by Vicki Batman
“I’m hungry. I’m starving.” Wedding brain dead, I came to my feet. I rummaged through the credenza, where I stored my handbag in a locked drawer. “Do you want me to grab a sandwich for you?”
“No, thank you, dearie.” Miss A. tousled her short hair. “I need to run errands. I seem to have misplaced the hammer and must hang some pictures—which reminds me. I want to purchase picture hooks for large frames. Start a list for me, please.” She rustled a sticky notepad from the drawer.
I scrambled for a pencil tucked in a pen jar.
“Take your time.”
“Sorry.” Miss A. is gracious. Not a mean bone in her body. The kind of employer I admired. Works hard. Considerate. Educated. I scribbled “hammer” and “picture hooks.”
“Anything else?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. Maybe if I carry the note, something will come to mind. Have a nice lunch, dearie.”
After saying “bye,” I exited the store and hopped in my ride. I drove to my favorite fast food joint, where I grabbed a chicken Caesar salad and diet soda. I parked the car and killed the engine. I took a long slug of my drink, so long, nearly half disappeared. I let the back of my head drop against the headrest and closed my eyes. The buzz from my phone caught my ear, making me snap upright. A check of my watch told me I napped roughly fifteen minutes.
“H-Hello?”
“Hey,” Jenny said. “How’s the first day?”
She sounds way too cheerful. I drank a small swallow, then squeezed dressing on the salad. I stirred my fork through the lettuce for a more even coating. “I’ve never been so tired, not even at Tucker’s when we opened new stores,” I said in between chomps. “Am eating lunch now.”
“I hear.”
I paused mid-crunch. “Sorry.”
“Working late?”
“Don’t know. Why?”
“I’m not surprised you dis-remembered. Tango lesson number twoooo. Ring a bell?”
Crap. I’d forgotten. Another torture session.
The previous night’s dance resurfaced, and through only God knew how, merged with the wedding salon and the dream I’d had. Dressed in a lacey, V-neck confection, which billowed at my ankles, I swayed in time with the music. At first, the man’s image eluded me, but even in my imaginings, I sensed him to be Allan.
“Hattttiiieee???”
Jenny. I sucked the rest of my drink to the ice crumbles. “You don’t have to yell.”
“You vanished.”
“I heard you.”
“Are you coming? You’ll be with…your favorite…partner. Again.”
Jenny’s singing dialogue maddened me. “Don’t remind me.”
I crisscrossed the fork through the romaine and parmesan shavings for hidden chicken and crouton bits. Some bacon would have rounded out the salad nicely because everything food-related tasted better with bacon.
“I have four words for you—”
I can’t wait to hear this. “That would be?”
“It’s. Only. A. Dance. Moron.”
Huh. Not every day a BFF called her BFF a moron. “Five words. Your counting is off.”
She hung up.
I mouthed moron at the screen because, well, just because, and tossed the phone to the passenger seat where it landed next to my handbag. Closing the takeaway lid, I set the container on the floorboard and started the car.
Lordy. Tango lessons. What’s a girl to do?
****
Back at the shop, Miss A. and I unpacked bridal gowns from exceedingly big white boxes we removed from larger cardboard shipping boxes. She lightly steamed the dresses, and when finished, I suspended the garment on a padded hanger. The dresses were encased in clear plastic garment bags and then were hung on the rods.
“I order each style from the manufacturer in a size ten,” Miss A. explained. “We use these.” She showed me two-inch binder clips, the black kind sold at office supply stores. “The bride tries on her dress to see if the style suits, and if need be, we can adjust for fit with the clips. We order other sizes from the manufacturer, which is why a shipment can take so long. Or alter.”
“I see.” I rubbed my chin. “Do we have an in-house alteration staff?”
“Not yet.” She shook a no. “That is, not a permanent one. I found someone local who does alterations and is available to work with us. We’ll test her before making her permanent.”
“Sounds good.”
By six, exhaustion ruled. “We’ve hung about half the gowns,” Miss A. said. “Tomorrow, I will provide a white jacket embroidered with your name which will identify you as Wedding Wonderland staff. What is your favorite color, dearie?”
