, sounding suddenly abashed. “That reminds me, Claire.”

Oh no. Here it goes. Not again.

“I gave you the last headcount, didn’t I?” he asks.
 

“Two-fifty-five?”

Dad chuckles uncomfortably and says, “Yes, well, looks like we’re at two-seventy-five.”

“Dad!” I groan, throwing myself all the way back onto the bed, my stomach and hips raised significantly in the air thanks to the pile of socks underneath me.

“This one was your mother’s doing,” he says, shifting the blame in a flash. “But we’ve both agreed to stop it.”

“How on
earth
were you able to come up with twenty more people to invite?” I scratch at my nose. “No, more than that—how can you grow a list almost three times the original size? Am I going to have nothing but salesmen at my wedding?”

“Claire, these people are my and your mother’s good friends.”

“And co-workers and clients.”

“Yes. People who are making your wedding possible.”

I blow out a puff of air from one side of my mouth. I
so
do not want to hear the usual story about how if it weren’t for Dad’s colleagues and clients we wouldn’t have had the annual family vacations, nor the loan-free college experiences, nor the lavish wedding I was about to have. I’m very grateful for everything my dad’s done for me and the family—financially.

Don’t get me started on how it was his hunger for more money and late hours at the office that eventually landed him on top of his secretary, then another fling with his new secretary, and that was only the beginning. Breaking up a family and a marriage over a woman who actually thought shorthand was a debilitating disease that “little people” had, and another who definitely typed faster (at thirty-five words per minute) than she could compute basic information and form a dim-witted thought, doesn’t exactly leave me smiling and jumping for joy.

Dad could beg apologies and say that it wasn’t our—the children’s—fault; it was just the loveless marriage that had developed with my mom. He could say things like this happen in life sometimes, and that he would never turn his back on his family, even if he was making a new life for himself. But the fact of the matter is, my dad majorly checked out of the husband and father duties when he divorced Mom during my freshman year at UDub.

Shoving money at the problems is nice to some degree, but it doesn’t make me forget, it doesn’t help me heal, and it certainly doesn’t make me want to forgive him. But, Ron Linley, salesman extraordinaire, is my father, and I still love him. He can leave his bimbo secretary flings at home, though, thank you very much.

“I appreciate it, Dad,” I say. “I really do. So long as the wedding is still affordable, then…” I place my left hand over my eyes, suddenly overcome with wedding exhaustion. “…Invite away.”

“I’ve got a call on the other line,” Dad says. “Send my regards to Conner, and I’ll see you in August.”

I click off my cell phone after the line has already gone dead and flip the phone behind me. I place both hands over my face and moan. It’s not that I’m upset. I’m already telling myself that two-seventy-five isn’t the final number; it’ll help me cope with the next inevitable headcount hike. I’m just so darn tired. All I want to do is get married and have my dream wedding, but who would have thought that it’d be
so much
work
?

“Babe?” It’s Conner.

I remove my hands from my face and prop up on my elbows. “Hey,” I greet. “I didn’t know you were home.”

“Just got here,” he says. He’s standing in the doorway, his hands in his dress slacks’ pockets. “Everything all right?”

I don’t say anything. I only raise my eyebrows, urging him to guess what the latest news is.

“More peeps, eh?” Conner says. “Invited guests are through the roof, I take it?” He strolls into the bedroom and stops at the foot of the bed. I roll over, the laundry rolling with me, and pull myself up into a seated position.

“You know it,” I say. “There’s good news, too, though.”

“Your dress came in?” A small smile is growing on his face.

“No. Not for a few more weeks.” I pull two matching socks from the pile and begin to fold them. “I think we have a new planner.”

“Awesome!” Conner begins to change out of his work clothes. “You heard back from Melissa yet?”

“Nope. She’s still on vacation, remember?”

“Aww. Okay.”

“Lara’s mom, Allison. I’m just waiting to have her call me back, but Lara says that she’s pretty sure she’ll be able to do it.”

