When Girlfriends Chase Dreams (40 page)

She sets the plate down and chooses one in the same style, but in canary yellow.

“I barely had to train him,” she says. “Katie’s lent me some of her temp bakers, too, when I need the help.” She sets the yellow plate down and looks up at me. “Slowly but surely my café dreams are really coming true, Claire. It’s a lot of work, but totally worth it.”

“I’ll say.” I pick up the blue plate Sophie had in her hands a second ago and rub a finger along the small, raised dots and swirls that decorate the edges. “Already hiring extra help. Actually getting to step away on a Saturday. Not bad, Sophie. Not bad at all.”

Sophie brings out the pad of paper that she’s been scribbling on since we arrived, astutely taking notes of patterns, lines, and prices. “Here.” She pulls from her handbag one of the color swatches that we’ve brought along for this very reason. “It looks like this blue might be a little too light when you compare it to the bridesmaid dresses.” She points out the difference in shades.

“Might be kind of nice, you know?” I say. I hold out the plate and swatch at arm’s length to better examine.

“You’re the girl with the designer eye,” Sophie says. “All arts and craftsy.” She sets her notepad down and takes the plate and swatch back to examine them more closely, pursing her lips and squinting.

“Could really use Robin right about now,” I say offhandedly. “Speaking of her, I finally swung by to visit, some time ago, actually. I saw Rose’s newly decorated room, too. So adorable!”

“The little family doing well? I’ve been so tied up I haven’t had a good chance to chat.”

“Yup,” I say cheerily. “She seems busy, as always, but doing fabulous. Said she’s really tired lately.” Sophie hands over the swatch and plate. “Her new project manager position is really taking it out of her.”

“But she loves it?”

“Oh, yeah. You know Robin. She steps up to the plate and just does it.” I cock my head to one side, wondering if this shade of blue might actually complement the overall design well, or if I should go for something more neutral, like ivory. “This might be a nice shade, after all,” I say.

Sophie crosses one arm over her waist. “You’ve been making crafts and projects your whole life, Claire. You’ve got an eye for this stuff.”

“Ivory or these?” I say. “These are the best colored or patterned ones we’ve seen.” I hold the blue plate up higher.

Sophie twists her face funnily, then says, “Let’s spring for color. They’re fun.”

“Fun is what we need.” I hand the plate to her so she can write down the stock number.

By the end of our adventure, I’ve sent nearly a dozen photos to Allison for her take, and she’s agreed with Sophie and me that the robin’s-egg-blue plates will be stunning, as will the chosen crystal, the chargers, the linens, and the votives…the rest of all of the final reception touches.

Really, if I wrack my mind, I think that’s all that’s left. At least all of the major stuff. I mean, the suits are in Conner’s hands right now. I’m not going to get myself into a tizzy over it, because whenever I think about the missed appointment thanks to stupid Las Vegas, I start to imagine the potential disaster, the fights, and the simple fact that, if it weren’t for Sophie, I’d be sleeping alone this weekend. I’d have an empty home. Well, Schnicker’s there, but you know what I mean. I wouldn’t have gotten any wedding things done, either, and I would’ve spent the entire time alone just moping around and driving myself positively batty.

Sophie’s company is great; I don’t know what I’d do without her. Wait, I do know—I’d be curled up in a ball in my bed for seventy-two hours straight, wearing workout clothes, nursing a cheap bottle of Zinfandel, and watching seemingly endless reruns of oldies-but-goodies, like
Three’s Company
or
Alf.

Having Sophie and Schnicker is certainly great, but it doesn’t make me forget, entirely, that the key man and love of my life is not with me. No amount of cupcakes or friendly visits or wedding errands can fill that gaping hole. Conner’s hundreds of miles away gambling, drinking, and goodness knows what other kind of debauchery he’s getting himself into. God help me.

“Lara says you don’t want a bachelorette party,” Sophie says. The two of us are holed up in my office for the night. Not your night-on-the-town Saturday night, but a laid-back one and enjoyable just the same. Sophie’s working on the ribbons for the rims of the jam jars, while I’m trying to finish the drapes.

“She’s right,” I say. “I had a bridal shower. Isn’t that enough?”

