When Girlfriends Chase Dreams (4 page)

“I know he means well,” I say to Sophie. “And I know guys are never as into a wedding as the bride.” I pause for a sip of tea, and Sophie takes the opportunity to add a thought or two to my dilemma.

“Claire, you know all Conner wants to do is marry you,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, he said that tonight. Again. It’s like his stock answer any time I get flustered about this wedding.”

“You’ve been planning like a crazy person for six months!” Sophie’s pitch becomes high. “I’m sure he’s on auto-pilot when it comes to a lot of this planning stuff.”
That could be true
, I think.

“You’ve got me to help,” Sophie continues. “And you’re meeting that new planner. So don’t stress so much. One day at a time.”

I blow a collection of bubbles sitting atop my kneecap. “You’re right.”

“Of course I am,” Sophie says proudly. “And as for your drapery conundrum—”

“Those drapes have been
made
for Chanfield!”

“It’s fabric, Claire. Get over it. Stop being so dramatic.”

I feel like a change of topic, because thinking about that pile of burlap and tulle that’s soon to suffocate Conner in his workspace just depresses the hell out of me. It’s not the fact that I spent a couple hundred bucks on that project (because with Dad paying it’s not
that
troubling), but it’s the time. It’s the painstaking hours upon hours of time I spent at that sewing machine and design board. And for what? Nothing?

Even more so, it’s the fact that those drapes would be so lovely at Chanfield. I have this vision—and it’s a really good one—of hanging one set of drapes at the fence entry that’s in the patio, backyard area of the grounds. The drapes would be completely drawn, with me and my dad, arm-in-arm on one side, and an awaiting Conner and entire audience on the other. Then, the string quartet that I imagine having (but can’t quite find yet) would strike up Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” or maybe that classical wedding song. The drapes would be pulled back and
voilà!
On my way to get married!

The other set of drapes has already been planned to be set up at the other end of the altar, utilizing the gorgeous arch and nearby trellis at Chanfield. There would be baby’s breath bouquets and maybe spray roses or something of that ilk decorating the arch. Oh, how amazing it would look with burlap and tulle. Maybe even lace, like the kind you see patterned on doilies. But with a church wedding written in the stars, my drapery dreams will probably be quashed.

“Changing topic,” I tell Sophie. I’m sure I’m wearing a small scowl. Wedding planning should be fun. Thinking of dashed drapery hopes is anything but. “How’s the biz going?”

Sophie’s a spectacular baker. And a really good cook, too. But baking is her real forte. She even went to Paris for an entire summer (last summer, when Conner took me), so she could buff up on her professional baking techniques. She learned how to make tons of things, including those darling little pastel cookies that you see everywhere in Paris. Macaws or something. You know, the typical Parisian specialty that you see in all of those Paris-based chick flicks. She’s gotten really good with marzipan, too, making all sorts of shapes and calligraphy text with it. I thought she was a master baker before. Now she’s a regular Chef…well, I can’t think of any famous French chefs. But she’s like the French equivalent to Wolfgang Puck. But a Seattle chef.

Anyway, she’s amazingly talented and has always dreamed of opening up her own bakery/café. In fact, she’s already found a space to rent. It’s a really neat retro kind of building over in Capitol Hill, one of our favorite neighborhoods. Seattle’s dotted with several neighborhoods, each with their own unique character. Capitol Hill is a bit eclectic, with artsy shops, diverse eateries, and some edgy bars and clubs. It’s a neighborhood with a great vibe—youthful and fun, and it’s the perfect place for Sophie to open up The Cup and the Cake.

“So you still want me to come help you out soon to throw up some paint?” I ask, eager to help.

I’ve enjoyed getting to test out different cupcake recipes (which will be her shop’s specialty) with Sophie over the years, and in particular over the past few months while she’s been trying to nail down her premiere menu. I’m definitely ready for her to finally open up those shop doors and make her dreams come true. Not to mention I need to cut back on my amount of sweets-testing if I’m going to fit into any wedding dress. Although with the bakery actually open and a vast assortment of cupcakes on display…yeah, that could pose a problem for my hips and thighs, too.

“The place isn’t ready for paint yet. The contractors are still working,” Sophie says. “I’m thinking about having them blow out one more wall. You know that small one?”
 

