When Girlfriends Chase Dreams (36 page)

My bridal portraits. I completely forgot about them. Em and I had made plans to do them this coming week before the July Fourth holiday, and right before she leaves for her East Coast trip. I close my eyes and start to think about what I can possibly do about the wardrobe malfunction in less than one week’s time. Think, Claire, think!

Chapter Twenty-Three

“But it’ll be fun!” Conner says with a whimper. His head’s tilted slightly back, and he’s in the middle of tying his classic red tie. “Come on. We didn’t do anything cool last year. And you remember how fun it was the year before?”

I toss the last of the throw pillows onto our bed and give a firm, “No.”

“I don’t think you’re being rational, Claire.”

“Then I’m not being rational. Answer’s still no.” I tidy up the rest of the bedroom, picking up stray articles of clothing, a few lotion and perfume bottles, and some dog toys.

“It’s not even a big deal or anything.” He turns from the mirror to look at me, his tie adjusted just right. “Just a short weekend, that’s all. Two—max three—nights. Come on…”

Conner’s been pestering me all morning about agreeing to go to Chad’s parents’ home for the Fourth of July holiday. It’s always been fun when we’ve gone in the past—pool, jacuzzi tub, massive home all to ourselves and friends, and loads of lake equipment, including a really nice speedboat.

But our wedding is only weeks away and we have mountains of work that still needs to be done. Allison’s taken care of
so
much already, but the few remaining DIY projects, the drapes, the rentals, and lest we forget the boys’ suits and final fittings are all lingering on the to-do list. Oh, and that tiny problem with my whole gown and high heels. There’s no time for play right now, and certainly not for an extended weekend lounging about in the lap of luxury with the clock ticking closer and closer to wedding time.

“No,” I say adamantly. With my purse slung over one arm, I take a quick look at myself in the mirror. I’m wearing my bright pink tank top, which matches my cheap Old Navy flip-flops, and a pair of lightly washed blue jean shorts with the cuffs slightly torn. It’s the ideal casual outfit for the ideal kind of day. A day of shopping! Shopping…and getting this wedding in shape.
 

I was supposed to fill in for a girl at the hospital this afternoon, but her other backup person wanted the overtime more, so I happily obliged. Now I’m left with a whole free day today, and that’s perfect, because I’ve got work to do.

Emily and I are going to meet up to figure out what in the blaze we can do to amend the ensemble situation before my bridal portraits that I promised myself
had
to be done before Em left for Boston.

See, Allison has ordered this really neat antique-like easel that can hold a bridal portrait canvas perfectly. It’ll go so well in the foyer of Chanfield Manor. I just
have
to have dreamy bridal portraits done now. Knowing my bad bout of luck, though, I’ll want to plan for double the amount of time for printing such a portrait. The photo shoot is set for tomorrow, and that’s that. So I’ve
got
to figure out my dress problem.

“Claire, you’re being a real bitch,” Conner says so suddenly.

“Excuse me?” I abruptly turn to him. He’s pulled on a dark grey suit jacket and is adjusting it, looking almost arrogantly in the mirror.

“Sorry to be harsh, babe. But…you’re being a real bitch. It’s a
holiday!
I don’t understand why we can’t go.”

“Holiday or not, Conner, I don’t want to be holed up at Chad’s place for three days when I have a freakin’ wedding to plan!”

He rolls his eyes. “You have a planner now—one who knows what she’s doing.”

“Yeah, and I am also being threatened with a lawsuit.” I’m raising my voice. “And, for your information, the other little problem I had the other day is
still
a little problem. It’s snowballing into a
big
problem, as a matter of fact. I’ve got things to do.”

I hadn’t told Conner the specifics of my dress debacle. Seconds after I’d successfully finished cramming the dress into my closet, Conner had arrived home. I was so obviously flustered and didn’t want to talk about anything. I mean, I’d already turned down a Hugh Grant film in the afternoon;
that’s
how distraught I was. I’d totally shirked girl time, too, so when Conner asked what was wrong, all I could tell him was, “Nothing. Just wedding stuff. Forget about it.”

