But now, here we are again, getting all uppity with one another and arguing about stupid stuff—like Fourth of July at Chad’s parents’. We shouldn’t even be having this argument. It’s just not the ideal time or place, and I wish Conner would let it go, just like I let the dirty laundry go. We have much more important things on the agenda—things far more pressing than a weekend of booze and sun at the lake.
“Claire!” Conner’s voice is slightly raised. “What is this ‘little problem’ that’s snowballing, huh? If you don’t tell me what’s going on, then how can I help?”
“Oh you can’t help with that. Forget it.”
“Same old story. Can’t help, can’t help, can’t help,” he says in a mocking tone. “I don’t get you, Claire. You’re acting bitchy for nothing. Relax, dammit.” He looks back in the mirror. “I’m only talking about doing something for the holidays. Sheesh.”
“Fine. You can just go without me, if you want, Conner,” I say curtly. “I’m sick of arguing about every damn little thing, so just go without me. Whatever.” I pad out of the room.
Following a few paces behind, he says, “I’m sick of arguing, too, Claire. This wedding is really hurting our relationship here. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we never used to fight. We’re always open with each other. Now I don’t know what! What’s going on? Huh? What?”
I clench my jaw and fists and glare at him.
“Come on. Why so bitchy?” His voice is registered calm once more.
“Ugh!” I stomp into the living room. “I’m not bitchy, I’m stressed. And a weekend out will cause even more stress!”
“But shopping with your friends today is okay? Can’t have a holiday, but you can spend your time shopping?”
“For your information, the shopping we’re doing today is to fix a wedding problem.”
“Aww, the secret problem.” He’s back to mocking me. “This damn wedding is totally changing you, Claire. It’s making you a panicked, negative, and stressed out person. How bad can this problem really be? Wouldn’t you say getting sued was a big-ass deal?” He raises his eyebrows, as if expecting me to actually dignify this attack with a response.
“Fine,” I heave. All of this fighting is starting to give me a headache, not to mention it’s really eating at a chunk of my time. I should have been out the door and on the way to meet Emily five minutes ago.
I rashly decide to screw the wedding blog and magazine advice about keeping such secrets from your groom. I’m sure if advice was to be dispensed about what to do when it came to arguing and keeping traditional wedding secrets, “Brides and Belles” and Modern New York Bride would tell me to quickly raise the white flag of surrender and just spill the nasty wedding gown details. Anything to stop all of this wretched fighting.
I rub the bridge of my nose and close my eyes. Besides, isn’t the main point that our relationship more important and more special than some stupid old traditions?
I open my eyes, feeling a sudden sense of exhaustion wash over. Still so much to do today—there is no time to feel tired.
“Look,” I say rigidly. “If this will help ease the tension and bickering… It’s my wedding dress.” I listlessly flip the lock open on the front door. “Alterations screwed things up, so Em and I are trying to figure something out. It’s basically a disaster.”
He doesn’t say anything, but his face says enough.
“So, that’s what I’m ‘shopping’ for.” I push a tangled lock of curls from my face, aggravated, and yank open the door.
“Sorry, Claire.”
“Yeah, me too, Conner.” I fish for my keys in the purse that totally doesn’t match my outfit. It’s a yellow bag with black polka dots. On second thought, I don’t even know why I bought this bag—it’s kind of hideous. “Whatever, I’ve gotta go.” I step onto the porch.
“I love you,” Conner says in a low voice. “I hope it works out.”
“Yeah. Me too. Me too.”
***
“Hello?” I answer my ringing cell phone right as I pull up to one of my favorite bookstores, Randy’s, where I’m going to meet Emily.
The first few minutes of my drive I realized I was white-knuckling it, so frustrated that Conner and I are so out of sync. But then a really cheerful song came on over the radio, and the sun is out, I’m wearing flip-flops, and I am on my way to meet with a best friend to go shopping. Oh, and I realized my fingers were tingling due to lack of proper blood flow, so…my mood’s much better now. Just needed to get out of the hostile environment.
