Every Bride Has Her Day

by Janice Thompson

  “Oh, I’m no stranger,” Nadia said. “I’m about to be family. Once Brady and Katie get married, I mean. And Prissy, I must disagree with what you’ve said to Bessie May here. I was sewing clothes for myself long before I sold my first gown to someone else. During those formative years I just had to keep reminding myself that my creativity—my patterns—were a special gift from God. He had called me to create, and if no one ever bought one of my dresses, I’d still be a designer.”

  “Humph.” Prissy pursed her lips. “I stick to what I said before. I don’t think anyone would wear the crazy things she comes up with. I mean, I wouldn’t.”

  “Ladies, ladies . . .” I slipped my arm through Prissy’s. “Just a few minutes ago I told Nadia that we’re all one big happy family in Fairfield. Right?”

  “A poorly dressed family, apparently,” Prissy said. “But while we’re talking about things we disagree on, I might as well state my opinion on Ophelia’s new hairdo.”

  Ophelia looked shocked. “What about my hairdo?”

  “Friend, I have to speak it plain.” Prissy wagged an arthritic finger in Ophelia’s direction. “No one in their right mind would honestly believe that crazy shade of orange is your real color. You’ve got to go back to your natural shade of gray.”

  “That’s the rudest thing you’ve ever said to me. You could learn a thing from our guest here.” Ophelia pointed to Nadia, who flinched.

  “Learn . . . from me?” my future mother-in-law asked.

  “Sure. That platinum ’do you’re sportin’ ain’t your natural color, right?” Ophelia gave her a knowing look. “I’m guessing underneath it all you’re as gray as I am, but there you go, coloring it up with a shade that no one in our neck of the woods would’ve chosen.”

  Ohh noo.

  Nadia paled. “Well, I, um . . .”

  “I think it’s a nice color.” Bessie May gave her a thoughtful look, then reached out and touched it. “Not exactly real-looking—meaning, not a color God would’ve created—but nice all the same.”

  “I . . . well, I . . .” Nadia reached for a cookie and pressed it into her mouth.

  “Ladies, let’s fess up. We’re all the same, whether we live in a city or a small town. We all color our roots and we all have our own taste in clothes.” Ophelia slapped her thigh. “We don’t all do things the same way, but what does it matter? Doesn’t make us different. Just makes us sisters.”

  I had a feeling Nadia wanted to run as fast and far from this sisterhood as she could right about now. Instead, she reached for another cookie, snapped it in half, and gave one piece to Bessie May and the other to Prissy.

  “If we’re all sisters, then we all agree on one thing: chocolate is the cure for anything that ails you. And right now”—she glanced my way and sighed—“I have a hankerin’ for some chocolate.”

  “I baked those cookies.” Ophelia squared her shoulders, clearly proud of her work. “They’re my own secret recipe.”

  “Don’t let that stop you from trying them,” Bessie May said. “We’ve all been eating them for years and none of us have kicked the bucket.”

  “Yet.” Prissy quirked a brow and then took a nibble.

  “Well, there’s a glowing endorsement.” Nadia reached for another cookie and stared at it. As soon as the other ladies began to squabble, she put the cookie back on the tray and glanced at me again, eyes wide.

  “Told you they were just like family, Nadia. What else can I say? But just wait—when it comes to planning for my big day, they’ll all come together in one accord. It’s what they do.”

  “Mm-hmm.” My future mother-in-law looked back and forth between Bessie May and Ophelia, who continued to bicker. “I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it, Katie.”

  “Take her word for what, Mom?” Brady stepped behind me and slipped his arms around my waist.

  “That folks in Fairfield all come together in one accord when it comes to the things that matter—like weddings.”

  “Oh, they do,” Brady said. “I’ve witnessed it firsthand. So don’t you worry about a thing. In just a few short weeks we’ll all be gathered at the Baptist church in Fairfield with half the town looking on. We’ll say our ‘I dos’ and then have the party of the century. Just you wait and see.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of Prissy arguing with Bessie May. Before long Ophelia joined in and things got a little heated. Queenie threw herself into the middle of it, and Pap-Paul ended up intervening to calm the waters.

