Every Girl Gets Confused

by Janice Thompson

  Twiggy rolled her eyes. “Some men are so clueless. But thankfully Beau isn’t. He’s the sweetest thing since processed sugar. And you should hear the lovely things he said to me just this morning.”

  Seemed like the perfect time to change the subject. I clapped my hands together and smiled with all the confidence I could muster. “We’d better get back to business, folks. Queenie’s only got a couple of hours before she has to get back to Fairfield.”

  “Oh my, yes.” My grandmother glanced at her watch. “The WOP-pers are meeting tonight to pray for an urgent need.”

  “WOP-pers?” Madge looked perplexed. “Like the candy?”

  “Women of Prayer. It’s the name of our prayer group in Fairfield,” Queenie explained. “Anyway, there’s an urgent need at the Baptist church, so we’re gathering together in one accord to pray in the hopes that the Lord will intervene.”

  “What sort of urgent need, Queenie?” I asked.

  “Well now, it’s extremely confidential. I can’t really say.” She leaned in close and whispered, “But it might have a little something to do with my wedding planner, Joni Milford.” She gave me a knowing look. “Something along those lines.”

  “Joni Milford? As in, the Joni who graduated the year before me? The one who played softball?”

  “The one and only. She’s a fabulous wedding planner, I might add.”

  “Wow.” I hardly knew what to say in response to this revelation. My memories of Joni Milford were slanted, and not in the best direction. She’d always been a little . . . manly. Hardly the wedding planner type.

  “Is she married?” I asked. “Does she have any experience with weddings?”

  “Not married yet, but that is the reason for the confidential prayer request. I can’t say anything else, except perhaps to add that she’s got her eye on a certain young man who might just have his eye on her as well.”

  My goodness. I’d have to get caught up on this information when I returned to Fairfield on Saturday to help plan Queenie’s shower. Right now? Well, with the clock ticking, we needed to stay focused on my grandmother’s dress!

  5

  Falling in Love Again

  She [Doris Day] had a pretty serious attitude toward her work, and life in general, but that did not keep her from having a very pleasant disposition and always making others around her feel good.

  Leo Fuchs

  Picking out the right gown for my grandmother turned out to be tougher than I’d imagined, what with so many women chiming in at once. After a bit of browsing I decided to go straight to the bride-to-be for her opinion.

  “What sort of gown are you looking for, Queenie?” I asked.

  She turned away from several Paris-inspired dresses to give me a little shrug. “Obviously something off the rack, because I don’t think Dahlia would have time to make a dress on such a tight deadline.”

  “Dahlia.” Twiggy released a slow breath and glanced toward the back of the store where the designers worked in their studio. “Do. Not. Go. Back. There.”

  “Oh, I won’t.” Queenie put her hands up in the air. “Just getting something off the rack, as I said. Though I haven’t a clue what would look good on me.”

  “And she’s got to look picture-perfect on her wedding day,” Alva chimed in. “We want Paul’s heart to go pitter-patter when he sees her.”

  “At our age, we just hope the pitter-patter doesn’t come grinding to a halt.” Queenie chuckled. “So, nothing over the top. Just a pretty dress that flatters my physique.” She pointed to her rounded hips and thighs. “Perhaps a bit of camouflage.”

  “We’ve got some lovely options right here.” I pointed at a long row of gowns, and my grandmother’s eyes appeared to glaze over as she looked at one of the price tags attached.

  “My goodness.” She dropped the tag as if it had burned her.

  “Remember, Queenie, you’ll get my discount—40 percent. So don’t fret. And it won’t be 40 percent off that price either. It’s 40 percent off the wholesale price.”

  “Yes, well . . .” She held her hand away from the dresses as though afraid to touch them.

  “Let’s start with color. Will you be radiant in white, confident in cream, or flirty in fuchsia?” Twiggy giggled. “Sorry. Trying to picture you in a hot pink dress. It’s just not coming to me.”

  “Um, no.” Queenie’s face flushed. “Now, I’ve given this a lot of thought. I was married for nearly fifty years to your grandpa, Katie. I wouldn’t feel right starting over in a white dress. People would think I was nuts, playing the role of the virginal bride.”

