Back Forever

by Karen Booth

  Claire sidled up to me and grabbed my hand. “Right after the I-do’s.”

  I grinned from ear to ear. “I do.”

  “I do,” she echoed, pecking me on the lips.

  “Oh brother,” Sam said. “You guys are so gross sometimes.”

  “That’s what happens when you’re in love and incredibly happy, Sam.” I didn’t take my eyes off Claire or her lovely smile. “You’ll find that out for yourself one day.” I noticed that Richard had wandered off and was now staring out a window. “Anyway, there’s plenty of space in here. It’ll be perfect.”

  “There is?” Sam asked, looking around.

  “There will only be about twenty people,” I said. “Family, a few close friends, that’s it. Any more and you risk the word getting out and that could turn into a circus.”

  “I guess that’s what happens when you’re a rock star,” Sam quipped.

  I shook my head. “I think we need to put a ban on that term. I’m a musician, not a rock star.”

  “I guess.” Sam shrugged and checked her phone, tapped off a text and put it back in her jacket pocket. “I don’t understand why you don’t get married in St. Barts. Then we can all just hang out on the beach when it’s over.”

  “We thought about that,” I said. “But we don’t want all of you underfoot after we get married. We need our alone time.” Do we ever.

  “So, we get to move in the beginning of December?”

  “That’s the plan,” Claire said. “We didn’t want to push for November. The Banks Forest shows in New York are that month and I really wanted to have one last Thanksgiving at the old house.”

  “Cool,” Sam quipped “Can we see the kitchen?”

  “Dad? You coming?”

  He turned, seeming puzzled. “Oh, uh. Yes.”

  Claire approached him. “Are you okay?”

  He nodded, his jaw set firmly. “Just fine. Maybe a little tired.”

  “Come on.” Claire patted his back and led him to the kitchen.

  An electrician was at work, fishing lines through the wall. Otherwise, the room was empty, a complete gut job, by far the biggest part of this first wave of renovation.

  The house would see a second wave and possibly a third, but for now, everything was about the first floor. With our tight timeline for the wedding, we weren’t able to address anything more than fresh paint upstairs.

  Sam traipsed off to the sliding glass doors and looked out. “The pool is going to go out here?”

  “That probably won’t happen until the spring,” I said.

  “Good timing, guys. Just in time for me to go to college.”

  “You’ll get a few months of use before you leave us.” Claire took my hand. “My dad is acting so weird,” she whispered. “I think we should do a quick pass upstairs and take him home. A nap would do him good.”

  Richard had again wandered off, being unusually quiet. “Sure thing.” I cleared my throat. “Who wants to check out the bedrooms?”

  The four of us scaled the stairs, Claire and I both seeming to notice how slowly Richard was taking the steps. “You sure you’re okay, Dad?” Claire asked. “We don’t have to do this today if you’re tired.”

  He stopped at the landing and turned. “Will you please stop asking me if I’m okay, Samantha? I’m fine.”

  “Grandpa—” Sam started.

  He shut his eyes, removed his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dag nabbit. I meant to say Claire. Don’t go thinking there’s something wrong with me. I’m fine. Can’t a guy be tired without it being a big deal?”

  Claire patted him on the back. “Okay. I’m sorry. We’ll be done in a few minutes anyway.” Her face told me exactly how concerned she was.

  Sam walked into her room. “It looks good in here.” Claire and I followed, while Richard went into what would be the guest room. “So, what’s the deal, mom?” Sam asked under her breath. “Is Grandpa going to move in with us here or is he going to stay at the old house?”

  I looked down at Claire. Much of this was her call. We hadn’t discussed it with Richard, so that was another situation altogether.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “If you asked me today, I’d say he’s coming with us. He’s just not himself. I hate the idea of him being alone.”

  I put my arm around Claire’s shoulders and squeezed. “We’ll get him to see the doctor, make sure he’s okay.”

  “I’m calling to make an appointment myself. If we wait for him to do it, it’ll never happen.”

