She's All That (21 page)

“Why's he dating her?” I ask dreamily, ignoring her assessment of his finances, remembering only his smoldering gaze and how little I thought of Nate at the time.

“Lilly, you have the weirdest taste in men. Really. Stuart Surrey has to be the most full-of-himself bloke I have ever met, and trust me, I've met egotists from all nations in my Dad's business. He's a total social climber, or he wouldn't have any interest in Caitlyn. But you'll do what you want, and I'll be here to pick up the pieces.”

“Seriously, he was a good Bible teacher, and—”

“There are lots of Bible teachers who preach well but don't live it. Are you getting my message?”

“Loud and clear. Nate said he was off-limits because he has a girlfriend, anyway.”

“Nate, your neighbor? I always liked him.”

“Want me to set you up? He seems to have turned into George Clooney overnight. I think he has an opening at ten.”

“Are we bitter, Lilly?”

“I don't want to talk about it. Listen, Morgan, I need to ask a favor. You know I wouldn't ask if I wasn't desperate, but I'm most definitely desperate.”

“Go ahead.”

“I need to borrow some money for fabric. It's just until the new check comes through and—”

“What new check?”

“Kim, my roommate, sort of ran off with my start-up money, but she didn't get away with it. It's going to be replaced soon. But right now, I've got time and ability and no fabric.”

“I can't believe it. She lived with you for two years!”

“Yeah, but things were never the same once Jen moved out and left us to ourselves. We were like oil and water trying to blend. She was a slob, and she never did get my need for clean or understand the Lysol.”

“That's because your Lysol fetish is weird. I'll send you the money tomorrow. And I'll call and put my credit card at the fabric outlet you like so well. That's where I bought my silk.”

Could I feel more like dirt?
“Thanks, Morgan.” I start to tell her how I'll pay her back, but I imagine that's getting a bit old.

“Listen, the reason I called you is that the wedding is scheduled for a month from Saturday. It's top secret. My dad is letting everyone think it's a sale night for special customers. When they come in, they'll be seated quickly and the wedding will start.”

“Three gowns sewn in less than a month? I mean, it wouldn't be an issue if they weren't for us. I want it to be perfect, Morgan.” At Sara Lang, it takes four hundred man hours to make a couture dress. There are generally three fittings and countless attention to detail. You could say the dress is more of a piece of architecture or fine art than clothing. I don't want anything less for Morgan, but clearly, I won't make her time frame.

“Three gowns, plus the flower girl's. That's why we're going away for the weekend, Lilly.”

The weekend? “You know, we've been pussy-footing around this subject, Morgan, but I just have to say it, I'm concerned about this groom. This guy is too old for you, and it looks like you're out with your father. Quite frankly, it makes you look like you're not in your right mind—”

Click.

She hung up on me!

I get up and finger the expensive shantung silk in the closet. If Morgan doesn't believe I know her well enough to comment on her fiancé, she's about to find out the truth. Besides, she's wrong about Stuart. English guys are hot. No one looks at another woman that way when they're serious about someone else. Stuart just isn't that into her. Hey, just like all
my
boyfriends! Maybe Caitlyn and I should bond. I close my eyes and try to remember how I felt when Stuart looked at me as if I was the only woman in the room. It makes me forget that Nate is up in his apartment with another woman.

I know what I should be thinking. Nate's not a Christian. He's not an option. I know all this, but I still can't stop feeling maybe Nate was my last chance at a husband, and God has forgotten about me altogether.

chapter 18

I
called Nana first thing before I left, but she wasn't home and neither was Max. Those two seem to have their own underground society! And certainly more of a social life than me. I try to put out of my mind that they might be at the hospital.

I spent $7,000 this morning on more fabric. That's the excruciating news. The good news is I'm completely ready for Morgan's wedding and the
Vogue
contest. I'm making coordinating gowns for the wedding that will be complementary, but not match like a bad JCPenney catalog. It always bothers me when the bride picks gowns not thinking of her friend's figures, and while there's little to think about with Poppy's fabulous figure, mine takes a bit of creativity. Okay, and strategically placed padding.