  I cleared my throat and pushed that image right out of my head. “So, cream?” I asked.

  “I just don’t know if that’s appropriate either. Back in my day, the only women who wore cream or ivory dresses were women who were, well . . .” Her nose wrinkled. “Compromised.”

  “Compromised?” the rest of us said in unison.

  “Oh my.” Twiggy’s eyes widened. “You’re certainly not compromised.”

  “Certainly not.” Queenie fanned herself with a church bulletin she’d pulled out of her purse. “Unless you count the part where I was married and had children. But I’ve never considered children a compromise.”

  “What color are you thinking then?” I asked her.

  The prettiest smile turned up the edges of her lips. “I’ve always been partial to pale blue. A really soft blue like the color of the powder puff in my lavender-scented dusting powder.” She pressed the bulletin back in her purse.

  I knew the dusting powder well. It was as much a part of her physique as her short silver hair and soft pink lipstick.

  “Oh, I see.” Twiggy appeared to be thinking. “I’ve got just the ticket. There’s a line of bridesmaid dresses just in from New York. One of them is a pale blue number that’s gorgeous. I’d never given thought to using it as a wedding gown, but it’s floor-length and has the prettiest neckline. Let me show you.”

  Minutes later she pulled out one of our newest additions to the shop, an adorable soft blue dress in satin crepe with a sheer overlay on the skirt.

  “Oh, it’s beautiful.” Queenie ran her fingers across the thin overlay and smiled. “And such a soft shade of blue . . . just what I had in mind.” Then her brows wrinkled. “But do you think people will realize I’m the bride?”

  “Oh, trust me, Queenie, everyone in Fairfield is looking forward to seeing you marry Reverend Bradford,” I said. “They’ll all know you’re the bride. You’ll be the one marching down the center aisle, straight into his arms.”

  “Speaking of which, I have a question.” Alva put her hands on her hips. “When one marries a reverend, who performs the ceremony? I mean, he can’t exactly be groom and pastor at the same time, can he? The poor fella will get whiplash playing two roles at once.”

  “Actually, our pastor at the Baptist church is performing the ceremony.” Queenie continued to run her fingers along the fabric of the blue gown. “And we’re getting married at the Baptist church. That’s where I’ve spent most of my life, after all.” She took the gown from Twiggy and held it up in front of herself as if trying to see the fit.

  “You’re marrying the Presbyterian pastor at the Baptist church?” Twiggy laughed. “In my neck of the woods that would be grounds for excommunication.”

  “Well, not in Fairfield.” Queenie put the dress back on the rack. “In Fairfield we don’t discriminate.”

  “Unless you happen to root for the Texans instead of the Cowboys,” I added. “Then it’s time for all-out war.”

  “Oh my, yes. Or you’re a Spurs fan instead of Mavericks,” Queenie added. “You don’t want to get me started. I still remember the time Dave Peterson, the owner up at Brookshire Brothers, told everyone he was rooting for the Spurs. I thought Bessie May was going to have a conniption. You wouldn’t believe how much business the store lost over that one. Next thing you know, they have a Mavericks poster hanging in the front window. Shrewd businessman, that Peterson boy.”
She glanced at the gown. “Now, about this dress.” She looked a bit nervous as she held it up again. “What size is this one?”

  Twiggy checked the tag and I could see the concern etched between her brows. “Oh, it’s an 8.”

  “I’m guessing we’ll need to double that.” Queenie gave a nervous chuckle. “Maybe triple.”

  “No way. Let’s start by trying a . . .” Twiggy stepped back and squinted, obviously attempting to eyeball Queenie’s measurements. “Yes, we’ll start by trying a 12. And we’ll go from there.”

  “I haven’t seen a 12 since I was twelve years old,” my grandmother muttered. “But if she thinks it’s worth a shot, who am I to argue?”

