by B. B. Miller
“Much better thanks to your upgrade to first class. You didn’t have to do that, you know.”
“I’m just sorry I couldn’t send the jet. Kennedy’s hoarding it again.” I roll my eyes, taking us through the revolving door and out to the car park.
“Where’s he off to now?”
“Visiting his parents in Minnesota with Abby. A little family time before the last half of our tour.”
“You’re back home next, right?”
“Indeed we are. London, Manchester, Dublin, a few other stops in there.” I fish my keys from my jacket pocket just as Syd breaks into hysterical laughter.
“This is you, isn’t it?” She shakes her head, stopping beside the VW van as she gives it the once over.
“How did you know that?” Opening the back door, she giggles.
“No one else in New York would want a pink VW van.”
“I’ll have you know, this is a hot commodity.” I slap my hand on the bonnet. “The Pink Tornado has its own Twitter account and everything.” I haul her bag into the back and slam the door shut.
“You’ve seriously lost the plot. Everyone will know where you are all the time.”
I shake my head and open the passenger door for her. “They know that already. What’s the difference?”
Closing her door once she’s buckled in, I round the VW and climb in behind the wheel. “Besides, I get tired of being carted around in black SUVs all the time.”
“Poor baby. Such a hard life you live,” Syd teases and pats my head as I fire up the van and navigate through the car park.
I only get horned once turning out of the maze that is the airport, and then we’re on our way. “What’s on the agenda then? Let’s hear it.” Syd turns down the volume on the cassette deck, giggling under her breath.
“I can’t believe you kept this radio. Who has cassette tapes anymore?” She leans back in the seat, putting her feet up on the dash. I can feel the tension rolling off her now that we’re alone, and that’s not normal. She lets out a long sigh, running her hand through her hair.
“They’re making a comeback, and why are you avoiding the question?”
Sliding my sunglasses back on, I glance over at her. She looks tired. Worry lines crease her forehead. “I’m not avoiding, and I’ve got appointments at four dress shops.” She lets out a frustrated sigh. “So far.”
“Only four?”
“I’ve tried on over a hundred dresses!” She throws her arms up. “I can’t find anything! They’re all too poofy or—” Her arms flail. “I don’t even know!”
“Maybe it’s a sign.” I’m only half joking.
“It’s not a sign,” Syd growls, and shoots me a withering glare.
“Sure it is. The universe is telling you not to get married.” I change lanes, the VW engine complaining as I accelerate down the highway. Might be time for the good ole Pink Tornado to get looked at.
She punches my shoulder. Hard. Damn, twin. “You need to be nice to Philip,” she warns.
“I’m trying. Honest to fuck I am.”
“No. You’re being an ass is what you are,” she fires back.
“Tell me what you see in him. He’s boring as fuck.”
“He’s a good man, Sean.” Syd’s voice softens, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. “He loves me.”
“Everyone loves you, Syd. It’s as easy as breathing.”
“I know he’s not Simon.” Syd gives my arm a gentler squeeze than her punch. Simon was Syd’s first husband. We went to the music academy together. He was one of my best mates growing up. He was always up for a good time, and typically, he was the one who suggested that we ditch school to sneak into a music festival we had no business being at, or ride the tube into the middle of the night, hopping off at random stops just to explore. We shared a love of wanderlust, a love that I’m still happy to indulge.
He came from a family with a rich military history. Simon joining the special forces was a given. Unfortunately, he didn’t make it back from his second tour in Afghanistan. It devastated Syd and me. Even though that was years ago now, I don’t think that’s something you ever really get over, and I wonder if Syd’s stressed-out mood has more to do with memories of Simon than it does with finding the perfect dress.
“You’re damn right he’s not.”
“Sean…” I can hear the frustration in Syd’s voice, and it kills me. I only want her to be happy.
“I’m sorry. But you should listen to your big brother, you know.”
“We were born at the same time,” she argues.
“I was born two minutes before you. That makes me older and definitely wiser.”
