The Second Chance Boutique

by Louisa Leaman

  As she waits, Fran gazes up at the vaulted ceiling and bright-colored remnants of stained glass. She has always loved churches, aisles especially. Although she has never found comfort in faith herself, she has learned to respect the role of religion in marital custom: all those brides who believe their wedding day is not just for them, but for their faith as well. Every wedding needs a sprinkle of magic, she thinks, godly or otherwise. When the big moment finally comes, the air is tremulous. The groom, Richard Fugle, or Rick as he prefers to be known, rocks nervously on his toes. What is going through his mind? Fran wonders. How sure is he? How ready? She shuts her eyes for a second, can’t quite bear to look.

  The music starts, a harpist’s riff on Pachelbel’s Canon, as the front doors creak open. Kate Michaels (soon to be Fugle) takes her first steps up the aisle. The whole chapel gasps as the ’60s minidress, incongruous in such traditional surroundings, makes impact. The bride advances and, through the wisp of the pearl-encrusted veil, catches Fran’s eye.

  Fran smiles. The stress of attending is worth it for this, being here in the moment, seeing her bride, seeing her confidence, seeing that wonderful dress take flight once more—new chapters, new chances. The joy of it all catches in her throat, prompts a prickle of tears, the pleasure immediately tainted by the pain of regret.

  * * *

  The great hall is an explosion of red-and-green tartan, with silver cutlery, twinkling crystal, gleaming dinner plates, and white roses. Fran finds herself assigned to the odds-and-ends table, the place for guests who have no clear allegiance with any other. While buttering a bread roll, she makes polite conversation with an orthodontist, a dairy farmer, and a couple with four children whose sole mission, since they are “child-free” for the weekend, is to drink and dance and stay up until 3:00 a.m. Youthful waiters serve crayfish and prawns, followed by roast beef with “neaps and tatties,” and Cranachan in tall dessert glasses. The food is rich and generous and the wine flows. By the time the speeches are announced, the atmosphere in the hall is jubilant.

  As the guests are called to quiet, Fran turns her chair, leans forward to try to get a better look at the top table, at Kate in her dress, snuggling up to her new husband. The father of the bride speaks first, a slim man with a wry sense of humor, just like his daughter. He talks fondly of Kate’s wild school days, her first car, her appalling student digs, her devilish laugh, and her love of punk rock. Then it is over to the best men, not just one, but a squad of them, boarding school buddies, complete with props and slideshow. Everyone sits up. This should be good.

  The first of them speaks, offers the usual best man opening banter: “Loyal, caring, sincere, honest…but that’s enough about us. We’re here to talk about our good friend Rick.” He pulls out examples of rubbish mix tapes that Rick used to give to girls he fancied at school, then projects a series of cringe-inducing photos—bad haircuts, paisley shirts, and stone-wash jeans—before describing the many antics that went on during a French exchange trip. He wraps up his speech with a joke about rugby balls, then looks down the line.

  “So, over to my compadre, who has a lot more to say about the naughty side of Rick, since they used to be each other’s wingman. Introducing the only singleton left in our group, whose appetite for indecent, no-strings sex will leave you appalled and retching into your coffees.”

  He hands the microphone down the line, as the guests cringe in anticipation of the upcoming gags. Fran sits back—she’s heard it all before. The next best man steps up, takes his place at the podium.

  Rafael!

  Fran freezes, stares at his suited form.

  Everything blurs. The world spins in circles. There he is, the only singleton left in the group. Why now? Why here? The “indecent, no-strings sex” remark sticks in her throat. Not that she should care what he gets up to after hours. She watches, eyes wide, half-horrified, half-amazed, as Rafael raises the microphone. He opens his mouth to speak and, in that instant, spies Fran through the fanfare of champagne flutes. Their gazes meet once again, and his opening lines dissolve into a series of stutters, hijacked by the shock.

  “Um…uh…hi…”

  The microphone squeaks. The guests start to fidget and cough.

