by Ash, Ingrid
Veronica just stares back at him I shock. “But I--”
“Can you act like a human being for one fucking hour? It's just one hour,” he continues, reprimanding her like a child. “Don't fucking speak to her like that. Her, or anyone else. Do you understand that?”
I should smile and be happy that he put her in her place. Hell, I probably have every right to laugh in her face, but I can't, even though I know she wouldn't hesitate to do the same to me.
Veronica's face goes rigid. Her eyes narrow and for the first time I'm a bit frightened of her. “Fine, pick out your own damn cake,” she hisses, pushing an entire plate of red velvet right into the front of his suit. She pushes herself out from under the table and storms out of the bakery, her heels clicking against the tile floors as she goes.
Well, that went well.
Mr. Cartwright barely reacts. He sits there for a moment staring down at the plate as everyone else stares at him in a mild state of shock. The two bakers quietly retreat into the kitchen, leaving us alone up front. He stands up, peeling the pate off of him and dropping it on the table. His expensive suit is left covered in icing and cake crumbs.
He looks up at me and says, “A little help maybe.”
I should help him. I should probably even feel a little bit sorry for him, considering the fact that he was trying to defend me, I think. But I can't exactly muster any sympathy.
I simply blink and wrap my arms around my planner. “You know, you didn't have to be so rude to her in public.”
Mr. Cartwright looks stunned. “You have to be kidding me?”
I shake my head no. “You were a bit of a jerk. Jerks get covered I cake. Don't worry, it'll wash out.”
His eyes grow dark. “You're an ungrateful little bitch, you know that?”
I'm not going to lie, his words sting. Who does this asshole think he is? I want to scream at him, tell him that I don’t owe him a thing. I want to hurl every obscenity at him, along with a few more slices of cake. And it takes all the restraint in my body not to.
I click my pen. “So the red velvet it is, then?”
*
“Tamara, come over here. Pull up a seat.”
Like a deer in headlights, I'm caught dead in my tracks by Connor.
It's barely even 6am when I arrive at the flower shop the next morning. For some reason, I thought if I got there super early I'd be able to avoid him – clearly, I was wrong. Because the second I unlock the back door and sneak in I see him standing there in the dim light, already working hard on an arrangement. Of course he's here before anyone else. Why wouldn't he be? Having to work with not just Mr. Cartwright but his freaking fiance makes it easy to lose sight of the fact that he's planning a six figure wedding in only six weeks. The pressure he's under is probably insurmountable, and yet he seems to be handling it coolly. But after yesterday's fiasco I was hoping to avoid him completely.
He nods at one of the plush chairs on the other side of the room. I hesitate at his insistence – is he about to break something to me? Let me down kindly? My heart races and I'm quite sure that I'll be walking out of here unemployed. Did Mr. Cartwright call him up and tell him what happened yesterday? Why the hell did I think it was a smart idea to speak to him like that? I think about how I'll handle it as I drag that heavy chair across the room, taking a seat in it just a few feet away from Connor and his magical creation. He might be a little bit of a jerk but he's a creative jerk.
He steps back for a second, eying the arrangement with his chin in his hand. “What's wrong with it?” he asks.
That's not exactly what I expected him to ask. “Are you really asking me?”
He nods. “Why wouldn't I?”
I'm flattered. Confused, but flattered. “Well, I don't exactly have your designers eye.”
“Of course you do. And this needs a fresh pair of eyes. It's missing something. I can't quite put my finger on it.”
“I...” my voice trails off as I study it with my eyes. “Maybe the hydrangeas?”
He looks at me sideways and I instantly feel like I've over stepped my boundaries, despite the fact that he asked me for my opinion. “What do you mean?”
I shrug and reply hesitantly, “I mean, it looks great but, you know, everyone uses them. Maybe add some ranunculus and more peonies?”