I don’t know why it bothers me so much, but I don’t want to tell Conner that my bridal outfit is screwed up. A groom should know as little about his bride’s dress as possible—that’s what the “Brides and Belles” blog says. Somehow the idea of telling Conner that my dream dress is semi-destroyed seems akin to showing him my veil, or my shoes, or letting him know that my dress is a Vera Wang. I don’t know, there needs to be some element of surprise.

When I remained steadfast in refusing to tell him what was wrong, and ultimately found myself locked in the bathroom, crying, telling him it was only compounded stress, he got all angry. Well, more distant than angry. He’d kind of given up on me, saying that there was probably nothing to cry about and that I should pull it together. John was taking care of one trouble and Allison the rest, so what was there to worry about? Everything was fine. And, Conner had reassured me, he’d made his final suit-fitting appointment for next weekend, so I shouldn’t have had a single reason to complain. That
was
reassuring—him making that fitting appointment. I tried to buck up and keep the dancing visions of my cut-too-short dress from my mind, to keep from getting into another dumb kerfuffle with Conner.

But now, here we are again, getting all uppity with one another and arguing about stupid stuff—like Fourth of July at Chad’s parents’. We shouldn’t even be having this argument. It’s just not the ideal time or place, and I wish Conner would let it go, just like I let the dirty laundry go. We have much more important things on the agenda—things far more pressing than a weekend of booze and sun at the lake.

“Claire!” Conner’s voice is slightly raised. “What is this ‘little problem’ that’s snowballing, huh? If you don’t tell me what’s going on, then how can I help?”

“Oh you can’t help with that. Forget it.”

“Same old story. Can’t help, can’t help, can’t help,” he says in a mocking tone. “I don’t get you, Claire. You’re acting bitchy for nothing. Relax, dammit.” He looks back in the mirror. “I’m only talking about doing something for the holidays. Sheesh.”

“Fine. You can just go without me, if you want, Conner,” I say curtly. “I’m sick of arguing about every damn little thing, so just go without me. Whatever.” I pad out of the room.

Following a few paces behind, he says, “I’m sick of arguing, too, Claire. This wedding is really hurting our relationship here. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we never used to fight. We’re always open with each other. Now I don’t know what! What’s going on? Huh? What?”
 

I clench my jaw and fists and glare at him.
 

“Come on. Why so bitchy?” His voice is registered calm once more.

“Ugh!” I stomp into the living room. “I’m not bitchy, I’m
stressed
. And a weekend out will cause even more
stress!
”

“But shopping with your friends today is okay? Can’t have a holiday, but you can spend your time shopping?”

“For your information, the shopping we’re doing today is to fix a wedding problem.”

“Aww, the secret problem.” He’s back to mocking me. “This damn wedding is totally changing you, Claire. It’s making you a panicked, negative, and stressed out person. How
bad
can this problem really be? Wouldn’t you say getting sued was a big-ass deal?” He raises his eyebrows, as if expecting me to actually dignify this attack with a response.

“Fine,” I heave. All of this fighting is starting to give me a headache, not to mention it’s really eating at a chunk of my time. I should have been out the door and on the way to meet Emily five minutes ago.

I rashly decide to screw the wedding blog and magazine advice about keeping such secrets from your groom. I’m sure if advice was to be dispensed about what to do when it came to arguing and keeping traditional wedding secrets, “Brides and Belles” and
Modern New York Bride
would tell me to quickly raise the white flag of surrender and just spill the nasty wedding gown details. Anything to stop all of this wretched fighting.

I rub the bridge of my nose and close my eyes. Besides, isn’t the main point that our relationship more important and more special than some stupid old traditions?
 

I open my eyes, feeling a sudden sense of exhaustion wash over. Still so much to do today—there is no time to feel tired.

“Look,” I say rigidly. “If this will help ease the tension and bickering… It’s my wedding dress.” I listlessly flip the lock open on the front door. “Alterations screwed things up, so Em and I are trying to figure something out. It’s basically a disaster.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his face says enough.

“So, that’s what I’m ‘shopping’ for.” I push a tangled lock of curls from my face, aggravated, and yank open the door.

“Sorry, Claire.”

“Yeah, me too, Conner.” I fish for my keys in the purse that totally doesn’t match my outfit. It’s a yellow bag with black polka dots. On second thought, I don’t even know why I bought this bag—it’s kind of hideous. “Whatever, I’ve gotta go.” I step onto the porch.

