The Holiday Bride

by Laura Briggs

  That was the problem. So many of those performers sounded vastly different in person from the demos Gwen had listed to in preparation for this assignment. But London Time sounded even better in person. Catchy lyrics, upbeat rhythm, and heavy British accents to lend a certain charm. So far so good.

  She crossed her fingers. This was it, maybe. The end of her quest, and a break in the curse that seemed to plague this experience right from the beginning.

  A joking smile appeared with the thought. As if there really were such things as bad luck or cursed experiences. Though it had certainly seemed so, all those little disasters making for an odd coincidence—-

  “Hold on, hold on.” The lead singer held up a hand, bringing the rest of the music to a halt. “Someone’s getting me off-key,” he announced, in a voice mysteriously less British-sounding than his singing had been.

  “Dude, you’re the one getting us off key,” came the drummer’s irritated reply, strains of New Jersey buried in his gruff accent. “You’ve been doing it all week in rehearsals…”

  The rest of this was inaudible, the singers abandoning their microphones to confront each other face-to-face. Heart sinking, Gwen rose and made her way to the bottom of the stage, where security personal stood watching the exchange.

  “Is there a problem?” she whispered to one of them. “They sounded really good to me.”

  He shrugged, looking exasperated. “They’ve been picking at each other since they got here. Nothing new, from what I’ve heard. Apparently, they walked out on their last engagement—some club appearance in New York.”

  Snatches of the band members’ argument reached them from above, Gwen’s brow furrowed in confusion. Tentatively, she asked the guard, “Are they …not British?” Or from any part of the UK, she thought, judging from those very American enunciations for the angry words drifting her way.

  “Search me,” he answered. His presence suddenly required on stage, where the lead singer and drummer had engaged in a shoving match.

  Fake accents, a private feud starting to turn public. Gwen couldn’t see that combination being a good choice for her client’s celebration, no matter how talented the band in question. Slowly, she walked back up the aisle, pausing when she reached the spot where Clare sat, her homework still on her lap.

  “Too bad,” said the girl, with a nod to the ongoing conflict. “They’re actually pretty good live. The acoustic arrangement sounds way better than the synthesized version on their album.”

  “I liked it, too,” Gwen said. “Which makes it hard to cross them off the list. But we don’t want to hire musicians that might start a brawl at a wedding reception.”

  Clare nodded. “Plus, faux accents just aren’t as cool as they were during the 60’s.”

  “During the British Invasion,” Gwen guessed, thinking of the bands who took their cue from the Beatles’ popularity.

  “Yeah, exactly,” said Clare, a grin forming briefly for this reference to classic rock and roll. “They made it seem inventive, but these guys just kind of feel old hat.” Shifting her homework around, she checked her watch. “Mom’s secretary is sending a car for me in a few minutes. Doesn’t that sound so pretentious?”

  Gwen laughed. Quietly, though, as she could see the girl really didn’t care for the idea that much. Patting her shoulder, she said, “See you Saturday, then.”

  “Saturday?” Clare frowned.

  “At the dress shop,” Gwen reminded her. “Your mom cleared her schedule for the whole day so we can find a new dress for you. For the wedding,” she continued, seeing the girl’s expression darken.

  Did she imagine that Clare was less than thrilled by this idea? Not a chance. But it was too hard to be sure of the reason, since Clare had turned back to her study materials. “I sort of forgot about that. See you there, I guess.” Spoken with the enthusiasm reserved for dental appointments, Gwen noted.

  Gwen made her way towards the exit, frowning as she contemplated the girl’s reaction. At Clare’s age, it might be any number of teen-related emotions that made her shut down the instant her mother's wedding was named. Was it because her mother was getting married? Was Clare less than excited about Brock as a stepfather?

  Maybe. But Gwen felt it was something about the wedding or, more specifically, the bride’s lack of enthusiasm for anything else as that event grew near. Like the personal feelings and dreams of her daughter, for instance.

  Lost in speculation, she jumped as a hand reached from the shadows to clutch her arm. Mitzy, the journalist’s curls frizzier than ever, a smirk on her face, was waiting for her.