“Claire? John here,” the voice responds over the phone. “John Wharton.”
“John,” I gasp, delighted to hear from my attorney. Oh listen to me. So official. (Okay, having a lawyer, given the situation, isn’t really so glitzy and glamorous, but it still sounds so prestigious, don’t you think?)
“I’m running ragged so I’m going to make this brief and to the point,” he says.
“Excellent.”
Please be good news. Please be good news.
“First thing’s first—your case is dismissed.”
Yes! I almost shout out.
“Your contract simply isn’t enforceable by a court of law,” John continues. “I’ve spoken with Gildroy, Gipps, & Bishop—Melissa’s attorneys—and we’ve agreed on a settlement.” I sigh with relief, and John continues. “It’s all being written up in a brief for you right now. My assistant will be sending you the final and closing paperwork as soon as the holidays are through. But basically, case is closed. Nothing will be taken to court.” He pauses to clear his throat.
“As far as the terms go upon settlement, you have agreed to pay any and all outstanding bills regarding the vendors with whom you and Melissa have been working and for services they will or have rendered. Receipts and invoices taken into account, that’s a clear bill. You’ve actually paid quite a steep price for her services, and considering her services offered weren’t exactly, well, offered to the extent she said—”
“Like accompanying me to dress fittings?” I jump in.
“Precisely. This also makes the contract unconscionable. Anyway, short on time here, but case is closed. You don’t owe any monies, and if you’re content with walking away—clean-cut like this—then we can finish the deal.
I will point out, however, that since Melissa did such a poor job of offering her services—you’ve paid for some services that technically have not been rendered—you could turn the tables and take her to court. Wouldn’t be easy—”
“Forget it,” I say. “I have no desire to prolong this anymore. I don’t want a damn thing to do with this so-called wedding planner anymore. Ever again.”
“Wise choice,” he says. “I’m sorry you had to go through this, and I’m sorry that you’ve paid a heavy price for lackluster services, to say the least.”
“No problem.” I grab my gaudy purse and step out of the car. “I’m sure my dad’s none too pleased about being out the extra cash, but what’s done is done. Lesson learned, and I’m just so happy we worked through this.”
I thank John again for his help and dedication to a free and, from his grand scope of international lawyering, pretty petty case.
Then for a second I think about asking John if he’d gotten a chance to meet Oliver at Sophie’s grand opening. Maybe test the waters to see if some reciprocal interest can spark? Then Sophie’s reddened face comes to mind. Yikes. She’d kill me. I instantly decide against playing Cupid. No time, anyhow.
“Phew!” I say to myself under my breath once John and I disconnect. “Thank God that’s behind us.”
I consider calling Conner with the news, but he’ll probably be upset that I’m calling and interrupting a business meeting or something. Besides, I don’t really want to talk to him right now. Hearing his voice after our tiff this morning will probably only make me break down and cry, and I don’t have time for that. I’ve got a bridal outfit to fix here, and I can see Emily in her car swinging around the corner, in search of
a parking space. So I decide to just shoot him a brief text message letting him know that the wildfire known as Melissa is officially old news.
“We ready to solve some problems?” Emily asks, strolling up to me. She’s wearing a really long, flowy patchwork skirt. The skirt has to be a find of hers from some small village on the other side of the planet. It pairs really well with her denim Oxford that she has rolled up at the elbows and tied into a knot right at the level of her twice-pierced belly button. The top two pearl buttons are undone so you can see her necklace—a heavy jade pendant that’s hanging from a brown leather chord. Very village-urban.
“I am definitely ready to solve this problem,” I say. As we stroll along the long magazine rack at the back of the bookstore I tell her about the call I just had with John.
“Thank God,” she says. She reaches for a copy of Magical Weddings Magazine and holds it up for me to see.
“Have it,” I tell her. “Not so great.”