He looks back at his creation, his eyebrow arching up before he smirks. “You see, this is exactly why I asked you. Genius!” he says, ripping the hydrangeas from the vase. “Grab me the ranunculus, please?”
I jump to my feet, sprinting across the room to retrieve a bucket full of multicolored flowers. I help him sort the stems as he positions the new flowers in the vase. It's like watching a magician work – quickly, with hands flailing all over and leaves flying, but when he finally steps back, it's a masterpiece.
We both need a moment just to take in the beauty of the arrangement.
“It's perfect!” he says with a chuckle. “It looks a million times better.”
And it does. I'm pretty proud of it, until I remember who I'm making it for.
“See what I mean? You'll be making your own arrangements soon.”
Is he serious? I shake my head wildly. “No, I don't think you want that! I'm not artistic at all.”
“Yeah you are, you just haven't realized it yet. Don't be so quick to dismiss your abilities; you're more creative than you know.”
Now that has to be the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a while. Compliments? I'm not really sure how to react to them.
“Thanks,” I reply shyly.
“You're blushing,” he kids, and we both laugh.
Eventually the laughing subsides into silence. His eyes stay fixated on the arrangement, but I can tell something else is on his mind. That's when I start to shift uncomfortably in my chair.
“Veronica told me about the cake tasting yesterday.”
“Oh yeah? What did she say?” I ask, trying to play it cool.
“She said you instigated a fight between her and Mr. Cartwright.”
Oye. She would. “That's not entirely true.”
Connor eyes me and says, “Not entirely true? It shouldn't really be true at all, you know.”
“I mean she's exaggerating.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“She may be my client but that doesn't mean I don't realize she's crazy.”
I breathe out a sigh of relief. Thank God someone else sees it.
“I don't know what happened between the two of you, and you obviously still have feelings for him...”
Oh God. I look away from Connor, feeling slightly embarrassed. “I don't have any feelings for him,” I reply dryly.
“Whatever is going on, it's not my business,” he continues, “And I do believe you. I know these past couple weeks have been hell and Veronica isn't making it any easier.”
I shrug it off. “I've been through worse.”
“Yeah, I know you have. I just—I've been a jerk. I'm just under a lot of stress, so I apologize for the way I've been treating you guys.”
Well, that was unexpected.
“And no Melissa didn't put me up to this,” he adds.
I can't help but laugh. “I never assumed she did.”
“I actually apologized to her this morning, too.”
“It's alright, I get it. This wedding is a huge deal for you and I'd never expect you to turn it down. I wouldn’t want you to, either.”
“It's a big deal for all of us, the shop as a whole.”
“Right.”
He sighs and rubs his eyes. I didn't realize just how tired he looked until now. “Anyway, I'm rambling. Can you please try and be a mediator between the two of them? They're a match made in hell and everyone knows it.” Well, he's got one thing right. “And that's why we have you. Otherwise, this whole thing is going to fall apart.”
“Gotcha.”
“Tomorrow is Veronica's fitting and she's bound to be a pain in the ass about that.”
&n
bsp; Shit, I almost forgot that was tomorrow. The days are all blending together and I'm starting to get a migraine just thinking about it.
“Not made any better after yesterday's charade.”
“Exactly. Mr. Cartwright most likely won't be there, but Veronica is going to say something stupid to get under your skin like she always does. Just try to ignore it.”
I nod, flashing him a tight lipped smile. “I know. I can handle it,” I reply. I don't have much of a choice, do I?
CHAPTER 13
The night before the fitting feels endless. It turns into one of those anxious, sleepless nights where I stay awake in bed for hours plotting the next day, going over every possible scenario in my head and how I'll handle it. Yet when I awake the next morning, I'm no more self assured than the day before. That's a whole lot of sleep lost for nothing.
I spend the morning running around town to six different designer showrooms and bridal shops pulling absurd amounts of gowns for Veronica’s dress fitting. Each gown feels heavier than the one before – I have no idea what they look like underneath the sturdy garment bags but they must be ornate as all hell.
