by Bridie Clark
As soon as she said it, the memory came back vividly—despite the fact that nearly a decade had passed. Bea and I used to lie flat on our backs for hours, staring at the water stains on her ceiling, dreaming about every minute detail of my imaginary life with Randall. Starting with our intimate wedding on my parents’ farm—right underneath my parents’ favorite apple tree, planted the first day they moved into the house. Randall and I would write our own vows, heartachingly beautiful vows, leaving not a dry eye in the crowd. I’d carry a bouquet of lilies of the valley from my mother’s garden.
I tried to picture Randall and me reciting our own vows. It seemed like it would be … well, kind of awkward. Randall was a more traditional kind of guy.
“So when can I see you?” Bea asked. “Like, now?”
I glanced warily at my overflowing in-box. Files stacked on top of files—it was scary how much I had to get through in the next week, and Vivian’s threat about Luke’s book made everything all the more urgent. But I was desperate to see Bea. And Mara, who’d been so adorable when we’d called from Paris. She and I were having lunch the next day. I hoped that seeing them might make the engagement feel more real.
“How’s tonight? Could I stop by after work?”
“Of course! And can Randall come, too?”
Randall had hit the ground running this morning, and I knew he’d be pulling an all-nighter. “Work,” I summarized. “He won’t be able to get out. You just get me, I’m afraid.”
“You’re all we need. I’ll tell Harry to pick up Chinese on his way home.”
There was a knock at my door. I told Bea I’d see her around 9:00.
“Claire Truman?” A heavyset woman in a pastel pink Chanel suit poked her head into my office. Her wheat-colored hair, blown into thick sheets, framed a frying-pan face. In her arms she held four enormous pink binders, each one crammed to capacity.
“Yes, I’m Claire,” I answered.
The woman’s face lit up. “Claire! Oh, well, you’re adorable! This is going to be so much fun!”
“I’m sorry, have we met?” Was this woman a prospective author? Had I forgotten about a meeting?
“Oh, I’m sorry. Mrs. Lucille Cox asked that I call you? My name is Mandy Turner? I’m a wedding planner based in Palm Beach and Manhattan?” Mandy spoke expectantly, as if waiting for something she said to clue me in.
I ushered her quickly into my office before anyone could overhear her. A wedding planner, already? Leave it to Lucille. We’d been back in New York less than twelve hours, and already she’d sprung into planning mode.
“Mandy, I appreciate you stopping by, but I don’t think Randall and I will need a planner. We’ll be having a very small wedding in my hometown … once I have a free second to start thinking about it.” I smiled, glancing at the menacing piles on my desk.
“Oh?” Mandy asked, clearly taken aback. “And where’s that? Your hometown?”
“Iowa City, more or less.”
“Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay. Well, why don’t I just leave my portfolios, just in case you change your mind?”
“That’s nice of you, Mandy, but I don’t think that it’s necessary.”
Mandy and I argued politely until I finally agreed to keep the binders. I couldn’t spend more time discussing it, and more important, I didn’t want any of my colleagues to overhear the argument.
“Oh, dear, where’s your ring?” Mandy asked as I pushed her off to the elevator bank.
“It’s, um, being resized,” I whispered.
I’d just watched the elevator doors close on Mandy Turner and walked back to my desk when my phone rang. This time it was Lucille herself.
“Claire, darling,” she began. Her voice had a steely edge. “I hear you’ve sent Mandy on her way, dear! She just phoned! Whyever would you do that? And let’s talk for a moment about the location of your wedding. I had some thoughts. And the timing of it … why have a long engagement, really? The St. Regis has an opening at the end of June! Isn’t that fabulous? Wouldn’t that be just too perfect, dear?”
“That’s three months away! And honestly, Mrs. Cox—”
“Lucille, my love. Call me Lucille!”
“Lucille—I need some time before I start planning anything. You know, just to enjoy being engaged, and—”
“Darling, bingo. That’s all Mandy and I want. For you and Randall to enjoy being engaged—leave the boring, mundane, silly work to us.”
