I beg to differ, however. See, my brilliant and charming and very in-tune-with-me boyfriend—I mean, fiancé— proposed in a very Hollywood-esque way. I’m a huge Diane Keaton fan, and one of my all-time-favorite films is Something’s Gotta Give. Conner knows this. He’s had to sit through this well-worn DVD more than a dozen times. So what did Conner do last July? He not only surprised me with a trip to Paris, and he not only popped the question right there in the most romantic city in the world (and I totally did not see that one coming!), but he did so with my favorite Hollywood moment in mind. He got down on bended knee on the romantic Pont d’Arcole, right where Diane Keaton and Jack Nicholson meet at the end of Something’s Gotta Give. It was so romantic. Like something straight…well, straight out of the movies!
So you see, magical Hollywood moments can come true, which is why I’m a firm believer that my Franck Eggelhoffer is out there. And, if all else fails, would it be so strange to find Martin Short and ask him to play the part for me?
“Claire’s already met with two of the planners,” Mom answers Robin.
“And?” Jackie asks.
“Not up to snuff,” Mom replies with a simple shrug.
“What was so wrong with them?” Robin takes a sip of her water. “Too expensive?”
“It’s not the money,” I say. Luckily, my father has offered to foot the entire bill for the wedding, with some help from Mom, too. My parents had planned since my and my sister’s births to be prepared to cough up bridal bounty. Seeing how they did so with Maggie’s wedding last summer, it’s my turn now.
Conner and I were elated when Dad gave the official confirmation that we were to send all the bills his way. What a relief! Conner and I both have decent enough jobs and live well enough, but we could never fathom paying for a beautiful wedding with more than one hundred guests. Going to Paris was a huge deal, and it did cost a pretty penny. But that’s not an every-day kind of thing. It’s not like, left to our own devices, we could plan a wedding menu that didn’t have the words “sandwich” or “cash bar” on it. I mean, just take a look at my age-old car. And I just know that Dad would not be happy if his youngest daughter was feeding her guests (some of whom are his high-end clients and colleagues) microwavable mac and cheese.
“If it’s not the money, then what is it?” Jackie asks.
I tell the girls that one of the two planners with whom I’d met was very pompous. He had an air about him like he was better than me and that—as he was practically buffing his nails—he had planned “far bigger, far more elaborate, and far more challenging weddings than mine!” (Yeah, that’s a way to sell yourself.)
Not to mention the woodsy Elton John NEST candle that he burned in his office was really making me nauseous. (Up until that point, I never knew Sir Elton had branched out from the music world into an overpowering home fragrant line. What do you know? Learn something new every day.) Anyway, I had to leave. So that was planner number one down the drain.
As for the other planner, she told me that I would need to be just as involved in the wedding coordination and design as she, and that we should look at our relationship as a partnership. A team. And after I asked what exactly I was paying her for, I told her thanks but no thanks, and left, feeling dismal about the entire prospect of handing off a ton of my wedding stress to someone who was, supposedly, more capable. Two planners down, one to go.
“That’s really too bad,” Lara says. “Maybe this third one will work out?”
“Yeah!” Sophie chimes in. “I bet she’ll be perfect.”
“She better be.” I munch on some more fries. “She’s my last hope. I can’t keep spending time searching for planners. This wedding will be here before we know it.”
“You can always change the date if you need to,” Emily offers. “Give yourself more time.”
I hold up my hand and wag my index finger. “Conner and I’ve already changed the date like a zillion times,” I say. “There’s no way we’re changing it again. Besides, the Save-the-Dates have been sent, and I already pre-ordered invitations. August sixteenth is the day, for better or for worse.”
“I think the next planner will be the perfect fit,” Mom says encouragingly. She pats my arm and smiles. “She just has to be!”
“Yeah, she has to be.”
Chapter Two
After taking Mom to the airport that Sunday afternoon, I come home, seeking refuge from what started as a light dusting of snow but quickly became a full-on storm. I’d stuck around the airport to make sure her flight could take off and safely make it back home to an equally snowy Oregon.
