When Girlfriends Chase Dreams (8 page)

“Room?” He withdraws a Sharpie from his green apron and is already scribbling about.

“No.”

It’s a straight-up black coffee kind of day today, and I really need to keep an eye on the extra sugar I’ve been consuming. That dream dress is going to show up and I’m not going to be able to squeeze into it, even if I cut off my left leg! There was this new margarita cupcake recipe Sophie brought over last night. Killer. Amazing. Now I need to
not
pass on taking Schnicker for a walk tonight.

“Hi there,” I say to Melissa, approaching her.

She’s typing on her iPhone, her lips pursed together in contemplative thought.

I awkwardly stand by in silence for a while, then I settle into my seat, wondering how long it will take for her to realize that I’m here.

“So,” Melissa says gaily, her eyes still locked on her screen, her fingers rapidly tapping away.

“So.” I awkwardly take a sip of my water.

“So!” She moves her head in a way that reminds me of a bobble head toy, then slips her cell phone back into her bag and breaks out her familiar pink pad of paper. “Sorry about that. Had to tweet that I’m meeting with a client.”

“Aww.” I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. Twitter—I’ve never understood it.

“You know, the wedding industry is
huge
on social media. I mean, we’re like social media whores.” She laughs to herself. I again take an awkward sip from my water bottle.

“I went to a wedding conference recently—a super luxurious one, over in the Caribbean with really big names in the industry—and girl, let me tell you…” She closes her eyes and very dramatically shakes her head. “Social media—
tweeting
—about what you’re doing, like meeting with clients, setting up events, picking up vases and stuff…it’s our livelihood. We have to tweet and post, like,
everything
we do.” She smiles and adds enthusiastically, “But it’s
so
much fun! I seriously have the best job in the world!”

“That’s nice,” I say politely. “I don’t twitter, or, whatever it’s called. But, uh…what about the venues?” I flash a smile, hoping the “Welcome to the Chi Omega Sorority House!” talk is over.

“Oh, right!” Melissa says. “Have you given any more thought to venues?”

I blow on my piping hot beverage and tell her that I’m still out of luck. Conner’s going to talk to his parents tonight and with any luck we can be granted, they’ll agree to go through with a church wedding. I told him to tell them that we’d make the ceremony really short. We’d be in and out so fast they wouldn’t have time to notice where they were.

Now, I know that’s not entirely true. Weddings always take longer than you think, and there’s always some kind of glitch that can cause things to run late, no matter how foolproof you make your plan.

Melissa told me a planner’s job is to make a solid plan and stick to it, but no one can be surprised if everything ends up taking longer than planned, or if something goes slightly awry. Even with added time buffers for family photos, bride and groom portraits, preening and prepping, traffic, and something referred to as “unexpected emergencies,” it can all end up taking a tad longer than anticipated, which means backup plans are a necessity.

“Melissa, I don’t think there’s a way out of this church thing, and I quite frankly don’t care anymore,” I tell her point blank. “I have my dream venue in mind, but it’s probably just going to have to stay a dream.” I pause for a heavy sigh. “Right now I need to find a way to have a ceremony at a Lutheran church that allows dogs, fresh flowers, has lots of natural light—for really nice photos, you know?” She nods voraciously. “And I need a quick ceremony. In and out. Moving on and keeping the family at bay. Kay?”

Melissa is jotting notes down wildly, looking up and nodding every now and then.

“Now,” she finally says, setting down her pink pen, “you have to stop stressing about this, Claire. In the end it’ll all be fine.
Trust
me. This is my job. I
know
weddings. Like the back of my hand!” She grins. “I think we can use Chanfield Manor as your reception site. What would you say to that?”

“I’d love you forever if that could happen.” My ears start to prick up. Is it possible I could actually manage
some
of my wedding at this dream venue? “Even with the slim time slot?” I query. “You know I booked the only thing Chanfield had on August
 
sixteenth?”

Melissa doesn’t look the least bit fazed. She’s all-smiles and says reassuringly, “I’ve got this, girl. No worries.” She pulls out a slip of pink paper. It matches the shade of her notepad and her pen. “Here,” she says, handing it to me. “These are two very beautiful Lutheran churches. I think they’d be perfect, and they’re both reasonably close to Chanfield.”