  Half an hour later Queenie stood in front of the mirror wearing a size 16. It was a wee bit loose in the shoulders, but I knew Dahlia and her team could remedy that. Someday. Not today. Still, I could hardly believe my eyes as I took in the beautiful cut of the gown and the way it was perfectly fitted to my grandmother’s waistline. And I loved the crystals on the bodice. They provided just enough glitz and glam to make the dress a wedding gown.

  “Queenie, you look radiant.” I clasped my hands together, thoroughly delighted at Twiggy’s find.

  She couldn’t seem to formulate any words—rare for my grandmother. She stared at her reflection with tears in her eyes. “Do you think Paul will like it?”

  “He’ll love it!” Twiggy said. “Who wouldn’t? You look like Cinderella, Queenie! Same color of dress and everything.”

  She squinted to give herself a closer look. “More like the fairy godmother, but I guess that’s okay. Every woman deserves to look radiant on her wedding day, even if she is a little fluffy.”

  Her words struck me right in the heart. I’d wanted to look radiant on my wedding day too. That was why I’d entered the contest at Cosmopolitan Bridal in the first place, so I would look lovely for Casey. Only, I hadn’t married Casey. And these days I hardly paused long enough to think about my own one-day wedding. I was too focused on living my life and growing my relationship with Brady to fret over all that.

  “Don’t you think, Katie?”

  “Hmm?”

  My grandmother swished her skirt. “Oh, I was asking if you thought this skirt was full enough. Twiggy suggested adding a petticoat underneath to give it some fullness.”

  “Awesome idea,” I said. “We have a great line of petticoats. You don’t even have to buy one. You can borrow it. We have a line of loaners.”

  “Goodness. Makes ’em sound like automobiles,” Alva said. She started telling a story about a Buick she’d rented back in the seventies but lost Queenie after a moment or two.

  “I don’t want to end up looking like Scarlett O’Hara,” my grandmother said. “Maybe I should rethink the petticoat? I need to fit down the aisle. That’s already going to be a challenge, being a size 16 and all.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s all going to be perfect. Well, after a few alterations on the shoulders.” Twiggy fussed with the loose shoulders on the gown. “We’ll have to take you back to visit with Dahlia and her team.”

  We all feel into a silent trance at that proclamation.

  “Sure.” Queenie nodded. “I’ll be happy to see Dahlia again. It’s been ages since she and Dewey came to Fairfield for a visit.”

  “She’s been rather busy,” I said.

  “Yes. Indeed.” Twiggy paled. “The moment has arrived at last. I’ve been avoiding the studio all day, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Dahlia’s in a snit. And don’t even get me started on Eduardo.”

  “Eduardo? Who’s Eduardo?” Queenie looked perplexed. “I don’t remember anyone with that name.”

  “He’s new,” Twiggy said. “Relatively new, anyway.”

  “He works for Dahlia in the studio,” I explained. “Quite the character, but one of the most amazing designers I’ve ever met. And we’ve got a couple of new girls back there too—Hibiscus and Jane.”

  “Hibiscus? Someone named Hibiscus works here now?” Queenie looked more confused now.

  “Yes,” Twiggy said. “In fact, let’s do this—I’ll send you back to Hibiscus for your alterations. Of all the designers, she’s the least emotional. I think she’ll be perfect.” She clasped her hands together. “What do you think?”

  “Less emotional is good.” Queenie laughed. “Trust me, there’s enough emotion going on in my heart already.” Her eyes flooded with tears. She pressed the chiffon down with her wrinkled hands, then looked at Alva. “What do you think, sister? And be honest.”

  Alva’s own eyes filled with tears. She stood next to Queenie, the two of them gazing into their reflections in the mirror, and tried to force out a few words. “I . . . I . . .” She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I think you’re lovely.”

  “Lovely?” Queenie snorted. “Now there’s a word rarely used to describe me. Hardheaded, sure. Tough as nails, clearly. But, lovely?”

  Alva put her hand on her sister’s arm. “Oh, but you are, Queenie, and that dress is perfect for the wedding.”

  “Remind me again why I’m not running away to elope?” My grandmother looked at her reflection in the mirror, and I could read the concern in her eyes. “I was married for fifty years. I don’t need a big, fancy wedding. People will think I’m being selfish.”