  “I mean thanks,” says Rafael, unable to take his eyes off her. “Thanks for that…charming introduction…for making me sound like some sleazy, shameless womanizer…which is somewhat inaccurate…in fact, very inaccurate of you, Mark, with your perfect wife and your two-point-four children…but there you go…anyway.”

  The first best man glares at him. “This isn’t what we rehearsed,” he hisses. “Do the gag about the kissing competition.”

  Rafael blinks, rattled, then, with the encouragement of the best man squad, manages to pull through the material, while constantly glimpsing back at Fran, checking for her reaction.

  * * *

  He eventually finds her on the balcony overlooking the lake, the outline of her gown fluttering in the breeze—an artful array of sage-green chiffon drapes and harem trousers, with a dusky pink appliqué sash. Everyone else is inside drinking up the free bar and enjoying the live music, but out here, it is peaceful. A mist is moving in, shrouding the water with its cold, mystic veil. They stand against the stone balustrade, pretending to admire the view, while being fiercely aware of each other’s proximity.

  “We meet again.”

  “So we do.”

  “If I may say so, Fran, you look lovely. An Eastern-inspired silhouette made popular at the turn of the twentieth century by innovators such as Paul Poiret. The belle epoque, right?”

  Fran nods, raises an eyebrow. “Very good. So you’ve been reading up on fashion history?”

  “A little.”

  “Despite so many misgivings about its worth.”

  “What can I say? You inspired me. Nice ceremony, wasn’t it?”

  “Charming. Nice, um, speech.”

  Rafael winces, shakes his head. “Obviously it was highly embarrassing. All that stuff…it was just…you know…gags.”

  “Sure. I’ve heard a fair few best man speeches in my time. Those ‘indecent, no-strings sex’ remarks are nothing new.” She catches Rafael’s eye, checks for a glimmer of shame.

  “I’ve been single a long time,” he responds, poker faced. “No strings, yes. Indecent, never. Like I said, it’s just best man banter, designated to make fools of us all. You were responsible for the bridal dress, I suppose?”

  Fran nods.

  “Touché. It’s very cool. Everyone’s talking about it.”

  “Are they?” says Fran, narrowing her gaze. “Well, it’s nice to know that whimsical little fantasies of history can be appreciated by some people.”

  “Look,” says Rafael, “I appreciate we haven’t had the smoothest of starts, but…maybe…since we’re both here…we could try to…try again?”

  Fran lowers her eyelids, resists that strange inner urge to stare at him, face him, connect with him. Suddenly she feels very aware of the effort she’s made, in the most sensuous of her outfits. She is even wearing her lucky shoes, which are good for standing in, if not for moving. But, of course, she dresses to please herself, no one else. Not him. Not a man. Not Rafael.

  “There are only so many tries,” she says resolutely.

  “We could at least chat.”

  “I think we did chat the last time we met. And it didn’t work out so well.”

  Rafael sighs. “Okay, I’ll admit I’ve given you a rather poor impression of myself, but if you’ll give me the chance to…show you…”

  “Show me what?”

  “My better qualities.” He stares at her, an unassailable intensity in his deep, dark eyes.

  Determined not to give him leeway, Fran leans over the balustrade, feels the breeze in her hair. Her emotions turn in circles. How he fascinates her, enthralls her, yet infuriates her too. Hate and love, she thinks, r
emembering Mick’s platitude, the chemicals are the same. And now she senses them mixing and twisting inside her, luring her like a magnet toward the unknown.

  “Tell me about yourself,” she inquires. “What’s your thing? Are you into the arts? Theater? Sports? Music? Fine dining and exclusive champagne bars?”

  Rafael laughs—he’d hardly call Seekers exclusive. He looks around, as if trying to latch on to a better answer than the one in his head. “Mostly I work. I’m that boring.”

  “Not much time for indecent, no-strings sex then?”

  “Oh, please. Those comments, they were bravado. It’s true I’m single, but…”

  “You like your job then? I mean, it’s quite a job—philanthropy.”

  “If I could call it a job,” he says wryly. “It’s a lot more than that. It’s more like a duty. I guess you could say it’s…”

  “In the family,” says Fran, finishing the sentence for him. “Well, at least you help people. You make a difference. You can go to bed each night feeling proud.”

