It's Got A Ring To It (2 page)

Mom’s Vegas
-
themed
idea was shot down faster than my urging to limit it to a
twenty-five
person intimate family affair.
She’d already pinpointed hideous coral taffeta bridesmaid dresses
, which
she said would go
perfectly with her coral
-
and
-
cream theme. I was hesitant
when she asked me to be her maid of honor. Despite the family obligation and
tinge of flattery, I wanted to warn her not to put so much faith in one day.
Maybe she was one of the lucky ones and it would work out for her.

The way she plopped that jumbo binder on the table
and caused
the cover to flop
open, I almost believed that it withheld special powers. In a way, I was
disappointed to see a bunch of etiquette hoopla and tabbed side folders.
There’s way too much to do and plan. It would probably be easier to just elope.
At first
, I was quite
impressed by how organized she was. Each tab was labeled for budget, attire,
wedding party, registry, vendors, ceremony, reception, stationary, and
honeymoon. I even made it a point to compliment her on having such a great
system. That
was
, until
she smiled her most innocent, condescending smile and said, “I’m so glad you
approve
Laila
,
because as maid of honor and my only
sister, I’m putting you in charge of it.” I nearly buckled over with laughter,
until I realized she wasn’t joking.

By the following Thursday, I was practically burnt out from serving
my sentence as the
maid of
honor
, I hadn’t had much time to linger on the void in my appointment
book. I’d completed my millionth task on her never-ending to-do list
…
the bridal spectacular. It
is just that
—
a
spectacular gathering of anyone who ha
d
anything to sell to a bride and groom, all
in one convention-sized location. Oh
,
the joy I had of spending three full hours
with the bride-to-be, as her name tag stated. Really, the tag was more like a
target to ensure all the vendors were accurately attacking the right person.

I lagged behind a few steps just watching. A flyer from every vendor
was stuffed in her bridal bag. The bride-to-be tag was like a badge of honor
and she wore it proudly. She led the way as her bridesmaids, Denise and Olivia
,
and I hung back enough to
let people know she was the
bull’s-eye
.
She was the one getting married. On the inside, a nudg
e
of laughter tugged at me. The bridal spectacular
was nearing an end and we had to go, much to Lena’s chagrin and my sheer
enjoyment. Seeing her frenzied, looking at this table setting and that
limousine, was like watching someone on Supermarket Sweep in the last few
seconds of the countdown, trying to grab a few more groceries and get back to
the checkout. She was in her element, but with so many options, she was liable
to go into overload.

“Let me look at this last photo booth
.
”
F
rustrated
,
she rushed to see if anything had been
overlooked.

It was amazing how fast Lena was able to cover another aisle of
vendors before we got to the exit. The thrill wound her up even more. “That was
so much fun.
Laila
, you know you never told me how
much fun these things were
—
”
she stopped herself in her own tracks.

“I had a really great time being here with you today. I’m so glad you
finally settled on a location. The Lexington Mansion is going to be perfect.
Um…what else is there to do?” I delved deep into the planner,
my teary eyes idly
searched for something to change the subject
.

I couldn’t get the look in Lena’s eyes out of my mind. It wasn’t
intentional, but it was unmistakably pity. I’d become that girl. The bitterly
depressed girl, who gets looks of pity. The one
people
really
didn’t
want to be around
,
because they kn
e
w they’
d
be walking on eggshells, looking out for my
fragile feelings. That’s what the look told me. And I couldn’t
bear
the thought of being
in
her
shoes again
.

I would’ve given just about anything at that point to talk to Dr.
Reese. She kn
ew
the
right thing to say to make me feel better.
T
he pain
began to creep
in again
.
I’d worked too hard to let myself get
pulled back into that dark place.