  “S-selfish?” Alva sputtered. “Girl, this relationship with Paul is a new beginning, and this is just the dress to take you there. Every woman deserves that.” She slapped Queenie on the backside. “Now stop carrying on like that.”

  “Good gravy.” My grandmother swished her skirt as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. “If you say so.”

  “I say so.” The two sisters gazed in the mirror together. In that moment, I saw just how alike they were. Same basic height. Same body shape. Similar skin tone. These sisters were two peas in a pod.

  Twiggy interrupted the moment. “Queenie, if you’ve got your heart set on this blue one, we’ll get Hibiscus started on the alterations. If you change your mind about the color, we have this same dress in a beautiful shade of eggshell.”

  “It’s not really eggshell,” Madge reminded her. “More like buff.”

  Queenie cleared her throat as she turned her back on the mirror. “Speaking of buff, that reminds me that I’m absolutely dreading the wedding night.”

  A collective gasp went up from all in attendance. Well, all but Twiggy, who released a nervous laugh.

  “For pity’s sake, why?” Alva put her hands on her hips and stared at her sister. “Like you said, you were married for fifty years. It’s not like playing the piano. You don’t forget.”

  “Yes, but my sweet husband watched this old body of mine disintegrate slowly, over time. Paul is going to see it—all of it, in its glory—for the first time. Ever.” Queenie shuddered. “Horrifying thought.”

  Yes, it was a horrifying thought just to imagine my grandmother in a negligee. No doubt with her titanium knee and arthritic hips, the honeymoon night could prove to be problematic, but I’d never ask about it. Never. Ever.

  As she talked about her hubby-to-be with such an affectionate expression on her face, I couldn’t help but think that their golden years would be filled with amazing opportunities to find comfort, love, and joy.

  Off in the distance Brady passed by. I hoped he would look our way, chime in about how lovely Queenie looked.

  But he didn’t.

  He kept moving slowly toward the front of the store, a somber expression on his face. I could almost read his troubling thoughts: Surgery. Again. Basketball career over.

  It’s just a season, I reminded myself. One that would end soon.

  I hoped.

  In the meantime, I’d better stay focused on the bride-to-be. With a forced smile I turned back to my grandmother, ready to brave the alterations department.

  6

  No Two People

  Doris Day was such a big movie and TV star, people overlooked her singing. The proof is in the package. She’s one of the
best singers there ever was.

  Margaret Whiting

  Things at Cosmopolitan Bridal continued to intensify over the next twenty-four hours, especially in the studio, where Dahlia and her team worked against the clock to turn out gowns for customers. I managed to get Hibiscus started on Queenie’s alterations, then turned my attention to the upcoming Christmas promotions in the Tribune.

  Up front Madge and Twiggy kept the customers happy. In the studio out back, Dahlia and her team continued their work. Nestled in a tiny office between the store and the studio, I did my best to promote the shop and to run interference with customers who weren’t thrilled that their dresses were taking longer than expected. Of course, I spent a good deal of time glancing through the open doorway into the office across the hall, occupied by my handsome chicken-fried-steak-eatin’ man.

  Not that we had a chance to talk about anything other than work. With such a crazy flurry of customers, who had time to think about food? Or take a break? We certainly didn’t talk about the obvious thing—Brady’s upcoming surgery. No matter how I tried to open that Pandora’s box, he kept it tightly sealed. But with his pre-surgery appointment approaching, he’d have to talk about it soon.

  I thought about that as I took a call from a newshound Friday morning. The reporter—if one could call him that—tried to wheedle information out of me about the condition of Brady’s knee, but I refused to play along. No one could accuse Katie Fisher of having loose lips.

  On Friday morning, midway into composing an email to the local paper, I received a phone call from my brother Jasper in Fairfield. His first words threw me a little. “Houston, we have a problem.”

  “Um, my name is Katie, and I live in Fairfield. Er, Dallas.”

  “Whatever.” Jasper grunted. “We still have a problem.”

  “What’s up?” I leaned back in my chair and closed my laptop.

  “Mom and Pop are out of the country. Again. This is their second trip in less than a month.”