  “We’ve had an awful lot of activity lately, far more than he’s used to when he’s at home by himself in Asheville. Maybe it’s too much.”

  Richard came into Sam’s room via the Jack-and-Jill bath. “My room looks good. They goofed on the trim in a few spots, but otherwise they did a good job.”

  My room. Suddenly, it looked like all four of us would be making the move unless Claire could figure out a way to convince him otherwise. Richard wandered out of the room before we could take the subject any further.

  “Mom,” Sam said, with a distinct look of horror. “Would Grandpa and I be sharing a bathroom?”

  “Well…yes.” Claire shrugged. “Just like at home.”

  “It’s not the same.” Sam winced. “Our rooms aren’t connected at home. It’s sort of creepy.”

  Claire kneaded her forehead. “Unless we can convince him to stay at the other house, you two will just have to work it out.” She blew out a breath. “Should we check out the other bedroom?”

  Sam was at it with her phone again, smiling to herself and tapping away. Claire and I sneaked down the hall to the baby’s room.

  “Oh, wow.” Claire turned in the center of the room. “The color looks nice. I like the pale green.”

  “It’s perfect.” Now that the room was repainted, I could better imagine everything she’d suggested—where the crib would go, a rocking chair. I put my arm around her, settling one hand on her belly. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine after that bout of morning sickness. I’ll probably need a nap later, but so does Dad.”

  I kissed her forehead, but couldn’t bring myself to pull away. “I wish we could tell the whole world.”

  “I know. Me too.” She wrapped her arms around my waist and I pulled her close.

  “Are you two at it again?” Sam asked, interrupting our moment.

  I snickered into Claire’s ear. “Can we help you with something?”

  “Yeah, you guys better come downstairs. It’s Grandpa.”

  “Oh, no.” Claire hitched her purse over her shoulder and rushed out the door.

  “Mom, stop.” Sam hurried after her. They ground to a halt in the middle of the hall. “He’s fine. Really. He’s fine.”

  “Don’t scare me like that.” Claire held her hand to her chest.

  “Sorry. It’s just kinda weird. He’s sitting on the bottom of the stairs dipping his finger into Splenda packets.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I turned off the car in the parking lot of the bridal boutique, waiting for Sam to finish her hot cocoa. The coffee shop visit had tested my talent for on-the-fly excuses. I always got a coffee, especially in October when the pumpkin spice latte was available, but now that I was expecting, I’d cut back to one cup a day. I chose water, told her I was thirsty. She gave me a sideways look, but let it go.

  “Done.” She popped her paper cup into the holder.

  A bell jingled when we entered through the black-framed bridal boutique door. A thin, sophisticated woman greeted us, wearing a tweed jacket and pencil skirt in pale blue and gray. It looked to be vintage Chanel. “You must be Ms. Abby. I’m Georgia McIntyre.” She teetered on block heels, her jet-black hair pulled back in a high bun.

  “Please, call me Claire. This is my daughter, Samantha.”

  Sam was thumbing through bridesmaid dresses. “What do you think about this one, Mom?” She pulled out a strapless black satin number with a flared skirt.

  “Hmm.” I
stepped closer and ran my hands across the fabric. “I’m not sure about black. I was thinking a softer color like lavender.”

  “Lavender?” Sam grimaced.

  “I’m sure we can find something that will make both mother and daughter happy.” Georgia faltered every few steps, making her way to a black velvet curtain that spanned the width of the boutique. With a flourish, she pulled it back to reveal a room brimming with wedding gowns. A white-carpeted platform stood in the middle of the room, with an expanse of multi-way mirrors behind it.

  “Wow, Mom. Cool.”

  I’d never once thought about where in town I might shop for a wedding dress, but if I’d had to guess, it wouldn’t have been this place. It was almost too nice, carrying big designers and requiring an appointment. Chris had insisted that I at least take the time to look. My mom, per her usual, had sided with him.

  I went to the rack nearest me and looked at the first dress. Hideous. Ruffles, ruffles, and more ruffles. It had the most profuse bustle I could imagine. Like I want a bigger ass when I’m four months pregnant.