“I love you,” Conner says in a low voice. “I hope it works out.”

“Yeah. Me too. Me too.”

***

“Hello?” I answer my ringing cell phone right as I pull up to one of my favorite bookstores, Randy’s, where I’m going to meet Emily.

The first few minutes of my drive I realized I was white-knuckling it, so frustrated that Conner and I are
so
out of sync. But then a really cheerful song came on over the radio, and the sun is out, I’m wearing flip-flops, and I
am
on my way to meet with a best friend to go shopping. Oh, and I realized my fingers were tingling due to lack of proper blood flow, so…my mood’s much better now. Just needed to get out of the hostile environment.

“Claire? John here,” the voice responds over the phone. “John Wharton.”

“John,” I gasp, delighted to hear from my attorney. Oh listen to me. So official. (Okay, having a lawyer, given the situation, isn’t really so glitzy and glamorous, but it still sounds so prestigious, don’t you think?)

“I’m running ragged so I’m going to make this brief and to the point,” he says.

“Excellent.”

Please be good news. Please be good news.

“First thing’s first—your case is dismissed.”

Yes!
I almost shout out.

“Your contract simply isn’t enforceable by a court of law,” John continues. “I’ve spoken with Gildroy, Gipps, & Bishop—Melissa’s attorneys—and we’ve agreed on a settlement.” I sigh with relief, and John continues. “It’s all being written up in a brief for you right now. My assistant will be sending you the final and closing paperwork as soon as the holidays are through. But basically, case is closed. Nothing will be taken to court.” He pauses to clear his throat.

“As far as the terms go upon settlement, you have agreed to pay any and all outstanding bills regarding the vendors with whom you and Melissa have been working and for services they will or have rendered. Receipts and invoices taken into account, that’s a clear bill. You’ve actually paid quite a steep price for
her
services, and considering her services offered weren’t exactly, well, offered to the extent she said—”

“Like accompanying me to dress fittings?” I jump in.

“Precisely. This also makes the contract unconscionable. Anyway, short on time here, but case is closed. You don’t owe any monies, and if you’re content with walking away—clean-cut like this—then we can finish the deal.

I will point out, however, that since Melissa did such a poor job of offering her services—you’ve paid for some services that technically have not been rendered—you could turn the tables and take her to court. Wouldn’t be easy—”

“Forget it,” I say. “I have no desire to prolong this anymore. I don’t want a damn thing to do with this so-called wedding planner anymore. Ever again.”

“Wise choice,” he says. “I’m sorry you had to go through this, and I’m sorry that you’ve paid a heavy price for lackluster services, to say the least.”

“No problem.” I grab my gaudy purse and step out of the car. “I’m sure my dad’s none too pleased about being out the extra cash, but what’s done is done. Lesson learned, and I’m just so happy we worked through this.”

I thank John again for his help and dedication to a free and, from his grand scope of international lawyering, pretty petty case.

Then for a second I think about asking John if he’d gotten a chance to meet Oliver at Sophie’s grand opening. Maybe test the waters to see if some reciprocal interest can spark? Then Sophie’s reddened face comes to mind. Yikes. She’d kill me. I instantly decide against playing Cupid. No time, anyhow.

“Phew!” I say to myself under my breath once John and I disconnect. “Thank God that’s behind us.”

I consider calling Conner with the news, but he’ll probably be upset that I’m calling and interrupting a business meeting or something. Besides, I don’t really want to talk to him right now. Hearing his voice after our tiff this morning will probably only make me break down and cry, and I don’t have time for that. I’ve got a bridal outfit to fix here, and I can see Emily in her car swinging around the corner, in search of a parking space. So I decide to just shoot him a brief text message letting him know that the wildfire known as Melissa is officially old news.

“We ready to solve some problems?” Emily asks, strolling up to me. She’s wearing a really long, flowy patchwork skirt. The skirt has to be a find of hers from some small village on the other side of the planet. It pairs really well with her denim Oxford that she has rolled up at the elbows and tied into a knot right at the level of her twice-pierced belly button. The top two pearl buttons are undone so you can see her necklace—a heavy jade pendant that’s hanging from a brown leather chord. Very village-urban.