  Yep. Just like I’d said: one big happy family.

  21

  The Time Has Come

  Paris is always a good idea.

  Audrey Hepburn

  For days we talked of little but Alva and Eduardo’s wedding and Stan and Madge’s engagement. In fact, everyone was so caught up in celebrating that they almost forgot about our wedding. Not that Alva and Eduardo were anywhere to be found. I had it on good authority—Queenie—that they’d boarded a flight to LA for a month-long stay at the Beverly Hills Hotel. No doubt Alva was swooning right about now, or possibly lounging at the swimming pool, gabbing with famous actors and actresses.

  Then again, I didn’t really want to think about what Aunt Alva was doing right about now. One thing I did need to think about, however, was my living arrangements. With Alva now Mrs. De la Consuela, she would be moving into Eduardo’s house ASAP and listing her home with a realtor.

  I didn’t mind having the house to myself in the meantime. In fact, after all the chaos of the past few weeks, I rather enjoyed the solitude. At least the first couple of weeks. By the third week—even with my workload growing exponentially—I found myself going a little stir-crazy.

  When I headed to work the first Monday in August, Madge greeted me with a newspaper in her hand. “Guess what I’ve got!” She waved the paper in the air.

  “The ad I put in the Observer?” I slipped my purse strap off my shoulder and caught it in my hand. “Was there a typo or something?”

  “No, this is something else. Remember our Houston bride? Bridget Pennington?”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s a write-up in the society column of the Houston Chronicle. It’s all about her wedding, which took place last Saturday.”

  “Oh, that’s right.”

  “You take the Houston Chronicle?” Dahlia asked as she joined us. “All the way up here in Dallas?”

  “I do when she mails us a copy and puts a sticky note on it that says ‘Read this article.’” Madge laughed. “Want to hear it for yourself?”

  “Let me get the others first,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll be interested.”

  Minutes later the ladies all clustered around the paper, which Twiggy snatched from Madge’s hands. “‘Local Heiress to Oil and Gas Firm Weds in Lovely Country Wedding.’” She looked up from the paper with a thoughtful smile. “That’s on my bucket list, to be a local heiress.”

  Madge gave her a stern look. “Read the rest of the article and worry about your social status later.”

  Twiggy continued reading.

  “Bridget Pennington, heiress to the Pennington Oil and Gas firm, married Evan Harris in a city-meets-country event in Magnolia on Saturday. Father of the bride, oil exec Bradley Pennington, escorted his daughter down a makeshift aisle flanked by beautifully adorned bales of hay. While others in their circle might have turned up their noses at such an event, I found the whole thing rather charming, especially the reception, which took place in a renovated barn, complete with chandelier and exquisite tablecloths and centerpieces.

  My favorite part? The father-daughter dance. The senior Pennington hit the dance floor with his daughter to celebrate her nuptials. Then, in a grand, sweeping gesture, he passed her off to her husband for the sweetest Texas two-step this side of the Mississippi. All in all, I’d have to say Pennington Oil and Gas is safe in the hands of father and daughter, who pulled off a ceremony and reception that none of their friends will soon forget.”

&nbs
p; “Wow!” I clasped my hands together, thrilled with this news. “So happy for her. She did it!”

  “Perfect.” Dahlia grinned. “Makes all the work on that Martina McBride dress worth it. I’m thrilled for her.”

  “She had her day.” I didn’t mean to speak the words aloud, but there they were.

  Nadia looked my way, curiosity in her eyes. “What, Katie?”

  “She had her day. Every bride has to have her day. It’s no one else’s.”

  “Kind of sounds like it ended up being a great day for her dad too,” Madge said.

  “Yes, and that’s the point, I suppose. When the bride’s happy—when the wedding plans are within the scope of the dream—then others around her will sense her happiness and be happy too. Oh, maybe not every time. I’m sure there are grumpy relatives and friends who just don’t want to play along, but when the bride has her day, everyone who loves her can share in her fun.”