“What do you mean, the boring, mundane—I couldn’t ask you to plan—”
“You’re not asking, precious, we’re offering. To deal with planning, to cover the costs, to take the headache off your hands! Doesn’t that sound lovely? Aren’t you busy enough, dear? Really, why trouble yourself?”
Funny, I’d never thought of my wedding as something that’d be a trouble to plan. Although I was getting a brutal headache discussing it with Lucille.
My other line beeped. Vivian’s extension. There was nothing that incensed her more than going through to voice mail, so I asked Lucille if I could call her back.
“Of course, dear. But just think about what I’ve said. Imagine not having to lift a finger!”
I clicked over.
“Claire! Why haven’t we finalized our contract with Candace yet?”
“Because she’s not satisfied with our offer.” I’d told Vivian this three times already. “Should she take it or leave it, or are you willing to offer more?”
“Offer fifteen more, and tell her to take or leave that. And by the way, I’m going to need you to cover five or six meetings for me next week—I’ll be in L.A., but I don’t want to cancel them. And—you know what, just come to my office. I have a few books I need you to pursue. Not tomorrow, not this week—right now.”
I glanced at my in-box, which was about to double in size. Then I thought about Lucille’s offer. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea.
So what if my old fantasy of a small wedding in the apple orchard wouldn’t come true. I’d be marrying the man I’d dreamed about all those years ago. I’d be marrying the perfect man.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE CONSCIOUS BRIDE
Tish-Tish!”
Barreling out of the side sitting room, Lucille blindsided my poor, bewildered mother, who’d just walked into the foyer of their Upper East Side town house with me. Lucille clung to Mom with such a fierce, octopuslike grip that I had to pry her off—with the help of Carlotta.
“I can’t believe how long it’s been, Tish-Tish! I can’t believe you’re finally in New York! I’ve been trying to get you here since the kids’ first date!”
“I know!” Mom said, still a bit shell-shocked from Lucille’s tackle. “It’s great to see you, Luce. You look terrific. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“The miracle of Botox, Tish! If you want, I could probably swing you a weekend appointment with the best doctor in town—he’ll do occasional house calls, but only for me!”
“Oh, that’s okay,” Mom demurred, “I think we’ll have our hands full with the dress appointments you’ve lined up. Thanks for helping with all the planning, Lucille. You’ve been so generous.”
Our lavish wedding at the St. Regis Hotel was now a mere six weeks away, an astonishing and alarming fact, and the only thing that was left to do was a pretty big one: find the perfect wedding gown.
“I’ve loved every second, Tish. And it’s true, we do have a full day. Can you believe this daughter of yours?” Lucille exclaimed. “Managing to miss every single appointment I set up for her?”
“Well, I know work has been demanding Claire’s every waking—”
“Oh—work, work, work,” Lucille interrupted Mom, clearly not having any of it. “Well, at least it finally got you into town.”
I could understand Lucille’s frustration: The dress had become my one and only wedding-related responsibility, and I’d dropped the ball. In my semi-defense, my workload had reached a critical mass. Ever since Vivian had caught wind of my engagement, I’d needed to
be at the office constantly—the fate of Luke’s book, still two months away from being published, dangled precariously in the balance.
Fortunately, I’d managed to get back in Lucille’s good graces when I told her that Mom would be flying in to help. Mom was a godsend, especially considering that Bea was stuck in L.A. for work. Dress shopping with Lucille was stressful enough; dress shopping alone with Lucille would leave permanent scars.
“Okay, let’s hit it,” I said, grabbing my purse and the itinerary of appointments that Lucille had printed on pink paper. I had a six-hour reprieve from the office, and the meter was already running.
“Isn’t this just a dream come true, Tish-Tish?” Lucille gushed, clutching Mom’s arm as we walked down Madison on our way to the first appointment. “My son, your daughter—why, just think, we’ll have the same grandchildren, Tishie!”
“It’s wonderful, Lucille.” Mom smiled. “I couldn’t be happier for them.”
“Say you’ll stay longer than just the weekend. We’ve got so much room, and Randall’s gone all next week on business—so it’d be just like old times. Roommates again! We’ve got so much to catch up on!”
