by Vicki Batman
Allan and I repeated the steps Ms. Yolanda taught us. Something coalesced in my head and transitioned to what he said a few seconds earlier. He commented about the wedding party learning the dance—
Wedding party? I stiffened. Wait a freakin’ minute. Was Allan an official member of THE wedding party? Who voted for that?
The idea never occurred to me Allan would be asked to participate in the wedding party. Neither Tracey nor Stuart had said anything, which surprised me as Tracey was terrible at keeping secrets. I grouped Allan as a friend of the bride's family. That friend sat in a pew on the designated bride’s side with his parents. Not as a groomsman.
Abruptly, I halted. I raised my index finger. “Hold on a sec. I need some clarification.” I rubbed the length of my nose. “You’re in the wedding party?”
“I am.”
“You are?”
“I am.”
“You might be mistaken. I helped with the guest list. I’m pretty sure you’re classified as a friend of the family.”
“I am, but like all good things, they changed. I’m”—he puffed his chest slightly when his shoulders drew back—“the best man.”
“You’re what?” My explosive query drew unwanted attention from the rest of the dancing group who stopped and looked our way. I shook my head to deny his statement. “You can’t be the best man. No way. My mom or my sister would have told me. You don’t even know Stuart. Not his best friend. Not family. Not a co-worker.”
Allan regripped my hand. “Tracey suggested Stuart ask me. We’ve raised a few beers since. He may be geeky, but he’s a nice guy and truly loves your sister. Besides, your cousin’s husband from Bayston is a groomsman—”
“Nice try, Sherlock. He’s related through marriage.”
“If he can be one, I can be the best man.”
“You're a family friend—a huge difference.”
Taking my hands, he guided us to his right. “You’re beating a dead horse here. What’s your point?”
I crinkled my nose. “A friend is not family.” Touché and grasping at straws.
“Sometimes, friends can be.”
I stared hard.
“You’ve been my sister’s best friend since grade school,” he said. “As you well know, my parents and yours are good friends. Just. Like. Family.”
His explanation speared me like a sword. My head conjured images of our mothers at Super Saver Grocery store where they exchanged gossip over parsnips via the Mothers Always Know Network. Our families are close. Sometimes, too close.
“Doesn’t matter,” Allan said. “He asked, and I said yes. Simple. Stuart doesn’t have many men friends. I’m honored to be a part of the wedding. He said I took a bullet for him.” He bent closer. “Besides, I have an ulterior motive—as best man, I get to be near you, the maid of honor. Thrilled?”
I bit into my lip. “Best man…for real?”
“Best man,” he whispered.
Allan’s breath brushed my ear. Shivers skated along my spine. Fluttery sensations made me feel off balance.
“For real,” he said.
Secretly, I did like him. However, I alternated between wanting to wring my hands or savoring every inch of my body against his—-torture without the torture rack.
Suddenly, all became clearer. Every little thing revealed. They—my friends and family and my soon-to-be brother-in-law—hatched a scheme, a master plot, behind my back to match Allan with me. A Conspiracy Theory.
I gritted my teeth. God, I wished I was devious enough to pull together my own “get even” plan.
I know. I could quit. Quit my sister’s wedding. Chuck the whole enchilada.
But not participating could never be an option. Mother would be…aghast. Tracey would be distraught.
I couldn’t get ejected from the wedding unless on my deathbed, and even after my body was embalmed, Mom would stuff me in the pre-selected bridesmaid’s dress fashioned from silk in Tracey’s favorite color and complemented my skin tone. Utilizing a furniture dolly, Mom would wheel me into the designated spot by the altar railing. I would be propped upright in a ghoulish way, and not one guest would discern any difference.
With a flip of my fingers, I said, “As they say—”
He pulled us tummy to tummy. “Takes two to tango.”
I set my hand on his chest and thrust him about four inches. “Y-yes.”
“Lovely, couple at the end.” Ms. Yolanda flicked her long tail over her shoulder. “Now, best man, step to your right. Perfect. Seize her with fiery intent, lunge, and drape her over your thigh.”