  “Can I?”

  Fran nods, stirs the dregs of her Whisky MacDonald.

  “I am proud,” says Rafael, “but it’s a weight, a burden even. The world doesn’t want me to say that though, because obviously I’m supposed to be eternally grateful for all my privileges. You know, when I was young, my father sent me all around the world to show me what poverty looked like, all from the comfort of an air-conditioned limousine. He talked endlessly about society’s problems and how the foundation was helping to solve them, while swigging Chablis from his vintage wine cellar. It’s not…” He pauses, thinks carefully about how to say this. “It’s not that I’m not proud of my work, Fran. When I think about what we do for people, there’s no question of its worth. It’s not the charity I doubt. It’s the bullshit that goes with it. Don’t assume the world of philanthropy is full of generous-hearted altruists. There are plenty who are in it for themselves, to massage their egos or to improve, or even protect, their reputation. The mask of kindness, it’s a convincing one.” He looks at her sharply, blinks as though startled. “But…why am I telling you all this?”

  Fran shrugs. “Because you’re not one for small talk.”

  “Yes, yes, I suppose you could say that.”

  He looks away, stares over her shoulder.

  Meanwhile, through the swirling lights of the hall, the fiddle and drums of the ceilidh band start up. The happy couple, Kate and Rick, twirl into the center, laughing together, immersed in the kind of love that shuts out the rest of the world.

  What is happening? thinks Rafael. Why does Fran make him feel so…outside of himself? All those years ago, he’d made the choice to forget love. And now, here he is, caught in a surge of excitable emotion, barely knowing what to do with it. Like a sunray, she has struck him, ignited some long-forgotten want, and there is no going back. He must connect, take a risk, pull her closer.

  “Well, if you really don’t want to chat,” he says, gesturing to the dance floor, “maybe we could…?”

  Fran blinks. “I only know how to fox-trot.”

  “I don’t even know that, so…”

  On impulse, he hooks his fingers around hers. The spontaneity of his touch does something peculiar to her breathing. He is actually asking her to dance, this wedding-hating, love-skeptical, cold fish of a man, who is not, it seems, such a cold fish after all. Unsure where this will all unwind, Fran shuts her eyes and accepts, the warmth of his skin, the strength of his grip, wrapping her tiny, milky palm entirely.

  They run to the middle, among the cavorting couples. The fiddle and drums are at the peak of their frenzy. He wraps her in his arms, then releases her outward, then coils her back again, pressing her tiny ribs to his chest. He can, therefore, dance—enough not to tread on her toes anyhow.

  As they twirl and spin, the amalgamation of disco lights, party dresses, and tartan become a kaleidoscope. Are they in time with the music? Who cares? Is the music fast, while they dance slow? Why not? They hardly notice. They are only aware of each other.

  Suddenly he doesn’t want to let go of her.

  Yet the thought of letting her in is terrifying.

  As his hands skim the outline of her hips, barely touching, the deepest fear grips him—that he will damage her, that she doesn’t deserve the hurt he will bring. He can’t. He mustn’t. His heart must stay closed.

  But then…

  She throws her head back, laughs like the world is painted with glitter. She is so free, so weightless.

  He cannot help himself. He kisses her before he can ruin it, takes her face in his hands, gives her no choice…not that she minds.

  Minds? Her heart is on fire, sparking and fizzing and cartwheeling through the light. She hasn’t been kissed like this since…since… She cannot look back, cannot compare. Only now. Only this. His lips are soft. He kisses her like he wants her—not in a predatory way, nor possessive, nor desperate, but in a way that speaks of love, the truth of it, all the courage and compromise and effort that drives it.

  A kiss from one who knows that love is not easy.

  When they finally pull apart, stunned and wordless, the music has stopped. The hall is silent. The enormity of the moment sweeps through them. For the first time in years, they have let down their guards. But then…Rafael sees it, a sudden shadow in her eyes, her stunned delight eclipsed by alarm.