  “Surprised to see me?”

  “Ms. Rogers.” Gwen breathed a sigh of relief. Drawing away from her grasp, she said, “Yes, actually. You disappeared the last few days, since we gave you the grand tour of Erica's wedding." She paused. "Is there something I can do for you? I’m sort of on the run at the moment so—”

  “Guess you forgot to tell me about this little event, huh?” Mitzy framed the word ‘forgot’ with air quotes, sarcasm in her voice. “Just like you forgot to call me for the bridesmaid’s dress fittings that other time, didn't you?”

  “Not exactly,” Gwen admitted, hoping nothing in her tone betrayed guilt. “There wasn’t any reason to notify you about this until we've chosen a musical act. And as soon as I’ve confirmed the entertainment for the reception, I’ll let you know. ”

  Mitzy wasn’t content with this answer. “You’ve been avoiding me. Just admit it—you’ve been trying to give me the slip this whole time.”

  Oh, boy. Gwen took a breath before she told her, “I don’t know what to say, Ms. Rogers. Except that my client has certain wishes—ones regarding her privacy—that any one of us has a right to expect when planning a special event. And I don’t have any choice but to respect those wishes, as someone who signed a contract to meet those expectations.”

  “Sure you don’t.” The journalist wasn’t buying it, not a shred of understanding in the narrowed eyes that met Gwen’s. “There’s just one little problem, Ms. Lynch. I’m obligated to print the truth—whatever that might mean to your client’s so-called wishes. Because my audience has certain expectations, too, and I have to meet those no matter what.”

  Gwen bristled at the threatening tone this was issued with. Straightening to her full height—a good two inches taller than the journalist, thanks to her stilettos—she said, “I guess we both have jobs to do, then. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment. One that’s unrelated to the Hilbourne-Dresden wedding.”

  She added this last part in case Mitzy chose to follow her and wound up spying on the client she was planning a retirement party for instead. Satisfying as it might be to waste the journalist’s time on a misleader, Gwen would never expose any of her clients to that kind of scrutiny, if she could help it.

  “You think you’ve fooled me,” Mitzy called after her, “but I’m not thrown off the trail that easy, Ms. Lynch. Just you wait and see.”

  Gwen didn’t look back, knowing the journalist probably wore a sneer. A nasty one, harkening back to her first impression of Mitzy: a snapping, snarling poodle just waiting for its first chance to bite.

  *****

  “Isn’t this fun? A real girl’s day out.” Erica’s tone was overly bright, the same as her smile, which Gwen suspected had been freshly whitened. Her appearance looked perfect as always, though much more casual for this business-free day. Even so, her crisp white shorts and lacey Cammie somehow managed to make Gwen feel dowdy in a pencil skirt and stilettos. And definitely outshone Clare in her rumpled hoodie and jeans sporting indie band patches.

  “I made lunch reservations for us at that new place on Walsh Avenue,” Erica continued, adjusting the designer sunglasses that were meant to keep too many members from the press or public from recognizing her. The same reason she sported a ponytail and ball cap, instead of her trademark loose, wavy curls, Gwen imagined.

  Gwen’s client had made it clear this was to be a special outing, ded
icated solely to picking out her daughter’s dress for the wedding. But so far, all of Clare’s suggestions had been overlooked, with Erica deliberately steering the shy teenager in the direction of bolder, more glamorous designs from the selection at the upscale dress shop, as opposed to simple ones in subdued colors.

  “What about this one?” Erica held up a costly design in a lush shade of plum. “Chic, don’t you think, Gwen? This beading along the sleeves is gorgeous, too. We could have something tailored that was a little more flattering, maybe, with an hourglass waistline to give you some curves." She glanced at Clare, who was giving the dress the same stare a dead fish would receive.

  “It’s impressive,” Gwen admitted, somewhat reluctantly, as she noticed Clare’s dislike. “Perhaps a tad too eye catching for this event, though. Compared to the bridesmaids' simpler elegance, I mean.”

