“Like get married and get pregnant?”
I jumped on top of my bed as though rats covered the floor. “Yeah!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, only to realize what I’d just said and who I’d said it to—a married pregnant woman. I eased down on to the side of the bed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Tracey giggled. “You meant it just like that. That’s what I love about you. I never have to guess what you’re thinking.” She sighed. “I just wish I could make one friend here half as honest. Or as funny.”
Funny? I stroked my chin. There was nothing funny about this situation. Not one thing. “You’ve still got me. And Rochelle.” I supposed the last part. Rochelle and I spoke at church, and made polite remarks behind each other’s backs, but something between us was broken. And I didn’t know how to fix it.
I heard a swishing sound through the phone. “You’re on that pink stool, aren’t you? Twirling the phone cord back and forth?”
Tracey choked up. “See, that’s what I mean. No one here would know that. No one here knows me….”
Ryan knew her, didn’t he? Better not go there. “They’ll get to know you. Give them a chance. How’s the baby?”
“Good.”
“And the mommy?”
“Not so good.”
A sigh from my end. Tracey had done an awesome job on the graphics and logo for my latest project—Figgy body pudding. Quick turnaround, no mistakes. Great for me, but it didn’t bode well for her. Like me, work was Tracey’s outlet when things were less than perfect in her personal life. The whole time she’d dated Ryan, she’d missed every deadline. “Want to talk about it?”
“Yes,” she said in a purring tone. “But I won’t.”
Not with me anyway. She’d probably been giving Rochelle a daily earful. Manless me was only good for other secrets. Had Rochelle told Tracey about all the lies she’d told me? I didn’t ask.
As if reading my mind, Tracey jumped to the one absent from our threesome. “You should call her, you know.”
Rochelle’s fingers weren’t broken, either. “I know. I’ve tried a few times. I wave at church….”
“Uh-huh. I heard. She really needs you. She’s hurting.”
Aren’t we all? “Does she still love him?”
A pause stilled the line. “No, not the man he is now. But she’s still in love with the idea of him, a father who would come home looking for his son, looking for her…”
Prince Charming again. Somebody should shoot that guy. “And then he waltzes back into town not too interested in her or her son.”
“Exactly.”
After a gulp of air to still my nerves, I dove in for the real info. “Did she mention anything to you…?”
“Like what?”
Leave it alone. “Nothing.”
“It’s more than nothing. I know that.”
Good. “Pray for us. I’ll call her soon. I know you’ve got to get going. Any new clients?”
“Some site updates, a couple brochures and a new client interview today at three. Nothing much on that end. It’s making it to the bathroom and keeping food down that keeps me busy.” She laughed wistfully. “I’ll e-mail you later.”
Nodding as though she could see me, I stroked the throbbing splotches where my megahairs had been. “Okay then, see you.” The phone was almost to the cradle when I snatched it back, knowing she never hung up first. “Tracey? Did you tell Rochelle? About the baby, I mean?”
More silence. Finally, Tracey responded. “Didn’t you tell her? She was acting funny, so I just thought—I guess with all this Jordan stuff. Oh, well. I figured telling you got me off the hook.”
Suddenly I forgot about my chin. “Since when?”
Tracey made that swishing noise again. “Since ever. You never could hold a secret. You’re all surprises these days.”
“I guess so.” I whispered into the receiver and slammed it down into the base. Getting fired. Starting a business. Jordan. Rochelle’s lies. This crazy whatsit with Adrian—relationship was too strong, friendship no longer fit. And now finding out that Tracey didn’t trust me.
I stared up at the ceiling, grazing my swollen chin and wishing I could reach my heart to give it a few strokes, as well.
A prayer escaped me like a dying breath. “I know You’re shaking things, Lord, but leave me something. I’m losing them all.”
There were people outside despite the subzero temperature. I arrived at the shop ten minutes late because of the plucking and talking to Tracey, but they were there waiting, seven women, each with a Kick! bag and a smile.