Luckily, Melissa doesn't need the company van today and lets me use it to haul the gowns upstate. Trying to lug these all on the subway would been impossible.
Once the last gowns are pulled and the van is packed, I let the GPS lead me out of the city and into the country, traveling through those familiar rolling hills with random ornate mansions littering the horizon in the distance. It reminds me of the drive up to Mr. Cartwright's home, except more open and, believe it or not, with homes that are much larger and considerably older.
The drive is long and quite boring, especially since the van doesn't have have a jack for mp3 players or cell phones. The first thing Melissa needs to do after the check clears for the wedding is to update this thing. It takes about 45 minutes to get the location, even though it feels like twice as long.
This is definitely upstate, and this is certainly a manor. No wonder Veronica is the way she is, I think as I pull to her parent's sprawling estate. Even the drive up to her front door is a long one, with acres of lush, well manicured greens surrounding the property, and tall topiary lining the driveway. The house itself is all brick, clearly very old, but obviously well maintained. She probably has parents who spoiled her with things but neglected her most of the time—she clearly is a product of her surroundings.
I sigh. Well, here goes nothing.
I exit the van, making my way towards the back where I start to unload. The back is packed with gown after gown after gown, all in over-stuffed white and pink garment bags. It's going to take me a couple of trips to get these in, so I prop up one garment rack and fill it with as many dresses as it can take without it tipping over. I won't even bother to ask for help – it's not like any of those women would lift a finger do manual labor, let alone help me.
“May I help you?” A woman with a stern face and a strong Spanish accent opens the door after I ring twice.
“I'm here for the bridal fitting today,” I say with a smile. She cocks her head to the side as she gives me a once over. Sheesh, even Veronica's maid is snotty.
“What did you say your name was?” she asks.
“Tamara Pierce.”
“Tamara Pierce? Hold on one second,” she says and closes the door in my face. I wait anxiously on the porch – I just want to get this over with, and I'm not even in the door yet. I swear, if she forgot or changed the date without telling me I'm going to... no, that wouldn't happen. Veronica loves to torment me, after all, and I'm sure she's been waiting for this fitting for weeks.
The door creaks open again and the same woman is standing in the doorway, looking slightly more friendly.
“This way, Ms. Pierce,” she says, waving me inside.
“Would you or someone else mind giving me a hand with the door? I have a couple more racks after this one,” I ask.
“Sure,” she says, keeping it propped open wide for me.
I follow her into the home, which remarkably looks even larger than it does from outside. It resembles a library or a museum more so than a house. Someone actually lives here? I shouldn't be surprised after Mr. Cartwright's digs, but I suppose these types of ridiculous displays of wealth will never cease to amaze me.
I'm so caught up by the scenery – the opulent crown molding and shiny tile floors – that I don't even notice Veronica standing in the room when we round the corner.
“You're late,” she says. She sounds awfully ticked off and has scowl on her face. In her hand she has a tall glass of red wine, held closely to her lips, with her giant rock prominently on display. I'd be willing to bet she sleeps with that thing on.
I glance down at my watch. “I'm actually right on time.”
“You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago.”
Is she crazy or am I? “No, our itinerary had 1:30pm down for the fitting.”
She flips her surprisingly long, and sort of fried, hair back – which is down for the first time ever – and rolls her eyes. “Oh, whatever, this is no time to argue,” she says in a fuss, hustling across the tile and heading straight for the rack. “Did you get them all?” she asks, as she fumbles through the gowns.
“Yup. And there's more in the car.”
“Good. Start taking these garment bags off so I can see them. Then you can move in the rest.”
If there's anything I hate in this world it's being told what to do by the likes of Veronica. But I have to remember what Connor said. I do my best to hide my disdain as I start unzipping each bag, letting each dress go free. Some of these gowns are huge. Like, ginormous. I feel as if I'm swimming in a sea of tulle and sequined embroidery. And all I can think about is what a pain in the ass it's going to be to stuff these back in their bags.