“Okay,” I say, mulling over her neatly printed note. “So when do we check them out?”

“Oh!” she says. “You and Conner just go there whenever. I figure it’s probably easiest for you two to just go on your own time.” She brings her beverage up to her high-glossed lips. “Then you can let me know which you like best and I’ll book it for you.” She tilts her cup back, and I take notice of her fresh French manicure.

I casually glance down at my own hands and wish that my nails looked half as good as hers. I don’t bite my nails anymore, thank God. Sophie helped me kick that nasty habit, always lightly slapping my hands away when I’d bring them up to my mouth, or saying, “
tsk tsk”
when I was tugging at a hang nail. Still, my nails aren’t nearly as pretty as Melissa’s. I try to remember to polish them routinely. It’d be easier if I went to a nail studio and could get them professionally done, but acrylics aren’t advised in my line of work. Also, I can’t see the merit in spending practically the same amount of money as a fill on a regular manicure—something I can very well do at home.

“Is that all right?” Melissa asks.

“Uhh,” I say, looking back at the note. “Sure. Probably a better idea.” I smile weakly. “Easier if Conner and I go when we find the time…”

“Now,” she says, retrieving her pen, “let’s talk dresses. Your dress…bridesmaid dresses…and the guys’ tuxes or suits, too!”

After I tell her that I haven’t exactly picked out my wedding dress yet, and that I’m still not entirely sure about the bridesmaid dresses, Melissa looks like she’s coming back from a mild stroke. I try to make the situation less heavy by telling her that I’m really close to finding the dresses, that I was certain of the Vera Wang, and that I
nearly
had the bridesmaid ones chosen. That is, until my sister Maggie, in her superstitious and hemp and granola ways, randomly called me up and said, “You know green is a bad luck color, don’t you? If you have your bridesmaids wear green to your wedding, you and Conner will either divorce within six months or have bad sex for nine years.”
   

“I don’t think she’s right about that,” Melissa says thoughtfully. “But if she is right, wouldn’t that be awful? What do you think?”

I shrug. “I thought it was wacky talk, but seeing how this wedding is a difficult beast to tame, let’s play it on the safe side. Foregoing green dresses so… I’m still on the hunt for new dresses.”

“Probably a wise choice.”

“Green’s only a small accent color in the wedding, anyhow,” I tell her. “I’m thinking of going for blue.”

“Blue is
perfect!
” Melissa purrs. “I think you should definitely go for blue.” Then she sings, “Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.”

“Do we do that together? Go look for bridesmaid dresses together?” I ask, completely clueless. I really don’t know all of what a wedding planner is actually supposed to do, come to think of it. Remember, I’m thinking Franck and his Hollywood team. Hmm. Does Melissa even have a team?

“Nah,” she says. “We don’t need to do everything together.” She moves her cup aside and lays out a magazine that has several little sticky tabs protruding from the sides. “That’s a special time that should be reserved for the bride and her best friends.” She gives a playful wink and flips open the bridal magazine.
 

“Oooh,” I coo. The magazine pages displayed are chock-full of sweet, vintage wedding details. Birdcages, hydrangeas, lace, burlap! Wooden hearts and handcrafted ampersand signs and letters. A prop ladder with small and colorful vases filled with roses and baby’s breath set on various steps. Oh, and the wooden lovebirds atop the wedding cake. This is my kind of wedding!

So I’m not so sure about Melissa writing off my dress shopping, and maybe it’s a little unusual that she’s not interested in visiting the churches with me, but the girl knows my wedding style, and that’s what I’m really paying her for, right? And if she can find a way to use my drapes in the church
and
get us a reception at the Chanfield Manor, then she’s my guardian angel.

***

“Mom, I think—” I’ve been trying to get a word in edgewise for the past ten minutes since my mom rang me up. She means well, and if the wedding were taking place in Oregon, then I’d probably take her up on her offer. But it’s not. I’m in Seattle, and the proposition is just preposterous.

“She does such lovely work, Claire, dear,” Mom says. “And since she’s a good friend of mine—we are part of the same gardening club—I could get you a deal. And your father and I would appreciate a de—”

“Mom?”