“The candle guy sent us.” A perky blonde, who had a bob so razor-sharp I almost ducked as she turned to point across the street, stood first in line.
“That was kind of him.” I fumbled with my keys, thankful that I’d come by at 3:00 a.m. to do the new holiday displays. “Come on in.”
Maybe I needed Adrian’s help after all. I shook off the thought and flung the door wide. Maybe not.
From the collective gasps of the women, they must have liked what they saw.
I stumbled behind the counter, trying to muster a smile.
“Wow,” one woman murmured. “He was right. This stuff is faboo. Never would have known it looking at her though….” The woman’s voice dipped in tandem with my self-esteem as the other women nodded, adjusting the Kick! bags on their arms.
I looked down out my Wonderfully Made sweatshirt, jeans and loafers, trying not to imagine how my still blotchy chin was looking about now. To say I’d seen better days was putting it mildly.
A smile forced its way across my mouth. It was a better day. For the first time in the past week, I had new customers and Adrian had sent them. He hadn’t called. He hadn’t e-mailed. He’d done one better and brought me business. And based on my November sales numbers, I was lucky to get it.
I joined the group at the facial bar and gave a little demo, pureeing mangoes, grapes and yogurt for an eager volunteer.
“I add a touch of rose petals to soften,” I said, whirring with my hand mixer. “And some irises to cleanse.”
The ladies oohed and aahed at the results, but I watched painfully as, one by one, they trickled out the door without buying. Others sniffed and talked, smiled and waved, only to disappear minutes later.
When I thought I was alone again, I freshened ornaments and runners, praying as I went. Though it was great having my own business, the impending sense of doom was a bit overwhelming. Was I going to fail at this, too?
“I’d like a quart of everything on the bar—and add the rose petals, please.”
I twirled around. “Are you sure?” So much for the confident saleswoman.
The customer, sporting a cutting-edge bob and the authentic version of the knockoff loafers I had on, nodded. “I’m positive. I’m doing a spa party for my bridesmaids tonight. This will be perfect.”
Bridesmaids. Bless their hearts. I’d try to really make this nice. I grabbed ten containers and started dropping fruit, clay, oatmeal and yogurt into the appropriate slots and churning the blender like a madwoman. “I’ve been a bridesmaid more times than I’d like to admit. I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.”
She took the thinker’s pose. “I think so, too. What else do you have?”
Those words began my biggest sale. While the mixer whirred, I talked the bride-to-be—her name was Austin I soon found out—through everything in the store. She walked her credit card right behind me, buying one of everything. My prayers of gratitude followed her, rejoicing at each product she added to the list. I hadn’t sold any big-ticket items in months.
“Can you make me smell like Christmas? For my wedding, I mean?”
Okay, so maybe this wasn’t going to be so easy. I cleared my throat. “I can try, but Christmas probably smells a little different to everyone.”
She didn’t bat an eye. “I’m going for a cookies-in-the-oven-mistletoe-overhead-with-a-dash-of-pine sort of thing. Can you do that?”
Unfortun
ately. “I think so.”
She grinned. “Great,” she whispered, looking both ways to see if anyone had entered the store. “I’m planning to wrap myself as a present on the honeymoon.”
Too much information. “Interesting.” I moved to the register, reminding myself why I was enduring this. “Would you like anything else before I total? A facial for yourself perhaps?” That last pitch smacked of a “would you like fries with that” suggestive sell, but I couldn’t think of anything else.
“Nope. That’ll do me.”
I swallowed, going down the list: six lavender oatmeal soaps, three quarts plumeria lotion, two pounds of apple cobbler body butters, twelve honey butter lip balms, six cups of peppermint foot soak, twelve peachy clean bath bombs, four quarts of brown sugar scrub, a gallon of my 3-in-1 Vanilla Smella shampoo, shower gel and conditioner, a sample kit of everything in stock…and ten quarts of apple-iris facial. I got tired just ringing it up. “That’ll be four hundred dollars and ninety-seven cents.”