I wish my mom and I lived closer, especially in the midst of wedding planning. Although I miss my small hometown of Sisters, Oregon on occasion, Seattle has been home since I moved here for college. And it is definitely home, because Conner and I have made these four walls a very comfortable and inviting three-bed and two-bath residence, right here at 1247 Parker Lane. In a very quiet Madison Park neighborhood, surrounded by beautiful parks, which are ideal for those routine walks with our Jack Russell Terrier mix, Schnickerdoodle.
“I’m home!” I call out. I flip on the living room lights. “Anyone home?”
Conner’s truck is in the drive, so either he’s hidden away in another part of the house or he’s out with one of his buddies—most likely his best friend, Chad Harris. They’re probably getting themselves into some sort of trouble—driving recklessly in a vacant, snow-covered parking lot with Chad’s souped-up truck, or bowling and beering their minds away, or watching some testosterone-amped film.
“Conner?” I call out. Or maybe he’s out walk— He’s not walking the dog; Schnickerdoodle comes racing from one of the back bedrooms and immediately starts to jump up and down at my feet. I greet him and give him a good rubbing behind the ears. “Where’s Daddy? Huh? Where’s Daddy?”
“Daddy’s here!” Conner’s leaning against the wall at the end of the hall, grinning and still wearing his pajamas.
We kiss hello and I can’t help but tease him about his choice of clothing.
“I’ve been making major progress,” he asserts himself. “Come on.” He takes my hand and leads me into one of the spare bedrooms that we use as an office; although, as of late it’s been Wedding Central, with yards upon yards of burlap and tulle wadded up in one corner and covering my sewing table. I’m working on some fabulous drapes for the wedding décor. It’s going to look amazing!
“Now it’s just the beginning,” Conner says. He takes a seat in the plush swivel chair and fiddles with the computer’s mouse. “It’s still a work-in-progress, but I think it’s really coming along.” He turns to me and points at the screen, which is vibrantly colored with the familiar squared sequences of cartoon events.
“Nice,” I compliment.
When Conner’s not busily working in front of the screen where he works as an accountant downtown, he’s having fun making his own comic strips. It’s his artistic release; and since before we met, he’s either been sketching cartoon characters or creating impressive storyboards on-screen.
He’s really quite good, and I’m not just saying that because he’s my boy—I mean, fiancé. Gosh, that’s still so hard to believe even after all these months of being engaged! Conner could probably take his skills to a local newspaper—get a regular daily feature or something—and see where it could go from there. But anytime I mention it, Conner casually shrugs and says, “Nah.”
If he didn’t love his job crunching numbers so much (and if cartooning were a guarantee of a nice pay), I would think he’d try to turn his hobby into a career. He insists, however, that keeping it at hobby level is a big part of its appeal. It’s a fun form of artistic expression and something to do when he chooses, never because of a deadline.
“It still needs a lot of work,” he says. “I’m not sure about the way I’ve made the frogs look. Almost too cartoony, you know?”
I nod sincerely, not really understanding how a comic can look “too cartoony,” but knowing t
hat he won’t stop the strip until it’s done to his satisfaction. I also know it’ll look awesome no matter what he decides.
One time, a few years ago, he was so hung up on how his femme fatale spoke—saying her dialect was too garbled for someone who was so one-track-minded and almost simplistic. He’d toyed around with her lingo from bubble to bubble in that particular story for months. Even though the strip wasn’t longer than four pages or so, it consumed more of his time than some of his much lengthier stories. So long as he enjoys the cartooning and has fun, I say he should go for it. And, of course, so long as he manages to set aside some time to lend a hand with all of the crazy wedding stuff.
I give him a kiss on his sandy-blonde head and tell him that I’m proud of him, but that I also think it’s about time to get dressed for the day. It is, after all—I glance at my watch—nearly one o’clock.
***
“How was the morning with your mom?” Conner calls out from the shower after I’ve managed to drag him away from the desk.
I tap my thighs, encouraging Schnickerdoodle to jump up onto my lap. He does so instantly, and I inch back comfortably onto the bed.