“That’s great news, Claire,” he says, really sounding happy for me. He pulls a vintage Coca-Cola t-shirt over his head and gives me a quick kiss.

“Where you headed?” I ask. I fold another pair of socks.

“Chad and I are going to catch a game down at the pub.” He pulls on a pair of jeans that have wide holes torn at both knees. He pulls off his socks and asks if I’ve seen his brown flip-flops.

“On the back deck,” I say. “Where they always are.”

He gives me another kiss and is about to head out the door when I call out, “Wait! You’re not taking Schnicker?”

Conner gives me a quizzical look. “To the pub?” He smirks. “I don’t think so, Claire.”

“For a walk,” I say in whining tones, then leap from the bed and follow him out back. “I was thinking of going to Robin’s tonight.”

“Take him with you.”

“Ugh. I’m not bringing a dog over there to their picture-perfect home. Besides, Rose is enough run-around over there.”

Conner claps the soles of his flip-flops over the deck, and a small puff of dust billows upward. “Phew,” he gasps, clapping them together harder. “Forgot how muddy of a day it was when I last wore these.”

“Conner,” I moan, crossing my arms indignantly, “I’m
constantly
taking him for walks.”

“Well,” more cacophonous clapping, “he’s your dog, after all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I’m completely taken aback. Since when was this a “this is yours and that is mine” setup?

He ducks back into the house, moving past me as I stand in the doorway. “Oh, you know what I mean,” he brushes me off.

“No, I don’t know what you mean. Schnicker is
our
dog.”

“Well,
you
will have to take
our
dog for a walk tonight,” he says. I feel belittled as he draws out his speech.

“Whatever,” I say abrasively. “Go watch your stupid game. That’s fine. Leave me with the work to do. What else is new?”

“Claire.” Conner tosses his head back, his mouth agape, and he groans. “Let’s not argue about
every
little thing, okay?”

“You started it.”

“Let’s stop.” He grabs his car keys and slips his flip-flops on. “I’m saying that tonight I can’t take Schnicker. That’s all. Either you take him for a walk, or you take him with you to Robin’s, or…he just doesn’t get his evening walk. It’s not the end of the world, okay?”
 

I press my lips together tightly and he gives me a quick kiss.
 

“Let’s not get mad at each other for no reason.
Again
.”

“Fine,” I say curtly. “You’re right.”
 

He opens the front door.
 

“I just thought you could take him, that’s all. Didn’t know you had something planned tonight.” I hold open the door for him and lean my weight against it. “If you would have told me…” I say derisively under my breath.

“I did.” His reply is so matter-of-fact. “Twice.”

Had he? I can’t remember, honestly. With Cranky Craddock this morning, who did not want to take his medication or eat the meal I’d prepared for him, and with figuring out the replacement wedding planner and all, I can’t remember if Conner really did say anything.

“Last night,” he reminds me, “and this morning. I texted you.” He’s looking at me with a tilted head. “Remember? You’re head’s really in the clouds, isn’t it?” He looks off to the side in a manner of recrimination.

“Last night,” I mutter. Then it clicks. “Ahhh, yes.” I make an oops face and apologize. “I forgot. I’m sorry.” I bite my lower lip guiltily.

“I love ya, Claire,” he says softly and easily. He pulls me in for a kiss, this one longer than the previous pecks. “You’ve got a lot on your plate, I know.” He tucks his wallet in his back pocket and steps out on the front porch.

“Well, anyway,” I say sluggishly. “Have fun. Tell Chad I say hi. Oh, and my dad says hello, by the way.”

Conner trots down the porch steps and electronically unlocks his truck’s doors.

“Oh!” I shout out right before he hops into his truck, “How’s the ring-bearing training going with Schnicker? You know you’re running out of time…”

I don’t know why I ask, because I’m fairly sure I know the answer, and it’s always less than savory. Yet, I ask anyway, as if I like the disappointment, or the pain, or the extra stress, or a reason to blow up in anger.