“Claire?” a voice calls out my name from across the shop.
I’m sitting at a small table in the corner of the agreed-upon Starbucks, five minutes past our appointment time. Part of me is worried that I didn’t correctly jot down the precise Starbucks where Melissa and I are to meet. It’s Seattle, birthplace of the Mecca of coffee shops. Trying to describe the location of a specific Starbucks is like when I try to explain to Conner the difference between green and teal. There are so many shades in between that specificity (and visual aids) are absolutely required.
At the call of my name, however, I’m pretty sure I heard Melissa right and am at the correct Starbucks. So I wave my hand in the air and try to get her attention.
Melissa sees me and heads my way, a venti beverage in her hand, her long, platinum hair swaying as she cheerfully bounces over.
“Hi!” she says in a voice that’s more syrupy than my own—and I have a sugary-sounding voice. “I’m Melissa Cresswell!” She’s pumping my hand vigorously, flashing an equally strong smile filled with very straight and white teeth. “Of MC Design and Coordination. MC for Melissa Cresswell.” She does a one-arm shrug, still pumping my hand. “And MC for, like, Master of Ceremonies.”
We exchange pleasantries, and I am intrigued as she efficiently pulls a pale pink legal pad and matching pen from her handbag. Straight to the point. I like it. Melissa Cresswell of MC Design and Coordination just has to pan out. My faith in wedding perfection has been restored!
“So, you said your wedding is set for August sixteenth of this year, and that you want a very vintage-type, 1920s-style wedding theme, correct?” She’s somehow smiling while she talks.
I nod my head excitedly and fill her in on details, like the bird theme, the number of bridesmaids and groomsmen (four’s a well-rounded number), in addition to the maid of honor, Sophie, and the best man, Chad. And then I spill the beans about the venue, the deposit, the sudden need for a Lutheran church, and one, preferably, that can be bettered by some burlap and tulle. (No, I can’t drop that topic yet.)
I gush on and on about my wedding vision for an entire hour, in the process downing two tall pumpkin spice lattes. Why I don’t just settle for one venti or a middle-ground grande, I’ll never know. It’d be a smarter move financially, but I think small portions like talls, regardless of the number of talls, is far healthier. I sometimes even parcel them up throughout the day. It’s far healthier that way.
“This is definitely doable,” Melissa says sanguinely.
Her words don’t only ring with confidence, but her face says she can conquer my wedding troubles.
“Oh, good,” I say, sinking back into the hard, wooden chair. “I’m so happy to hear this.”
Melissa finishes writing something on her pad—it has to be her fourth or fifth sheet—and pulls her silky hair into a ponytail. “I’m going to make sure you have your dream wedding.” She sips her beverage, though it looks like it’s fully drained by now. “I won’t sleep until you are one hundred percent satisfied with your wedding.”
I tell her that this is music to my ears. “The other coordinators I interviewed,” I say to her, lowering my voice, “they did not instill this kind of confidence in me.”
Melissa looks proud of herself. I continue, saying, “I think this will work out. I’m really excited about working with you. So…” I fumble in my purse for my wallet. “…deposit? Contract? Where can I sign on the dotted line?”
I produce my tattered Coach wallet and instantly Melissa sings, “Looove that. Is it vintage?”
I stifle a chuckle because while it might look vintage with its well-worn look about it, the truth of the matter is that it’s old. Old, used, and it’s taken a beating, but I can’t fathom parting with it, no matter how ragged or “vintage” it looks, and not just because it’s only one of two Coach items I actually own.
“It was a gift from my fiancé Conner for our first-year anniversary,” I tell Melissa, who has her hand out and is beginning to fondle the piece.
“A man who has designer taste,” she says.
“It’s a sweet story, actually,” I say, turning the wallet upright. A grin plays my lips.
“Tell me, girl!” Melissa says cheerfully. She sits back comfortably in her chair, posture exceptional, and folds her arms across her chest. “Tell me about this sweet story about the anniversary gift, how you two met, fell in love, the proposal…” She abruptly sits up taller and clasps her hands together. “How long have you been together? When did you know he was the one? Oh, dish! I love girl talk!”