“It was great,” I shout. “Sad, as always, to say goodbye.”
“When’s she coming back?” Conner’s sudsing his head with shampoo, his words coming out all gurgled as the soapy water courses over his face.
“Not sure yet,” I say. Schnickerdoodle starts to lick my hand. “Maybe in a month or two.”
Mom is a physician’s assistant. She’s the sole breadwinner because she’s been a divorcee since I started college, so she can’t afford to skip out on work. I’m fortunate, though, that she’s been able to come up to help organize wedding details a few times since the news of the engagement.
“That’ll be nice,” Conner says. He turns off the shower and proceeds to towel dry. “What’d you two chat about?”
“Oh. The usual. Wedding this. Wedding that. She’s been a real help. You know, she may have found my wedding dress!”
Conner looks at me incredulously. “You still haven’t chosen one?”
“It’s not easy,” I whine. “You’re lucky you don’t have to deal with picking out the perfect ensemble. You’ve got it easy.”
He makes a psh sound and rapidly rubs the towel over his head.
“You do!” I insist. “Just a tux. Or a simple suit. And the worst of it is you have to pick a tie. But that’s also my job, really. Coordinating colors, styles, patterns…” Then a thought occurs to me that I’ve yet to even consider, because, as I’ve said before, planning a wedding is a big deal, and it seems like no amount of magazines, or checklists, or planning notebooks can help you think of everything. “What do you think of bowties?”
Conner gives me a deadpan look, as expected. I tell him to hear me out, and he goes back to rubbing out the water from his hair.
“Claire,” he says finally. “I don’t know about a bowtie. I know we’re going kind of 1920s old school or whatever for the wedding theme, but a bowtie for me? For Chad?” He laughs loudly. “I don’t know, babe. Could look ridiculous.”
I decide to brush it off for now and move on to the next matter that’s been weighing on my mind rather heavily since I hugged Mom farewell at the airport.
“Something else we chatted about,” I start up. “The venue.”
“What about it? We’re still doing the Mansfield Mansion or whatever it’s called?”
“Chanfield Manor,” I correct. “Yeah, that’s the problem.”
Conner raises his eyebrows. “Changed your mind?”
On the contrary. Chanfield Manor is one thing I’m certain about for this wedding. That and the groom, of course, and my four bridesmaids and maid of honor, and the vintage theme. Everything else is a come-along-as-it-does kind of thing. Chanfield Manor is this brilliant mansion up in the picturesque hills of Queen Anne. It’s in the neighborhood where all the richie-rich folks live. It’s more than a hundred years old and sits perched up on a hill, overlooking the beautiful city and Elliot Bay. It’s so stunning! Almost the second our plane touched down on return from Paris I called up Chanfield Manor and booked the place. They asked for a date, and that was when the wedding date marathon began.
Conner and I spent a few months trying to pinpoint the ideal date for our wedding, and we finally agreed on the seventh of June. Imagine a fresh, summer wedding, not too warm, nor too chilly. Outdoors. Sunshine filling up our day, an unforgettable dusk reception. Maybe even a dusk ceremony, too. All outdoors…
Then somewhere between spending countless hours on handmade Save-the-Dates with the perfect June date stamped on them and the arguments with both sets of parents over summer vacation, school terms, and ideal times to take off from work, Conner and I moved the wedding date to sometime in July. Then another time in July. Then once more back to the seventh of June. Until we finally decided on the sixteenth of August. No going back.
When August the sixteenth was agreed upon (and I told Conner to tell his twin brothers, Daniel and George, that they’d better find a way to be back from their study abroad session no matter what), I took my latest copy of Martha Stewart Weddings and filled my Judy’s Arts and Crafts shopping cart with all new Save-the-Date products. The second time around with that craft project I had had a vision and knew how to improve the design, so that was sort of a blessing in disguise.
Those replacement Save-the-Date cards were hand-stamped with the most darling bird image, and that was when I became adamant that “vintage” and “bird” would somehow become the theme for every aspect of the wedding. Maybe birdcages as part of centerpieces? Embossed on various paper products? Oooh! Name the reception tables after birds? There’s an idea!
