Still, it was nice to hang out with my mom. She and her business partner, Justine, were busier than ever with their less-than-a-year-old staging and decorating venture. It was a real joy to catch my mom making herself at home in my B and B kitchen for a respite from her own busy day. She must’ve ferreted out the hidden key under the back porch and let herself in. I didn’t mind the boundary smashing since she’d whipped up this batch of lemonade for us. I was ready for a calm rejoinder.
“I just got engaged on New Year’s Day. It’s only June. I told you Garrett and I are aiming for fall. That’s a quicker timeline than most people getting hitched.”
“You aim for the bull’s-eye in a dart game, Mallory, not a wedding date. Just set the darn thing and be done with it!” My mom attempted to blow her bangs from her forehead in frustration. She seemed to have forgotten she’d pushed them back today with the purple gingham headband.
My tiny calico cat, Whiskey, appeared at my mom’s feet. She blinked her impressively large ochre eyes and let out a delicate but insistent meow. I nearly thanked the thoughtful feline for seeming to sense my need for rescue. My mom tsked and blushed. She seemed to realize her outburst went a bit too far. She produced a cat treat from the pantry and was rewarded by a happy, purring kitty twining around her ankles.
“I am worried that I won’t be able to properly attend to your wedding as mother of the bride and chief wedding designer. When the time does finally come, that is.” She softened her tone with a sprinkling of the fretfulness I was used to. “You’re a professional wedding planner. But I want to relieve you of that role for your own big day. You should just sit back and enjoy.”
“That’s so thoughtful, Mom.” My heart warmed toward my mother, Carole. Her sentiments were in the right place, even though pushy could have easily been her middle name. I also couldn’t help but compare my mom’s offer to Bev’s. My dear seamstress friend had made the same offer of wedding planning help just this morning. It would make sense for my mom and Bev to team up to design my wedding. Garrett and I would happily hand over the reins in that arena. It was totally enticing to imagine myself as a regular blushing bride, instead of managing my own wedding as my very own client.
It was too bad pigs flying had a better chance of happening than those two special women in my life working together. Carole and Bev were more alike than their strikingly different appearances belied. My mom favored preppy outfits all in one hue, and her persona was persnickety and careful. She was always admonishing me to watch my figure and to keep propriety in mind. Bev, in contrast, favored loud prints and patterns to cloak her own ample, apple-shaped short frame, and as many sparkly hair accoutrements as her impressive blond beehive would hold. But like my mom, Bev was a whizz at her business. She dressed nearly every bride in Port Quincy, as well as their attendants, in addition to being a skilled seamstress. Her renown had grown, and brides frequently traveled from Pittsburgh, western Maryland, and West Virginia to check out her special shop, Silver Bells. I wished Carole and Bev could be friends. And in another universe, where my mom hadn’t once dated Bev’s fiancé, Jesse, maybe they would have been.
It was a different story for my stepfather, Doug, and Bev’s Jesse. The two had made nice at one of my winter events, Paws and Poinsettias, and were becoming fast friends. The men had bonded over their shared love for the Pittsburgh Penguins and American history. It wasn’t a rare sight to see the two men catching dinner together in downtown Port Quincy. I just wished their other halves would have been willing to bury their hatchets, too, or the similar sketch pads they both used in their work as a stager and decorator and a bridal-store owner and seamstress. But I wasn’t holding out hope for that. The two women did an uncomfortable and tetchy little dance each time they were unfortunate enough for their paths to cross in Port Quincy. Which in a town this small, was pretty darn frequent.
Mom let out a thoughtful sigh. “I never thought I’d complain about my business doing so well. But I can just see how this is going to go. I won’t be able to be your wedding planner despite being the perfect person for the job. After all, I can see where you got your natural design eye from.” She fluffed out her hair, carefully dyed the same shade as my sister Rachel’s beachy, caramel tresses.
And almost as if being summoned, my gorgeous, Amazonian sister strolled through the back door. My mom bestowed a quick kiss on my sister’s cheek.