“Well,” I say, “As for the anniversary gift. Conner saved up for this.” I lift the faded tan wallet up a few inches. “I’d been eying it all throughout freshman year in college, but couldn’t gather the nerve to splurge on it. It was such a sweet gesture, because Conner knew I wanted it so badly, and he had to make a real effort in saving for it.
“Maybe a wallet isn’t necessarily that super-romantic gift that a girl gets from the love of her life, even if it is from Coach.” I set the wallet down and give it a light pat.
“It’s a piece you never leave home without,” Melissa adds in. “It’s the perfect gift!”
“Exactly!” I exclaim. Melissa totally gets it; we’ll get on just fine, I have a feeling.
“But Conner did pull a classic romantic move not even six months into our relationship,” I say.
Melissa’s eyes grow wide and she nods excitedly. “Dish, dish!”
“Actually,” I say. “Let’s start from the beginning.” I lean further into the table.
“When boy meets girl! Ooo, yes, let’s!” Melissa cries, then hungrily sips on her straw.
I launch into the story of how Conner and I met. It was the first or second week of our freshman year at the University of Washington (what we alumni call UDub), and I was sitting alone in the cafeteria. I had met Sophie and Robin at our freshman orientation camp because we were in the same group. That’s when I’d met Lara then, too, because she was our camp counselor. But it being so early on in the semester, and with our mismatching schedules, three days a week I found myself eating lunch alone at the obscure hour of eleven o’clock.
Then, one day, a very cute (and nervous) guy came up to my booth, plunked down his lunch tray, and said, “I’m Conner.” He took a seat across from me and smiled an unforgettable smile—the smile he still flashes when I know he’s thinking about me and only me and has no worry or care about work or the TV or…anything. He asked if I wouldn’t mind him eating with me, because “a pretty girl like yourself should never eat alone.”
A couple of days later and about two dates under our belts, we were an item. Kismet, I suppose. The girls say it was our fate to meet in that cafeteria. Two loners one morning who were destined to find each other, fall sickeningly in love, and eventually get married and have a happy family.
A year into the relationship, Conner gifted me my now-tattered wallet, and six months in he had surprised me with a piece of jewelry that I adore as much as my engagement ring. It’s a simple gold necklace with a heart-shaped locket. Inside is a single photo of the two of us.
“That is the sweetest love story ever!” Melissa gushes, her “ever” said in a valley-girl accent.
I roll the locket between my thumb and index finger and say in my best valley-tone, “It took him forever to propose, but when he did, it was romantic and perfect. And about damn time!”
Melissa and I giggle like schoolgirls—or valley girls, probably. After squaring away payment and a few other matters, the two of us leave the coffee shop with expectations and sales goals met. I’ve been relieved of the overwhelming stress of wedding planning, having just signed the dotted line.
I’m sure I’m Melissa’s only summer wedding on her fresh books, but I bet she’s ecstatic to have a client whose father is willing to cover the cost, whatever the cost! So long as I find a darn church.
Well, that’s Melissa’s job now. She’s headed out to work on that task. In the meantime,
I’m going to swing by Sophie’s work-in-progress. I’m curious what the future café looks like. Will there be rubble all over the floor from the walls she had knocked down? Will there already be kitchen appliances? What about the storefront!
I can only imagine how adorable it will look when it finally becomes real. Sophie will have a big display of cupcakes, maybe even free samples to taste. She’ll have a really fancy coffee machine. She’ll probably have super-cute aprons designed, and maybe she’ll even wear a big, poofy chef hat. She’ll be all entrepreneurial and successful, and, well, I’ll have gained twenty pounds from sampling all of the scrumptious desserts, naturally.