And another thing: you know when you have a stick figure bridesmaid standing next to a plump gal, both in some clingy, body-hugging satin? It definitely takes your eyes off the bride because people can't help but think,
Oh, that girl just
shouldn't be in that dress. What was she thinking?
Like it's the bridesmaid's fault she's been stuffed like an Italian sausage into a satin casing, or that the thin bridesmaid actually
chose
her low-cut, push-up bodice with nothing to push up! (My worst memory comes flooding back from a cousin's wedding. When dancing with my aisle partner, the starchy, built-in bra indented. So as I pulled away for a picture, my concave shape appeared where actual breasts should be. So humiliating.) Not this time. Now I control the fashion universe, and when I sew in padding, baby, it stays where it's supposed to.

Poppy's gown will be a soothing (meaning not bright and/or tacky) emerald green shantung silk to play off her red hair and coordinate with Morgan's gown via the fabric. Mine will be a very subtle floral of green, coral, and ivory like Morgan's gown to tie the three gowns together. Now, all we need is the appropriate groom and we're all set.

I know some women wish for Prince Charming, but for me, that dream seems so far away. My dream is to design the princess's gown. Prince Charming probably doesn't pick up his underwear, anyway.

Speaking of Prince Charming—
not
. When I get home, I see that Nate has set up my computer, and my new sewing machine is right beside it. He's like the Christmas elves in that he's long gone, and the only evidence is his good deed and a fresh coating of Lysol. My sorry little table is tilting further to one side from the strain of the new equipment, and I realize that, along with a cell phone, I need a real work table today.

I set up my computer with cheap Internet access.
Ah, Lilly,
welcome to the twenty-first century and this amazing new concept:
e-mail.
I search and buy several small IKEA tables to push together and find the best cell phone deal for me. They actually have a Web site that does this for you. Technology is my friend.

This, however, is the problem with shopping online: there's always one more upgrade that seems so necessary and really not that much more at all. It seems so crucial while Web surfing. I mean, a picture phone would really help me when shopping in Bloomingdale's to remember what the competition was up to. But wait, then another alternative pops up: a BlackBerry really would keep me organized and in contact with the Internet as well as by phone. Sara would love that! But the reality of debt looms, and I go for the cheapest option. No camera phone, no BlackBerry, just a step-up from the rotary dial in cell phone technology. I'll pick it up on Market Street tonight after six, all programmed and ready for prime time.

The phone rings, and I put on my best business voice: “Lilly Jacobs Design, Lilly speaking. How may I meet your apparel needs?”
Okay, the last part—a bit over the top. It definitely
needs work.

“Lilly?”

Hmm.
A man's voice. With an English accent.
Hold me back!

“Yes?” I say as casually as possible, while clenching my fists and jumping up and down, yet trying not to breathe too heavily from the exertion.

“This is Stuart Surrey. I met you at church service the other night.”

“Right.”
Right? Could I have a little personality here?
I remind myself I am not chattering like a monkey and therefore reducing my chances of making a complete idiot out of myself.
Lack
of personality definitely a better option than too much.

Stuart continues with that heavenly baritone accent. “A week from Friday, we'll be having a singles' night mixer at the big church down on the Peninsula. I wanted you to keep your calendar open.”

Can my social calendar get any more open? Because if it had
a bigger hole, I believe it would be a black hole, and suck me out
for all eternity.

“Really? You want me to come?” Calm down.
He probably
wants me to bring the rolls.

“I hope you don't mind my calling, Lilly.”

“Mind?”

“I'm bumbling here,” Stuart says dreamily. “Will you come—with me?”

If I learned anything from Nate's kiss, it's to play my cards close. “Actually, I'd love to go to the mixer.”
Will you be bringing
the Chloe-clad girlfriend?
“But I'm afraid, Stuart, that I'm without a car presently.”
Okay, without a car forever, unless I
make this work!