Syd’s laughter fills the VW, and I’m glad to be steering us away from conversations that will only serve to bring her down. Syd’s right. I’m being an ass about Philip, but the guy just rubs me the wrong way. It’s like he’s never colored outside the lines in his life. I don’t get the attraction she has to him, but at the end of the day, I’m not the one who has to live with him, thank fuck.
“I’ll try harder,” I concede, if only to banish the gray cloud she’s got hanging over her head at what should be the happiest time in her life.
“Goodness gracious.” Syd glances over her shoulder at me as she stands in front of the panoramic windows. The Manhattan skyline stretches out before us in all its glory. Penthouse views are seriously worth their weight in gold. “Women must just eat this up.”
“Now, you know the law, Syd.”
“Never let them on your home turf,” we repeat at the same time.
“Still, it’s a shame not to share this.” She drops into one of the sofas facing the view. “Nice touch with the Union Jack pattern here.” She pats the soft leather. “Seriously, the lines in here are incredible.”
“Ah, the architect in you awakens. You’re supposed to be on vacation.” I pass her a cup of tea, and she takes it between both hands.
“I am. That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a work of art when I see it. I knew this place would be amazing when you showed me the plans. Did you go with the privacy glass?” Syd glances up at the vaulted ceiling with a smile. I got Syd’s opinion on a few places I considered purchasing last year. New York has always felt like a second home to me. I thrive on the energy and on how you can discover something new about it every day. It was a no-brainer for me to buy here.
I shrug, taking a seat in the chair beside her. “Of course. Just because I don’t mind people staring at me during the day, doesn’t mean I don’t want privacy at home. Even if it’s just a place to sleep.”
“That cost you over fifteen million,” she replies dryly.
“Real estate is a good investment. That’s a law from the famous Chapman family. See? Cam’s good for something.”
She laughs, curling her legs under her, and settling in. “I’m glad you’re here, Syd. Better yet, I’m glad you agreed to let me take you shopping. Maybe that’s been your problem. I haven’t been with you when you’ve been trying on these dresses.”
She grins at me over her cup. “That must be it.”
My leg bounces with pent-up energy as she sips her tea. “Are you absolutely positive you want to get married?”
She closes her eyes, dropping her head back against the cushions on the sofa. “Philip’s mother is driving me crazy. She’s got an opinion about everything! The lighting, the music, the length of the long-stemmed roses she wants. The guest list alone is enough to put me in an early grave.”
I scowl, listening to her. “You’re not exactly painting a convincing picture of this marriage business.”
“You didn’t let me finish.” She takes a sip of tea before continuing, “Despite all of the craziness, and his semicontrolling mother, I love him. So yes, I’m absolutely positive I want to get married.” She fingers the rim of the teacup. “I can’t imagine my life without him.”
“Then tomorrow, even if we have to scour every single shop in the city, we’ll find you the biggest, best, most badass wed
ding dress we can find.”
Her smile is everything I need to see. If it makes her happy, I swallow my damn opinion about Philip and marriage in general. For now at least.
Cassidy
Whistling to myself, I head downstairs to my shop. I watched the sunrise during my morning run, and helped a little old man find the bagel shop across the street. It’s been a good morning so far.
I set the coffee to brew in the little break room in the back, and then make my way to the front of the shop to raise the window shades. The little old man waves at me as he leaves the bakery, and I wave back with a smile. Such a sweetie.
The bell over the door rings and I turn to see my assistant, Riya Patel, bustle inside. She’s old enough to be my mother, almost as wide as she is tall, and a genius with clients. The enticing aroma of curry wafts from her lunch basket. Her grandparents emigrated to the States with their six children from a town near Mumbai. She grew up working in their restaurant on the edge of Greenwich Village and makes the best chicken curry I’ve ever had. Riya and her husband own the restaurant now, but Riya hasn’t worked there since she went to accounting school. She’s a whiz with numbers and has a marvelous touch with our many difficult clients. I’d be lost without her.
“Morning,” she chirps, lowering her head scarf and sweeping past me to put her lunch in the refrigerator. “Today was a real winner. You’ll never guess this time.”