“I know it’ll be a little more hassle than necessary, but—”

“Mom?”

“Did you go to the link I emailed you? Check out her work? She really is a
very
talented florist…”

I shake my head and mindlessly flip through one of the many bridal magazines sprawled across the dining table.

That’s a pretty veil
, I think, as I come across a page filled with short, antique-looking veils.
I wonder if my boutique has any of these in stock…

“Claire? Claire?”

“Yes, Mom.” I dog-ear the page of pretty veils and attempt a two-way conversation with my mother once again.

“Don’t you think this is a splendid idea?” she queries. “It’s a great way to save money, you know?”

I’m not one for confrontation. I don’t want to ruffle feathers—that’s the nature of the peacemaker. The peacemaker likes things calm and collected, and the status quo shouldn’t change much, because the status quo should always be smooth sailing, positive, and approachable. Get my mom in the middle of wedding planning and using finances as her anchor, and what can I do? Be an innocent bystander? Listen and nod and say, “Mmhmm, yes, you’re right”? Normally, probably so. So a party doesn’t go according to plan? It’s not the end of the world and it’s better to have peace among everyone than to have a party planned just the way you imagined. Or wanted.

But it’s
my
wedding. It’s that special day a girl dreams about. When she’s sitting in the sandbox at five with other pink-dress-wearing girls, holding the plastic shovel like it’s a bouquet of roses, draping the hood of her jacket over her head to mock a veil, and slowly shuffling along the sand as if it were a petal-covered aisle, all the while humming the wedding song to her small female audience. This is the day I’ve been dreaming about for
at least
twenty years! At least since the first time I got a Ken doll to accompany Barbie. This is my wedding day, and while a lot isn’t going according to plan or shaping up
exactly
the way I pictured, some things just
have
to. Some things, right?

“Mom,” I say as firmly as I can muster, “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

She doesn’t say anything. Oh no. Have I hurt her feelings? Will she take me for a spoiled and selfish child? There’s no question that my mother is in fact my mother. She, too, is the calm and usually positive and peace-making type. But sometimes when she gets an idea and thinks it’s brilliant, getting her to let go is like getting Schnickerdoodle to release the dead bird in the backyard. It can be a tricky task.

So I repeat myself, but in a less firm way. Yet I still don’t receive an answer.

“I just think—” I begin, trying to make myself heard while at the same time keep my mom from shutting down completely. “I think that—that—that— Maybe it’s a better move…a better move both financially and logistically that we choose a Seattle-based florist.” When Mom still doesn’t reply, I quickly add, “And neither of us wants to put any unneeded stress on your friend’s shoulders, you know?”

“I…suppose…” Finally! A response.

“Just imagine all of the extra stress she would have, packing up all of the flowers just right, then transporting them
so many miles
… That’s too much to ask of a friend.”

I think I’ve made my point and saved myself from a blowout or a row with my mother.

“But she
is
coming to the wedding, Claire,” Mom counters. “It wouldn’t be any more of a hassle for her to just bring some flowers with her. She’s a Class One gardener in our club, too.”

I heave a very heavy sigh, then cradle my cell phone in the crook of my shoulder and start to gather the plethora of magazines from the table. Mom continues to carry on extensively about the reasons
for
hiring a florist who’s located in Timbuktu.
 

“Great news, babe!” Conner says as he emerges from the office, taking me by surprise.

I give him a signal to hold on a minute, and return to my mom. She’s still making points, however irrelevant, as to why I should consider her florist friend for the wedding, and the latest one leaves me no choice but to firmly put my foot down.

“Mom,” I say, “I don’t want lilies at my wedding.”

“But that’s her specialty.”

“Their scent is too powerful. They’re big. They look cheap. There’s no place for them in my wedding. End of story.” When I finish and linger over the delivery of my words, I wonder if I’ve crossed the line. I could have said that I’d already chosen my flowers and lilies weren’t among them.

“All right,” is Mom’s curt response. “I was only trying to help. You don’t have to be so ungrateful.”

“Mom, please.” My tone is soft and caring. I really don’t want to hurt her feelings; she just needs to listen and think clearly. “I don’t want to put you or your friend out, and I’m certain I can find a really good florist here for a really good deal. Okay?”