Before I could protest, I sensed Allan take charge with “fiery intent” and sweep my body across his bent left leg. I fastened on him my unparalleled evil eye glare and received the “got you, babe” one back.
I would show him.
I would show them all.
I played along by fluttering my eyelids shut, and in slow, tiny increments, I lifted my left arm in a delicate ballet arc over my head. My fingernails barely teased the floor.
Ms. Yolanda clapped. “Wonderful! Wonderful! Class, come over, and let’s study their lines.”
Occasionally, rebellion created problems. Opening my eyes, I wanted to stand, but Allan held me in the position.
Stuart bounded to my side. “Hattie. Allan. You’re naturals.”
I rolled my eyes. Great. I passed the tango test. Allan chuckled.
I stayed in position for what seemed like hours but most likely were five loonnng minutes. My lower back spasmed, which caused me to grimace. Allan pulled ever-so-gently and restored me to my feet. I removed my hands from his. Moisture coated my palms, and sweat dripped down my back along my spine. I was a wreck.
“Thank you so much, couple.” A beaming Ms. Yolanda rotated. “I’m impressed by your length and beauty.”
Length and beauty—my ass.
“Let’s regroup here tomorrow, shall we?”
I walked to the chair where I’d dumped my black trench coat and crammed an arm in one sleeve. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Allan drawing nearer. Won’t he ever get the message and leave me alone?
Not likely. I stuck my other arm in the second sleeve. And wouldn’t if I couldn't sort out my affections for him.
He faced me, his fingers grasped my lapels and jerked them into place.
I looped the belt tight.
“Wanna go for a drink?”
Did I hear optimism in his question? I batted his hands and shoved my handbag on my arm. “Can’t.”
“Can’t?” He lifted one eyebrow. “Or won’t?”
I sighed. “Can’t. C-A-N apostrophe T.”
After the longest studious look on record, he said, “Chick-en.”
“Not hardly.”
“So, go.”
“As I said, I can’t.”
“Okay. How about we go play with Lucky?”
Lucky—the large gray cat he’d rescued and the one I babysat occasionally. “Still can’t—”
“Can’t. Brock-brock-brock-brock.”
I didn’t take his bait. With a smile, I tucked my handbag handle into the crook of my arm.
He slung his coat over his shoulder.
“Believe what you want. The bald truth is I have to go to bed early because I start a new job tomorrow.”
“Another new job? How many have you had?” His gaze circled to the ceiling, followed by a shake of his head. “Will you burn the place down?”
I pinned my best slitty eye look on him. “As much fun as your idea sounds, I won’t do it…deliberately. Or maybe I will. Who knows? A cute fireman riding to the rescue would be fun.”
Allan lifted the right side of his mouth. “I’ll notify the fire department.”
I gritted my teeth. Why does he always infuriate me? “Aren’t you Mr. Helpful?”
“Can be. I possess many talents. Moves you’ve never seen.”
I shoved his arm, then skirted him and all his helpfulness, talents, and “moves,” and headed to the exit.<
br />
He fell in line next to me. “Where’s your new job?”
I snorted. “As if you care.”
Allan pulled open the door. “Hey, I care.”
“If you must know, Miss Anastasia’s Wedding Wonderland.” I passed through the exit. “The newly revitalized strip center across from the mall. Don’t feel compelled to visit.”
“Brrr.” He shimmied his shoulders. The door shut behind us. “Bound to be an icy reception.” He shrugged on his jacket.
Once outside, I paused to study the sky. The moon—a bare sliver of a golden bowl in the inky blue-blackness.
“Sweetheart, instead of star-gazing, you should keep your eyes peeled and make sure the walk to your car is safe.”
Yadayadayada. Safety always first with this man. I pursed my lips. I would put sex first. Or chocolate like the three-pounder of chocolate-covered peanut-y treats he gave me for my birthday.
I didn’t comment—because, well, why?—and strolled toward my Jeep. I climbed in and started the engine. When I looked at the studio, I found the overhead light illuminated Allan still in place. His hands fastened on his hips. I fluttered my fingers and shifted into gear.
