When Girlfriends Chase Dreams (31 page)

“I’m taking care of it,” Conner calls out effortlessly. As effortlessly as I am sure he is managing the training.

I look down at Schnickerdoodle, who is quietly seated at my feet. His ears are pricked up as he watches Conner slowly back out of the drive. Conner rolls his window down and gives a wave. “Love you, Claire.”

“Conner, you
promised!
”

“Consider it done.” He slowly drives forward in front of our house and shouts out, “Don’t
worry!
”

I give a small wave. “Come on, Schnicker,” I say, closing the front door and leading the dog to the cupboard where his leash and dog treats are. “Let’s take you for a walk. Looks like I’m yours tonight.”

***

The next day I find myself rubbing a thick layer of medicinal moisturizing cream on the area where Cranky Craddock’s foot once was, before it was amputated. It’s a task he has been instructed to do on his own only once a day during the period his caretakers are not scheduled for a visit. Of course, he’s failed to take care of himself, so I’m having to put my back into it now, lathering a hearty helping of cream in the folds and wrinkles that are beginning to crack.

The whole workday isn’t a total bust, though. My rounds at the hospital were pleasant, no one was particularly gruff or difficult to please, and the charge nurse on my floor was such a doll. She gave me a wedding gift: a very modern and sophisticated black leather photo album. I thought that was really sweet of her.

The gift came at a really great time, and was a nice pick-me-up. See, after the bird had done a number on my windshield the other day, I went to wash my car and, well, my trunk kind of sort of got a little wet. All right, it got soaked.

I don’t know what I was thinking, and Conner had relentlessly asked that very question once he’d discovered the smallish disaster I’d caused. He’d kept asking how I could forget that my trunk couldn’t seal shut properly, and he kept on throwing his hands up in the air all dramatic-like, a look of sheer bewilderment on his face the whole time as he gave me a lecture.

All I could do was shrug and honestly admit that I didn’t even
think
of the damage that could be caused as I ran my car through the Handy Wash,
Superior Job
option chosen. (That means the brushes work extra hard and the jets shoot out, I don’t know, super powerful sprays of water? It’s the deluxe wash when it comes to cheap gas station cleaners.)

Anyway, the trunk of my car needs to be dried out now so it doesn’t become mildewed, but I don’t have time for that. Conner offered his truck and he said he’d take public transport, but I am
not
about to get behind the wheel of that beast.

I’m accustomed to driving a little car—one that fits perfectly in the compact spot. I do
not
drive trucks that require a step-ladder or someone pushing from the rear to assist in getting me in the driver’s seat. What is that all about, anyway?

Besides, when I told Conner that I’d probably just ram the thing into a tree or plow over a car or something because I was so unfamiliar with such a hefty automobile, he agreed that I stick to my car and just pop the trunk when parked. A mildewed sedan would be much better than a truck wrapped around a tree.

There is a bright side, though, since looking at the cup half full is seriously a preferred and great way of looking at life—all of my bridal magazines and books and random wedding paraphernalia weren’t in my broken trunk, so that’s a win!

After I finish tidying up the house of one of my disabled veteran patient’s, Vick, I take a pleasant drive over to Phinney Ridge. I admire the beautiful Craftsman homes that line the neat and manicured streets.

Everyone’s yard is beautifully landscaped and so well kept. There are even white picket fences that scream “adorable cliché!” Some homes have rope swings hanging from trees, others brightly colored playhouses and plastic slides, while many have lone soccer balls or basketballs and even dolls and small children’s toys littering their deep green and finely trimmed lawns.

What a perfect neighborhood
, I think to myself as I make the last turn onto the street that will eventually feed me to Robin’s home. It really is a family-friendly area of town, and the home that Robin shares with Bobby, since they moved in together a while ago, is just as beautiful and quaint as the rest that line the streets.

“I’m so glad we could do this!” Robin says as she greets me, leading me through the front sitting room, where a pile of papers and bridal magazines are laid out on a large, slate-colored ottoman. “It feels like forever since you’ve been over.”

The house smells of vanilla and looks immaculate. You would never know an eighteen-month-old baby lives here.