  “That’s such a sweet way of looking at it, Katie,” Madge said. “And it makes me want to think outside the box for my wedding too.”

  “Mine too,” Dahlia said. “When the time comes, I mean.”

  “And mine,” Twiggy added. “’Cause I feel sure Beau’s going to propose . . . someday. I hope.”

  “Is that the end of the article?” Jane asked.

  “There’s one more line.” Madge peered a bit closer. “Something about the cake coming from some famous bakery—Crème de la Crème or something like that. Want to see a picture of it?” She held up the paper, and a photo of Bridget and Evan cutting the most glorious five-tiered shabby chic cake captivated me.

  In that moment I wanted to throw a party. Well, not really a party, but I wanted to celebrate Bridget’s big day. I wanted to say, “Good for you, girl! You did it! You had your day—just your way!”

  I’d have to remember to send her a note offering my congratulations.

  If she could make it through all of that chaos, all of that confusion, then surely I could manage to pull off a wedding in a town where we all loved one another unconditionally.

  Right?

  22

  Where Would You Be?

  If my world were to cave in tomorrow, I would look back on all the pleasures, excitements, and worthwhilenesses I have been lucky enough to have had.

  Audrey Hepburn

  I thought about Bridget as I worked later that afternoon. I tried to imagine what she’d felt like as she walked down the aisle, bales of hay on either side. I tried to envision her joy as she and her new husband took their photos in the sunset. What a glorious day it must’ve been. What a glorious day I would soon have! In less than two weeks I would marry my best friend, the love of my life.

  Brady.

  My heart swelled as I thought about him. Though I missed seeing him at the office, our times together were even more special now. I could read the excitement in his eyes as he talked about his workouts and picked up on the fact that his knee seemed to be holding up well. Yes, everything was—as Mary Poppins would say—practically perfect in every way. Our wedding, our lives, our joys . . . they were all coming together in a blissful crescendo.

  As I prepared to leave work later that afternoon, my phone rang. I answered it, surprised to hear my mother’s voice on the other end of the line.

  “Katie?”

  “Hey, Mama. Good to hear from you. What’s up?”

  “You’re not going to believe it. You’re just not. And the timing is so terrible too.”

  “Wait, believe what?” My pulse quickened. “Did something happen to Queenie?”

  “No, honey. It’s the WOP-pers.”

  Huh? “The WOP-pers? What about them?”

  “You’re not going to believe it, but they’ve disbanded. They’re not praying together anymore.”

  “What? That’s impossible.” I took a seat behind my desk. “The WOP-pers have been a prayer team since before the beginning of time.”

  “I know, but not anymore. They had a huge falling out and have split into two groups. The one isn’t speaking to the other.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes! I just talked to the sheriff, who heard it from the mayor, who heard it from Mr. Jacobs. He’s coaching Little League now, did you know? Anyway, Coach Jacobs said that Mrs. Willingham—you remember her, Katie? She’s the one with the prosthetic foot. Anyway, she told him that she ran into Bessie May at the gas station filling her SUV, and she asked for prayer for her son—Mrs. Willingham’s son, not Bessie May’s. I’m pretty sure Bessie May doesn’t have a son. So when Mrs. Willingham asked the WOP-pers to pray for her son’s ADD, Bessie May told her that the WOP-pers don’t pray together anymore.”

  “I don’t believe it. What in the world happened? Please tell me this doesn’t have anything to do with Ophelia’s hair being orange or Bessie May’s fashion sense.”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “Oh, never mind. What happened, Mama?”

  “From what I understand, it all started in the fellowship hall at the Methodist church. They were taking prayer requests, and Prissy mentioned that she was about to have hemorrhoid surgery.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Right? So she asked for prayer. I believe her words were something along the lines of ‘I have pain in the . . . well, you know. We are talking about hemorrhoids here.’”

  “O-okay.” Where this was going, I could not guess.