“Mm-hmm.”

“Either blow it out and expand the front room or make a pony wall out of it. What do you think?”

“Pony wall would be cute.” I sip on my tea.

“That’s what I’m leaning towards,” she says. “You want to swing over some time this week and take a look with me?”

I haven’t been to the space since before the holidays, and it was barely Sophie’s space then. Only a mere signed lease at that point. Now she has a construction crew going at it around the clock trying to get it ready for a grand opening this spring. And with the crazy wedding stuff I haven’t had a second to lend to her. (Unless you count taste-testing.) Poor thing is juggling managing the opening of her shop with the maid of honor duties. But I’m going to get a planner soon. That’ll ease up the workload for sure.

“I’ll meet you at the future site of The Cup and the Cake,” I tell her with a giggle, “Seattle’s very
best
café, of course. We can meet up after my consultation with the wedding planner on Wednesday.”

Chapter Three

I steal a look at myself in the mirror before I head out the door. I look all right. Not my greatest, but definitely not my worst. Somewhere happily in the middle. I rarely ever wear makeup, unless of course it’s an important event or a night out or something like that. It’s so uncomfortable, and I always feel like my pores are suffocating, and then I fear I’m going to break out into pimples and look like a tween.

I already think I look half my age. It was fun at twenty-one to be carded for drinks or at clubs, and not so bad at twenty-two or even twenty-three. At twenty-seven, I’m over it. And I’m engaged now, anyway! Shouldn’t the pretty diamond ring on my finger be sign enough that I don’t need to whip out my driver’s license?

Besides, the photo is super old, and I was not having a particularly good hair day. I even begged the cranky DMV lady to retake it, but she gave me a deadpan look, followed by a robotic line of, “That’ll be twenty-five dollars.” The blotchy-faced and frizzy-haired girl in the picture is evidence I had a tight grip on the purse strings that day.
 

Today, though, even if I still look as young as that driver’s license photo looked (which was taken ages ago), I won’t look haggard. I apply a light pink blush to my cheeks, a similarly-shaded gloss to my lips, and push my curly hair back in a very stylish grey headband. It’s the perfect shade of grey, matching the ruffled flower on one shoulder of my three-quarter-length shirt. I tug on the pair of Burberry rain boots that Sophie gifted to me for Christmas last month.

My appointment to meet with the next and last wedding coordinator on my list is in less than thirty minutes. Luckily, the storm’s let up, and now all that remains are piles of snow pushed to the sides of the roads and walkways. The streets are almost completely cleared, which is a good thing, because my Toyota Corolla can’t handle damp roads, bumpy detours, or speeds above sixty. Snow is entirely out of the question.

Thank God Conner has a pretty reliable truck for when the two of us need to get somewhere. Conner’s told me countless times to take his truck instead of my car, especially when it’s acting up or the weather’s foul. But me? Behind the wheel of something bigger than a Corolla? Too much. Too much power and height and mass for me. No…I’ll stick with my compact baby, however broken she may be.

I’m off to meet this coordinator, Melissa Cresswell, at a Starbucks in Capitol Hill. Apparently Melissa has recently started her own business and doesn’t have her own office yet. That’s fine by me, because, at this rate, my options are running slim. It’s Melissa Cresswell or nothing. (Of course, there’s always the off-chance Martin Short could play the part…) Anyway, I don’t really want to settle for nothing.
That
hasn’t been panning out so well these past six months. You’d think I could actually get a significant amount of planning done in six months’ time. Not so much.
 

I sling my purse over my shoulder and open the front door. “See you later, Schnicker!” I call out to the best puppy on the planet, who’s still munching on the rawhide stick I gave him a minute ago. “Mommy loves you!”

Sophie thinks Schnickerdoodle is spoiled, and she’s probably right. I found him some years ago, an abandoned puppy outside of the hospital where I work up on Pill Hill. (It’s really called First Hill, but with three major Seattle hospitals up on the big hill, it gets its funny medicinal nickname.) Sophie says I have a bleeding heart, and she’s probably right. I see a stray dog, and I think he needs a home—my home, naturally. I see a box of kittens outside a Walgreens, and my first inclination is not to scoop up one, or two, or three, but to take the entire box of fuzzy fur balls home.
 