“Light pink.”
She squeezed her brows. “Do you think light pink lettering would be hard to read? Would dark pink be more visible?”
I guessed the store didn’t have a hard and fast signature color, and I truly appreciated her asking my preference. “What about fuchsia? Or hot pink? Shrimp? Flamingo?”
Miss A.’s laugh tinkled. “Very well, your name on the jacket will be embroidered in a readable shade of pink. And tomorrow, we can hang the bridesmaids’ and flower girls’ gowns.”
Oh, God, my shoulders ached. I overlapped my arms and massaged my biceps. Lifting eight to ten pounds over and over made them throb. “No need to go home and lift weights.”
“I agree. Some dresses are heavy due to the decorative goodies, like beading and crystals. You will be relieved to know we won’t carry very many mother-of-the-bride and little girl ones. Those can be ordered from a catalog and modified after arrival—thank God.”
Miss A. retrieved her belongings from her office. I pulled my handbag from the credenza. After she secured the premises for the day, I walked to my car. I couldn’t wait to get settled at my apartment and trade my shoes for comfy ones or none at all.
She paused in the parking lot. “We need to plan more of the opening day festivities.”
“That’ll be fun.”
“Any more ideas?”
In front of my Jeep, I paused and leaned against the front bumper and slipped off my shoe so I could rub my toes. “A basket of trinkets for giveaways. The drinks, cakes, and chocolates we talked about earlier. Perhaps, some postcards with discounts.”
“I like your suggestions”—Miss A. stroked the Jeep's fender—“and your style, dearie. A very cool ride.”
“I love my fun car. My mother believed a four-door sedan more sensible, but I rebelled, and I’m glad I did. I love my baby.” After slipping on my low-heeled flat, I clicked open the lock and looked over my shoulder. “See you tomorrow, Miss A.”
“Hattie.”
I straightened with my foot propped on the running board. “Yes, ma’am?”
“I’m so grateful you interviewed.” She stepped closer and embraced me.
Her powdery rose scent teased my nose.
“I don’t know what I would do without you.”
How nice to be liked and valued for my contribution—for once. I smiled. “My pleasure.”
****
I could hardly concentrate on the drive to mi casa. Drained. Ravenous. Weak. Overjoyed with Miss. A.’s compliment.
“Honey,” I drawled as I opened the apartment door. “I’m home.”
Jenny popped out of her room. “You look awful.”
“I strive to please.” I tossed my handbag on the sofa and pointed to my bathroom. “You can find me in the tub. Covered in bubbles.”
“Seriously?” she asked with a huff. Her hands hit her hips. “We have to leave in thirty minutes for Dancing with the Wedding Party lessons, my friend.”
My head went from side to side. “Not just a no, but a big NO.”
“Mighty sassy language.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“First, my entire body has never hurt like this before. Second, I want food before I go anywhere. If I’m late, I’m late. Maybe Ms. Yolanda can be the maid of honor. She already knows the tango.” I toe
d off my shoes, unhooked my pants, and by the time I hit my bedroom door, I had unbuttoned my blouse.
“Thanks for asking about my great day buying luggage for Tucker’s,” Jenny said from the kitchen. “Want me to fix you anything?”
“Whatever. I’m too tired to care.” I shut the bathroom door and set the water to steamy. I poured a drop of lavender oil in the tub and inhaled deeply when the incredible scent enveloped the room. After I tugged the shower curtain into place for privacy, I let my body slink into the bubbly depths.
Jenny rapped lightly and cracked open the hallway door to my bathroom. “Naked?”
“Yup.”
“I’ll look the other way.”
Something clattered on the solid surface counter. “Appetizer,” she said.
“Appetizer?” I peeked past the curtain’s edge to find she’d set a bowl of peanut M&Ms next to the sink. How considerate.
The door closed. I heard her ask, “How did the rest of your day go?”
