When Girlfriends Chase Dreams (35 page)

I turn to the boutique assistant, Jenna, and tell her that it’s perfect. “You’ve done such a great job. It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed.” I look back at the mirror and press my lips together. I give a squeal and then—oh yes! Of course!

“My mom!” I shriek, turning back to Emily. She’s pulling the glittery high heels from their charcoal colored box. “I need to call my mom. I need to send her pictures.”

Robin takes the lead and starts to rifle through my designer knockoff handbag. “Got it,” she says, retrieving my cell phone.

She prepares to take a photo when I say, “Wait! I need the shoes.” I take them from Emily. “I need to give her the whole ensemble here.”

“Then let’s not forget the veil,” Emily says, carefully pulling it from its carrier bag.

She’s trying to put it in my cottony hair while I lean on Jenna for balance as I slip on my Choos. Robin, giggling to herself, is telling me to hold still so she can get a photo that “isn’t all shaky.”

“Robin,” I say, laughing, “wait a sec. Let me…get…these…” I groan and finally wedge my foot into the last shoe.

“Stop squirming, babe,” Lara says, still trying to pin the pokey piece of the veil into my head.

“Owa, owa,” I moan.

“What?” Lara asks. “Shoes too small?”

“No, the veil,” I say with a chuckle. “You’re poking me. Okay. The shoes are on.”

I stand up on wobbly feet, Emily leaving the veil where it’s situated. When it’s clear that I
am
a lady and that I
do
know how to walk (or at least stand) in heels, Jenna backs up. I blow the plume of a veil away from my face and smooth it behind me. Lara tries to help, but my extra height from my heels makes it difficult for her to assist.

“Stand back, Lara,” Robin says, wielding my cell phone. “I wanna get—”

“What?” I ask. Robin’s face is long. She slowly brings down the cell phone to her side. “What’s wrong? The veil?” I touch it from behind and attempt to smooth it once more.

“No,” Lara says in a note that’s only a hair above a whisper.

I look at Jenna, who’s also wearing a long face like Robin.

“Em?” I look to her. Same face.

“I’m sure it’s just the folds,” Emily says, rushing up to my side. Before she can reach me I turn back around to face the mirror.

Oh no!

It’s not the veil. It’s not even my cotton ball of hair. It’s…the dress? No. It’s…the shoes? No, no, no. Vera and Jimmy do
not
go wrong.

But, as I can clearly see in the mirror, they do
not
go together. They’re not cooperating.

“What happened?” I breathe out huskily. My hands clapped over my mouth, I stare in dreaded surprise at the sight before me.

My dress is a good four, maybe five, inches too short! I can completely—and I mean
completely
—see my Jimmy Choos. The shoes are beautiful, but I shouldn’t be able to see them. No, not unless I’m doing one of those flirty poses that I’ve seen all over my favorite wedding blogs. You know, the ones where the bride has her head tossed back, she’s laughing in mirth or pleasure or something—wedded bliss, more than likely—and she’s lifting the skirt of her gorgeous wedding gown, exposing her high heels, with a coquettish twist of the ankle or tip-toe pose. But not like this. Oh dear Lord, not like this!

“Oh no!” I shriek. “No!
What happened
?”

Immediately I look to Jenna. She’s standing there, one arm tightly crossed over her stomach and the other bent, her hand over her mouth in a sideways manner. Her eyes and body language say it all. This ritzy boutique, like Tsunami Melissa, made a huge boo-boo. This has “epic fail” written
all
over it. The word “lawsuit” comes to mind, but I’m too flummoxed to comprehend the work that would go into suing this place for…I don’t know. Emotional distress? Damaged property?

No. Besides, this can be handled somehow. Allison had come to the rescue with Melissa. Sophie had come to the rescue with John. In the end it’s all about getting married…about having that dream wedding somehow…some way…

Oh, but the dress! The dress was going so well. And I’d found the perfect shoes, too. No. This was the
right
part about the wedding. This and Conner. I scratch my veiled head, thinking that I’ve thought this very same thing at another time: That
this
was the right part of the wedding. Or that
that
was going well. I’m so confused. I’m so…depressed.