She handed over her card without a thought. I held it, wondering if this was a scam—credit card fraud or something. She looked the part, but this was a big purchase. “Can I see your identification, please?”
“Sure,” she said, unleashing her wallet, armed with more plastic than a Rubbermaid factory. When I saw her KRSV-TV ID, I realized where I’d seen her friendly face.
“It’s you! Austin Falls, from the news.” She was the one who saved me from Tad’s weather report.
She nodded. “Soon to be Austin Shapiro. And because of you, it’ll be so much better.”
I thanked her, gave her a receipt and walked her to the door.
“This is a wonderful place. I’m going to recommend it. Do you have a price list for your wedding packages?”
Wedding packages? “I…uh—”
“You know, like what I just bought. A head-to-toe trousseau sort of thing. All the boutiques have them, but they’re nothing like this. Feet, hands, face, hair, skin or the whole bod. That’s the kind of info I need.”
I just stared. After all that work I’d tried to do coming up with a million different product lines, this stranger had boiled down my business into a few sentences.
She patted my hand and handed me her card. “Fax it to me at the station when you get the list together. You’ll have to ditch the denim for some silk, but it’ll be worth it. Oh, yeah, and only take appointments. Women pay more when they make appointments. Especially brides.”
Brides? Appointments? Silk? I had a price list, but I hadn’t been trying to focus on the bridal products. They just sort of sprouted up by themselves. But money was money and I needed it. A lot of it. Dad’s rent was two months overdue. And though I didn’t use Italian leather like Rochelle or anything, the fruit and vegetables alone bore a hefty price tag, especially in the winter. The rent on my space had gone up, probably due to Adrian’s success. There was that Visa ball and chain, dangling around my neck accruing interest by the second.
A smile worked across my mouth at the thought of that particular debt. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. I know something good when I see it.” She adjusted the almost fist-size diamond on her finger before leaning over and whispering in my ear…I’m not sure why, we were still alone in the store. “Besides, I like finding things first. It’s the huntress in me. I have a few friends working on Valentine’s Day weddings. They’re way behind in their planning, but I’ll send them over.”
Do tell…I nodded, emerging from behind the counter to hold the door open for her. “Well, thanks for everything. The encouragement, the word of mouth—”
She winked and pointed to the small fish sticker on my door. “Don’t mention it. Us sistahs have to stick together. God has a big family. Don’t forget it.” And with that she was gone, leaving me with my mouth wide open and my mind in an uproar.
Sistahs? And she’d said it with such conviction, her slim fingers snapping and her blonde hair tilting like something out of a Saturday Night Live skit. I bent over with laughter. God knew just what I needed today. A good laugh. But now what?
I mean I was grateful for heaven’s provision and all…but weddings? Tofu, spandex and Tracey’s Barry Manilow albums all rubbed me wrong, but weddings really grated on my nerves.
As the door clanged shut with finality, I contemplated the aversion to matrimony. Did it revolt me because of Adrian? Because Rochelle had waited her whole life for a church ceremony and never gotten one? Or maybe because Tracey had jumped into a wedding without realizing who was she marrying?
Making a note to make more Peachy Kleen bath bombs, I realized that my wedding phobia went back to my own parent’s wedding—or lack of one. Whether bitter because of her courthouse union or genuinely in earnest, my mother had spent her life decrying the frivolity of weddings, all the while secretly planning one for me. Instead, it was Adrian’s ceremony with another woman she’d helped arrange, a horrible act that I thought then was just to spite me.
I think it was just closure. My mother had imagined a wedding with Adrian for so long that when it became apparent I wouldn’t be the bride, she couldn’t let go. And after all, it was her last chance, wasn’t it? Jordan wasn’t coming back, I was hopeless and Dahlia, well, she was giving up the milk a little too readily for anybody to want to buy the cow.
The thought of my sister made me shiver. I wondered what had become of her. Though my estranged Aunt Cheryl, on my father’s side, and others heard from her now and then and said she was well, I couldn’t help wondering as much as she’d hurt me. Maybe through these weddings, healing could begin. With me.