I cock my head and pause arranging the flowers in the salon. “Red-headed serial killer?”
“No. Besides, how would you know a serial killer to look at one?” She frowns at me as she comes back out of the break room, smoothing a wrinkle out of her long tunic. “That’s the problem with serial killers, no? You never know until it’s too late. Next guess.”
“Bodybuilder carrying a cello?”
She rolls her eyes. “No.”
“Biker with a poodle?”
“Nope. And you’re displaying a shocking lack of imagination.”
“Fine. I give up.” I flop down into one of the comfortable satin-covered chairs surrounding the small riser where brides can model potential dresses. This is our usual game; I try to guess what outrageous or unusual thing she’s seen on her morning subway commute.
“Bagpipes.” She shivers with a grimace. “Being played by a man wearing a yellow poncho and black rubber pants.”
I laugh. “Seriously? Isn’t it a little early for bagpipes?”
“That’s what you think is the weirdest thing in that scenario?” She shakes her head at me and fluffs one of the throw pillows. “And it’s never a good time for bagpipes.” I laugh again.
“Aw, come on. I like bagpipes. And rubber is very practical—it’s supposed to rain later.”
She throws the pillow at me, making me duck. “You’re awfully chipper this morning. Did you get laid?”
I fire the pillow back at her. “Of course not!” I rise with as much dignity as I can muster. “It’s just a lovely day, that’s all. Why not be in a good mood?”
Chuckling under her breath, she moves to the front desk and flips through today’s appointments. “Why not indeed?” She makes a notation in our schedule and taps the pen against her chin. “Hmm. Busy day today. Five fittings and three dress shoppers.”
“Yep. And I’m not sure how many people the shoppers are bringing with them.” Fittings usually only take thirty minutes or so, but dress shoppers can take hours depending on the size of their entourage, and the number of meltdowns the bride has. If the bride brings her mother and future mother-in-law with her, as well as a best friend, bridesmaid, or other family members, it can take forever.
She tosses the pen down and stops on her way back to the break room to straighten the collar on my blue taffeta wrap shirt. “I’ll get the big dressing room ready if you’ll prepare the snack plates.”
“No problem.” In the kitchen, I pull down the small china plates and get the storage containers out of the fridge. We don’t offer snacks to everyone, but for longer appointments, finger foods and a glass of champagne add to the experience. It took a little experimentation, but I finally figured out the least messy items we could serve. Bite-size is the key. Tiny quiches and puffs from the bakery across the street, as well as cherry tomatoes, stuffed mushrooms, and grapes seem to work. I wrap up the various plates and put those that need to be cold back in the fridge just as my cell phone rings in my pants pocket. I answer without looking and regret it instantly.
“Cassidy. Finally.”
I groan mentally. “Mother.”
“Don’t you ‘Mother’ me,” she snaps. “Why have you been avoiding my calls?”
“I haven’t been avoiding you.” That’s actually exactly what I’ve been doing for the past couple of weeks. Ever since she and my father decided to set me up with a major donor.
“Baloney. Have you been avoiding Jack Coleman’s calls, too? He’s a very nice man, Cassidy. Would it really be that awful to go out with him? You seemed to have a nice time at the fundraiser.”
Cringing, I sink down into a kitchen chair at the end of the counter and prop an elbow against a cabinet. I had, in fact, also been dodging Jack’s calls. Not that he was awful; far from it. But I’m not in the mood for another one of my mother’s attempts at matchmaking. “He was fine, Mom. But I’m not looking to get into anything right now—”
“Who says you have to ‘get into anything’?” She huffs. “Really, Cassidy, it’s just dinner. Why do you always overdramatize everything?”
I grit my teeth. “I’m not—”
“Besides, Jack and his father are some of your father’s biggest donors,” she continues, not listening to my protest. “Honestly, after everything your father has done for you, being friendly to Jack is the least you could do for him.”
The sunshine streaming in the front window seems to dim. I knew it was coming. It always does. Usually she’s more subtle; this thing with the Colemans must really be important to Dad if she’s pulling out the big guns so soon.