My bridal shower, which, upon the insistence of my mom and all of the girls, was held after New Year’s once the hype of the holidays had passed, and Jackie and Andrew had tied the knot. Everyone was so thrilled about the engagement that we just had to have a celebration, hence my bridal party.

It was fun; I got a bunch of neat gifts, and it was one of those moments that really made me feel so bridal. Almost like how I felt when I was wearing my dress—knowing that
this
was really happening!

But a bachelorette party
and
a bridal shower? I don’t really think I need both. Don’t we have enough stress? Enough to plan? And aren’t we kind of running out of time? I definitely don’t want anyone to feel like they need to get me more gifts. My wedding magazines all say the same thing: Gifts at the bridal shower replace gifts given at the bachelorette party and the wedding. Actually, I believe most brides have bachelorette parties, even if they have a bridal shower, come to think of it… Oh, I don’t know. I don’t really care at this point, nor do I feel like celebrating.

“It’s not the same,” Sophie says. “Bridal shower is all light and relaxed and girly. Claire,” she looks up from her project for a second to give me a discouraging glance, “a bridal shower is
not
a bachelorette party. The fun, the partying, the letting loose—that’s bachelorette party business.”

“Having a fling with some stranger before I tie the knot?” I ask mockingly.

“No, of course not. Just going out with the girls. You know what I mean.”

“I don’t really feel up to it. I don’t feel like adding more tasks to the to-do list.”

“Allison could plan it,” Sophie suggests. “Lara said she’d be happy to help, too.”

“Nah.” I lightly depress the pedal of the sewing machine, and the needle runs forward, then backward, and carefully forward again, making for a new hem I’m starting. “I appreciate the offer, but it’s more hassle than fun.”

“You won’t have to plan anything,” she says insistently.

“Doesn’t matter, really.” I watch intently as my thread line continues down its straight path along the glittered burlap. “Just another tradition and another thing to plan and complain about and rag on Conner over.” I give a mock laugh. “More trouble than it really is worth.”

“Well, if you insist. I’m sure Conner’s having his little bachelor celebration right now. You can totally have one.”

I feel the stinging of the tears come to surface all of a sudden, and I try to blink them away, not wanting my straight hemline to go astray. “Doesn’t matter,” I choke out.

“I say you do whatever you want, Claire. If you want a party, we’ll totally throw you one. You can have a smashing time. Hey, we could even take you to Vegas, if you want—”

I release the pedal, the needle stopping dead in its tracks. I drop my head and wipe the surge of fresh tears from my eyes and cheeks. I sniffle back loudly, and Sophie is instantly at my side.

“Oh, Claire,” she says apologetically. “I didn’t mean to make you sad. Oh, no. I didn’t—I didn’t mean to bring him up. I’m sorry.”

I sniff back again and rub hard at my eyes. The tears won’t stop, so I give in and let them run, crying out, “It shouldn’t be like that. You shouldn’t have to
not
bring him up.” Her arms envelop me, and I cannot abate my tears. “He’s my fiancé, Sophie. My fiancé! How can this be happening?”

I bring my hands to my face and continue to bawl, loudly moaning out the question that I just want answered. “Why? Why, why, why?”

“Shhh,” Sophie soothes, rocking me gently from side to side. “Don’t you worry, Claire. Everything will be all right. We’re going to get this figured out.” She kisses the top of my head. “Don’t you worry, girl.”

“I feel like I’m chasing…nothing! This false hope that everything
will
be okay.” I bunch up the tulle and burlap that’s covering my lap and push it frustratingly away. “This is all for nothing. This stupid tulle. These dumb drapes. This wedding is a disaster! My relationship…oh, Sophie. What is happening?”

“Shhh.” She pulls me tighter. “Trust me. Everything will be
better
than okay.” She presses her cheek to my temple. “Trust me. Things always work out one way or another.”

***

I’m sitting here, waiting for Conner whenever he arrives home. I’ve spent some time thinking about how I’ll react when he returns. I’ve thought through quite a few scenarios, and no matter which one I choose, they all seem to end up with me being upset and there being a big question mark looming over our heads and the entire subject of a wedding.

Do I still want to marry Conner? Absolutely. This is trivial crap we have to get through. But that’s the important part: We have to
get through it
. We have to talk. The silent treatment, the secretive running off to cities far away, and the general avoidance are not helping matters—they’re only damaging. The wedge is being driven harder and harder between us, and before either of us knows it, there will be serious implications. Then what?