Rachel grinned. She must’ve caught my mom’s last utterance as she trailed in the door. “Don’t worry about being Mallory’s wedding planner, Mom. Bev can do it.” Rachel didn’t seem aware of the dagger blow she’d just delivered to our mom. Carole recoiled and leaned against the kitchen counter. My oblivious sister poured a healthy goblet of lemonade and drained it in ten seconds flat, making the hurried action somehow seem like an audition for a Country Time lemonade commercial. But Rachel had that effect. She was eight inches taller than yours truly, with a daring sense of style and a magnetism that left nearly every unattached man in Port Quincy drooling in her wake. It was too bad for them that my sister seemed to be permanently off the market, having fallen head over heels in love with her boyfriend and our event-planning business’s part-time chef, Miles.
“C’mon, Mom. I’m just joking.” Rachel set her sweaty goblet of drained lemonade on the counter and sent our mom a more caring gaze. “Mallory is a control freak, just like you. I’m sure she’ll manage to plan her own wedding herself somehow.”
I burst out laughing at my sister’s prediction. “I don’t mind being a control freak if it leads to gorgeous and thoughtful ceremonies and receptions for my clients. And maybe you’re right, Rach. My instincts will be to plan my big day with Garrett. But I’d also be happy to relinquish that control.”
Rachel’s pretty green eyes lit up at my offer. “Just say the word, and I’ll do it.”
I gulped on a swig of tart and sweet lemonade and sputtered as the liquid went down the wrong pipe. “Thanks, Rach.” I took in my sister’s outfit of the day and regretted making the offer to plan my wedding, even though it had been half in jest. She wore a daringly short romper of gold and green dots, the pattern like a zoomed-in pointillist painting. She tied in the colors with a swath of metallic bronze glitter eyeshadow, her hair in a jaunty side ponytail to reveal the giant gold hoops swinging in her ears. The big earrings matched her pretty hair, a sun-kissed shade between blond and brown. And she towered even higher than ever above me in a pair of cut-out, high-heeled gold lamé basketball shoes, a Frankenstein-matchup of Converse All Stars and stilettos. And to top it all off, that zany getup somehow looked amazing on Rachel. It was as if Anna Wintour had personally designed this look and my sister was ready to grace a fashion magazine. I think if I donned the same getup, I’d be asked about where the costume party was being held. You could definitely see the resemblance between us, but my sister was all flash and sparkling green eyes and prodigious height and curves, and I was shorter, with sandy curls and eyes a more subdued shade of brown.
My sister reined in her personal style when it came to working with me, planning weddings. Her daring suggestions were incorporated in small increments that really made the designs pop. But left unbridled, I wondered if my tentative fall wedding would turn into a mix of Malibu Barbie and fall harvest glitter-bomb.
“I’d love your help, Rach,” I reiterated, careful not to choke on my second swig of lemonade. Rachel beamed her assent, and I felt so much love toward my sister. Of course, she could help design my wedding, even if it did turn into a spectacle. I was touched that so many lovely people in my life wanted me to have a nice, carefree wedding, and take over my professional planning role. It was just too bad there was no chance for a Carole-Bev-Rachel trifecta of a collaboration.
Rachel and I both seemed to remember our mother and turned to take her in at the counter. She hadn’t recovered from Rachel’s suggestion several minutes ago that Bev plan my wedding. She narrowed her eyes from her station and stripped off the sunny apron. She glowered at us in a purp
le-hued low-boil rage, refusing to treat Rachel’s joke as a mere flippant comment.
“Mom, Rachel was just joking.” I attempted to soothe my mother and took out ingredients to make some cold salads for dinner to accompany our oven-fried chicken. I wordlessly handed my mom a head of broccoli and bowl of shredded cabbage. I rustled around in the pantry for a jar of mayo and some golden raisins to complete the broccoli salad.
My mother gave up her protestations and started washing the veggies, but not before she sent Rachel a haughty look. My sister shrugged and grabbed a washed floret and popped it in her mouth.
