When Girlfriends Chase Dreams (37 page)

“I am
definitely
ready to solve this problem,” I say. As we stroll along the long magazine rack at the back of the bookstore I tell her about the call I just had with John.

“Thank God,” she says. She reaches for a copy of
Magical Weddings Magazine
and holds it up for me to see.

“Have it,” I tell her. “Not so great.”

She returns it to the shelf in lieu of
Southern Style Weddings
. This one I take and immediately begin to finger through.

It’s reconnaissance time. You’d think the hoards of magazines and books that I have and the research that I’ve already done would be enough, but that stuff is all old. I’m in search of new and inspiring material. Fresh ideas. I’m not on the hunt for a new dress, but I’m ready for a new pair of shoes. Before Emily and I hit the shoe stores, though, we agreed it would be best to see what the latest styles are for flat shoes in the wedding industry, and what better way to do that than at a favorite bookstore over coffee?

Each of us carrying a small collection of new magazines, and even a book that Emily had found when running through the stacks, entitled,
Your Wedding, Your Way, In Style
, we sink down onto the well-worn, cushioned chairs in the café section of Randy’s.

Not only does Randy’s have a
great
selection of books, but it has a large café with really great coffee and tons of space for reading, or, as the girls and I were all accustomed to back in the day, writing that research paper at the last minute.

After thumbing through our small sheaf of reconnaissance material and tossing back caffeinated beverages for a solid hour, we finally stumble upon a very promising possibility.

“Look!” Emily gasps, setting down her white mug with a clang. She spins the book around so I can see for myself. She pounds an index finger at a pair of shoes on the page with all sorts of wedding attire: an Amsale ball-gown-style wedding dress, a goldenish-colored Chanel clutch, a Tiffany’s engagement ring and diamond teardrop earrings, a La Perla negligee set and feathered garter, and then…the shoes.

“Omigod!” I pull the book up and nearly spill Emily’s coffee. “They’re perfect!”

And they are. They’re a pair of ballet flats covered in tiny gold sequins and would look
so
nice with the theme and color scheme of the wedding. I mean, gold glitter! The shoes are totally flat, which will work so well with my shortened dress, and they look pretty vintage-y, with the beige, satin bow at the tip. They’re ideal. They are, dare I say, quite possibly a better match than the fabulous Jimmy Choos.

“I’ve never owned a pair of Kate Spades before,” Emily says casually. “But I’m sure they’re really comfortable, too. Look at them; they have to be. And they’re so beautiful.”

“And perfect.” I smile, setting the book down. “So now we just have to find where we can buy them.”

“I’ll text you-know-who,” she says, rapidly typing on her phone. Almost instantly the reply from Jackie comes, and Emily says, “Downtown on Pine.” She tosses back the rest of her drink and slips over her head the strap of the low-hanging cloth handbag, which she’d brought home from her last trip to Ghana. “Let’s hit it. I’ll drive.”

And as quickly as my Vera Wang and Jimmy Choos combo burst into flames, my Vera Wang and Kate Spade match come together. Emily predicted correctly—they
are
comfortable. They’re comfortable
and
fashionable ballet flats. I’m almost tempted to wear them right out of the store, but I restrain myself, knowing that these are meant to be my wedding shoes. And…shoes that, once the wedding’s over, I just might wear until they run thin.

“You just
know
they’ll work with your gown,” Emily says on the car ride back to Randy’s parking lot.

We thought we’d have to spend a whole day in search of a solution, but it turned out we only needed
one
store and
one
perfect pair of shoes. It was a magical purchase that makes the alteration fiasco look like child’s play.

With all the spare time at hand, we made the appointments for my trial hair and makeup in person at a salon that Jackie recommended, just in time for the bridal portraits tomorrow. Bridal portraits that are going to be unbelievably amazing!

***

When I get home shortly before five o’clock, I giddily tuck my brightly colored Kate Spade box of ballet flats under the bed. I have to shift about the other wedding items I’ve been stashing there: my bridal undergarments, my Choos, and my veil.

One quick glance at the assortment of boxes under the bed, and I can’t help but smile. Bit by bit, piece by piece, my dream wedding is coming to fruition. Before I know it I’ll be Mrs. Conner Whitley!

