“Don’t you worry, Claire!” Melissa says. She sounds convincing, and the two large stars that she now sketches next to the reminder note do show some kind of proactive immediacy.
“Yeah,” Mom says, chirpily. She lovingly pats my leg under the table. “Don’t you worry, Claire.”
***
When Mom and I return home late afternoon, she sets about getting situated in the guest room. Schnickerdoodle is enthused to see Grandma Mary again, and he’s thrilled to share his bedroom with a woman who taught me all there is to know about dog-loving.
I already warned Mom on the way home that we had a busy evening ahead with glittering duties, and if we found the time she could help me start my bunting project. I haven’t done bunting since I was in high school, when I became quite obsessed with unique fabric patterns and how they looked, all torn into strips and displayed together in one big mesh of a curtain. It was a mindless task, so we could definitely chitchat and catch up while doing it.
Almost the instant we get home, I receive a callback from Sandy Sandivan, whom I’d contacted right after our meeting with Melissa. I really can’t believe that Conner and I’ve waited so long to book a photographer. All of the wedding blogs and magazines I’m consuming on a constant basis reiterate how important it is to book the venue and the photographer well ahead of time. Without those two vendors, you might as well call off the wedding. Yet somehow it just slipped by.
I take in a big breath of air before I answer the incoming call. I hope Sandy’s available to shoot our wedding. Gosh, I don’t even know if his work is any good. All I have to go off of at this point is Melissa’s golden recommendation and a few slow-loading portfolio photos I could pull up on my cell phone during the meeting.
But if Mr. Sandy Sandivan is in fact a great photographer, then we need to book him right away! I noticed while passing the Jack Russell Terrier calendar in the kitchen that tomorrow is March sixteenth. That means our wedding is exactly five months away! Eek! And still so much to do.
I stop daydreaming and finally answer the phone. “Hello, this is Claire.”
“Claire,” says a chipper voice on the other end, “Sandy Sandivan here. I hear you’re looking for a wedding photographer in August.”
I’m crossing my fingers, literally. Please be free, please be free…
When Sandy says, still in a very chipper voice, that he is indeed available on our date, I almost leap into the air I’m so overcome with excitement and relief.
In a flash, Sandy and I make an appointment for Conner and I to meet with him tomorrow afternoon. Absolutely no time to waste.
Before I can think a step further, or even consider asking Conner, who’s only down the hall in the office, if he can make an appointment tomorrow, I profusely thank Sandy, tell him that I’m looking forward to meeting him, and hang up.
“Yippee!” I scream, tossing my cell phone onto an empty chair in the living room. “Yippee! Yippee!”
Schnickerdoodle emerges at lightning speed from the back room and starts yapping. Mom peeks her head out the bedroom door and says, “What’s going on, dear?”
I rush to tell her the good news as Conner comes up from behind. He rests one hand on my back and I just about jump from surprise mixed in with too much excitement over our upcoming photography appointment.
“Conner!” I say loudly, turning to him.
“Claire!” he imitates in a high-pitched voice. He grins broadly.
“We have an appointment with the photographer tomorrow!” I clap my hands together. “Isn’t that great?”
“I didn’t know we had a photographer,” he says. His voice is calm.
“We don’t,” I say. “Well, not yet. But if all goes well tomorrow we might!”
“Everything will go well,” Mom reassures.
Conner looks confused now. “What’s going on tomorrow?”
“Oh, gosh,” I breathe, putting a hand to my forehead. “Great news! Melissa recommended two photographers and I’ve called them both. I made an appointment with one of them just now, for tomorrow. Tomorrow at one. Kay?”
“Excellent,” Mom says. She’s gone back to unpacking.
“Babe,” Conner says, looking crestfallen.
“What?”
“Why didn’t you check with me before you made an appointment?”
“It’s Sunday,” I point out. “What could you be doing on a Sunday? I assume you’re free…right?”
Conner sighs and brings a hand to the back of his neck. He starts to rub at it—a sure sign that there’s trouble ahead. He looks at me with imploring eyes. “Is there any way we can change the time?”