Then I have to ask, should I use the Latin name of the bird species, or go with the everyday-English name that people would know? Then again, I’m not sure many people would know (much less be too keen on) why their assigned table was called “Rough-faced Shag.” Then again, opting for the Latin sister “Phalacrocorax carunculatus” isn’t much better. People could misconstrue that and think “phallus” or something. No. No, I’m not sure that much bird innuendo should be used. I could talk to the planner about that when I meet with her on Wednesday. God. See what I mean? This wedding stuff is overwhelming!
“Claire?” Conner asks. He’s waving his hand in front of my face.
“Huh?”
“You were saying?” He pulls on a pair of jeans. “You were talking about the venue. And?”
“Oh! Yes.” I snap back to the conversation at hand. “So get this.” I take in a dramatic breath both for effect and because, in all honesty, this is some of the most upsetting wedding news with which I’ve had to contend. “Mom said that my dad really wants a church wedding.” Conner doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “Dad told Mom that she needed to talk to me about our venue choice while she was here.” I pull Schnickerdoodle further up onto my lap. “Told her that she needed to tell me that it was a church wedding or else.”
“Or else what?”
“Or else…nothing. Mom said that since Dad’s paying for, well, pretty much the entire wedding, we should probably just appease him.” I roll my eyes.
“And what does your mom think of this?”
I lean back on my elbows and say, “She thinks it’s typical Dad. His usual BS for no reason.”
“I didn’t know your dad was so religious.” Conner looks at me with an inquisitive face.
“He’s not. That’s what makes it all so…so ridiculously absurd! I don’t know why he’s acting like this.”
Conner’s shaking his head in a small and discrete way, his hands crammed into his well-worn jeans’ pockets.
“She said Dad is adamant about it. Adamant,” I emphasize.
“And if we choose to stick with this Mansfield Manor?”
“Chanfield,” I correct. “If we stick with Chanfield for the ceremony then, yeah, he may not pay for the wedding.”
“All of it?” Conner looks like
he’s beside himself.
“I don’t know.” I cave my shoulders, feeling as forlorn as I had been when Mom hastily delivered the bad news practically as she boarded the plane. “At least the venue portion, maybe…”
I’m not sure, but knowing my Dad, who is so unpredictable when it comes to petty things like this, he could pull the plug on the whole thing.
“Forget it then,” Conner says dismissively. “If all that stands in between your father paying for this wedding is a lousy venue, then who cares?”
I follow Conner into the kitchen, and Schnickerdoodle trails along happily. “Conner, it’s not a lousy venue. It’s a dream venue.”
“Dream venue or not,” he says, “this wedding’s already estimated at forty grand.” He pulls open the cupboards and rifles around, setting boxes and bags on the Formica countertop.
“Thirty-two,” I say softly.
“Thirty-two, forty, how about ten,” he says. He tears into a bag of snacks. “It’s all the same. Too. Much.” He tosses a handful of crunchy snacks back, and I can’t help but sneak a few for myself.
Normally I’m pretty careful with what I eat. I totally understand the concept of snacks, but healthy ones. Like baked Cheetos and chips, or reduced-sugar Oreos, or fat free chocolate pudding cups. And, if I must have a soda (and since diet tastes bad, and I’ve read that artificial sweeteners are the precursor to the modern day plague), only half a Coke is suitable. Halving it is like a diet soda, right? Half the calories is better than all of them.
“I say we just do as your dad wishes on this one,” Conner says with a full mouth.
I hand back the box. “But it’s my dream location for a wedding, Conner.” I can’t let this one go. Giving up the ideal June wedding date was one thing, but having to spend so much more time on new Save-the-Dates was another. Even trying on scores of dresses, none of which were ideal, and one that had left a few unsightly scratches on my arms, was not as bad as letting go of Chanfield Manor. Chanfield Manor is ours—it has to be!
When Girlfriends Chase Dreams Page 2