At the computer, I pulled up my regular brochure and cut and pasted it into a new document, changing the information to my new bridal line. What would I call it?
Beloved.
Yes. That was it. Nine of my luscious products in one custom package. It wouldn’t be easy work, but nothing worth having was. Maybe I could even make a difference, praying over these ditzy women and their husbands before things went bad. Maybe when these couples smelled my stuff, they’d catch a whiff of the smell that had filled my imagination growing up when tempers grew hot and patience grew thin. A scent that said to my mind, “God is here…and He’s got flowers.”
I smiled and ripped off a poinsettia from the planter next to me. I tucked it behind my ear. Weren’t those things poisonous? I couldn’t remember and at the moment it didn’t seem to matter. I might not ever be any man’s bride, but I had Christ’s love and that was more than enough.
It would have to be.
Three days later, after my first full night’s sleep since I don’t know when, the absurdity of my life struck me while stacking Mimosa body butter on my display. What was my life coming to? I spent my social time with the ladies of the Noon Day Prayer group, of which Mother Holly was president. Those old women were too much for me. I might have to go back to hanging out with the boring singles.
Rochelle wasn’t talking to me and Adrian was trying to fix it without talking to any of us by sending stupid “Peace on Earth” e-mails and buying us off with gifts. I didn’t mind that part.
I got an Iron Diva catalog from Harley-Davidson with a five-hundred-dollar line of credit and a note not to discuss my gift with the others. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I really needed the money more than the gear. It sure was fun picking out some stuff though. I definitely need to ride again. As soon as I could afford to I’d buy my bike back from the guy at Scents and Savings who bought it from me, and left it to rust in his garage. I tried to tell him his wife wouldn’t go for it, but he thought he could talk to her. Men.
Then this morning, my father, whom I hadn’t seen in weeks, showed up clean-shaven with creased pants and groceries in hand. Just stopped by to check on me, he’d explained while cooking eggs as though this were routine and normal. I managed not to scream—and to scarf down an omelet—but I’m not buying the everything-is-okay act. This is madness and I’m afraid more is to come.
No
t that I haven’t always thrived on a little insanity. I have. But I’m a low impact type of girl. Endurance is my game. This stuff was bouncing a little hard for my liking. When things start turning too fast, I unravel. The main reason I’d fired my personal trainer was his annoying habit of changing my treadmill program without warning. I think he enjoyed watching me fly off the back of that thing. Anything more than three miles an hour and I was a goner.
I stacked the last jar on my pyramid. As close to perfect as I’d ever dared go. Until lately, that was Rochelle’s position. I rubbed one leg against the other, watching a muscled figure emerge from the shop across the street. Adrian. God had come pretty close to perfection there, too.
At least I had my calves. A girl couldn’t have it all. The bell chimed and Adrian came into the shop with a picnic basket and notebook. He hunkered down at the register.
“Hungry?” His smile lit up the room.
I nodded and dimmed the open sign, though it wasn’t really necessary. Besides my fresh influx of brides, which were now by appointment only, nobody was stopping by. I turned back to him and caught him staring.
He didn’t turn away, unwrapping one of the sandwiches instead.
“Is it good?” I asked, eying one of the ham and cheese bagels with glee.
“Very.” He held out one to me.
I took the warm bundle of silver foil and opened it curiously, staring at the melted cheese hanging over the edge. Excellent. One bite told a different story, however. Far from melted, the cheese in the middle seemed cold. Frozen even. They must have only zapped it in the microwave. Too hungry to care, I took another bite, trying to ignore the frosty middle. “It’s ice-cold in the center.”
Adrian nodded, his eyes penetrating mine. “Disappointing, isn’t it?”
“Very,” I said, picking up on his real meaning. My sandwich disappeared into my mouth, icy middle and all, lest either of us say something we couldn’t take back.
Chapter Nine
Made of Honor Page 12