As soon
as I got home, I grabbed the wadded up letter from the nightstand and headed
straight to the closet. On my hands and knees, I dug into the deepest corner
where the dust piled along with the memories. The glossy white paint and yellow
daisy stickers were barely noticeable, but my name managed to hang on by what
little tacky glue was left. One of the handles hung on by the last upholstery
stud. The scuffed edges and weathered wood had definitely seen better days.
But, it was still intact. Carefully, I slid the hope chest from its perch,
trying to avoid the little splinters
,
and plopped right down on the floor.

Within
the confines of the small rectangular box, I sat staring at my tucked away
dreams. And that’s all they were, indulgences of my mind. Lightly, I traced the
lines of Mom’s lace handkerchief sweetly embroidered with the lily of the
Nile
—my something
blue. Holding it tightly, I continued sifting. There were the brochures of the
destinations I spent hours dreaming about exploring—Italy, Paris, Greece,
St. Lucia, and Spain. Distracted, I fingered a small blue cotton
onesie
and a teensy baseball mitt. But, something caught my
eye
.
B
eneath the
folded
“
grand opening
”
banner next to the tiny
red velvet box
was a
strand of pearls from my grandmother. The first item she added to each of our
chests. An urge for something new overwhelmed me. Quickly, I threw in the
wadded paper, closed the chest, and pushed it back into the imprint of the
carpet
.

THREE

The sun
hadn’t been out in two days. Finally, it blazed its footprints across the sky
and I had to be indoors, wading through bridal gowns. That’s the thing about
weddings, there’s always something that needs to be done, picked up, picked
out, coordinated, paid for, or outdone.

The planning wasn’t so bad, except that the wedding somehow became an
excuse for the parental units to relive and recreate their big day. Under
normal circumstances, Mom and Claire
—
Sam’s mother
—
might’ve become the best of friends.
But, with a wedding on the horizon between their babies, they found themselves
at war, and Lena and Sam found their opinions out to pasture. The
guest list
grew past two
hundred in a flash. Passively aggressive, they battled it out to see who was
going to host the bridal shower and the rehearsal dinner. I claimed dibs on the
bachelorette party, otherwise that would have easily become another point of
contention. Things got so bad
that
Lena put her foot down and banned the mothers from dress shopping.
She reserved the occasion solely for her ladies
-
in
-
waiting.

Within a one
-
month
timespan, I’d seen her try on a slew of dresses and then take them off just as
quickly. Every minute detail came into play, and apparently
,
none of them were
the
dress. We were getting down to the wire on her game of
musical dresses, running out of places to look. Lena banned us
from
searching any store
online that didn’t have a physical location within the county. As our selection
dwindled, the gavel came down on me. It must have been in the fine print of the
m
aid of
h
onor’s job
description—in a clause that I’d missed—to ensure the bride had an
endless supply of dresses from which to choose.

Luckily for me, we were getting another crack at finding the one
-
of
-
a
-
kind gown,
which
could only be described as
“
fit only for the likes of a
princess.
”
I really had
no clue what she
was
looking
for, or what she was talking about for that matter. We share the same long
black hair and olive skin, and that’s pretty much it. From her
five
foot
ten
stature and meticulously lean figure
,
to her glowing honey
-
brown eyes and perfectly
symmetrical face, boasting full lips, high cheekbones and lush eyebrows, she is
all
model
in full form. Then there’s me
,
peaking at her shoulder
and
curvier than most
, b
ut at least I got the
gray
eyes.

She’s a
fashionista
. Versed in every fabric
and stitch, she is appropriate and stylish for all occasions. She kept
mentioning something or
an
other
about
ruching
and mermaid cuts, so
every once in a while
I just
nodded in agreement. Even she must have been confused
,
because
while driving to another bridal shop
,
I overheard her telling
Olivia she was torn between a ball gown, empire, and trumpet.

At the risk of getting my head chewed off, I leaned forward from the
backseat to let them know the boutique was coming up on the right. “Isn’t that
it? Jolie
Jolie
Bridal, right?” I pointed out the
window toward the building
,
which
resembl
ed
the celestial kingdom. The salon wasn’t listed, but Olivia found it on her way
to meet a client. Optimistically, I prayed the dresses inside were doubly
beautiful, since they had to name it twice. I kept my fingers crossed just in
case.