“What?” I look back at Mom, who now seems to be very engrossed in her unpacking. She can smell a little tiff in the making and, as is true to Mom’s nature, does not want to get involved. She’s probably mentally begging us to either stop the storm that’s a-brewin’ or take our business elsewhere.
Sensing my mom’s discomfort, I carefully nudge Conner back into the office. “Conner…”
“Babe,” he says under his breath, “Chad and some of the guys and I are going golfing.”
“What?” My face is long, mouth agape.
I know I can’t call up and change my appointment with Sandy. He just told me that he had only one appointment slot available tomorrow, and the next opportunity wasn’t until the following week. No, I can’t very well go and change it. Sandy might be our only hope of a top-notch wedding photographer. And, worse, what if he isn’t so great and I’ve wasted all this time waiting on a meeting a week away? No, we have an appointment tomorrow to check out his work. If it’s good, and the price is right, we’re signing him. No more procrastinating.
I explain all of this to Conner as softly and kindly as I can. I don’t want to make Mom uncomfortable, nor do I want to argue with Conner, again.
We usually don’t fight. Never anything very serious or traumatic. Never a kind of “sleep on the couch!” kind of thing. This morning we didn’t get off to a grand start, and now with the impending photographer fiasco I’m afraid our bumpy day’s path is getting bumpier.
“How’s this,” Conner says. He puts his hands on my shoulders. “Your mom is here. Leaves day after tomorrow, so is around all day tomorrow, right?” I nod. “How about you just enjoy her company and go to the meeting together?”
“But Melissa says this is a special bride and groom thing,” I counter.
“Look,” he gives a half-grin, “it’s either you and Mom tomorrow or we have to reschedule. We’ve made a tee time for one.”
“Can you cha—”
“No,” he says. “I’m not changing it for all the guys. We’ve been planning this game for a while, anyhow.” He gives me a quick kiss on the forehead and takes a seat in the chair at the desk. “Next time check with me, babe. That way we can avoid troubles like this.”
I roll my eyes, only in a playful kind of way, because I’m not angry with him. Only disappointed with the situation.
“Fine,” I say, feeling somewhat despondent.
Of course it’s great to spend time with my mom, and I’m sure we’ll have a great time together with Sandy tomorrow. She’ll be a really big help. But, gosh, it sure would be nice if Conner wanted to participate in more of the wedding planning. Especially in areas where he can help. He is the other half getting married, after all. You’d think he’d care a little bit about bunting and peonies and photography packages.
He did a fantastic job at proposing, but what does he think? The buck stopped there? Ring? Check. Proposal in Paris? Check. Now just point me in the direction of the altar.
“I love ya, Claire,” Conner says. He wheels around in the chair and blows me a kiss. “You two will have a great time. I’ll be at the next meeting.”
“With the photographer?” I say in a surly tone when he’s turned back to the computer screen.
“With whatever’s next.” He wheels round to me again. “Give me a heads up, that’s all.”
“Yeah,
okay then.” I turn on my heels. “Hear that, Mom?” I ask, joining her in her room. “Photography appointment. Tomorrow. Together. You up for it?”
She smiles sweetly and says, “I’m up for anything, Claire. If it’s wedding planning, I’m definitely up for it.”
She closes the nightstand drawer, then pushes her small overnight bag under the bed. Mom may only be able to come up for a few days or a short weekend now and then, but it’s such a joy when she does. Especially in pickles like these.
Chapter Nine
“Omigod!” Emily enthuses. She brings her impressive camera up to her eye and snaps another round of photos. “Wow!” She takes a look at the photos she’s just taken, then tells me to “hold it right there,” before snapping some more. “Fabulous.”
“Is the lighting what you wanted?” I ask, standing a few yards away in the middle of one of my favorite parks in my neighborhood, not too far from the Broadmoor Golf Club.
Conner and I come here often with Schnickerdoodle. It’s a great location to toss a Frisbee, lounge on a blanket, have a picnic, or even stare at the twinkling stars on a clear night.