“I wish I could, Luce, and that’s sweet of you to offer,” Mom answered, “but I’ve got to finish a painting—there’s a gallery in Pittsburgh expecting it next week, so I’m down to the wire.”
“Pittsburgh?” Lucille wrinkled her nose. “I’ve got an idea—why don’t I just buy the painting from you instead? Then you can finish it whenever you have time and stay an extra week! Deal?”
“I’m sorry, Luce, I’ve already committed to the gallery,” Mom said. “But I’ll show you some of my other work, and you can have anything you like. My gift, for an old friend.”
Lucille beamed—I’d never seen her look happier. “And future in-law!” she trilled.
“I just want something simple,” I insisted for the sixth time, a note of desperation creeping into my voice. “Like this.” I unfolded a photo of a slim sheath dress with a delicate smattering of beads at the neckline. I’d torn it out of the ever-growing pile of wedding porn that Lucille had delivered to the apartment each week.
It was 3:00 p.m., and we’d already whipped at breakneck speed through Angel Sanchez, Carolina Herrera, Bergdorf, Saks, and Reem Acra. I was exhausted, starving, and about to wring Lucille’s neck. She’d found a new body part to criticize in each gown I tried.
“We heard you, Claire, simple,” said Lucille, rolling her eyes at a now stone-faced Mom, “but come on, you’re not fooling anyone! What kind of woman doesn’t want to look her most fabulous on her wedding day? This is the most important dress of your life, Claire! A little focus is all I ask! That sheath is fine, I suppose, but it’s just so plain.”
“Hang on, Lucille,” Mom countered in her most diplomatic, let’s-everyone-stay-calm tone. “Claire will look fabulous, but her style is much more low-key—”
“It’s her wedding day, Tish-Tish!” Lucille whined like a five-year-old. “The most important day of her life! My God, must I do everything here? From pushing Randall in the … right direction, to booking the Ritz in Paris on absolutely no notice, to planning every single detail of the wedding, to getting the world’s most coveted designers to agree to rush production on whichever gown we choose so that we can have it in less than two months—which is unheard of, I’ll tell you, they would only do such a thing for me—so that Randall and Claire can have their special day at the St. Regis in June?”
I felt as though I’d been punched in the gut. Lucille had orchestrated our weekend in Paris, and she’d pushed Randall to propose? “I thought Randall had planned that trip,” I said quietly, trying to hide the fact that she’d just knocked the wind out of me.
“Claire, darling, he’s a man!” Lucille laughed, amused by my naïveté. “They can’t really be counted on to plan anything, can they? His secretary is helpful with gifts, of course, but one needs clout to get the Ritz’s finest suite and reservations at Alain Ducasse on a few hours’ notice.” She smiled proudly at her handiwork.
Mom just shook her head. From the expression on her face, I could tell that the girl she’d known in college bore little resemblance to the tiny, bossy, wired woman barking commands at us today—but she was making the best of things for my sake.
“Next stop, Vera Wang!” declared Lucille. “Let’s go, ladies!”
“I really liked that first dress we saw,” I said, grabbing Lucille’s birdlike arm to slow her down for a moment. “At Angel Sanchez … it had such a soft, ethereal quality to it. You liked it—right, Lucille? That’s the dress I want.”
Mom nodded. “It looked gorgeous on you, Claire.”
Lucille looked at both of us with icy condescension. “It was a beautiful dress, I agree—well, except for the way it accentuated your hips, darling—but we must see what else is out there! My dear, would you get engaged to the first man you went on a date with?”
I really didn’t see the parallel but still found myself traipsing along behind her. I was too tired to defect now. We had to be almost done—I’d tried on at least fifty dresses. Mom flashed me a look—silently asking if I’d like her to pull the ripcord on our shopping expedition. “It’s okay,” I whispered to her as Lucille sped on in front of us. “I need a dress, and she means well—”
“Ladies! Stop stalling and move! We don’t have much time!”
I prayed that Vera Wang would save the day.