Robin then ushers me down the hall where a small collection of white, matching frames are situated on the left wall. It’s the start of what will surely grow to be a hallway full of family photographs. The cluster of five that are now on the wall are all of Robin, Bobby, and baby Rose together. Judging by the standing, towhead Rose who has just about as much hair in the photo as she does today, the pictures weren’t taken long ago.

“Adorable,” I tell Robin, pointing at the framed photographs. “These recent?”

“Yeah,” she replies. “Emily took them. Aren’t they great?”

“Very nice.”

“Bobby’s idea.” Robin leads me further down the hall. “Said he thought it’d be a good idea to have a professional group photo. We have tons of the baby but not many of all of us together.”

She pushes open the last door on the right and tells me to come in. “Ta-da!” she sings. “We’ve finally finished it!”

“Oooh,” I coo. “Rose’s room’s all done?”

The walls of the baby’s room are very similar to that of The Cup and the Cake’s, but with much more yellow and a heavier use of the pink. It looks fantastic, and I tell Robin that she and Bobby did a great job.

“Oh,” I say, pointing at the small, white bed that can’t be more than six inches off the floor. “A new bed?” I look around, searching for the crib—the crib that I had actually helped her build. I spot it off to the other side and say, “So crib or big-girl bed?”

“We’re working on the adjustment,” she says. Then by rote she tosses a handful of loose toys from the middle of the room into one of the big, teal-colored bins that lines the far wall. “We tried one night in the new bed, and that was a
disaaaster
, let me tell you. Eventually she’ll adjust.”

We head back into the front sitting room and comfortably relax on the long couch that matches the ottoman. We begin to rifle through papers and magazines so we can casually begin some work on the seating arrangements.

“Hey,” I say, suddenly realizing the obvious, “where are Bobby and Rose, anyway?”

“Park,” Robin says. She momentarily removes her glasses to rub at her eyes. “Rose had a tough day at daycare today, so she and Bobby are having some outdoor time. And,” she yawns, “to give Mommy a
much
-needed break. I’m so exhausted.”

“I bet. Rose is probably a handful.”

“Yeah, and the office is fairly demanding lately.” She closes her eyes for a few contemplative seconds.

“You seem happy.” Certainly Robin’s happy. Things may have been rough in the past, but now things have really shaped up. I mean, look around! This is a great home; it’s filled with love—a sweet baby and boyfriend who’d bend over backwards for her.

“Oh, definitely,” Robin assures me. “I’m content.
Finally
.” She chortles a little. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Well,” I say, patting her shoulder, “you’re a rock star, girl. Being a mom can’t be easy, but you make it look like a piece of cake.”

“You’re sweet. Oh, that reminds me!” She puts her black, plastic-rimmed glasses back on. “Sophie gave me the café’s leftovers from last night. Lemon-blueberry crumble cake. Want some?”

“Uh,
obviously
.”

“A little snack and
then
time to get to seat-organizing. Naturally you’re going to put me with you and the rest of the girls.” She smiles before getting up and heading into the kitchen.

“Naturally.” I pull my hair into a messy ponytail. “That is, if the nearly three hundred people don’t burst the venue at the seams. We’ll all be sitting on the lawn and parked on the sidewalk at this point!”

***

“Hi, Claire,” says an unfamiliar voice over the phone. “This is Allison Kearns, of Allison Kearns Events and Design.”

“Oh!” I squeal, immediately afraid that I might have shattered the poor woman’s eardrum. “Oh, yes.” My voice is much softer now, but it’s still thick with excitement. “I’m so glad to hear back from you.”

“I trust my assistant let you know I was out of town when you called?”

“Oh, yeah.” I make a gesture with my hand signifying that it’s no big deal, as if she can see it. “Not a problem.”

“Is now a good time?”

I look around the home office where I’m seated at my sewing station. I’ve been trying to finish my burlap draping project. I kind of dismissed it for a while once I realized that I’d be exchanging my vows in a church. Conner convinced me to finish them, though, just in case we could use them at Chanfield Manor for the reception. I told him he was being silly and that I could probably only use one set, at most. However, he said that since they were started I may as well finish them. Point well taken.

The moment I receive the callback from Allison, I shove my chair from my working station and leave the tulle and burlap in their very glittery and unfinished state.

“Now is perfect!” I tell Allison over the phone.

“I have the basics down, thanks to your message, and Lara’s filled me in, too,” Allison begins.