“
Laila
, this is it. We’re here!” Lena and
Olivia shrieked with girly excitement. They’d waited all of their twenty
-
seven years for love and
marriage to happen to either one of them. While Olivia was still waiting to
meet her Mr. Right, she might as well have been getting hitched, too. For as
long as I could remember, Lena and Olivia ha
ve
been attached at the hip, daydreaming and
doodling about their lives that would surely come with matrimony. For them, it
was as if they hadn’t lived yet. It was the beginning. Although, according to
them, that beginning didn’t technically start until the dress was found.

And so
,
we
stood at the pearly gates of Jolie
Jolie
Bridal
Boutique,
and awaited
not only the glorious garb, but
also
the commencement of consciousness.

As I lived and breathed, I expected the heavens to open and angels to
sing songs of divine order, but nothing of the sort blessed our entrance.
Instead, I remained overwhelmed, only more so with about a thousand extra gowns
to view, sort, and bash. If a picture is worth a thousand words, I had no clue
how many pictures a thousand dresses were worth. Armed with my numbered cards
to rate the gowns
—
my
mission from her majesty herself
—
and my camera, I was determined to get
this item checked off my list. I marched up to Lena and waited for my orders.
“Ok, so what’s the plan
,
Lena? What’s my goal this time around?”

“Darlings. Welcome to Jolie
Jolie
. I am
Lark Fairbanks. Which of you is the lucky lady I’ll be assisting to find the
perfect dress?” The most elegant creature I’d ever laid eyes on greeted us. We
stood dazed. Really, her timeless beauty was alarming, the way it kind of
caught us off guard.
Classic glamour with lips so shiny and
red.
Eyes as green as grass, glistening fresh after
the rain.
Bone
-
straight
platinum blond hair
—
over
porcelain skin
—
perfectly
coiffed and sheered at the shoulder blade
,
and parted left. Nothing on her
was
out of place, especially
her freshwater pearls over an expertly tailored black pantsuit.

Lena stuttered to respond. “I’m…I am Lena.” Like a child seeing
her
idol for the first time,
Lena stared admiringly at her style, only fueling her love affair with fashion.

“Well now
,
darling, when is the big day?” Lark smiled and finally the heavens did open. I
had renewed hope. Surely, if anyone could help us find the one gown that could
epitomize Lena and make Sam thank his lucky stars, it would be her. Lena took
her place by Lark’s side
,
as they headed off on a tour of the salon
,
with Olivia trailing closely behind,
feverishly taking notes in preparation for her future day in the hot seat.

Halfway around the store, the hymn of bridal babble picked up pace as
Lena reached full
Zen
.
The chickens were clucking. Cluck
cluck
…next
f
all…cluck
cluck
…sweetheart, fitted lace…cackle
cackle
…gossamer
silk tents under the starlit night…cluck…pink peonies…cackle.

I’d heard about her vision a million times already. Not to mention, I
was in charge of the reception blueprints and
a
miniature model scaled to size. I wouldn’t
have called her
Bridezilla
exactly, but surely Lena’s
anal retentive
attention to detail made her kin. If
only my mind’s eye could’ve spoken to hers, we could have spared ourselves a
lot of time and frustration.

With the three of them knee-deep in their element, I welcomed the
chance to find a quiet corner within the metropolis to sit back and relax,
check my text messages, and work out the kinks of my pitch. Sweet ideas
should’ve been fluidly rolling off my tongue given all the love in the air.
Still, I couldn’t seem to conjure up one useful concept for my candy shop brand
marketing and licensing. The Sweet Tooth was the brainchild of my obsession
with candy. I was at the dentist so often growing up that he became a family
friend. We had a running joke. He’d say, “
Laila
,
should we extract your sweet tooth today?” and I’d laugh and tell him how much
I’d miss being able to chew without any teeth.