That is, so long as Conner and I don’t bite off each others’ heads in the next month-and-a-half, and so long as he still wants to go through with everything. I’ve said it before, I know, but what if Conner does get cold feet? I mean, he
never
calls me the B-word, even when I am clearly being one. He was really angry with me, and over a dumb Fourth of July party! I don’t get it…

Oh, relationships! They’re never easy. It’s a wonder anyone actually gets married…and stays together… I mean, just look at my parents. Or take Conner’s. Hell, take nearly all my friends’ parents. Everyone and their dog is divorced these days. Could that be me? Us, someday?

Nah. I’m pretty sure Conner and I will make it. Every couple goes through rough patches, you know? After nine years, this is the roughest it’s ever been, and it’s not
that
bad. It’s a bunch of little stuff that’s adding up, that’s all. Tiffs here and spats there—a conglomeration of negative energy.

Goodness. It’s just so annoying things have to be this way; and it really can’t come at a more inconvenient time. Weddings really should be all fun and games.

I almost bump my head on the ledge of the bottom of the bed frame when I hear Conner come home, Schnickerdoodle barking in glee over his arrival.
Shoot,
I think, scatterbrained and hoping that nothing “secretive” is lying out in the open for Conner to see. I look at my Kate Spade box tucked in its safe spot under the bed and think,
Nope. That’s everything.

“Claire? Claire, you in here?”

I can hear Conner nearing the bedroom, so as fast as my short legs can crawl I pull away from under the bed, bound upward, and swiftly move out of the room.

“Hey,” I say nervously, smoothing back my hair. I lost a little hair from my adventures under the bed, and only now, several seconds after the fact, am I beginning to feel the tingle on my scalp. I rub at it.

“You okay?” Conner inquires, one eyebrow raised. “Headache?”

“Uhh, yeah.”
 

“You have any plans for tonight?” he asks, almost no life in his words.

“Plans? No.” I watch him brush past me and disappear into the bedroom, his tie and jacket coming off in a blink.

“Great,” he says, sounding very unenthusiastic in spite of his word choice. “Some of the guys at the office want to talk biz over dinner and drinks. I’ll be heading out soon. Don’t wait up for me.”

I bite down on my lower lip and look over at Schnicker. He’s contentedly gnawing on one of his old tennis balls, reminding me that I should probably take him on a walk, especially seeing how I totally bailed on him yesterday.

“Umm, okay then,” I call out, not sure if Conner’s listening.

I think twice about telling him that it would have been nice if he’d have told me this a little sooner, because I could have been in the midst of preparing dinner, for instance. The no-warning thing was a pretty rude move.

But I decide to let sleeping dogs lie. One less argument, you know? So I let Conner do his thing, and I don’t press the matter. Instead, I choose to take the hyper dog for a walk.

“Later, babe,” I call out, bending down to attach the dog leash. “Drive safe. Love you.”

We may be on eggshells with one another, and he may be in some weird-o, evasive mood right now (and I may be slightly peeved he has plans like this so last-minute), but I love him. I can’t leave on a completely bad note.

“Love ya, too,” I can hear him murmur from the bedroom over the light sounds of the radio.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Men. Why do they have to be so difficult sometimes?” I complain to Emily, Jackie, the makeup artist named Erika, and anyone else who wants to partake in my angst.

When Conner came home from his business dinner last night, he was very standoffish, vague and generally subdued when I asked him how things were. I was really positive and sweet and inquiring all about his day. I even asked about his comic strip work (the one that I’ve
still
yet to see but that he now just waves off, carelessly). All he had to say to everything was a standard, “Meh,” with the accompanying (and
so
annoying) shrug.

I did the super girly thing and nagged (but only twice) about why he was so blasé, and I asked if something was wrong. Maybe I could try to help him with something?

He did the super guyish thing and just said everything was fine. “I’m just tired, that’s all,” was his lame response, and then he retired to bed, just like that. A quick kiss, a softly spoken “Love ya, Claire,” and lights out. No spooning or anything.

This morning I didn’t even have a chance to talk to him, because he woke up extra early and was out the door the moment I rubbed at my eyes, stretched across the bed, and pulled myself upright, slowly awakening from my not-so-great-night’s sleep. No usual morning routine together or chitchat. Just a quick, “See ya!” as he ran out the door once I found my grounding and stumbled out of bed.