Right now I’m with Emily taking practice shots for when we’ll do my bridal portraits in May. Oh my goodness! I’m having so much fun both fantasizing about my wedding day and getting to revel in all of the fun preparation. Minus the stressful parts.
I already have the actual wedding photographer chosen—Sandy Sandivan. Mom and I met with him, and his work was really stellar. His prices were a tad steep, but I’ve been finding a wide range of prices in my bridal magazines. When it comes to photographers, there just doesn’t seem to be a solid median.
I think it turned out well that Mom did come along to meet with Sandy, even though it would have been nice for Conner and Mom to come. Having Mom there was that extra reassurance I needed to sign the contract, because agreeing to pay a few thousand dollars in one fell swoop was a jagged pill to swallow.
Mom paid the deposit, and said that, as Martha and all of the bridal pros say, “Photographs are your best and most prized souvenirs from your wedding.” Mom also said, “A woman can’t remember all of the little moments on her special day, so she must have a greeeat photographer!”
“This lighting is fantastic,” Emily exclaims. She clicks another two photos, glances at them, takes a large step backwards, and snaps again.
“Oh, yes,” she says, snapping some more. “Oh, great!” More snaps. “Oh, this will be a great location!” She pops her head over the camera and flashes a quick smile. “I’m liking all of these fun poses, too.”
I won’t lie; I felt like a princess when I got my veil. And now I feel like a rockstar, posing for pre-portraits. It’s not a particularly busy time in the park, and thank goodness, because posing like I know what I’m doing (and probably looking like I clearly do not), is already difficult enough. I can’t imagine having an audience, however small.
I put one hand behind my head, tip my chin up a little, and give a sultry look. A real salacious expression, actually. Click goes the camera.
Emily chuckles. “We’re not doing boudoir shots, hon.”
I press my lips together and stifle a laugh. I dip my chin down in a more angelic way, and Emily gives out a yelp. “That’s it! Looking niiice!”
After she snaps a few more she stands up and says, “Excellent. I’ve got some great material here.” She walks over to me, thumbing through the photos. “Some good shots that I can look through so I know what poses work best when it comes time to shoot the real bridal portraits.”
In addition to this park, we tested some shots on a pier down by Elliot Bay, and even took some inside the botanical gardens. Emily called some people from her magazine and we got the place to ourselves for a short while. I only got to see some of the images on her small camera screen, but I’m positive that I want to do some bridal portraits in the gardens. So much vibrant color! Conner will love them. He’ll be so surprised!
“What do you say to coming over for a bit?” I ask Emily on the drive home. “Before manic Monday. A little hangout time?”
“Sounds good to me,” she says, heaving her large camera bag over one shoulder.
***
As Emily pulls up to the house, I notice Chad’s enormous truck parked in the drive.
Neither of the guys pay any attention to us when we arrive. They’re too engrossed in a loud video game where all I can make out are choruses of swear words and machine gun rounds that, really, never seem to cease.
“Oh, brother,” I say, shaking my head at Emily. “This game again.”
Emily giggles and nudges me further into the room. She and I plunk our bags onto the floor, and I ask Conner (why, I don’t know; I know not to expect a response) where Schnickerdoodle is. Usually the pup is dashing to the door whenever someone’s arriving.
“Hey!” I scream, trying to make myself heard over the cacophony of video game violence. “Hey!”
The battle sounds come to a very brief pause only as the game spawns, and I repeat my question.
“Dunno,” Conner says without so much as peeling his eyes from the screen. He makes a sideways kissing motion and sound, then says a quick, “Hi.”
Emily and I exchange weak grins and dodge into the kitchen. We increase speed as we cross in front of the TV, because Conner and Chad start to shout obscenities to “get out of the way!” in almost as violent of ways as those coming from the game.
“Jeez!” I sigh. I give a scowl at the boys, but it doesn’t matter. Their eyeballs are glued to the screen, like their asses are glued to the couch.