  Georgia stood behind me. “Did you bring photos of dresses that you like? From brides’ magazines?”

  Shit. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t.” I’d only purchased one magazine and dog-eared two things it, neither of which I loved.

  “It’s not a problem. If you want to give me an idea of what you’re looking for, I can start pulling some gowns as you look.”

  The second dress on the rack was as bad as the first. “I want something very simple. No sequins or bows. I’d like to keep the lace and ruffles to a minimum.”

  “What about fabric?” Georgia took a clipboard from a small antique writing desk in the corner. Slipping on a pair of reading glasses, she began taking notes.

  “Matte satin? Organza? Nothing shiny.” Nobody wants to see a shiny pregnant bride.

  “Neckline? Sleeves? Sleeveless?”

  Shopping for a wedding dress made sending a man to the store to buy tampons a piece of cake. “Strapless. I think. Maybe a halter? Sam? What do you think?”

  “You don’t really have the boobs for strapless, Mom. A halter might be better.”

  If this pregnancy is like the first, I should have some lovely boobs by the wedding day. The blood drained from my face as I realized that I would need to accommodate my growing size in whatever dress I picked. Why it hadn’t occurred to me earlier was a mystery. “Yes. A halter. And I’d like something with a high waist and a skirt with a little fullness, but not poofy.” I gotta hide that baby bump, but I don’t need an airplane hangar for it.

  Georgia’s glasses slid to the end of her nose. “Allow me to pull a few things.”

  “Any luck?” Sam asked, joining me.

  “Nope.” I flipped past dress after dress. “This is really stupid. I should’ve been better prepared. I guess I didn’t realize there would be so many choices in a boutique this small.”

  “The whole thing is sort of silly, isn’t it? You’re going to wear it for a few hours and then you’ll put it in a box forever.”

  “You never know. I might pick something so great that even you want to wear it.”

  “That’s assuming I’m going to get married.”

  “Don’t you want to get married?” I continued to flip past dress after dress.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. You did okay without a husband.”

  “I guess.”

  Georgia had placed a few dresses on a small rack near the mirrors. “Would you like to see what I’ve already chosen? You might like one of these and if not, you can tell me where I’m missing the mark.”

  “Sure.” I considered the first batch. None of them were close. “The first two are almost too plain. This one is fitted in the waist and hips. That won’t work.”

  “You have a lovely trim figure,” Georgia said. “No need to hide it.”

  Sam eyed the gown. “I like it, Mom. You’ll look like a mermaid.”

  A pregnant mermaid? “Sorry. It’s not me.”

  Georgia nodded, her lips pressed in a thin line. “I will continue to look. We might need to consult some catalogs.”

  I retreated to the spot where I’d last been looking, feeling defeated. The three of us continued with our quest for another twenty or thirty minutes. Sam had moved to the other side of the room, seemingly frustrated with my near-perfect dislike rate of the things she showed me.

  I’ll know it when I see it. No. No. Ugly. Frumpy. Poofy. Slutty. Eww. Yeah, right. Maybe when I was eighteen and had zero cellulite. No. Hmm. Maybe. Why do they have to put ruffles on everything? No. No.

  I flipped past another. Yes. Oh, wow. God, yes. “I found something.”

  “You did?” Sam rushed over.

  Georgia did her own version of rushing, far slower than Sam.

  “Mom, that’s strapless. You said you didn’t want strapless.”

  “The skirt has a very wide lace trim. With hand-beading,” Georgia added. “You’d said you didn’t want lace.”

  It’s perfect. “May I?” I asked, reaching for the hanger.

  “Certainly. Let’s bring it over here so we can see it better.” Georgia draped the dress over her arm, sidling to the staging rack in her odd gait. “It’s an exquisite gown, sheer silk organza over an underskirt of matte silk satin. The beaded lace at the hem is in a style that was popular in England in the 1800s and is part of the organza. It’s not applied. It’s a painstaking process. If the skirt needs to be hemmed at all, it has to be done from the waist.”

  “Sam? What do you think?” I asked.