Carole suddenly wheeled around, an arc of water spraying us from the head of broccoli she held in a murderous grip. “This really is all moot, Mallory, until you and Garrett stop stalling and set the darn date.”
I opened my mouth to soothe my mom rather than lay down some kind of gauntlet. She obviously was more perturbed than I would have guessed at the prospect of Bev having any kind of hand in planning my wedding. But then she had to step way out of line.
“I think it’s time for me to intervene, Mallory.”
Say what?
I braced myself for the undoubtedly amusing and probably preposterous thing my mom would say. But nothing prepared me for her next decree.
“I think you should get married this summer. I took the liberty of peeking at your schedule in your office. You have a few Friday and Sunday dates left in July and August. Just set the darn date!”
I opened my mouth to jump in, but Carole wasn’t done. Her green eyes flicked up and down my figure. “You’ll need to shed a few pounds, and fast.” She narrowed her gaze at the jar of mayo, momentarily sparing me. “Swap this out for some low-cal Miracle Whip.”
“Mom. You’ve officially gone too far.” I held up my hand like a traffic attendant. “I happen to like the way I look. I don’t appreciate comments about my weight.” I didn’t have the bombshell looks of my sister, but I tried to make time for exercise and good food choices, even if that only translated to bike rides and long walks with my fiancé and his daughter Summer, and the occasional consumption of a salad. I wouldn’t have my mom berate my appearance. But apparently, she wasn’t finished.
“You’ll be eating for two soon enough, Mallory.” Carole waved a dismissive hand at what must have been my flummoxed and appalled face. “You need to give me some grandbabies, and you and Garrett may as well get the show on the road.”
Rachel had appeared indignant at my mother’s mixed weight-loss decree and pep talk, but Mom’s latest demand made Rachel spit out her lemonade. She shook her head as she grabbed a napkin. I was glad that my sister was as stunned as I was. Her giant etched-gold hoops hit her shoulders as she glanced back and forth between our mother and me, wondering who would say what next. Whiskey the cat stood in rapt silence, watching Rachel’s earrings like a pendulum.
“Your clock is ticking, Mallory.” My mom chose to double down on her bold remarks rather than apologize.
I stood still in my kitchen, hoping the grip I used on the tea towel in my hands didn’t give away my anger. But I thought of my role as unofficial therapist when I planned weddings. I often had to maneuver around potential and real emotional minefields and wounds exposed between family members when they attempted to come together to plan a big day. I cautioned my brides to stand up for themselves and not take the familial bait, and I would do the same with my mother.
I answered her evenly and truthfully. “Garrett and I haven’t discussed it.”
The gasp that reverberated around the room wasn’t my mom’s, but Rachel’s. Mom was shocked into total silence.
Whoops.
Rachel finally found her voice. “You haven’t talked about kids?” Rachel let out an alarmed yelp. “Mallory, that’s not a good sign.” Rachel shook her head, the gold hoops’ dancing becoming increasingly agitated. “Miles and I have it all planned out. A long engagement, with him probably popping the question on Valentine’s Day. Then a big winter wedding a year after that. Followed by several months of international travel. And our first of four kids a year after that.”
I was happy to hear my sister’s lavish life blueprint all laid out for my mom to hear. Somehow Rachel’s declaration put Carole into more of a tizzy than my own dearth of procreation plans.
“It’s time to put the brakes on all that, young lady.” My mom turned her alarmed expression to Rachel. It was a running theme that I’d grown up a bit too fast, watching my sister, four years my junior, after school when we’d been latchkey kids. My dad had left one day and never returned, with nary a clue or trace. My mom had given up her suburban housewife role and launched an uber successful decorating business from nothing. But I’d looked out for Rachel, and my mom couldn’t get it out of her head all these years later that I might not want to do things on some preapproved timeline, and that my wild-child sister might actually be ready to settle down. People’s perceptions of each other could be hard to change.
I let them argue about Rachel’s readiness to plan out her life, and retreated to my thoughts. My mom’s rather crass demand for grandbabies had set my head spinning.