Not knowing what to do next, I do what I’m pretty sure any girl would do at this point—I plop down on top of the pedestal, Vera silk and organic organza or whatever Jenna called it enveloping me like a thick cream cheese frosting on one of Sophie’s cupcakes. I pull my veil from my head and set it limply down on my lap. I let my legs hang lifelessly over the edge of the pedestal, my Choos glittering in the bright overhead lighting. I can’t help myself, so I start to cry. No, I start to bawl.

In seconds I feel the warm hands and hear the comforting words of my friends, hugging me and pushing back my frizzy hair and telling me that everything will be okay.

“Is it too much to ask for this
one
little thing to go right?” I cry out through my hands, which have fast become wetted with tears. “This is my
wedding dress
for God’s sake! My
wedding dress!
”

“Um,” Jenna’s meek voice sounds, “Um, I think…I think this was a problem in alteration.”

I pull my hands from my face and look at Jenna, deadpan. No words. I have no words.

***

Robin, Emily, Lara, and I get into Lara’s roomy Audi after I sort out my wedding dress disaster as best possible. The girls had to practically drag my stunned self from the boutique.

I left with the dress. It was all paid for, with a major price readjustment compliments of the boutique, thanks to their less-than-stellar mistake. The mistake of all mistakes! This is
way
worse than the invitation mess up. Ugh! Just my luck.

The dress, in all its four- or five-inch too short shortness, is stuffed in the trunk of Lara’s car right now. I kind of wish we were in my car so the trunk could “accidentally” release the dress into the road. It might as well belong there.

Oh, but it’s so beautiful I don’t want to hurt it. Who am I kidding, though? I can’t wear it—not with my perfect heels, at least. I mean, the dress looked great—perfect length and all—before I put on the Choos. Then, once I slipped into those heels, all perfection was shot to hell. Right along with the peonies and half a dozen other things. Oh, yeah, shall I mention the tulle and burlap that’s soaked in glitter? That’s
still
incomplete? Ohhh, I’m so angry!

But I’m too angry to cry. I think I cried out all the tears I had in me right there in front of everyone in the boutique, fellow brides and customers and all.

Jenna said the boutique could either order in a new dress and go through all of the alterations again, this time getting it right (I chuckled like a drunkard at that one), but that would require at least three, maybe even four months’ time, and that was including the speediest shipping and alteration turnaround. With my wedding only seven weeks away, that option was
not
viable. At all. Hence the discounted dress in the trunk that I don’t even want to look at, no matter how beautiful it is when worn barefoot.

“And what was that?” I exclaim to the girls from the backseat. “It’s an alteration problem!”

In a true show of friendship, the girls and I have been trying for the past ten minutes to make light of the situation, which, as any girl knows, is usually best achieved by bitching and complaining about someone you can make into a scapegoat.

“Yeah,” Emily says strongly. “No shit it’s altered.”

“God, she might as well have asked if I wanted you to take some pics for the scrapbook, Em!” I cry.

“Speaking of which, I didn’t get to take any for your mom,” Robin says lightheartedly; but her shot at levity doesn’t work. Not right now.

“It’s not the
worst
,” Emily says.

“What?” I gasp, sharply turning my head to look at her beside me. “But how can it not be the worst?” I’m completely gobsmacked. I mean, if this isn’t the worst, then what is?

Emily answers, “It could be too short even
without
the added height of the heels.”

This, also a real show of friendship, is when the girls try to make me feel better by saying anything that might help. A
real
“looking at the cup half full exercise.”

“True,” Robin says optimistically, twisting around in the passenger seat. She’s wearing a heartwarming expression. “She has a point. Really all you need are flat shoes, and the dress works.”

“That is true,” I say, meeting their optimism. “But my
shoes
.” I feel a well of tears about to spring forth, and I wait for them. I wait… Nothing. All dried up.

I groan and sink further into the cushiony backseat. “What’s the use? It’s either the shoes or the dress. They won’t work together.”

“You could always set a new trend.” Emily pats my shoulder with her multi-ringed hand.

I point at one of her rather chunky wooden rings and say to her, “Not everyone’s a fancy trendsetter like you, Em.” I give a half-smile. “I’ll just have to find new shoes.”

“At least you have a gorgeous dress,” Lara says, looking at me through the rearview mirror. “It really is gorgeous. It’s totally your dress.”