I unlock the front passenger door of my car and crawl in over the seat and the gear shift. When I finally get into my seat behind the wheel, I lean over to close the passenger door. I’m Claire Linley, and this is Claire Linley’s car, and I’m not ashamed. I love my Corolla. She’s seen me through a lot since I first got her my senior year in high school. She’s taken probably two dozen trips between Oregon and Washington state, and while she’s getting up there in numbers (both years and mileage), she’s a super trooper, and I can’t let her go. Not yet. Buying or even leasing a car requires a lot of money, and so long as my car can get me from point A to point B within some realm of reliability, I see no reason to cash her in.
Besides, it’s only in very low temperatures or snowy weather that the driver’s door seizes up and becomes completely useless, like today. I figure it’s better that it stays shut rather than refuse to close. You always have to look at the glass half full, you know? I’m learning that now more than ever as I face a monstrous wedding…and a car that’s slowly starting to crumble before my eyes.
I didn’t want to tell Conner, but last night when I got off work, my car’s back windows wouldn’t roll up. I sat in the parking garage for over twenty minutes messing with the stupid windows. See, I read somewhere that if you roll down your windows and blast your heater in freezing temperatures, your heater will become warm faster. But the heater didn’t get any warmer any faster than usual, and my windows got stuck for a long, panicked time.
Halfway home I reflected on that supposed “get heat quickly” article I’d read and started to wonder if that had something to do with the air conditioner and the summer instead…
I’m always reading really interesting articles or tidbits of information intended to better or de-stress your life. I especially love those articles that lend a helping hand in the diet and healthy living departments. Trouble is, I’ve read so many of them I sometimes confuse their subject matter and advice. Oh well; it doesn’t matter.
The car windows were stuck, and only once the car sprang forth into full heat mode did they finally roll back up. From now on those babies will stay shut until summer rolls around.
As I pull into the parking lot of the future The Cup and the Cake, I see Sophie bundled in a heavy brown jacket, the fur-lined hood pulled on, and she’s pointing in all directions to a small crew of construction workers.
“Hey!” I say cheerfully as I emerge from the passenger side.
Sophie turns towards me and breaks out in laughter. “Girl!” she cries. “You still haven’t fixed that door?” She envelopes me in a hug, then says I have to get inside to see the progress.
“You want a cup of coffee?” she offers, as we enter the large space.
As I figured, there’s drywall, pieces of wood, nails, and tools of all types splayed about the floor. It smells like paint and wood—the smell of construction—although Sophie insists she’s at least a month away from even considering paint. Right now it’s all about hanging drywall, and that’s only after she makes her final decision on keeping or knocking out certain walls.
Sophie refills her mug from one of the thermoses of coffee perched upon a makeshift table of wooden planks. She’s about to pour me a cup, but I tell her that I’m caffeined-out for the moment.
“The planner meeting go well?” she asks, grinning excitedly.
“Signed the contract,” I say, holding up my hand for a high-five. “So give me a tour of this place.”
“We’re going with the pony wall idea,” Sophie says, pointing at the wall in question. “I thought about it—slept on it—and I think it’s a really quaint feature. Something cute, you know?”
I nod in agreement.
“It could be a nice place to put business cards or fliers or something to help advertise other small businesses.” She looks back at me quickly, expectantly. “But in a classy, no-mess kind of way,” she says.
“Of course.”
Then she takes me behind the counter—though there’s no counter to speak of yet—where the cash register and a big refrigerator display case will be, and maybe a small, counter-top fridge off to the side, too.
“And here!” Sophie says, pointing in this area’s corner. “Here is where the coffee machine will go. I just ordered it. A-ma-zing!” She gives me a thumbs up. “A gift from my grandpa. A little investment present. Ohh, Claire.” She clasps her hands together and sighs. “It’s going to look so amazing when it’s all done.” Then her expression changes to one of gloom. “I just hope the business doesn’t tank.” She juts out her bottom lip and her eyes turn down. “I’m kind of scared. It’s a risk opening up your own business.”
“It’ll be perfect, Sophie,” I tell her. “Believe in yourself. We all believe in you.”