“I'd be most happy to pick you up. If you're not uncomfortable with that? I know you've only just met me.”

I pause to just let that accent sink in. “Morgan knows you, and I'll be taking fingerprints at the door,” I joke. Badly. “I think that would be nice, thank you.” Morgan's warning rings in my head, for oh, about a second, and then the accent's power takes over. Take that, Nate!

“Would you be so kind as to e-mail me directions to your home?”

E-mail. I can
so
do e-mail now!
Sure, could you just say that
again, so I can salivate a bit longer?

“Certainly.”
Certainly? I sound like the Three Stooges.
“What's your e-mail addy? And do you mind telling me how formally I should dress for the occasion? What do you think Caitlyn might wear?”
Oooh, that was certainly coy. And catty. Meow! Bad,
bad Lilly.

“Caitlyn won't be joining us. We've decided to take a break, and she's going to be working on a fund-raiser that night. She suggested I make other arrangements.”

Now, I may be naïve about men, but women I know. And I know if Caitlyn suggested he make other arrangements, she most certainly was not suggesting female arrangements. If there's one thing Caitlyn, the ice queen, and I have in common, it's that we know better than to let gorgeous men out with other women unless we're done. And even then, we like them to wallow a bit, don't we?

“I'm terribly sorry about Caitlyn.” And I even manage to sound so.

“In case you were wondering, Lilly, I took your name and phone number off the church registration card the other night. I hope you don't mind.”

“I don't.”
Would you like to know my blood type?

“So I'll see you at church next week, and if not then, on Friday.”

“Cool.”
Cool? What am I, twelve?
“Looking forward to it.” I try to salvage the moment by not acting like I just finished watching
Sabrina, the Teenage Witch
.

We hang up, and I decide that I'm actually fairly eloquent on the phone—well, perhaps not as my own administrative assistant, but for the rest of the conversation. I didn't say too much. I knew my name. Always a good thing. But of course, here's the situation in the dating world. At some point, you have to face the guy in person. Even in Internet dating, eventually the day of reckoning comes.
What is going to happen
when I'm standing face-to-face with him, and I have to speak
coherently? One word of that accent, and I'm sure I'll be toast.

Someone knocks at the door, and I prepare to pretend with Nate. It will be like I never kissed him, per his request.
That's comfortable.
However, after Stuart's call, I'm a little more prepared for that. I mean, the fact is, I came home gushing after meeting Stuart. It was probably just Stuart's kiss that I accidentally gave Nate, so caught up in the moment was I.

I'll just thank him for setting up the computers, show him the fabric I bought. Go back to the way things were. Tell him British hottie called, and may Miss Shampoo Commercial make Nate Goddard very happy.
After she coughs up a hairball.

I straighten my shoulders, and open the door to see my former roommate Kim. I feel my shoulders slink back down. She looks like heck. Her hair is plastered against the side of her head, her clothes are disheveled, and she is carrying a pillowcase full of heaven-knows-what. She's not wearing any make-up; her pock-marked skin is sallow with a distinct yellow hue in her eyes.

“Kim?” I say, a tad unsure what the proper greeting is for someone who stole $20,000 and half this month's rent when disappearing.

“Look, I know what I did sucked, but I need your help.”

“You don't want to stay
here
?”

“I do. I need to, Lilly,” she says through tears, and call me a sucker, but I can't hack her tears. If Kim yelled at me, I'd be good and strong, but her tears get to me because she is so not a crier.

First, though, I have a few questions:
“Kim, would you want to fall asleep at night next to someone who stole everything you owned?”

“Please,” she begs. “I've been out on the streets, and I'm tired and hungry. You were right about that guy. I'm sorry, but I was afraid what he might do. When he saw that check sitting there on the table—you know you just left it out—something snapped in him.” Kim keeps looking over her shoulder, and I don't know if it's for my benefit or part of the sob story.