When Girlfriends Chase Dreams (2 page)

I take the magazine and look over the details. It
is
a chic vintage dress. It definitely boasts elegance and class. And I bet it’d be suitable for my body type, too. I’m a bit on the short side (
almost
five feet and four inches) and have womanly curves. (“Womanly curves”—the term my mother taught to call my round bottom, slightly bosomy chest, and defined waist.)

“It could work,” I say with hope in my voice. “Do you have this? Or something like this?” I ask an attendant, showing her the photo of the gorgeous dress.

“We could order it in, I’m pretty sure,” she says with confidence. “We’re always eager to have a new Vera to add to the collection.”

I look back at the girls. “Okay,” I sigh. “Let’s try
one
more then for today,” I point at the last dress hanging on the rack, “and then we can get some lunch.”

Emily gives a short applause and says that it sounds like a great plan. “I’m starved,” she exclaims.

Emily Saunders. I have to count my lucky stars that this girl is still here in Seattle helping out with the wedding. She is one of my bridesmaids, after all, as are all my girls. But Emily’s the unusual type. She’s a nomad. She’s the one who’s always jetting off to another country at the last minute. She’s big on exploring different places and learning about different cultures. “Widening her global perspective,” she says, or something like that. She’s even spent tons of time living in exotic locations and among tribes; she practically becomes a local wherever she goes.

Yet somehow I have managed to convince Emily to stick around, at least until August. When the wedding is over, then she has my consent to flee the scene, if she wishes. It’s not that Emily isn’t happy in Seattle or doesn’t want to be here with all us girls. She’s just a traveler at heart, and so long as she’s got her passport in one hand and her camera in the other, she’s a pretty happy camper.

“And we’re sure about the bridesmaid dresses?” Mom says. “You’re going with the same color, different styles?”

“I want to sleep on it a bit,” I say, and all of the girls suddenly look deflated. “Just to be
sure
.” I try to prove to them that the hunt for the ideal bridesmaid dresses won’t last much longer. They’ve been such troopers. “But I think I’m sure,” I add. “They’re such a pretty shade of green.”

I make my way back to the dressing room, more than ready to slip out of this heavy number and into the remaining dress. I’m almost certain it’s not “the one!”, but I still want to try it on anyhow. Besides, Emily’s been documenting the journey from fiancée to wife for me, constantly snapping photos of important events, like trying on dozens of wedding gowns. What’s one more to add to the album?

***

“I’m so excited that they’re going to order that to-die-for Vera Wang!” I gush, starting to daydream about slipping into the dress Mom had found at random. Maybe I have too many magazines and therefore can’t thoroughly scour each one—clearly I missed that gem!

“Knowing you, Claire,” Lara says with moxie, “it won’t be ‘the one!’” She pops a French fry into her mouth.

“I didn’t think it’d be so hard finding the perfect dress. You know?” I chomp on a few fries myself. “It’s probably one of the most difficult tasks I’ve had to do for this wedding.”

“You’re still looking for a planner, right?” Robin asks.

Six months in to planning my dream wedding I finally realized I needed to stop doing everything by myself, and stop dragging my friends and family and anyone who would lend a hand into the planning mess. Don’t get me wrong—I’m still doing plenty on my own, and I’ll take all the help I can get, but I think it’s time to rally someone else to the Whitley Wedding Cause.

My fiancé Conner and I have estimated a headcount of a little over one hundred, and that’s proving to be too much to handle for one DIY-obsessed girl (and everyone else involved). As much as I love planning and crafting, this wedding is headed for the hospital. It needs a surgeon ASAP. That’s why I made it my New Year’s resolution to find a wedding planner. Someone who could design, coordinate, and pull off the most stunning fairytale wedding imaginable.

I’m only two weeks into January now, and I’ve already met with two of the three planners I have on list. Unfortunately, neither of them turned out to be the Franck Eggelhoffer I dreamed about. They weren’t even Howard Weinstein, funny-little-assistant material. When I rang up my mom, who lives back in my small hometown of Sisters, Oregon, to tell her that neither of the planners met my expectations, she very sweetly said I shouldn’t expect a
Father of the Bride
-style wedding, anyhow. “That’s Hollywood, dear,” she told me. “Make-believe stuff.”