“Great. I like my new job.” I snaked my arm around the curtain and stretched to grab five candies. “Miss A.’s the best kind of employer. Very professional and desperately needs help—yay for me.”
“How is she professional?”
“One who doesn't kill anybody.” I slid deeper into the warm water. The heat seeped into all my joints. The twitching in my biceps subsided. “Miss A. said we might have to hire additional employees if the business takes off as she hopes. Maybe I could grow up and be a supervisor or a buyer.”
“What did you do today?”
I chewed and swallowed. The lack of protein created a brain void. Fast-food chicken Caesar salad could only go so far. I summarized for Jenny the software planning system and the unpacking of the gowns. “Tons. Literally, those things weigh a ton— well, maybe more like ten pounds. I did see a possibility for Tracey, though. A sleek number with long, sheer sleeves and a V in the back which dips to the waist. Perfect for her figure.”
“You know your mother will get ideas—”
“She better not, especially when no Mr. Right is in sight—”
“—about Allan.”
Pulling aside the curtain just a fraction, I glared at a mental image of my friend through the wooden portal.
Jenny laughed. “I’m messing with your head.”
I dropped the curtain’s edge to locate a squishy sponge. I squeezed soapy water along my arm. “But you're right. Mom’ll get ideas.”
“It’s a given.”
Notions about hunky Mr. Wellborn came to my mind. I’d like to see him wearing a tight white T-shirt and low-slung jeans. His six pack. The short sleeves tightened around his biceps. The broad shoulders. And the jeans dropped low enough to reveal skin and a trail from his bellybutton to more interesting regions—
“Speaking of the hunk, Allan stopped by,” Jenny said.
“Oh?” My thoughts raced at the idea of “what does he want.” “Too bad I missed him.”
Nothing.
“Okay. I’ll bite. What did he want?”
“He said, ‘Hey.’”
Without a doubt, Jenny believed she was hilarious. “Aren’t you special?”
“You sounded like the church ladies. He asked if you wanted a ride to the studio.”
The man knew how to punch all my buttons. Irritating. I smacked the water, sending drops flying. “Allan doesn’t understand N period O period very well.”
“You deserve happiness, Hattie. We all do. He’s the guy, The One. Take my advice—chase Allan, tie him to the bed, and you do the voodoo on him.”
I dropped the sponge and depressed the toe-pop plug to open. “Lord, how I’ve tried.”
“Failure’s not a choice. Try again, and if that doesn’t work, again. Are you a quitter?”
“No.” Until I resembled an idiot. I snagged the towel to wrap my torso, feeling indignation root in my tummy. Standing, I adjusted the ends under my armpits and maneuvered the curtain to one side to step over the rim. I opened the hall door. “If only his cell phone wouldn’t interrupt us.” I smiled. “He would probably like the binding part.”
With a grin, Jenny bounced her brows. “I hear police handcuffs are the way to go.”
I laughed. “Funny. What else did he want other than the ride offer?”
“Here.” She plucked my phone from the counter next to the toothpaste tube and a glass jar filled with cotton swabs. “Push one.”
I stared at my phone, utterly amazed. “You assigned a number…on speed dial…on my phone? Without telling me? When did you do this?”
Jenny shrugged. “Long time ago. Seemed prudent.”
Sometimes, her efficiency left me…speechless.
I rubbed my forehead. Do I want to talk to Allan?
Chapter Five
I hovered a thumb over speed dial button one. Phoning Allan brought uncertainties in the end. We would get together, and oops, his cell would invariably intrude. Or he would say, “Gotta go,” and leave. Or both.
After hearing his “gotta go” phrase way too many times, I decided I didn’t like it. In fact, I loathed it. His words caused me to wonder where I stood with him. I certainly didn’t feel important—although he told me differently.
Knifings and shootings interspersing our brief encounters left me scared to death. Through all the gory stuff, somehow, I developed stronger emotions, most likely love. The flutterings in my heart were a good indicator. Right now, I couldn’t admit anything to anyone and especially, not to Allan. Yet, deep down, I knew:
—Stating I loved him would make me feel vulnerable.