Inside the Vera Wang salon, I stealthily slipped the sales attendant my magazine photo when Lucille got distracted by some tiaras. “Could you bring me something like this?” I asked.
“Certainly.” She nodded and scurried off as I settled into the dressing room with Mom.
“How’re you holding up?” Mom asked.
“Hanging on by a couture thread. Actually, it’s nice being able to relax back here for a moment—”
“Mother! I know it costs ten thousand dollars, but this is the most important day of my entire life!” wailed a girl in the dressing room next to ours. “Do you want me to look like crap on my wedding day, Mother? Is that what you want?”
“Of course not, sweetie,” the girl’s mother answered wearily.
“This is the dress I want, then!”
“All right, dear.”
“And the Jimmy Choos with the embedded crystals in the heel!”
There was a pause. “All right, dear.”
Ugh. What had that poor woman done to deserve such a hideous brat for a daughter? Mom rolled her eyes, echoing my sentiment.
“Miss Truman? I have a few things you might like.” The attendant pulled back the taffeta curtain with several gowns, each elaborate and embroidered. Lucille slipped in the dressing room behind her, rubbing her little hands together in anticipation.
And there it was. The first dress. It was a pale champagne sheath with an overlay of crystal, tulle, and delicately sequined flowers. It had a long, incredibly romantic train in the back. It wasn’t frou-frou or princessy, but it was still undeniably over-the-top—which I hoped would satisfy Lucille.
“Try it,” Lucille panted. Even Mom looked excited. I slipped on the dress, and she buttoned me up in the back.
I looked in the mirror. It was exquisite. Everything I could ask for in a wedding gown. This was it: the moment when I was supposed to feel transformed into the Bride. I was supposed to feel like this was the dress I’d been waiting for. The dress I wanted my groom to see when the church doors opened. The dress that made me feel like standing up in front of hundreds of people and saying I do, I do, I do.
“Yes!” shouted Lucille. “Yes!”
“You look beautiful,” Mom said, watching me closely, “What do you think, Claire?”
I loved the dress.
But I wasn’t having the moment. I was some kind of mutant bride. I still didn’t feel the bubbling excitement I’d been waiting to feel since returning home from Paris. I hadn’t felt it while leafing through the wedding magazines. I hadn’t felt it when tell
ing friends about how Randall proposed. I didn’t feel it now, wearing the most stunning dress I’d ever seen. There was something seriously wrong with me.
“What’s not to love?” Lucille interjected. “The dress is absolutely stunning on you, Claire.”
“I love the dress.” I nodded, heart heavy with confusion. Why wasn’t I more excited? I actually felt envious of the brat in the next dressing room—at least she knew exactly what she wanted.
Before I knew what was happening, Lucille had called in the seamstress and was giving her commands: more hand beading on the train … House of Lesage … spare no expense … a personal friend of Vera’s … I tuned out, staring at myself in the mirror and finishing off two more flutes of champagne.
“Are you sure, Claire?” Mom asked, looking a little worried. “You don’t seem very enthusiastic about the dress. If you don’t like it, dear—”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I do really love it, honestly, I’m just exhausted … it’s been such a long week.”
Mom didn’t look completely satisfied, but she let it go.
“Now, veils,” Lucille continued after the seamstress had been dismissed. “I was thinking a cathedral veil with a richly beaded border… . Vera’s got a beautiful selection.”
I glanced at my watch. I’d have at least five irate voice mails from Vivian to deal with back at the office—now that Stanley was out of the picture, there was seemingly nothing to distract her from thinking about work every waking moment. Weekends were no exception.
“I’m sorry, Lucille, but I need to get back to the office.”
“You work too hard,” she mumbled, helping me out of the dress. “Well, I’m going to buy a veil, just so we have it.”
Just so we have it? Veils at Vera Wang were, like, a $3,000 purchase—not exactly an impulse buy. I told Lucille firmly that I’d prefer to wait—uncharacteristically, she relented. As we headed out of the store, however, she suddenly “remembered” another word of advice she had for the seamstress and ducked back inside, claiming she’d catch up with us.