  She backs away, mouth open. “I—I’m sorry,” she says, trembling. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  She turns and flees into the darkness.

  * * *

  “So you kissed him?” says Mick, fluffing the hem of an ivory swing dress. “It’s not a crime, Fran. Consenting grown-ups are allowed to do that sort of thing.”

  Fran sighs, cradles her coffee to her chest. She has the feeling she is about to get a lecture.

  “But you said it yourself,” she argues. “He has a certain arsehole factor about him.”

  “Okay, first impressions weren’t great, but he must have something going for him, given how much of your attention he’s commanding. Give him a chance. Maybe a date, Fran…one that doesn’t involve weddings? Romance in reverse.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Mick. I—I’m just not sure I’m ready.”

  “Ready? Ready?” He throws his hands up. “Fran, it’s been over ten years! You deserve to find someone, someone who’ll make you happy, a mate, a future. You try and try to convince me—to convince yourself for that matter—that dressing brides and fussing over other people’s wedding days is romance enough for you, but I’ve seen that look in your eyes. I know you’re lonely. I have my reservations about the guy, but honestly, I’ve never seen you so worked up about anyone, ever. On your own advice, girl, go for it. Take a chance.”

  Fran sighs, wraps her arms around her middle, squeezes herself. She wants to see Rafael again—so badly—but she is scared. She glances at the Alessandra Colt dress, its mysterious energy pulsing in the corner of the shop, then her eyes track to the wooden wardrobe with the art nouveau handles, wherein another dress lies.

  “I know you kept it,” says Mick solemnly.

  Fran looks down at her feet. “I never get it out,” she blusters. “It’s fine.”

  “If you say so,” he says, eyeing her carefully. “Come on. We’ve got work to do. Let’s get these veils cleaned.”

  * * *

  “Mimi, where are the papers on the water project?”

  “On your desk. Why don’t you look properly?”

  “Excuse me. Who’s in charge here?”

  “Your head is in the clouds, Rafael, so at the moment, it’s me.”

  “Thank you, Mimi. Noted. How are the wedding plans coming?”

  “Like you care.”

  As Mimi stomps back to her desk, Rafael stretches and stares across the grassy vale of Regent’s Par
k. It has been three days since he kissed Francesca Delaney at the insane Scottish wedding, and they haven’t talked since, haven’t dared. Not even a text. He could almost think it had never happened, yet its dreamlike vivacity swirls though his thoughts with uncontainable frequency. Perhaps it was the drink. Or the grip of wedding fever. Or both. Either way, in the wake of his distraction, a mountain of folders have stacked up on his desk—new bids for funding, youth groups wanting lump sums for retreat weekends, a traditional folk dance troupe hoping to tour disadvantaged schools, medical research centers begging for finance—everyone wanting something from him, from the family, from their money.

  Mimi signals him, asks to patch through a phone call. “Apparently it’s urgent.”

  “According to whom? If it turns out to be a sales call, I’ll fire you.”

  She sighs, knows he’ll be cross. “It’s that reporter. He’s very insistent. He claims he has some ‘insights.’ I think you should talk to him.”

  “Hell no!”

  Too late. The phone buzzes. The line is poor, long distance.

  “Yes?” says Rafael, unable—and unwilling—to disguise his ire. “And what have you got on me this time?”

  “Evidence of trouble,” says the voice with a melting Welsh lilt. “I’ve been doing some digging, Mr. Colt, as you know I do, and I’ve found reason to believe—”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Do you want me to share what I know? I’d be willing if you’d oblige me with an interview. Or just a sound bite would do.”

  “You’re a piece of work,” says Rafael, shaking his head. “Is it really your prerogative to keep trashing my family until you succeed in destroying our foundation and everything it has done? Do you know how many children receive a decent education because of us? Or how many injured servicemen have been given proper rehabilitation because of our donations?”

  “I notice you’re not denying it.”

  “I know nothing about any scandal,” he snarls. “You got us on alcohol addiction. You got us on embezzling uncles. And you did a fine job dragging my supposedly ‘sociopathic’ father through the gutter. But you won’t get us anymore. You know that.”