—Mother would be happy with the love part.
Allan made it plain when he yelled through the door the other day. For him to stop by should be deemed major importance. However, the monkey on my back told me to make a move. With a long sigh, I punched one.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he said.
Caller ID could be scary. His voice sounded cinnamon bun sticky sweet and warm, too. “Howdy. Jenny said you made a pitstop?”
“Yep. Somebody dumped a huge problem on me, and you get to help.”
I transferred huge to an image of enlarged man-parts. I squeaked. “Problem? How, er, huge?”
He chuckled. “Not the problem you’re thinking of, sweetheart, although I am up—ha-ha—for whatever whenever.”
Strange how we shared brainwaves. And maybe a “huge problem.” However, why try? His cellphone would buzz, a version of coitus interruptus.
“What’s up?” I cringed. What a terrible line and not the best one to say right now.
Allan laughed and laughed.
The deep breath I blew ruffled a few eye-level hair strands. “Can’t we discuss your problem at tonight’s tango lesson? I’m dripping and shivering.”
“Fresh out of the tub? Which equals naked.”
Of course, he knew naked. All men claimed to like “naked.”
“How about phone sex?”
“Smartass.” I cradled the cellphone between my shoulder and cheek while I re-tucked the towel.
“Phone sex will have to wait, sweetheart. I’m not kidding. I have an enormous challenge. I don’t want to talk about it in front of Tracey and Stuart.”
I checked my hair in the mirror. Passable. “Okay. Enlighten me.”
“Stuart’s mom threw the rehearsal dinner my way, I mean, our way—”
“She what?” As I straightened, the phone slipped. I grappled for the device. “As the M-I-L, she plans the rehearsal.” Some people. “You’re a cop. Don't let his mom manipulate you. Handle it, big boy.” Aren’t I supportive?
“No kidding.” Allan blew a long sigh. “I don’t know what to do. I felt sorry for Mrs. Steems. I got to thinking—”
“I can’t wait to hear—”
“You can help me.”
I am so not believing her…and him. I set my makeup box on the vanity and touched up my eye shadow. “How’s that?”
“You work for a bridal salon.”
“What’s your poin
t?” I’ve been on the bridal job for two days, and already the whole world thinks I know what I'm doing. Makeup done, I shuffled to my bedroom, where I dropped the towel. “I’m no freakin' expert.”
“You have lots of experience—”
“I do not—”
“You have lots of friends and cousins—”
“Only one is married—”
“And girls know what to do—”
“I do not—”
“You have a new job at the bridal shop—”
“So?”
He drew a breath.
I hit Speaker on the phone and dropped it on my bed. I pulled on my undies and bra then shoved my arms through sweater sleeves.
“Hattie? Are you there?” he said.
“I’m here.” Quickly, I stuck the device to my ear. “I didn’t help with Corrine’s wedding, and my job at Wonderland began the other day.”
“Way more experience than me. Please. You owe me.”
Turning on the Speaker feature again, I dropped the phone a second time. “I owe you a big fat nothing. Not. A. Thing.” I flopped across the end of the bed and pulled on my jeans, wiggling them into place. My belly flattened enough to enable me to zip them. After I jumped to my feet, I snatched the phone to my ear. “I paid my dues by baby-sitting Lucky.”
“In your dreams. Remember the engagement dinner you asked me to go to with you?”
“Same song, second verse, maestro.” Only crickets followed my statement. I was over the moon when Allan escorted me to the engagement dinner, a “dream come true” date. We danced intimately, kissed, and attempted almost wild, almost sex.
In my Book of Debts, I didn’t owe him one iota. However, I could hear my mother in my ear, trotting out a page from the “Right Thing to Do” lecture. What Stuart’s mom did broke all wedding protocol, and Allan doing his saintly thing told her he would help, which translated meant he desperately needed somebody else’s help.
“Fine. I’m in, but you owe me more, like a date to the”—I grasped on the first thing that popped in my head—“opera.”
“Opera? Since when do you like opera?”
I held back a grin. “Since yesterday.”