Only now, into the early afternoon, am I really feeling upset about his behavior. It’s had time to settle and fester.

All right, so I’d put my foot down about the Fourth of July party pretty harshly, and Conner had agreed to forget about it—there’d be no going this year. He was bummed, angry, not very happy with me. So I was being a little bossy. But these are not excuses for him to go on being all huffy and not himself like this for such a length of time. Ugh. Men. Sometimes… I tell you, sometimes…

“I just don’t know what’s up his butt, that’s all,” I say to the girls. “I mean, okay, so it’s me being all bitchy about the wedding and the stress. He says that frustrates him. But what can I do? This wedding
is
stressful! And that dress disaster—”

“Totally worth a bitch-out,” Emily says in agreement. “Free pass on that one.”

“Exactly. And the lawsuit…”

Emily strongly nods.

“He’ll be fine.” Jackie pulls open the small door of her new Louis Vuitton dog carrier and has a peek at Bella. “Andrew always bounces back when I’m done PMSing.”

“When this wedding’s done, Claire,” Emily says, “the two of you will be back to your old selves. I can promise you that.”

“As if nothing’s ever changed,” Jackie says.

“It’s only a piece of paper, anyhow. What’s important is that you love each other and spend your lives together.”

“Yeah… It’s a big and important piece of paper, though.” Jackie looks at Emily discerningly.

“But a paper nevertheless,” Emily rejoins. “Your relationship—your love—is what matters most.”

Jackie closes the doggie door and sets the carrier on the floor. “It’ll all blow over soon enough, Claire. Don’t stress about that. You’ve got enough on your plate.”

Erika tells me to look up so she can finish applying the eyeliner and mascara, and whatever else she’s using. She’s been using a gaggle of items that I’ve never before seen in my entire life. Maybe only during episodes of
America’s Next Top Model
, but never in a million years would I have imagined I’d be at the mercy of such tools and creams and sticks and powders—not even for my wedding.

Jackie insists that Erika is the best makeup artist, though. She does all of Jackie’s makeup for the big parties and important events when she needs to look tip-top with Andrew; and Emily urged that I spring for the pro makeup for the bridal portraits. “You don’t want to look pasty in your photos, or, God forbid, shiny,” she told me. “Pro hair and makeup, definitely. You’ll want to use them as a test for your day-of look.”

So, here we are, sitting in some salon that I could never afford and would never dream of dropping the bucks at, but Mom called this morning to tell me that if I promised to send some bridal pics her way today, she would spring for the hair and makeup.

I’ve made it clear—abundantly clear—that I want Erika to go easy on me. Just enough makeup to accentuate my natural features—bring out my blue eyes a bit, complement my blonde hair and skin tone, make me look good for the camera. Essentially, I want her to make me an easy subject to photograph. Emily won’t have tons of time to pore over the photos and Photoshop my face, so this makeup job has to be spot-on.

I fear, however, that Erika is going a little over-kill here. I mean, I said light and subtle and natural and…well, how much clearer do I need to be that
minimalism
is the desired approach?

I’ve been sitting here for almost forty-five minutes, and I’ve already had to endure a spray gun shower, where liquid base was glazed over my face. It was all tickly and cool and actually felt pretty good, and surprisingly my face doesn’t feel all waxy or Botoxy like I figured it would after receiving a paint job. But all of the powders and sticks afterwards…isn’t it all a tad much?

I’m dying to look in the mirror already, but Erika says she’s
alllmost
done. (She’s been saying that for twenty minutes now.)

Then, finally, as I approach the hour mark, Erika hands me a hand mirror and says that I can take a look for myself. “You look fantastic!” she beams.

Bringing the mirror up, all I can do is stare at the unfamiliar face looking back, absolutely aghast. I look like I’m ready for Halloween! She made me look like I’m about to go trick-or-treating as a princess, or a pixie, or some other fairytale lady who is glittered and glossed to a high sheen.

“Well?” Erika asks, smiling broadly, clearly proud of her work.

I don’t know what to say. There’s no time to do a re-do, and thank God this isn’t the first and only chance I’ll have a shot at the pro makeup. If I had to go down the aisle looking like this for my wedding, I’d be in utter tears. I don’t look bad, I just look way too made up and fake. I look like a mannequin or something—Barbie-like. This is
so
not natural or minimal. This is not me!