Toss the Bouquet (11 page)

Thursday afternoon the phone rang. “Greg, Marc
Mitchum here.”

Greg gripped the phone tightly. “Marc, hello. It looks like Manhattan escaped the monster storm that hammered us yesterday.”

“Missed us by an inch,” the CEO declared. “It caught Long Island, so that meant I stayed in the office overnight, but that's a fairly common occurrence around here. Market conditions have me flying to Tokyo on Saturday, so I'm bringing you here tonight. In the morning we'll go through the required interview process, and then I can make my decision before I spend a week eating food I don't like. My assistant booked a flight for you, Bert's cleared you from the Philly office, and we're good to go.”

Good to go? They booked a flight for him to interview in New York on the day of the scheduled gala? This couldn't be
happening. “Sir, are you sure you want to rush this? I'm fine with waiting until you get back next week. In fact—”

Mitchum cut him off quickly. “It's New York, Greg. We never wait. Your enthusiasm for your work speaks for you. The major-league clients trust you, and that's the cornerstone of a financial partnership like ours. You'll come here straight from JFK, and the driver will take your bags to the Millenium Hilton. I've got every minute planned. All you have to do is show up as scheduled. Hopefully we'll send you back to Philly tomorrow night with a new job title.”

First-class treatment at the worst time ever.

Greg swallowed hard. Wasn't this what he'd worked toward for years? His shot at New York? Why was he hesitating?

“I'll see you later today.”

“Good!” Marc hung up without another word, typical for the New York boss. Greg scanned the flight info that Mitchum's assistant had e-mailed, then sighed as the boarding pass printed.

A seven forty-five evening flight back to Philly on Friday.

He'd miss the gala.

Could the women handle it?

Yes.

But shouldn't he be here for it?

New York's been the goal for years. Don't mess this up. You go, you get tagged as up-and-coming, then you come back here and celebrate after the gala. Sounds like a fast-paced wining and dining extravaganza to me
.

It did, except that being questioned by men who picked your brain while trying to assess your soul suddenly didn't sound all that appealing.

You've waited a long time for this, putting in years of preparation. And now you get cold feet?

Greg packed an overnight bag and called a local florist to have flowers brought to the store before the gala, a testament to his confidence in the staff's abilities. He tried calling Tara.

No answer.

He stared at the phone. Should he text her?

No, too impersonal, and what he really wanted was to hear her voice before he boarded his plane. He wanted her to offer an opinion. Beg him to stay.

He sighed, called Kathy to let her know what happened, then caught a cab to the airport. The misgivings he felt as he boarded the plane took him by surprise, but as he settled into his company-provided first-class seat, he saw a pregnant woman with a young child in her arms. She was waiting her turn to navigate the narrow aisle clogged with passengers stowing personal items in the overhead compartments.

Greg stood, reached out, and caught her attention. “Take my seat. Please.”

Her expression said the offer was tempting, but she shrank back. “I couldn't, no. But thank you.”

He moved into the aisle, reached up and grabbed his carry-on, and smiled. “I insist.”

Someone behind Greg cleared his throat.

Greg motioned to the seat and then the little one in her arms. “He'll like this better. Not as noisy.”

She slipped into the seat, sat back, and smiled. “Thank you.”

“No problem. Where's your seat?”

She grimaced. “Sixty-four B, I'm afraid.”

He made his way to the back as the aisle cleared, remembering the soft words he'd heard in church last Sunday.
Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.

The reverend had probably chosen the quote to honor their unexpected mission guests, but the verse spoke directly to Greg. He was paying it forward, and for the first time in years, he not only loved what he was doing, he respected it.

Tara scrolled down her checklist Thursday evening. “Food and beverages are set. Decorations, done. The servers are arriving at six to help arrange the grazing tables. Name tags are made, the theme-specific business cards have arrived, Kathy's got her fairy godmother gown all set . . .”

“Medieval queen,” Kathy corrected. “It just
looks
like a cartoon fairy godmother's getup.”

A round of laughter greeted her remark.

“And with all of us and Greg, we should have about fifty people here tomorrow night.”

“Except that Greg's in New York,” Kathy announced.

Tara's heart thumped to a stop. “Now? With the grand opening tomorrow night?”

“When New York says jump . . . ” Donna shrugged. Clearly Greg had little say in the matter.

“They had him board a plane about three hours ago,” Kathy went on. “Part of the job when you're at Tatelbaum, Schicker, and Knapf.”