She sounds very put-together, and not in the “I’ve got all my Apple products in front of me and I’m going to take this call and send this text real quick during our meeting” kind of way. She sounds…professional. I know this, like my Vera Wang gown, is going to be a match made in heaven. I should have hired Allison long ago!

“I’d like to come in two days before the wedding,” Allison says. “That way I have plenty of time to address any last-minute issues, get things all in order, and, of course, to be there to coordinate the rehearsal dinner. You have those arrangements already made, correct?”

“Erm, uh…” I chomp down on my lower lip in panic.

“No worries,” she cuts in. “You’re doing a vintage, shabby-chic design for your wedding. Lara says you have a laid back catered meal—buffet-style—arranged. So, how about we go for Carpaggio’s? Nice little Italian joint—high on class but not overly stuffy. Reasonably priced. They’re very experienced in hosting rehearsal dinners, parties, and…bachelorette dinners. But before we get to that, Carpaggio’s? How does that sound?”

“Uh…” I’m a little shell-shocked, but in a great way! Allison’s stepping in at the final hour, dozens of states away, and rapping over the phone like a coordinating pro, like she’s been making herself familiar with my wedding for the past six months. I already feel like the stress is starting to lift. This is, in one word,
fabulous!

“There
are
vegetarian options available at Carpaggio’s. They’re not kosher, however…” Allison’s voice hums.

“No. I don’t think we’ll need to have kosher,” I say, dragging myself off of Wedding Coordination Cloud Nine.

“Okay, then. I’ll book Carpaggio’s after I get in touch with the church about the rehearsal time and get that all squared away,” Allison says. “Do you have any appointments—personal appointments or plans—set for the rehearsal day? We’re planning for the Friday before the wedding, I assume?”

“Yes and no. No, I don’t have anything planned that day.”

“Excellent.” There’s a pause, and I can imagine Allison’s writing or typing madly her list of to-dos. I couldn’t care less if she’s using an expensive tablet or an old-fashioned pad of paper to get to planning this wedding. Hell, I’ll chip in to pay for the techie tablet if she needs one! This woman’s on a roll, and we haven’t even been on the phone for ten minutes.

“Now,” Allison says after a short while, “bachelorette party. Will you be needing planning assistance with that, or do your girls have you covered already?”

“Actually, I haven’t even given a thought to it.” I scratch my head, dumbfounded by the realization that I haven’t planned, much less considered, a bachelorette party. Who plans those things? We didn’t do one for Jackie. I didn’t even make it to my sister Maggie’s, because she didn’t have one (or she did and figured it was too hemp
 
and hippie an event to invite me). Hmm.

“I’ll talk to Lara and find out if there are any developments there,” Allison says with assertiveness. “On to linens and China and other rentables…”

Allison continues in this vein for nearly an hour, with the occasional small talk thrown in for familiarity. She’s a really nice lady, and I’m bummed that I didn’t consider using her before Tornado Melissa hit town.

And, speaking of her…I have yet to hear from her since Conner and I sent that email. I haven’t wanted to press the matter, because let’s face it, who really wants to discuss a pink slip? But it is a bit odd, isn’t it? Odd that I haven’t heard
anything
from her. I mean, she gets a dooming message in the mail, and she just, what? Forgets about it? Tosses it aside? Isn’t she at all angry or curious as to why she’s been let off the job?

Conner and I did a decent enough job at explaining why we were letting her go—something like, “No longer needing your assistance. Thanks.” So it’s not award winning, but it’s true, at least. Although it definitely left room for interpretation, if not simple questioning. Why haven’t I heard from her?

Oh well, I figure. Leave well enough alone, or however that saying goes. I have Allison now, and things are going to go smoothly from here on out!

Chapter Twenty

I roll out my yoga mat then drop the resistance band at one end of it, followed by the Magic Circle ring. I’m less than eight weeks out from the wedding, and I think I’ll be very toned and svelte by then, all thanks to my yoga regime.

Sophie returns her band and ring to their respective boxes and makes her way up to me, a rolled-up yoga mat under one arm. Her forehead is slightly glistening with sweat—she must have gotten quite a beating from her class. I could never survive her advanced class that’s just now filtering out of the open studio. No way, no how. My beginner’s class is suiting me quite well.