It had been on my mind. I spun back a few hours prior, when I held sweet Miri in my arms. I couldn’t stop thinking about her baby-powder scent, the brief cuddles, and her joyous baby laughter. Not that I wanted all that tomorrow, either. My heart pulled.
How in the heck do I bring this up with Garrett?
The adorable six-month-old had reminded me yet again that Garrett and I hadn’t broached the subject of kids in any formal way. The topic made me uneasy. Maybe because I wasn’t sure what I wanted. And I was worried to discover what Garrett’s thoughts were on the matter.
My fiancé had been maddeningly unspecific about whether we should have a child of our own. And until a few weeks ago, I’d been ambivalent, too. I was happy and excited for my friend Olivia’s impending birth and had agreed to plan her baby shower. I realized my beau and I had just talked unnervingly and ambiguously about having another child. It was a someday thing, if a thing at all. I didn’t think the door was closed, but I was alarmed that there was no deadline. And now my mom’s needling was getting to me. A-ticking and a-tocking indeed.
And how would Summer feel? I loved my fiancé’s daughter as my own, but I’d also never try to usurp her mother, Adrienne.
“I obviously do need to discuss this with Garrett.” I threw my mom and Rachel a bone. “And Summer needs to weigh in on things too, it’s only fair. She’s fourteen and this would drastically change her life. If Garrett and I even consider it.”
“Summer is the loveliest young woman, Mallory,” my mother added. “But I also know you and Garrett will add to your family. The more the merrier!”
I gave my mother what felt like a thin-lipped smile and turned back to the broccoli salad, effectively ending this discussion.
But my mom wasn’t finished. She bulldozed on with horrifying and admirable aplomb. “If you and Rachel hire an assistant tomorrow, you and Garrett could get things going and take a nice, long maternity leave. Why,” she added slyly, “you could even hand the reins of the business over to Rachel for a while!”
Oh no, she didn’t.
My power-hungry sister literally licked her glossy, glittery lips. “That’s a brilliant idea, Mom. Mallory, you can take a well-deserved break and I’ll show you what I can do.”
I stifled a giggle at this ambush and couldn’t even act mad. My mom and sister were being ridiculous. I was still inwardly reeling at my mother’s allusion to Garrett and I “getting things going.” But not worried, because it ultimately didn’t concern her. It was more worrying that my mom was pushing this plan in a bid to award my sister with more responsibility. I felt like these two had colluded.
But Mom had already moved on to less weighty subjects. “I will be there when you get your dress, Mallory. Rachel and I are planning this wedding for you. We’re family. Maybe it would be best if we skipped Bev’s little shop.” My mom spat out the seams
tress and dress-store owner’s name in a little sibilant hiss.
I suppressed my eye roll and answered in a calm tone. “Don’t worry, Mom, you’ll be there.” No way was I going to mention the ethereal sundress Bev and I had stumbled upon in the Antique Emporium as a possible dress contender. The fact I’d discovered it with Bev instead of her would have sent my mom reeling over the edge.
“Well, I really must be going.” Mom glanced at her plum-colored watch and gathered an equally hued leather bag. “I have a meeting with a client, but I’ll be back for dinner.”
Rachel and I gave our mother a cheery wave of a send-off, then collapsed into a gale of laughter.
“That was too intense,” Rachel sputtered.
“Mom is too intense,” I corrected. “The nerve of her demanding grandbabies!”
“She’s right about our assistant search, though,” Rachel cautiously began. “I’m not, um, pushing for you to get married and knocked up or anything, but you do work too hard in general. And with my cake business busier than ever, we need to hire someone who will see this as a long-term career rather than a part-time gig while they’re finishing school.”
I nodded and recalled the spreadsheets and reconfiguring my sister and I had done to make this a full-time position with good benefits and room to grow. The three candidates we’d be interviewing seemed like they’d be good fits, and it would be hard to make a hiring choice. Which reminded me.
“We have one more candidate, Rach.”
Veiled in Death Page 5