  “Oh, well, I’m sure we can find something more appropriate,” Erica conceded, loathe to let it go. “Maybe something in a richer hue, even. Elegant but with a definite ‘wow factor’, if you know what I mean.”

  That had been Erica’s criteria so far: the ‘wow factor’, taking shape in the form of audacious choices that Clare tended to shrink from. The girl’s own taste veered as far from them as possible. But every one of Erica's choices mimicked the designer gowns belonging to the bridal party, Gwen couldn't help but notice. All of them were meant to remind Clare of her duty to join it.

  Erica was now badgering the fitting assistant about other designs which weren't on display. During that time, Clare wandered away on her own, giving the dresses around her a glance for the first time. Gwen watched as the teenager slowly examined the gowns on display. She selected a pastel pink, with filmy skirt and seashell-patterned bodice. Spaghetti straps, a tasteful V-neck, and no beading or sequins anywhere in sight — and no plum, Gwen noticed.

  “Very pretty,” Gwen told her. “I could see that paired with a simple pearl necklace or choker.”

  “It's okay,” Clare said. She shrugged. She gently brushed her fingers over the fabric. “It looks kind of vintage, doesn’t it?” she asked. “Like something from an old vinyl album cover.”

  “Or a 60’s musical,” Gwen mused, with a laugh. “Still, there’s something timeless about the style. I think you would pull it off well.”

  The girl looked surprised. “Really?" she asked. "Because I never wear this kind of thing. I mean, I didn’t even wear a dress to my prom—just one of those duck tape ensembles people make for a joke.” She shook her head. "I'm not a dressy girl. Not like mom."

  “Maybe you’re ready for something different now,” Gwen encouraged. "Maybe you should step outside your box and see how it feels to wear one, just this once."

  She glanced in Erica's direction. It was obvious the bride was less than pleased, now that she had joined them again.

  “I think it’s too pale for you,” Erica said. “Those pastel shades are just so subtle, someone with your complexion will end up looking washed out.” Turning to Gwen, she added, “I’ve tried everything to get Clare here to visit a tanning salon, but this one just refuses to even think about it. Can't you get her into something darker?” Emphasis on this last word, code for 'plum' Gwen knew. Can't you get her to surrender and be a bridesmaid in the train of models on parade, Gwen?

  “That shouldn’t matter,” Gwen said, knowing she treaded dangerous ground by challenging her client’s views on fashion. "Not if Clare's happy and the dress is acceptable to the occasion."

  “I hate tanning," said Clare. “Even if I sunbathe, I just burn, usually. If I got a fake tan, it would probably turn me orange.” A tiny bit of stubbornness found its way into the girl's voice.

  Erica sighed. She looked at Gwen as if to say ‘what can you do?’ “I’m afraid my daughter doesn’t share my love for beauty and style secrets. With millions of customers asking my advice, you’d think my own flesh and blood would at least —”

  The rest of this lament broke off, as Erica suddenly spotted a dress on the next aisle. A few quick steps, and she was pulling it from the rack, her face positively radiant. “Oh Clare—this one is perfect. I know you don’t usually wear strapless, but this is just stunning.”

  Plum again, Gwen realized. “Erica,” she began, “isn’t that—”

  Yes, it was; she was sure of it. This gown was the same as the bridesmaids’ dresses, and the special hybrid roses her client had commissioned. Even the little box of rejected eye shadow had borne a similar hue, she remembered, from her brief glimpse before it went to the trash. This dress was even tailored in the same style as the bridesmaids' dresses—and in a size that might be close to Clare’s.

  Gwen refrained from groaning. Was this all a setup to get Claire to accept the dress Erica had arranged for — to force her into it while pretending it was her choice?

  “I just love this color,” Erica was saying, unaware of her wedding planner’s train of thought. "And this cut — it's so much like the ones Cabot designed." She looked at Clare. "Tell me you’ll at least try it on before you say ‘no’. Do that much for me, at least."

  “I think it’s…it looks too small for me,” Clare ventured at last, her tone suggesting this was the least of the dress’s flaws.