I finger the crease in my black slacks and take a calming breath. “Fine. If he calls, I’ll answer,” I say softly, all my irritation at being manhandled by my mother dampened. “I have to get ready for my first client now.”
“Thank you, Cassidy.” She pauses, and just when I think she may actually apologize for playing their trump card, she continues, “You’ll have fun with Jack. He’s just the type of man you need.”
“Right. Good-bye, Mother.” I stare at the phone for a few minutes after ending the call. My earlier cheerfulness is replaced with the residual shame I can’t quite get rid of, no matter how many counselors I’ve seen since California. Riya is singing to herself in the other room, and I imagine her setting aside the dresses I need for today’s fittings. I close my eyes and picture the rows of dresses that will be tried on today, all of which are my own design. Women will come here today and find the dresses of their dreams. This shop has been my dream since college.
And none of it would’ve been possible without my father. And his staff.
I hear the bell ring in the entry, followed by Riya greeting my first client, and I immediately stand, plastering a professional smile on my face. Time to go to work.
“I thought she’d never leave!”
I smile at Riya’s declaration. Mrs. Finch, our last fitting, had indeed been a chore. The dress is for the premiere of her husband’s latest movie, and she felt the need to remind me four times that she chose me over more well-known designers the studio had encouraged her to use. By the time we were done, I’d almost wished she’d chosen one of them.
“Ah, well.” I rub the small of my back, trying to ease the slight ache from bending over so much. “She’ll look fabulous and everyone will know why.” Directors’ wives don’t get much media exposure, but they do talk. All the women associated with the production will know who’s wearing what and by whom by the end of the evening.
Riya bustles around straightening the already perfect salon area in preparation for our las
t shopper. Someone named Murphy-Kenton. In her email, she had mentioned that she had been on my website and had several dresses she wanted to try, but was open to whatever else I wanted to suggest. Eyeing the row of dresses lining the salon, I shrug. Without seeing her, there is no telling what will be best for her body type. I’ll know soon enough.
The office phone rings, and Riya calls me to take it. I’m still mentally going over options for the mysterious Ms. Kenton, and am caught off guard by the male voice echoing down the line.
“Cassidy?”
My eyes fly open. “Oh, um, Jack.” Good God, my mother works fast. “How nice to hear from you.”
“I’m back in town this week and was wondering if you’d be free for dinner tonight.” He sounds so polite. His Midwest twang is soft and familiar; I wonder if he knows my mother’s using him in her latest Machiavellian plot.
“You just ‘happen’ to be back in town, do you?” I can’t help the bite in my voice. “Are you really going to say that you haven’t talked to someone from my father’s staff today?”
“Uh, no, I wouldn’t because I did,” he says, surprised. “We had meetings about a bill he’s proposing on drilling rights. We were supposed to meet last week, but I had to go to Dubai. Why?”
I rub my temple, trying to calm down. It’s not fair of me to take this out on him. “No reason.” I take a deep breath. “Yes, I’m free. What did you have in mind?”
“Excellent! Do you like Italian? There’s a new restaurant in Brooklyn I’ve been wanting to try. What do you think?”
I grimace. He also ‘just happens’ to know Italian is my favorite food? My mother has been thorough. “Sounds good. Is seven all right? I have appointments until six.”
“Perfect. Where shall I pick you up?”
I give him my address, and we hang up. Sinking down into a chair, I drag a hand through my hair, fingering the ends of my bob carefully. Time for another haircut. The predicted weather front has arrived, and I stare out the rain-streaked front window, trying to sort out my emotions.
My parents have shoved one man after another under my nose for the last few years, each one a dedicated member of my father’s party and—surprise!—helpful to my father’s cause. A senator’s son, a powerful lobbyist, a campaign strategist, a media pundit, and several donors. They’ve done the same type of thing with my brother, except he doesn’t mind as much. He looks at it as an easy dating service he doesn’t have to pay for. Besides, they don’t have the same leverage over him that they do over me.