The Sweet Tooth
wouldn’t
be accurately described as a mom
-
and
-
pop shop. Its quaint atmosphere and vintage
character threw it into more of a boutique category. Right in the heart of
Summerlin’s
shopping district, it exuded luxury and
welcomed clients into an experience, instead of just a purchase. The decor was
pink and black with damask accents. Flowing chocolate fountains and fondue
stations brought to life during private parties for those with fancier taste
s
. The kids much preferred
the design stations for flavored jewelry. The place just reminded me of simpler
times, when I could choose to treat myself with or without breaking the bank.

The shop was one thing, but I wanted to do something bigger. I needed
potential investors to see that it wasn’t going to be just product pushing, but
an outing
—
and
eventually a household name. The ideas kept running through my head, but I kept
coming up empty. I had nothing concrete. A catchy slogan to accompany my logo
would’ve helped, or even some kind of eye-catching display. All I could think
about was how it would only take one right move, and I would have a franchise.
Retailers and vendors would be begging to be ambassadors of my brand.

As Lena and her entourage headed my way, I ducked under the
fluffiest, tulle contraption I could find
, which
looked more like a tissue and cotton
ball storm than anything resembling a dress. As itchy as it was, I thanked my
lucky stars for the cover.
Still
i
n her comfort zone, she blabb
ed
about her reception plans, “…and after the
cake-cutting, it’s on to the candy station, followed by more photos, and a
video montage before
the
dancing
starts…
” She
trailed off again, but for some reason, the candy station stuck in my mind.

When she asked me to design the whole table for the station, I just
figured I’d do it because she’s my sister. It hadn’t dawned on me that it could
be another selling point. I couldn’t believe it. To my annoying little sister’s
credit
—
the one
whose diet once consisted of paste and mud pies
—
I
owed
a debt of gratitude. The pieces to my
presentation started coming together.

First, I would talk about my shop and all it has to offer then go
into the whole candy station feature, and end it all with a bang when I pitched
a color-coordinated candy line for brides.

Ooh, I wanted to do the happy dance right there, in the middle of the
bridal abyss, but the words that I had just heard the saleslady utter stopped
the reel dead in its track. Rewind. What did she say?

“Myles Donovan called to say he’s on his way. He’s with the woman
who’s
in dressing room three
,
”
she said
to another consultant
.
His name breezed
nonchalantly
from her
as if it meant
nothing. The man
who has
terrorized my life was going to be in the same place at any minute? My luck had
never been that timely, or favorable.

I didn’t know whether to hide or stand at the storefront ready for
combat. Settling for discretion, I pretended to be checking out shoe clips and
tiaras, as if they interested me at all. Their voices were low, but I heard
them hemming and hawing about his rugged good looks. Not only was it completely
tacky for them to be swooning over someone else’s fiancé,
but
they were clueless to the nightmare of outlandish harassment he’
s
put me through. What type
of sicko would want to marry him?

As if on cue, a woman floated out of dressing room three
—
to request a smaller
size, no less. Not only was she mind
-
numbingly gorgeous, she was a skinny twig,
too. For heaven’s sake, it was Barbie, anatomically correct in all her
splendor.
In pink and black lace trim La
Perla
,
I was practically drooling
.

At her beck
and
call, someone rushed in with clamps to cinch her dress. Once she was out of
earshot, Wilma and Betty
—
the
saleswomen
—
jabbered
on about their hopes of seeing him again. My mind was fixated on what I’d
actually say to him. “Hi, I’m
Laila
, the woman, whose
phone number you’ve given to every creditor in the world and personally asked
to call me daily at the wee hours of the morning.” Something short and sweet
perhaps, “Die.” Better yet, “I hate your guts, have a nice day.”

Right at a good part in the gossip, the chitchat stopped, and I knew
he arrived. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Wilma losing all consciousness.
Her arms fell to her sides. Her entire face
turned
red with embarrassment. By the time
Betty clued in, they bec
a
me
drones. Slowly, I turned my head in the direction of their attention.