She returns it to the shelf in lieu of Southern Style Weddings. This one I take and immediately begin to finger through.
It’s reconnaissance time. You’d think the hoards of magazines and books that I have and the research that I’ve already done would be enough, but that stuff is all old. I’m in search of new and inspiring material. Fresh ideas. I’m not on the hunt for a new dress, but I’m ready for a new pair of shoes. Before Emily and I hit the shoe stores, though, we agreed it would be best to see what the latest styles are for flat shoes in the wedding industry, and what better way to do that than at a favorite bookstore over coffee?
Each of us carrying a small collection of new magazines, and even a book that Emily had found when running through the stacks, entitled, Your Wedding, Your Way, In Style, we sink down onto the well-worn, cushioned chairs in the café section of Randy’s.
Not only does Randy’s have a great selection of books, but it has a large café with really great coffee and tons of space for reading, or, as the girls and I were all accustomed to back in the day, writing that research paper at the last minute.
After thumbing through our small sheaf of reconnaissance material and tossing back caffeinated beverages for a solid hour, we finally stumble upon a very promising possibility.
“Look!” Emily gasps, setting down her white mug with a clang. She spins the book around so I can see for myself. She pounds an index finger at a pair of shoes on the page with all sorts of wedding attire: an Amsale ball-gown-style wedding dress, a goldenish-colored Chanel clutch, a Tiffany’s engagement ring and diamond teardrop earrings, a La Perla negligee set and feathered garter, and then…the shoes.
“Omigod!” I pull the book up and nearly spill Emily’s coffee. “They’re perfect!”
And they are. They’re a pair of ballet flats covered in tiny gold sequins and would look so nice with the theme and color scheme of the wedding. I mean, gold glitter! The shoes are totally flat, which will work so well with my shortened dress, and they look pretty vintage-y, with the beige, satin bow at the tip. They’re ideal. They are, dare I say, quite possibly a better match than the fabulous Jimmy Choos.
“I’ve never owned a pair of Kate Spades before,” Emily says casually. “But I’m sure they’re really comfortable, too. Look at them; they have to be. And they’re so beautiful.”
“And perfect.” I smile, setting the book down. “So now we just have to find where we can buy them.”
“I’ll text you-know-who,” she says, rapidly typing on her phone. Almost instantly the reply from Jackie comes, and Emily says, “Downtown on Pine.” She tosses back the rest of her drink and slips over her head the strap of the low-hanging cloth handbag, which she’d brought home from her last trip to Ghana. “Let’s hit it. I’ll drive.”
And as quickly as my Vera Wang and Jimmy Choos combo burst into flames, my Vera Wang and Kate Spade match come together. Emily predicted correctly—they are comfortable. They’re comfortable and fashionable ballet flats. I’m almost tempted to wear them right out of the store, but I restrain myself, knowing that these are meant to be my wedding shoes. And…shoes that, once the wedding’s over, I just might wear until they run thin.
“You just know they’ll work with your gown,” Emily says on the car ride back to Randy’s parking lot.
We thought we’d have to spend a whole day in search of a solution, but it turned out we only needed one store and one perfect pair of shoes. It was a magical purchase that makes the alteration fiasco look like child’s play.
With all the spare time at hand, we made the appointments for my trial hair and makeup in person at a salon that Jackie recommended, just in time for the bridal portraits tomorrow. Bridal portraits that are going to be unbelievably amazing!
***
When I get home shortly before five o’clock, I giddily tuck my brightly colored Kate Spade box of ballet flats under the bed. I have to shift about the other wedding items I’ve been stashing there: my bridal undergarments, my Choos, and my veil.
One quick glance at the assortment of boxes under the bed, and I can’t help but smile. Bit by bit, piece by piece, my dream wedding is coming to fruition. Before I know it I’ll be Mrs. Conner Whitley!