He shook his head and walked to his truck.
Tracey’s wedding is gonna be the death of me.
Chapter Four
I woke the next morning, reflecting on the night before. I had informed the Funsisters about my new position at Wedding Wonderland, and my girlfriends and I rejoiced over the most excellent news. Mostly, Trixie acted the most ecstatic. Visible relief glowed on her face. She helped me find jobs and wasn’t keen on helping me find others. After three strikes, she lost her loving feeling.
“Hattie.” Tracey snagged my sleeve. “Since I am your beloved sissie, and you are my maid of honor, could you use your employee discount to buy my dress and accessories? Pretty please?”
I hadn’t been on the clock for long, and my sister took advantage of me. “Um, I’ll need to check on the store policy first.”
She nodded. “You do that. You know how Stuart’s all about saving for his, soon-to-be our, 401K.”
Oh boy. Stuart’s interesting hobbies—ballroom dancing and financial investing.
“Told Allan?” Jenny cruised by and lobbed her question over her shoulder.
“What?”
“About the job.”
“Why should I?”
She walked backward, shrugging. “Maybe Allan would like to know.”
He would love to bug me.
****
After a shower, I dressed carefully. I waffled about the perfect outfit to wear and had nearly been late. I didn’t think jeans would be appropriate clothing for the store. I settled on black slacks, a nice T-shirt, and tossed over my shoulders a pale gray sweater embroidered with flowers and beads in a variety of colors.
I arrived a squish before ten A.M. for my first day at Miss Anastasia’s Wedding Wonderland. Miss A. opened the door at my knock. I greeted her cheerfully as I entered the store. Since my interview, many nouveau things took place overnight. I circled about to study what Miss A. accomplished. She transformed the store into the ultimate in wedding wonderland. Stunning, like a magic fairy swept her wand and beauty abounded.
“Miss A., the store is…exquisite,” I couldn’t help but say. “Removing the paper from the windows and the dust covers brought in a light which enhances the understated silvery swirl in the carpet and on the walls. Well done, you.”
A happy countenance captured Miss A.’s face. “Thank you, Hattie. I worked late last night. I became totally immersed and couldn’t stop. The store is coming together, and I’m pleased with the results.”
How enthusiastic she sounded. Her white-enameled smile and her about-to-bust-a-button demeanor broadcasted her excitement. I said, “I should have brought you a cup of coffee.”
“I have an empty pot in my office. I feel like I’m running on jet fuel.”
Hmm. Probably not the jet fuel from high school days. I was familiar with a concoction of a powdered drink mix and grain alcohol. I doubted Miss A. ever imbibed anything like that. “Did you get any sleep?”
“A little. In the office. I couldn’t help myself. My eyes shut on their own. My forehead dropped to my desk. I think I drooled.” She threw back her shoulders and bobbed her head from side to side. The kinks in her back let loose with a pop-pop-pop. “Itching to get to work?”
I clapped my hands and bounced on my toes. “I am. I am.”
“Let’s get to it.”
My journey began at the check-out desk. I trailed a finger over the pecan-stained wood. A brand-spanking-new monitor and laptop sat on top. The matching credenza was positioned along the wall behind the desk with a printer, the ready light glowing green. Comfy cushioned armchairs created two waiting areas to the left and right of the reception area. Glass-covered tables sat between the chairs. Floral arrangements featuring my favorite flower, stargazer lilies, along with other colorful blossoms, were artfully assembled in cut-glass vases.
Throughout the space, chrome-and-acrylic shelf units lined the walls. A mixture of stand-up advertisements featured local suppliers like makeup artists and hairdressers. Jewelry, gloves, shoes, and other accessories filled some of the shelves. Framed portraits of beautiful brides posed in their finery adorned the walls.
Only an idiot couldn’t find anything to purchase in here.