“Hopeless,” Emily says, flipping through a Fossil catalogue that’s resting on the kitchen counter alongside the day’s mail.
“Pathetic is more like it.” I rifle through the mail. “I don’t understand how they can sit there and listen to that racket. It’s so loud and violent and…doesn’t it just make them angry?”
“I suppose it’s like us girls feeling the need to go shopping,” she suggests. “They enjoy it—for whatever reason—and can’t help themselves.” She licks the tip of one of her heavily bejeweled fingers and flips a page.
“Well, they certainly helped themselves to the kitchen,” I mutter, as I spot the empty bag of chips on the counter. There’s a trail of crumbs spilling from its mouth, pooling on the counter, and there are even some on the floor. My stocking-clad feet crunch on them by accident, and I groan. “Dammit!”
“Chill,” Emily says smoothly.
“Conner!” I shriek. I try to shake the crunched chips from the bottom of my socks. “Can’t you clean up after yourself? God, you’d think Schnicker would have been in here attacking this feast.”
Emily claims a sponge from the sink and starts to wipe up the mess. “Don’t blow a gasket, Claire,” she says. “It’s only a little mess here.”
“It’s the principle of it all, Em.” I continue to grouse, then scream out Conner’s name again.
All he has to say in return is, “Love ya, babe.”
Emily is laughing softly, finishing the quick clean up job.
“So not funny,” I say, only partially serious. “Where is that dog actually?” I pan around, no dog in sight. “Ugh. In an everyday kind of way, this probably wouldn’t bug me. Not so much.”
“What do you mean ‘in an everyday kind of way?’ Isn’t today like any other day?” Emily tosses the sponge into the sink.
“No,” I say incredulously. “I’m knee-deep in wedding planning. Conner leaving messes like this… It—it—well, it just makes me mad. It causes me stress, and it’s inconsiderate.”
“Take a gigantic chill pill, honey,” Emily says. “Weddings are supposed to be fun. Planning them should be at least a little fun, too. Fun times. Kay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I dismiss. “That’s what I hear all the time. Conner just needs to step it up a little more, that’s all. And,” I point an index finger, “I’m not his maid.”
Emily gives a shrug and I call out, “Schnicker! Sch
nicker, where are you?”
Just now the answer to my question becomes crystal clear. Or should I say glitter clear? Schnickerdoodle is standing a few feet away, covered—I mean covered—in gold glitter. I don’t mean a collection of flecks here or a light dusting on the coat. I mean nose to tail covered in heaps and splotches of shiny, gold glitter.
“What…the…hell?” I bend down to my sparkling puppy and pick him up. “Emily! Look at him!”
Emily gasps, asks what Schnicker got himself into, and that’s when I bellow.
“Conner! Conner Douglas Whitley!” I set Schnickerdoodle back down and charge into the living room. “Conner!”
Seeing how he’s still absorbed in the game, I choose to follow the trail of glitter that’s coming from Schnickerdoodle’s place in the kitchen, at the feet of Emily, and trailing all the way into the dining room, down the hall, and into the office. Straight into the office. Where…
My bags of project glitter are emptied! Their contents are splayed all over the place. Everywhere I look there’s gold. Gold covering the floor. Glitter coating the office chair. And—gasp!—gold glitter all over my beautiful bunting project. And—oh no!—the burlap and tulle! All glittered!
I can’t do anything but heave and sigh shakily. Not only is the office turned upside down, and the prospect of cleaning it is definitely too much to bear, but my glitter! My pretty glitter. My art project is ruined! Oh, and the bunting that Mom and I had worked so hard on—it’s all covered in damn glitter! Glitter, glitter, glitter!
I cautiously move to my sewing table and do nothing but stare, mouth wide open, at the pile of tulle and burlap that has tiny pieces of glitter in all of the crevices. I know it will never come out—not unless I take a shop vac to this baby, and that would be the end of the fabric, for sure. Oh dear. No. The drapes are ruined. Ruined!
“What is—” Emily comes into the room. “Oh, shit.”
When Girlfriends Chase Dreams Page 11