I beg to differ, however. See, my brilliant and charming and very in-tune-with-me boyfriend—I mean, fiancé
—
proposed in a very Hollywood-esque way. I’m a huge Diane Keaton fan, and one of my all-time-favorite films is
Something’s Gotta Give
. Conner knows this. He’s had to sit through this well-worn DVD more than a dozen times. So what did Conner do last July? He not only surprised me with a trip to Paris, and he not only popped the question right there in the most romantic city in the world (and I
totally
did not see that one coming!), but he did so with my favorite Hollywood moment in mind. He got down on bended knee on the romantic Pont d’Arcole, right where Diane Keaton and Jack Nicholson meet at the end of
Something’s Gotta Give
. It was so romantic. Like something straight…well, straight out of the movies!

So you see, magical Hollywood moments
can
come true, which is why I’m a firm believer that my Franck Eggelhoffer is out there. And, if all else fails, would it be so strange to find Martin Short and ask him to play the part for me?

“Claire’s already met with two of the planners,” Mom answers Robin.

“And?” Jackie asks.

“Not up to snuff,” Mom replies with a simple shrug.

“What was so wrong with them?” Robin takes a sip of her water. “Too expensive?”

“It’s not the money,” I say. Luckily, my father has offered to foot the entire bill for the wedding, with some help from Mom, too. My parents had planned since my and my sister’s births to be prepared to cough up bridal bounty. Seeing how they did so with Maggie’s wedding last summer, it’s my turn now.

Conner and I were elated when Dad gave the official confirmation that we were to send all the bills his way. What a relief! Conner and I both have decent enough jobs and live well enough, but we could never fathom paying for a beautiful wedding with more than one hundred guests. Going to Paris was a
huge
deal, and it did cost a pretty penny. But that’s not an every-day kind of thing. It’s not like, left to our own devices, we could plan a wedding menu that
didn’t
have the words “sandwich” or “cash bar” on it. I mean, just take a look at my age-old car. And I just know that Dad would not be happy if his youngest daughter was feeding her guests (some of whom are his high-end clients and colleagues) microwavable mac and cheese.

“If it’s not the money, then what is it?” Jackie asks.

I tell the girls that one of the two planners with whom I’d met was very pompous. He had an air about him like he was better than me and that—as he was practically buffing his nails—he had planned “far bigger, far more elaborate, and far more challenging weddings than mine!” (Yeah, that’s a way to sell yourself.)

Not to mention the woodsy Elton John NEST candle that he burned in his office was really making me nauseous. (Up until that point, I never knew Sir Elton had branched out from the music world into an overpowering home fragrant line. What do you know? Learn something new every day.) Anyway, I had to leave. So that was planner number one down the drain.

As for the other planner, she told me that I would need to be just as involved in the wedding coordination and design as she, and that we should look at our relationship as a partnership. A team. And after I asked what exactly I was paying her for, I told her thanks but no thanks, and left, feeling dismal about the entire prospect of handing off a ton of my wedding stress to someone who was, supposedly, more capable. Two planners down, one to go.

“That’s really too bad,” Lara says. “Maybe this third one will work out?”

“Yeah!” Sophie chimes in. “I bet she’ll be perfect.”

“She better be.” I munch on some more fries. “She’s my last hope. I can’t keep spending time searching for planners. This wedding will be here before we know it.”

“You can always change the date if you need to,” Emily offers. “Give yourself more time.”

I hold up my hand and wag my index finger. “Conner and I’ve already changed the date like a zillion times,” I say. “There’s no way we’re changing it again. Besides, the Save-the-Dates have been sent,
and
I already pre-ordered invitations. August sixteenth is
the
day, for better or for worse.”

“I think the next planner will be the perfect fit,” Mom says encouragingly. She pats my arm and smiles. “She just has to be!”

“Yeah, she
has
to be.”

Chapter Two

After taking Mom to the airport that Sunday afternoon, I come home, seeking refuge from what started as a light dusting of snow but quickly became a full-on storm. I’d stuck around the airport to make sure her flight could take off and safely make it back home to an equally snowy Oregon.