I proceeded to the staging area and sat on the built-in banquette. I floated my hand over the softness of the dark blue velvet upholstery. Blue carpet covered the raised platform and the rest of the store. I noted my reflection in the mirrors, which she polished streak-free. Miss A. placed additional silk arrangements on pedestals positioned next to the end mirrors. As far as my experienced eye could tell, she skimped on nothing for the store.
I rested my head against the tufted seat back and clasped my hands to my breastbone. “I can’t wait to see brides modeling their dresses and family and friends celebrating with them. What a joyous occasion. Will we hold a grand opening? Serve champagne and chocolates?”
“I love your party ideas,” Miss A. said. “Any recommendations?”
“One favorite chocolate is made locally and a tiny bit expensive, but I believe they make mini versions. Perhaps, we could cut a deal with the store and fill trays with individually wrapped ones. As for the champagne…maybe we could consult with a liquor store, and if we order regularly, we probably can negotiate a discount.”
Miss A. scribbled on a notepad. “Another good idea. I’ll add small bottles of water and paper napkins printed with our store name.” She looked up. “Anything else?”
“Sparkling apple cider is festive. Add a slice of lemon and orange with a splash of ginger ale—party time!”
“I like where you’re headed, but no red wine.” She tossed her head.
“I agree. Red wine makes for a nasty mess.” With a wince, I sympathized. The thought of the undesirable stains on gowns and carpet—ick. I am happy she likes my ideas. I sure hope I have others stockpiled. “Let’s do champagne and water only. Keeps things simple.”
“I had a fabric protectant sprayed everywhere; however, if a discoloration sits, it could be difficult to remove,” Miss A. said.
“Helpful Hanna’s Home Advice column addressed the topic in last week’s Sommerville Express. What did she say?” I snapped my fingers. “I remember. Blot. Dilute with water. Blot. Top with a baking soda paste.”
Miss A. bobbed her head. “I’ll check into the remedy just in case because you can never say never.”
“Add cake. Every festive occasion has cake. Your bakery vendors can supply petit fours. They’re miniature cakes.”
“Cake is a good thing.” She scrubbed her palms. “You have perfect ideas, Hattie. I believe we’re off to a great start.”
Across from the reception area, she had heavy-duty six-foot-high rods hung from the walls for the bride’s, bridesmaid’s, mother’s, mother-in-law’s, and other attendants’ gowns. Behind the mi
rrored platform, two large dressing rooms with wide doors were built. To the left of the platform area stood a storage room-slash- office for Miss A.
Not a huge shop, but she had covered almost everything related to weddings. And if the business grew as she hoped and more space might be needed down the road, footage could be rented from the vacant retail unit sandwiched between Wedding Wonderland and the men's store.
Miss A. peered through the reading glasses balanced on the tip of her nose. “Shall we talk about the computer program?”
I picked up my tablet for notetaking. “Absolutely.”
I situated myself in front of the computer. Miss A. pulled a chair next to me. She explained how the latest in technology had infiltrated the wedding industry. She purchased special software containing a step-by-step program necessary to plan the big event from months out to zero hour, organized through a calendar with the specified time frame for each bride to order invitations, schedule fittings, flowers, etc.
Every morning, a prompt appeared on Wedding Wonderland’s computer with brides’ names and their respective notifications. The bride could log-in and use her account to access the information, too. I could check the program first thing in the morning to see which brides needed to do what and remind them by email or text in case they forgot to look at their account. All appeared simple, mostly data entry, and the computer took over. Not tough.
Miss A. and I reviewed what seemed like the whole shebang. Dividing the duties, we decided most of her responsibilities would focus on the planning and gown selection, especially with fitting.
She tapped the computer. “Are you comfortable with the software, Hattie?”
“I can do the data entry—no problem. My experience from my days at Tucker's will be helpful. I want to play around with the program for a while, but over time, I’ll be fine.” Tonight, I could review the voluminous notes I’d taken.
Later, Miss A. shoved aside the mouse, her glasses to the top of her head, and tucked a white curl behind her ear. She stood, and, with her palm along her spine, she stretched her back. “You look exhausted, dearie. I know I am. A change of scenery will do us good. Go. Eat lunch. Come back in an hour or so.”