  And it was, Gwen thought. Erica or the designer's team had slightly underestimated the girl's athletic build.

  “Only one way to find out,” came Erica’s singsong reply. She waggled the dress back and forth, her expression turning to one of impatience the longer her daughter stayed silent. “Just try it on, for my sake,” she urged, giving Clare a little push towards the dressing room. “You might change your mind when you see how it looks in the mirror.”

  Gwen doubted this, watching the teenager’s shoulders slump as she hung the pastel pink back in place. Holding the plum gown at arm’s length, she carried it to the nearest vacant dressing room. When the door had firmly closed, blocking her from their sight, Gwen turned back to face her client.

  “You know,” she began, “that dress is very striking, I agree—-but I’m not sure that Clare feels the same way. In fact, I’m fairly certain she prefers a…well, a subtler look. And a look that's her own.”

  Erica frowned. “Bold color is exactly what she needs, though," she answered. "And I'm not saying this only because I want her to be part of my wedding. She needs something to brighten her up, and to make her stand out, especially since she refuses to wear anything but the most basic kind of makeup.” She made a face at the thought, taking out her compact to check on her own flawless complexion as they waited outside the dressing room.

  This was often the hardest part of a wedding planner’s job: Making sure none of the parties involved got their feelings crushed on the couple’s way to the aisle. Gwen had learned to soothe many a mother-of-the-bride’s complaint and helped resolve conflicts between future in-laws. Bridesmaids dresses were often a point of contention, but this situation with Clare was different somehow. More was at stake here than someone having to wear a dress they hated for a few hours, but Gwen didn’t know how to convey that to her client.

  “So,” Erica said, dabbing on some lip gloss, “I’ve been dying to ask how things went with the groomsmen interviews. We’ll be running the questionnaires through a computer database for ideal matches, but I wondered about your initial impression.”

  Where to start? Gwen couldn’t see herself relating the incidents with the partygoer, or the soap opera actor who set his flirtatious sights on the bride herself. Instead, she told her, “I couldn’t really say, I’m afraid. It was such a chaotic process, there wasn’t much time to form an impression.” And too humiliating to linger on, she added silently, with a shudder at the memory of fame-hungry men lining the block for their chance at a little publicity.

  “That’s all?” Erica snapped her compact shut, an irritated look on her face. “I kind of assumed you would have a natural instinct about it. Since you’re a coordinator and all.”

  Gwen didn’t have to answer this, since her client’s
cell phone buzzed at that moment. Answering it, Erica said, “Yes? That’s right, six a.m. No, at my office building—that’s right. Fine.” She hung up just as Clare opened the door to the dressing room.

  Small, much too small. Gwen could the girl had forced her shape into the wrong-size gown meant for an hourglass figure, the zipper not quite reaching the top. More importantly, however, Clare looked incredibly unhappy, eyes downcast, teeth biting her lip as she waited for a verdict.

  Erica surveyed the effect with a slight frown. “It’s a little small. But we can have that altered, of course. The designer is probably someone I know, anyway, so there shouldn’t be any problem getting them to make the changes.”

  I'm definitely sure you know him, Gwen thought. Stop pretending, Erica.

  “Yes, but, Erica….” Gwen fumbled for a delicate way to phrase her next observation. Finally giving up on the charade, she said, “Don’t you think it’s a little too similar to the bridesmaids’ dresses?"

  Why avoid the issue any longer? There was no need to be delicate — couldn't she just state the obvious, that this dress was identical, and that Clare's comfort with her role in the wedding was being totally disregarded?

  Her client smiled. “That’s even better, isn’t? It’ll be like Clare is a bridesmaid, after all.” She smiled, squeezing her daughter’s shoulder in a half-hug. "Maybe if you'd change your mind — there's still time, Clare. And wouldn't it be amazing, you standing up there beside my friends and colleagues on my big day? How many of your classmates would love to say they were a bridesmaid in a wedding with a model like Tara Louise? Or a makeup consultant like Dashia Striver?"