I wish my mom and I lived closer, especially in the midst of wedding planning. Although I miss my small hometown of Sisters, Oregon on occasion, Seattle has been home since I moved here for college. And it is definitely home, because Conner and I have made these four walls a very comfortable and inviting three-bed and two-bath residence, right here at 1247 Parker Lane. In a very quiet Madison Park neighborhood, surrounded by beautiful parks, which are ideal for those routine walks with our Jack Russell Terrier mix, Schnickerdoodle.

“I’m home!” I call out. I flip on the living room lights. “Anyone home?”

Conner’s truck is in the drive, so either he’s hidden away in another part of the house or he’s out with one of his buddies—most likely his best friend, Chad Harris. They’re probably getting themselves into some sort of trouble—driving recklessly in a vacant, snow-covered parking lot with Chad’s souped-up truck, or bowling and beering their minds away, or watching some testosterone-amped film.

“Conner?” I call out. Or maybe he’s out walk— He’s not walking the dog; Schnickerdoodle comes racing from one of the back bedrooms and immediately starts to jump up and down at my feet. I greet him and give him a good rubbing behind the ears. “Where’s Daddy? Huh? Where’s Daddy?”

“Daddy’s here!” Conner’s leaning against the wall at the end of the hall, grinning and still wearing his pajamas.

We kiss hello and I can’t help but tease him about his choice of clothing.

“I’ve been making major progress,” he asserts himself. “Come on.” He takes my hand and leads me into one of the spare bedrooms that we use as an office; although, as of late it’s been Wedding Central, with yards upon yards of burlap and tulle wadded up in one corner and covering my sewing table. I’m working on some fabulous drapes for the wedding décor. It’s going to look amazing!

“Now it’s just the beginning,” Conner says. He takes a seat in the plush swivel chair and fiddles with the computer’s mouse. “It’s still a work-in-progress, but I think it’s really coming along.” He turns to me and points at the screen, which is vibrantly colored with the familiar squared sequences of cartoon events.

“Nice,” I compliment.

When Conner’s not busily working in front of the screen where he works as an accountant downtown, he’s having fun making his own comic strips. It’s his artistic release; and since before we met, he’s either been sketching cartoon characters or creating impressive storyboards on-screen.

He’s really quite good, and I’m not just saying that because he’s my boy—I mean, fiancé. Gosh, that’s still so hard to believe even after all these months of being engaged! Conner could probably take his skills to a local newspaper—get a regular daily feature or something—and see where it could go from there. But anytime I mention it, Conner casually shrugs and says, “Nah.”

If he didn’t love his job crunching numbers so much (and if cartooning were a guarantee of a nice pay), I would think he’d try to turn his hobby into a career. He insists, however, that keeping it at hobby level is a big part of its appeal. It’s a fun form of artistic expression and something to do when he chooses, never because of a deadline.

“It still needs a lot of work,” he says. “I’m not sure about the way I’ve made the frogs look. Almost too cartoony, you know?”

I nod sincerely, not really understanding how a comic can look “too cartoony,” but knowing that he won’t stop the strip until it’s done to his satisfaction. I also know it’ll look awesome no matter what he decides.

One time, a few years ago, he was so hung up on how his femme fatale spoke—saying her dialect was too garbled for someone who was so one-track-minded and almost simplistic. He’d toyed around with her lingo from bubble to bubble in that particular story for months. Even though the strip wasn’t longer than four pages or so, it consumed more of his time than some of his much lengthier stories. So long as he enjoys the cartooning and has fun, I say he should go for it. And, of course, so long as he manages to set aside
some
time to lend a hand with all of the crazy wedding stuff.

I give him a kiss on his sandy-blonde head and tell him that I’m proud of him, but that I also think it’s about time to get dressed for the day. It is, after all—I glance at my watch—nearly one o’clock.

***

“How was the morning with your mom?” Conner calls out from the shower after I’ve managed to drag him away from the desk.

I tap my thighs, encouraging Schnickerdoodle to jump up onto my lap. He does so instantly, and I inch back comfortably onto the bed.

“It was great,” I shout. “Sad, as always, to say goodbye.”

“When’s she coming back?” Conner’s sudsing his head with shampoo, his words coming out all gurgled as the soapy water courses over his face.

“Not sure yet,” I say. Schnickerdoodle starts to lick my hand. “Maybe in a month or two.”