“It was definitely made for you,” Robin says.

“Yeah,” I say with a chuckle. “Made to my
exact
specifications. Five-foot three inches and not a hair taller.”

***

It’s the woman who makes the dress, not the dress who makes the woman. That’s what they say, anyway, isn’t it? If that’s the case, then maybe I’ll be okay come wedding day.

There’s just no way in hell my gown and shoes are going to be a match made in heaven. Not even a match on earth. No match at all. They simply will not work together. I considered trying both of them on again in the comfort and privacy of my own bedroom, especially since Conner will be out for the next few hours, according to his note.

However, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I couldn’t put on the short dress; I couldn’t slip into the tall heels; I couldn’t look in the mirror at the bizarre bridal image that would stare back. It was hideous the first time around, why further break open the wound?

I’ve been trying to shove the heavy, squishy bag that contains my wedding dress into my walk-in closet, but it’s really not very much of a walk-in. More like a step-in or a peek-in. I need to hide the dress, and I don’t know why I didn’t think of asking one of the girls if they could take it for me. If I put it in the office or the coat closet, Conner will be sure to find it—I can’t trust his nosiness.

After several failed attempts, I give up, just like I did on the pedestal at the boutique. I plummet to the floor with the bagged gown and wait for the tears to come. I know they’re there somewhere.

As if on cue, Schnickerdoodle comes trotting into the room. He does his adorable little motion of cocking the head from one side to the next, as if asking me, “What’s wrong, Mommy? Why are you trying to cry? Why are you sitting on your wedding gown?”

I blow out a long breath of air, my lips blubbering and making a funny noise. I cast about the room, noticing that the laundry hamper is overflowing, and that makes me angry. That adds fuel to the fire. I specifically asked Conner to put in a load of jeans. As if the bursting hamper isn’t sign enough for him, he goes and tosses another dirty pair on top of the lid.

“Honestly,” I mutter to myself. I give the gown a good shove with my bare feet, trying to stubbornly feed it into the closet. It’s halfway in, and I decide that’s good enough.

“Come on, Schnicker.” I heave the heavy hamper up and amble awkwardly to the laundry room. “We’ve got a house to clean and laundry to do.”

***

When the third load of laundry is in and the house is swept, dusted, and even vacuumed, I decide to take a short break. Today was supposed to be a really fun day filled with wedding gown excitement, and that wasn’t all! The girls and I were supposed to go out and see the new Hugh Grant film that’s out, but you couldn’t have dragged me there if you tried.

There’s enough work to be done at home, anyhow, and post-boutique I didn’t really feel up to celebrating. I figure once I discover a way to amend this dress-shoe-clashing situation we can have some fun.

“What are you going to do, dear?” Mom asks, bewilderment saturating her voice. She’s been eager to hear about the final fitting, even sending a text asking for,
Photos! Now. Please!!

But I just didn’t feel up to talking to her, and let her ring me three times before I finally picked up.

“I honestly have no clue,” I say, biting at the cuticle of my left thumb.

“Do you think maybe this is something Allison can fix?” she kindly suggests.

“How?” I say, almost exasperated. “With some tulle and thread? With Cinderella’s magical mice? I don’t think so.”

“Hmph. I’m so sorry to hear this happened, dear. But the worst is this, and now it’s behind you.”

Ha! She still doesn’t know about the tiny letter from the law offices of Let’s Try to Ruin Claire’s Wedding Further, Incorporated. Conner and I agreed that unless we were going to end up in court, mum would be the word about that little problem. No need to freak out my parents or have my dad call Buzz, his college lawyer friend I
know
he would recommend.

“I’ll figure something out, Mom,” I say resignedly. “I better get going, though. Conner will be home any minute, and I still have to find a hiding place for my dress.”

“So you kept it! Oh, I’m so happy. Well, remember this, Claire, dear—you will be a beautiful bride no matter what you wear.”

“Thanks, Mom. I love you, and I’ll get around to sending you a picture of the dress.”

“Oh, goody!”

“When I actually gather the nerve to put it on again, I’ll send you a picture,” I clarify.

“How about your bridal portraits? You’re still doing those with Emily, aren’t you? Oh, I think you should. It’s such a beautiful dress…”

“Yup. She’s still doing them,” I say.