That’s what happened with Schnickerdoodle. I was leaving the hospital one night when I saw a shaking little white and tan puppy in the parking garage. After I had loaded him into my car, I thought, “You look just like a Schnickerdoodle cookie.” And a love connection was made instantly.

All right, so maybe Schnickerdoodle
is
spoiled. Not just because he gets his walks at least twice a day, every day, and not because Conner and I buy him a lot of toys and have even given him the third bedroom in the house (yes, it’s the doggie room), but because Schnicker gets to have his mommy home more often than most full-time employed moms.

I’m a social worker/caretaker in the healthcare field, and I work part of the time at the hospital, and part of the time on the road, going door-to-door to various homes. It’s a great job that I’ve had straight out of college. The hours are flexible, meaning I’m able to be at home often—like today, on a random Wednesday. It also means I’m able to hang out with Schnickerdoodle often, or create seating cards, or watch daytime talk shows that rot my brain. (Honestly, I don’t do the latter
that
much.)

It’s also a great gig because I meet so many interesting and fun people. They’re all really old—veterans and elderly people with disabilities. They’re usually really sweet and sometimes a laugh-and-a-half, and they always have such sage advice, even if they might start off with a life lesson and end up recounting what they think they had for breakfast that morning. But hey, they’re adorable, and I love what I get to do. And it feels really good to be able to help someone out who really needs it.

For instance, one of my patients, Vick, is a double amputee. He fought in a world war, or maybe it was Korea. It was a war that was a long time ago. He won some medals, and he shows them to me every time I visit. He’s a funny old man who loves to tell me knock-knock jokes when he’s not telling me how he and his best platoon buddy performed raids so bloody that not even the movies can depict.

He needs help bathing and going to the restroom and other things like that, and I’m one of the lucky four caretakers or nurses who gets to help him out. Conner’s amazed when I come home to tell him how my days at work are. Sponge-baths, shaving, diaper-changing, and then there’s making meals, sometimes feeding, and reading or knitting together. Really, there’s almost no limit to what I do as a caretaker. One day it’s watching television for hours on end together, the next I might have to help clean up a wetted bed or tidy up the house. Conner says that it takes a special kind of person to do that kind of thing. I just say, “I can’t imagine
not
doing it.” Seriously, helping those who can’t help themselves… It just feels right—like it’s what I should be doing.

Now, with a lot of wedding madness weighing heavy on my shoulders, I’m actually relieved I don’t have to go into the hospital or make any rounds today. Today it’s all about meeting with Melissa and figuring out where I’m going to exchange vows and celebrate afterward with my husband. If anyone can help with the venue trouble, surely it’s Melissa. If her more than a thousand Facebook fans are any indication of her talents, then surely she’ll be outstanding.

“Claire?” a voice calls out my name from across the shop.

I’m sitting at a small table in the corner of the agreed-upon Starbucks, five minutes past our appointment time. Part of me is worried that I didn’t correctly jot down the precise Starbucks where Melissa and I are to meet. It’s Seattle, birthplace of the Mecca of coffee shops. Trying to describe the location of a specific Starbucks is like when I try to explain to Conner the difference between green and teal. There are so many shades in between that specificity (and visual aids) are absolutely required.

At the call of my name, however, I’m pretty sure I heard Melissa right and am at the correct Starbucks. So I wave my hand in the air and try to get her attention.

Melissa sees me and heads my way, a
venti
beverage in her hand, her long, platinum hair swaying as she cheerfully bounces over.

“Hi!” she says in a voice that’s more syrupy than my own—and I have a sugary-sounding voice. “I’m Melissa Cresswell!” She’s pumping my hand vigorously, flashing an equally strong smile filled with very straight and white teeth. “Of MC Design and Coordination. MC for Melissa Cresswell.” She does a one-arm shrug, still pumping my hand. “And MC for, like, Master of Ceremonies.”

We exchange pleasantries, and I am intrigued as she efficiently pulls a pale pink legal pad and matching pen from her handbag. Straight to the point. I like it. Melissa Cresswell of MC Design and Coordination just
has
to pan out. My faith in wedding perfection has been restored!