The lady from the door attempts to jump in and help, but Veronica puts that to a quick stop. “No, no Rosa, she can do that herself. Get me another glass of wine, please.”
It takes me a good ten minutes to unsheathe all of those dresses, run outside and get the rest of the lot, and do the same thing over again. Veronica stands nearby watching me like a hawk the entire time. But as I finish I notice something – we're the only two in the room.
I wipe the sweat from my brow with my arm and glance around. “Don't brides usually have their maid of honor or their mother here for this?”
She shoots me a pointed look over the top of her glass. “That's none of your business, and I don't have time for your attitude today, Tamara,” she spits out. “Especially not after all that shit you pulled at the bakery.”
Well damn. Who thought a simple question would ruffle Miss Priss' feathers so much? I get a kick out of the fact that she doesn’t have any friends or family who care enough to show up. That is, until I realize I wouldn't either.
She does have one person who's pretty important though...
I zip my lips, deciding I'll just keep my mouth shut for the rest of the time. I stand idly by as Rosa brings her a fresh glass of wine. With her well manicured hands wrapped around the stem she goes through the rack, inspecting each dress carefully as if it were some sort of fragile artifact that had just been excavated. And they are beautiful, that I can't deny; almost every single one of them, even the ones that are way too princessy for my taste. When she's done, and her glass is nearly empty, she hands it off to Rosa and points to the last dress in the rack.
“I think I'll start with this one.”
“Okay,” I reply. She looks at me oddly as if she's waiting for something.
“Well?”
“Well what?” I ask confusedly.
She rolls her eyes at me yet again. “You really are useless, aren't you? Get the dress and bring it into the changing room for me.”
She is seriously trying my patience. It seems as if the less reaction I give her the meaner she gets.
“Alright,” I oblige. I grab the gown of her choice and follow her just a couple of doors down the hall into w
hat looks like a small, private spa or salon. I don't dare to ask but I cant help but wonder what she uses this room for. Surely she doesn't have a salon inside her house?
“Just hang it over there,” she says, pointing to a hook on the opposite side of the room.
The gown is heavy and I'm happy to set it down. By the time I get it to stay on the hook and not slip off the hanger, I turn around to find that she's already stripped off her dress and is standing there in just her underwear and a nude strapless bra. She really couldn't wait for me to leave to do that?
I avert my eyes and head for door.
“And now where are you going?”
“To wait outside?”
“The who's going to help me get into this thing?”
Oh, so now I have to dress her too. Note to self – Mr. Cartwright is essentially marrying a toddler.
From the way I look at it, she has two arms and can step into the gowns. So I'm not quite sure how she wants me to help. I stand there awkwardly for a moment. “But what exactly do you want me to do?” I question her.
“Help me into it,” she says matter-of-factually.
“Okay...” I'm still completely lost. How hard is it to put on a dress? She's probably done it a million times in her lifetime. But I play along, grabbing the gown off the wall and dragging it over to where she's standing. Damn, it's heavy. I guess I can sort of see why she would need assistance with this.
I hold it up in front of her, unsure of what to do next, and she gives me that “hurry the hell up” eye. So I unzip it and hold the back open, instructing her to step in as if I really know what I'm doing. Surprisingly she does it without complaining, although she still has her frigid bitch-face in tact.
“Zip me up now,” she says, holding the top of the gown up around her chest.
Right. I move behind her and grab the two edges of fabric, holding them as closely together as I can, which... isn't actually that close. Did the designer give me the wrong size? Because the bodice of this dress is clearly too damn small. And she's going to give me so much shit if I tell her that. So I try to zip it up anyway, yanking on the zipper as hard as I can without breaking it. She keeps huffing and looking over her shoulder at me, but this thing won't go any higher than half way.