Sophie’s a confident, hard-working, and determined woman. She’s pushed on through tough times when they’ve come up, and she has these really industrious goals. There’s no doubt she can do it with the drive she’s got. But sometimes she can be a negative Nelly and it brings her down. It’s like she knows deep down she can do it, and she sure as hell wants to, but somehow she gets caught up in what-ifs and what-about-this thoughts or can-you-imagine-this scenarios, and, well, she’s not doing anyone any favors. I better understand where she’s coming from, what with the stress of planning a wedding and all now, but it’s still no way to go about life, you know?
“Be positive, Sophie,” I tell her. I motion for her to continue with the tour.
“Right!” she says, hopping back into the tour guide role. “So that’s the cash machine…coffee…and…I’ll have the cupcake special up on a little tiered rack thing by the register.” She’s pointing at where I can picture all of the tasty delights on display. “Don’t you think that’d be a good idea? To show off the day’s specialties?”
“Oh, definitely!” I give Sophie a side hug. “This place will be amazing.”
Chapter Four
I feel like I haven’t had a really good girls’ night in forever. Definitely not since the new year rolled around. It’s nearly February, and for the six of us girls—seven if we count Robin’s little baby bundle, Rose—our lack of a girls’ night at this point is unforgivable. So I rang up everyone and insisted that I host a laid-back kind of night.
Girls’ nights are sometimes at a bar or a favorite club, but with baby Rose sometimes along for the ride, it’s usually the other kind of girls’ nights, which are just as fun. I love the nights when we all crowd into the living room and turn on a movie, and attempt to actually watch it but only end up chattering over the entire thing. Then, when the credits scroll by, we always say, “Wow! That was a short one.”
There’s always a good time to be had. We spend most of it exchanging gossip, chatting about work or our love lives (or lack thereof), our hopes, dreams, and of course the latest kerfuffle on The Bachelor. Add in a few mixed drinks or even a good old-fashioned sleep over, and we have ourselves a fun girls’ night.
Since Robin wants to give her boyfriend, Bobby, a break from babysitting Rose, seeing how she’s often been charging him with that duty while she’s out and about for all-things-wedding, it’s a stay-in kind of girls’ night. And it’s really ideal that we all stay in tonight, because I need to get serious about the various wedding décor I need to make.
I’ve found so many neat ideas on Pinterest (too many, I’
m afraid), and I’ve barely begun a fraction of the projects. I think it would be nice to send all of the wedding guests home with little jars of homemade jam. Isn’t that a cute idea? I think so. And so does Martha Stewart. And since she’s my idol and does no wrong (except for that whole house arrest shenanigan), I still have at least one hundred jars of jam to make.
Granted, I now have Melissa as my go-to girl, but she’s not exactly hired to make all of the little gift bags or decorative items I want.
Tonight, though, I’m going to see if the girls wouldn’t mind helping me press out little bird confetti pieces. I found this really neat cutout doo-dad that creates that special touch of vintage bird design I’m looking to add to the wedding. I’m not exactly sure what I’ll do with all of them, or where all of the pesky pieces of paper will look best, but once I have them then the inspiration can come.
I hear a car pull up in the drive, and Schnickerdoodle starts to bark.
“Calm down,” I tell him. He keeps barking incessantly.
I peek through the front room blinds and watch as Jackie nearly tumbles out of her new, shiny black Mercedes, grabbing a brown paper bag from the trunk. The headlights flicker as she locks the car.
“Hey, you!” I greet from a crack I’ve made through the front door. Schnickerdoodle is still barking.
“Hey!” Jackie screeches.
“Schnicker!” I scold. He briefly stops his cacophonous spasm of canine duty, then begins another chorus. I pick him up and push the front door open wide.
“Sorry,” I tell Jackie. The moment Schnickerdoodle realizes the so-called intruder is only Jackie, he likens to her and starts to wag his stubby tail.
When Girlfriends Chase Dreams Page 4
