Toss the Bouquet
ZONDERVAN
Never a Bridesmaid
Copyright © 2016 Ruth Logan Herne, Amy Matayo, Janice
Thompson
ePub Edition © February 2016: ISBN 978-0-310-39602-4
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Zondervan,
Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication
Data
Herne, Ruth Logan. All dressed up in love. |
Matayo, Amy. In tune with love. | Thompson, Janice A. Never a bridesmaid.
Toss the bouquet : a year of weddings novella
collection : three spring love stories / Ruth Logan Herne, Amy Matayo, Janice
Thompson.
Nashville : Zondervan, [2016]
LCCN 2016001686 | ISBN 9780310395850 (paperback)
LCSH: Christian fiction, American. | Romance fiction,
American. | Weddings--Fiction.
LCC PS648.C43 T67 2016 | DDC 813/.01083823--dc23 LC
record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016001686
ISBN: 978-0-310-39585-0
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Publisher's Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination
or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living
or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover design: Kristen Ingebretson
Interior design: James A. Phinney
Enjoy an Excerpt from Picture Perfect Love
RUTH LOGAN HERNE
To Jean, Kathy, and Donna, who welcomed me into “Bridal Hall” and made eight years of my life so much fun! God bless you, my friends! You are beloved!
Greg Elizondo stared at the daily ledger on the front desk of
his mother's bridal salon. The white leather-bound appointment book taunted him. He swallowed hard and fought the rising surge of panic.
Six appointments were due in throughout the day and no one to handle them. Six future brides, along with whatever form of friend, family, or foe they dragged through the front door with them, coming to find the dress of their dreams for that oh-so-special day. And no one but him in the store.
Panic escalated to full-bore heart attack mode.
Call some of your mother's former employees. Someone must be able to help.
They would, too, if only they were available. They had gathered around him at the midsummer funeral, professing their love for his mother and pledging their help. And his mother's regular employeesâher “bridal team,”
as she'd called themâhad done a great job keeping things afloat all fall.
Then Donna delivered twins at Thanksgiving, and Jean needed time off unexpectedly to care for her sick father. Kathy was down with the current stomach bug, and the newest bridal consultant had called in yesterday, the last day of her vacation, to give notice, saying she was staying in Louisiana to save some fish from extinction.
Who did that kind of thing, anyway?
Maybe there was somebody else. Anybody.
His mother's 1980s Rolodex lay in the top drawer. He leafed through it, searching for familiar names. Two of them had gone south for retirement, one had passed away the previous year, and the only other name he recognized had just been put into a skilled nursing facility near Valley Forge.
Doomed by your own ineptitude. You should have taken care of this yesterday. There is no way Kathy could or should have handled this on her own, so blaming the norovirus doesn't get you out of the hot seat. At this point, you deserve what you get.
His fingers went numb. His head ached. He could handle boardrooms filled with Armani-clad executives. Toss him into dinner gigs staffed by tuxedo-wearing waiters who faded into the background while taking particular care to be attentive, and he'd be totally on his game.
But this?
Mermaid gowns with laser-cut lace? Dresses suited for a medieval drawing room with acres of organza? He wasn't even sure what organza was, but he was pretty sure he hated it by default.
Satin-filled walls pressed in on him as the clock ticked on.
Why did Donna Martin have to go and have twins, anyway? Wasn't the world populated enough?
With less angst than he was feeling right now, he had faced down oppositional executives and told them that his law firm was about to take over their company, slice it up, and sell it off piecemeal, like leftovers from yesterday's garage sale. Nothing fazed him. Nothing but . . . well, but this.
The bridal team hadn't listed phone numbers next to the names in the appointment ledger. If they had, he'd call these women, apologize profusely, and lock the doors on Elena's Bridal forever. Except that doing so would break his heart.
If he had a heart . . .
He must have one somewhere, because it ached when he thought of his mother, the time he missed, the long weeks he barely saw her, even though they lived in the same quadrant of the city. His corporate ladder-climbing kept him forward focused, but now she was gone, unexpectedly, and there was no more time.
There were no more chances. He was surrounded by the business she spent thirty years developing after his father took off with a long-legged blonde. From three days shy of his fourth birthday, it had been him and his mother, taking on life side by side.
And now it was just him. What could be more distressing than shutting down? How could he even consider ruining thirty years of all her hard work in six short months? He hauled in a deep breath and checked the book again.
Yup. Still six brides scheduled for their initial appointments, a day his mother referred to as “feast or famine.”
Shopping for a gown either brought folks together or ripped them apart.
Great.
He stood and squared his shoulders. He could do this. He
needed
to do this.
He didn't have to dress the women. Their friends or sisters or mothers could do that. Worst-case scenario, they could dress themselves, right? The sight of an alterations room at the end of the right-hand hallway gave him an idea. He'd call the seamstresses and see if any of them were available to help.
No one answered. He left messages for all three, hoping someone would hear his plea and take pity on him. Having one of those talented alterations women on hand would be a huge help, but if none of them came through, he needed a Plan B.
What would his mother do?
He didn't have to think twice. If Maria Elena Elizondo were here, she would do it herself. Her example had trained him to handle whatever came his way. Today was no different, but it was a whole lot lonelier.
So that was it. He would show the brides and their entourages through the store, let them pick out what they wanted to try on, then guide them through the sales process.
Could it be that simple?
Common sense said no. If selling a wedding gown were that cut and dried, why did his mother list follow-up phone calls as part of her training manual? With hundreds of gorgeous designer gowns to pick from, didn't women usually just find one that looked great, plunk down their debit card, and leave?
Fittings and alterations. Hems. Veils. Tiaras. Jewelry. Shoes. Hosiery, hoops, petticoats . . .
His mother's checklist went on to undergarments he didn't know existed.
The panic re-spiraled. In twenty minutes the store would open, the first January appointment would walk through the door, and he'd be toast. And once word got around that Elena's Bridal had no help, online reviews would tank and he'd be putting a For Sale sign in the front window.
So much for all his mother's hard work. Everything he needed in lifeâeverything he
was
âhad come from this shop. Parochial school. Holy Ghost Prep. The University of Pennsylvania. Harvard Law.