  “Try it on.”

  “Smart girl,” Georgia said. “You can change behind this screen.”

  I set my purse on the writing desk and stepped into the changing area, where Georgia held the dress, averting her eyes. I undressed, and when I turned, Georgia had it unzipped and waiting for me to step in. I held the bodice to my chest and she zipped it up.

  “As I expected.” Georgia tugged on the back of the dress. “It’s roomy in the bust. It’ll need to be taken in. Let’s take a look in front of the mirror.”

  Sam gasped when I stepped out from behind the screen. “Mom.” In uncharacteristic Sam fashion, instead of spouting her opinion, her hand clasped over her mouth.

  I lifted the skirt and stepped up onto the circular, carpeted platform in front of the mirrors. It felt as if my heart was talking to me. I’m beating. I’m still beating. Believe it or not, I’m still here. The bodice had gorgeous layers of ivory organza, twisted in the front like a bandeau bathing suit, with skinny straps. The skirt was gathered, but without crinoline, it gracefully swept to the floor. The lace trim was weighty, giving the dress an elegant drape.

  “Mom, it’s so pretty. Do you love it?”

  I nodded, staring at myself in the mirror. I almost didn’t recognize the woman before me. This wasn’t where I’d pictured myself five years ago. Not even a year ago. Part of me had become resigned to the idea that this might not ever happen. Fairytales can’t happen to everyone, can they?

  “I do love it. I really love it.”

  Georgia stepped up on to the platform and tugged at the back again. “The seamstress isn’t here today, but you could come back for the initial fitting next week.”

  I wiggled back and forth, discreetly holding up the dress by pressing my arms to my side. “I don’t know. Seems like it fits great.”

  Georgia lifted one of my arms. The bodice drooped. “You don’t want this. It’ll need to come in.”

  “What happens if they take it in and I gain weight?” Because I’m definitely going to gain weight.

  “Well,” Georgia said in her oddly nasal drawl. “The tailor can leave some wiggle room, but not much. Don’t worry though. I doubt you’ll gain weight.”

  “Mom.” Sam blew out an exasperated breath. “You’re not going to gain weight. You run six days a week.”

  “What if I get nervous? I might start to eat a lot.”

  Georgia looked at my reflection in the
mirror, still holding up the bodice in the back. “Every bride has to suck it in to get into their dress, darling.”

  “I can’t suck it in. I already have a hard enough time breathing when I get excited.”

  My phone rang and Sam grabbed it from my purse. “It’s Chris. Do you want to talk to him?”

  “Yes.” I took the phone from her. “Hey. Is everything okay?”

  “If you mean with your dad, he’s fine. I was calling to see how it’s going. Any luck?”

  The combination of Chris’s buttery accent and a glimpse of my reflection in the dress made my face flush with heat. “Actually, yes. I have it on right now.”

  “Oh, really?” His voice took an even lower, sexier tone.

  I closed my eyes, steadying myself. “Yes, really.”

  “Can you tell me anything?”

  Every syllable out of his mouth tempted me into telling all. “You know I can’t.”

  “How about a hint? I want to picture you in it.”

  Sam plopped down on the edge of the platform.

  “That will ruin the surprise.” I smoothed my hand over the dress, turning in the mirror.

  “Are you going to get this one?”

  “I have to ask how much it costs.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Just get it if you like it.”

  This was an idea with which I wasn’t remotely comfortable.

  Georgia approached with a large, three-ring binder open in her hands. “It’s fifty-nine hundred,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Plus alterations.”

  I’d guessed half that. “It’s more expensive than I thought. I should keep looking.”

  “Absolutely not. I gave in on a smaller ring. If you think a penny of that matters to me more than your happiness, you haven’t figured me out.”

  I smiled. Like there was any defense from him when he was being generous and romantic. “Okay, then. Sounds like I found a dress.” My hand swished across the fabric one more time, prompting another smile.

  Forty-five minutes later, I’d committed to the dress, with my first fitting appointment to come in three weeks, despite Georgia’s protests that I was pushing the timing.