So, here I am, forcing myself to be ready to have a calm and rational discussion about where Conner’s been, why he left so abruptly, and what
we
can do together to heal our relationship. What
we
can do to make sure we head towards the altar via a healthy and happy route. I know the potential conversation could become an all-out bitch-fest, but I have to try. I have to summon the courage to sit here, approach him, and figure
something
out.

Oh, but things don’t seem to be working in my favor. At least in the short term, when it comes to all things wedding-related. So I should have known that Conner and I couldn’t approach an adult conversation when he arrived. I tried really hard to stay calm and act all grown-up. I really did. I tried
so
hard.

But the instant I laid eyes on him when he walked through the front door, me sitting there in one of the living room chairs, nervously waiting for this very moment, a random knitting project in my hands and glancing repeatedly at my watch, I knew we were both in for a doozy. The first words out of his mouth, which I think are
completely
to blame for my subsequent reaction, were, “Don’t give me a lecture, Claire.”

Can you believe that?
Don’t give me a lecture.
A lecture! After he randomly took off and jetted down to Sin City to do who the hell knows what? Just weeks before our wedding! The nerve!
Don’t give me a lecture.

Naturally, the first words out of my mouth were, “You asshole!” Yeah, totally not how I envisioned our “adult conversation.”

So here I am, following Conner around the house while he puts away his clothes, his bathroom products, all the crap he whisked on out of here during his secretive “Get Away From Claire” trip.

“I can’t believe you would do something like this, Conner,” I cry, exasperated. “Leave and not tell me! You could have been killed in a car wreck or something terrible that I didn’t know about…and…and…you don’t even care. Just let me sit here and worry all weekend. Without even bothering to call me. At all!”

“I know Chad told Sophie where we were,” he says flippantly. “Don’t have such a cow.”

“I waited and worried, Conner. The whole fucking day you left! Into the night…” The rage is boiling within me. I thought our last fight was enormous. This one is setting records. “How can you be so selfish?”

“I needed some time away, that’s all,” he says in a smooth voice. “Now I’m home to be nagged again. Haven’t you learned anything, Claire? Your nagging and stress is tearing us down. I can’t handle it anymore.”

“Well your insouciance about our wedding—you
missed
your fitting, by the way, and you
knew
that was important to me—it’s—it’s—it’s making me more stressed and nagging.”

I angrily tangle my hands in my hair and let out a scream. “Argh! Well, was it fun? I hope you had a blast. Was it worth it? Was Vegas and leaving your fiancée in the dark really worth it?”

“Claire,” he sighs and pulls his t-shirt off and over his head. “It was a weekend with Chad. No craziness. Just a guys’ weekend away.”

“With strippers.” I can’t help myself. It
was
Las Vegas after all.

“No, Claire,” he says in a deep voice. “No strippers.”

“Right,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes.

“A fun time, just the two of us, hanging out…not really all that different from any other weekend here,” he says in an infuriatingly casual way.

He tosses his t-shirt into the hamper, and I notice a gauze pad taped to his back, just above his right shoulder blade.

“What the hell?” I gasp, reaching up to the pad. “Is this a—” I am successful in tearing a corner of the pad off when he abruptly turns around, grasping over his shoulder at the slightly torn bandage. “Is that a tattoo?” My eyes are bugging out. “You go and get a tattoo?”

“It’s not like it’s the first time,” he says under his breath. “Chill out, Claire. Just chill out, dammit.”

“Chill out! My fiancé runs off to Las Vegas without telling me, with a wedding weeks away, and he comes back with a tattoo! Gambled all our life savings away, too? Shack up with some bimbo while you were there? God!”

He tightens his jaw and looks at me with sharp eyes. “Believe me when I say that
all
we did was hang out by the pool, drink some beers, and do a little gambling…
nothing
to have a cow over, Claire. Trust me, can’t you? Damn…”

He slowly turns on his bare heels, and before he clears the doorway, I manage to throw a toss pillow right at the back of his head. He waves a hand behind and, to add insult to injury, says, “Take a chill pill, won’t you?”

Chapter Twenty-Six