  “That’s where things got complicated. Bessie May must’ve misunderstood her. Then again, she has needed a new hearing aid for ages. Everyone knows that. But Bessie May quoted back what Prissy said incorrectly. Instead of saying, ‘You have pain in the . . . you know,’ she blurted out, ‘Yes, we know, Prissy. You really are a pain in the . . . you know.’”

  “Just a misunderstanding.”

  “Yes, but the poop hit the fan, pardon the pun. Prissy got offended and said a few things she shouldn’t have. Bessie May countered. Then Ophelia got involved.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Yeah, and then Queenie tried to get everyone calmed down, but I guess it didn’t work. So before anyone could even start praying, the whole group of ’em ended up on opposite sides of the room. Maybe not literally on opposite sides of the room, but you get my point. They never ushered up so much as one prayer. Prissy huffed off first, then Bessie May left, then the rest of ’em stormed off. All mad as hornets. Well, except Queenie, who swears she was so shocked she couldn’t remember how to pray.”

  “Wow. Must’ve been really something to shock the prayer out of Queenie. She’s the best prayer warrior I know.”

  “Now no one’s praying. Except maybe Florence Wilson, who was stuck in the fellowship hall for nearly five hours until Bessie May remembered she’d driven her there. Poor thing, still recovering from hip surgery. She couldn’t exactly walk home, and she doesn’t own a cell phone. If the good reverend hadn’t stopped by the church at the end of the day, she might still be sitting there.”

  “That’s horrible. What a mess.”

  “Mess doesn’t even begin to describe the chaos going on, and the men of the town are all caught up in it too. When he heard what happened, Prissy’s husband got rankled and confronted Bessie May’s husband at the Dairy Queen. So it’s not just the WOP-pers who are split down the middle, it’s their spouses too.”

  “This is terrible.”

  “More terrible than you know. The manager of the Dairy Queen called in the police. The whole place was turned into a police scene, and all because of Prissy’s pain in the . . . well, you know.”

  “Heavens. I never pictured anything like this happening in Fairfield. Do you think they’ll all kiss and make up?”

  “I sure hope so, and fast. I mean, the timing for all of this really stinks. Your wedding is coming up a week from Saturday, after all.”

  “Right.” So much for insisting we get married in my hometown where everyone loved everyone. And so much for working on a strategy to convince Nadia that the folks in Fairfield were loving and neig
hborly. If she caught wind of this, she’d probably call the Gaylord Hotel and book the grand ballroom.

  Okay, maybe not. Maybe she didn’t care as much about the town split as I did. But how could my own neighbors do this to me—and right before my wedding? Didn’t they realize things were stressful enough already?

  I ended the call with Mama in a hurry. Something to do with Pop chasing her around the RV park. But her words stayed with me as I shut down my computer and prepared to leave for the day. In fact, I could hardly think of anything else, which totally messed up my dinner plans with Brady.

  When he arrived at my house to pick me up, I couldn’t seem to focus on our event together. I could only think of Prissy. And Bessie May. And Ophelia. And the police. Had my hometown gone crazy?

  Brady met me at the door with a broad smile on his face. He took one look at me and his brow wrinkled. “Katie? What’s happened?”

  “Don’t ask. Ugh.” I leaned against the doorjamb and tried to gather strength.

  “Is everyone okay?”

  “Physically, yes. But we have a fiasco on our hands.”

  “A fiasco?” Now he looked genuinely worried. “Something go wrong with the wedding planning?”

  “Sort of. Only, not really.” I groaned and then ushered him into my living room. “I didn’t want to tell you, Brady, because it’s just so . . . dumb.”

  “What’s dumb?” He plopped down onto the Herculon sofa and gazed up at me.

  “The WOP-pers have disbanded.”

  “No way.” He shifted his position on the sofa. “Did someone die or something?”

  “I know, right? I would’ve guessed that would be the only thing to ever stop them. But it’s worse than that.” I paced the room, my nerves kicking in.

  “Worse than someone dying?”

  “Not really, but it’s bad. Very, very, very bad.”

  He patted the sofa, a signal for me to join him. “Start at the beginning. Tell me everything.”

  I groaned again as I took a seat on the itchy fabric. “Do I have to?”