That is, so long as Conner and I don’t bite off each others’ heads in the next month-and-a-half, and so long as he still wants to go through with everything. I’ve said it before, I know, but what if Conner does get cold feet? I mean, he never calls me the B-word, even when I am clearly being one. He was really angry with me, and over a dumb Fourth of July party! I don’t get it…
Oh, relationships! They’re never easy. It’s a wonder anyone actually gets married…and stays together… I mean, just look at my parents. Or take Conner’s. Hell, take nearly all my friends’ parents. Everyone and their dog is divorced these days. Could that be me? Us, someday?
Nah. I’m pretty sure Conner and I will make it. Every couple goes through rough patches, you know? After nine years, this is the roughest it’s ever been, and it’s not that bad. It’s a bunch of little stuff that’s adding up, that’s all. Tiffs here and spats there—a conglomeration of negative energy.
Goodness. It’s just so annoying things have to be this way; and it really can’t come at a more inconvenient time. Weddings really should be all fun and games.
I almost bump my head on the ledge of the bottom of the bed frame when I hear Conner come home, Schnickerdoodle barking in glee over his arrival. Shoot, I think, scatterbrained and hoping that nothing “secretive” is lying out in the open for Conner to see. I look at my Kate Spade box tucked in its safe spot under the bed and think, Nope. That’s everything.
“Claire? Claire, you in here?”
I can hear Conner nearing the bedroom, so as fast as my short legs can crawl I pull away from under the bed, bound upward, and swiftly move out of the room.
“Hey,” I say nervously, smoothing back my hair. I lost a little hair from my adventures under the bed, and only now, several seconds after the fact, am I beginning to feel the tingle on my scalp. I rub at it.
“You okay?” Conner inquires, one eyebrow raised. “Headache?”
“Uhh, yeah.”
“You have any plans for tonight?” he asks, almost no life in his words.
“Plans? No.” I watch him brush past me and disappear into the bedroom, his tie and jacket coming off in a blink.
“Great,” he says, sounding very unenthusiastic in spite of his word choice. “Some of the guys at the office want to talk biz over dinner and drinks. I’ll be heading out soon. Don’t wait up for me.”
I bite down on my lower lip and look over at Schnicker. He’s contentedly gnawing on one of his old tennis balls, reminding me that I should probably take him on a walk, especially seeing how I totally bailed on him yesterday.
“Umm, okay then,” I call out, not sure if Conner’s listening.
I think twice about telling him that it would have been nice if he’d have told me this a little sooner, because I could have been in the midst of preparing dinner, for i
nstance. The no-warning thing was a pretty rude move.
But I decide to let sleeping dogs lie. One less argument, you know? So I let Conner do his thing, and I don’t press the matter. Instead, I choose to take the hyper dog for a walk.
“Later, babe,” I call out, bending down to attach the dog leash. “Drive safe. Love you.”
We may be on eggshells with one another, and he may be in some weird-o, evasive mood right now (and I may be slightly peeved he has plans like this so last-minute), but I love him. I can’t leave on a completely bad note.
“Love ya, too,” I can hear him murmur from the bedroom over the light sounds of the radio.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Men. Why do they have to be so difficult sometimes?” I complain to Emily, Jackie, the makeup artist named Erika, and anyone else who wants to partake in my angst.
When Conner came home from his business dinner last night, he was very standoffish, vague and generally subdued when I asked him how things were. I was really positive and sweet and inquiring all about his day. I even asked about his comic strip work (the one that I’ve still yet to see but that he now just waves off, carelessly). All he had to say to everything was a standard, “Meh,” with the accompanying (and so annoying) shrug.
I did the super girly thing and nagged (but only twice) about why he was so blasé, and I asked if something was wrong. Maybe I could try to help him with something?
He did the super guyish thing and just said everything was fine. “I’m just tired, that’s all,” was his lame response, and then he retired to bed, just like that. A quick kiss, a softly spoken “Love ya, Claire,” and lights out. No spooning or anything.
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