It took every ounce of reserve to keep her face placid, but Tara gritted her teeth and did it. He'd called her, late afternoon, and instead of answering the phone, she let it go to voice mail. What would he have said if she'd answered? She might never know.

“I'm glad he got the tuxedo area done before his trip,” Donna added. “He's footing a sizable bill for tomorrow night's party, and it's nice that he didn't have to hire out too much of the remodeling.”

“I was surprised at how well he did,” Tara admitted. “I didn't peg Greg as the handyman type.”

Kathy sent her a curious look. “He wasn't born in a high-rise office.”

“He worked summer construction during undergrad to offset room and board,” Jean explained. “The store was doing well, but not well enough to handle an Ivy League education out of pocket.”

Tara considered Jean's comment as she gathered the dresses needed for the gala. Former brides would showcase the newest looks, letting the quality of the designer gowns speak for itself.

They closed the store, and as Tara walked to the bus stop, her phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID.
Michelle Simonetti
. “Hey, Mom. What's up?”

“Just checking in,” her mother answered. “I wanted you to know that life has settled back into its typical low-drama existence.”

They used to laugh together about the lack of news in Kenneville, but the calm, cozy town held its own brand of charm.

“Mostly I wanted to make sure you're okay,” her mother added.

Tara breathed softly. “I'm fine.”

“Well, I'm not so sure about that,” her mother replied in a voice she employed when making a point. “I know my daughter, and I know you've got a lot on your plate right now, but when I talk to you about working at the bridal store, I hear excitement in your voice. That makes me happy.”

“And your point is?”

“I don't hear that same girl when we talk about law, so my question is this: Why don't you stay and work at the bridal store if that's what makes you happy? Because if you're happy, I'm happy.”

Quick tears smarted in Tara's eyes. She dashed them away, avoiding eye contact with the other people waiting for the bus. “Three years of law school and mega loans, for starters.”

“But if you had a choice,” Michelle pressed, and Tara was too tired and too bummed about Greg to argue. “If you were to choose, which would it be? To stay in Philly and help run the store? Or come north and represent crotchety neighbors and grumpy wives whose husbands forgot their fortieth anniversary?”

Tara knew which she'd pick, but she also knew there was no real choice. She'd made her decision three years before when she accepted the terms of entrance into Beasley School of Law. Now she had to pay the price, even if her heart was firmly tucked into Elena's Bridal. “Moot point, Mom.”

Her mother laughed, then sighed. “It's not. You're stubborn, and you think you owe the world a good, honest lawyer. But the truth is you need to be true to yourself, honey. Leave
the past in the past and forge ahead. Grab your own dreams, new dreams, and run with them.”

Tara longed to do just that. If she were to chart her dreams, they'd start with Greg Elizondo and end with living in Old City, raising some cute kids and running Elena's Bridal with Kathy and the gang. But that wasn't on the list of possibilities, so she kept her true wishes quiet. “I know what you're saying, Mom, but it's not that easy.”

“Easy has nothing to do with it,” Michelle declared. “Life's too short to saddle yourself with a job you don't like based on a decision you made when you were eleven. Did you know that over 15 percent of law school grads never practice law?”

“Is the tough job market supposed to make me feel better?”

Her mother laughed. “It's supposed to make you see you're not alone. Lots of people change career paths as they mature. Your bend in the road is just a little pricier than others.”

Tara started to reply, but her mother interrupted. “Don't say anything now. It's better to take some time, take it to God, and see what happens. You've got months before graduation, but if this isn't what you thought it would be, if someplace or someone has drawn your focus in a new direction, then go for it, Tara. No one wants you unhappy. Just think about it, okay?”

“I will,” Tara promised. The bus pulled up, and she drew a breath and added, “And, Mom? Thank you.”

Her mother's voice softened. “You're welcome, honey. Love you.”

“Love you too.” She climbed onto the bus feeling lighter. Could she walk away from three years of rigorous education? Was that the height of stupidity or the common sense of growing maturity?

She wasn't sure, but the thought that she might have a viable choice lightened her steps.

The lower Manhattan financial district surrounded
Greg like an overgrown architectural maze. Tall, imposing buildings bracketed narrow streets. Coffee shops dotted the landscape like trees in a park. Wind-tunneled air bathed his face, the night chilling as dark descended.

The antiquated structure of Trinity Church rose before him on his walk, a blend of history and majesty. The historic graveyard lay tucked between the buildings, surrounded by a wrought-iron fence.

Weathered tombstones dotted the small plot, the dark night making the old dates indiscernible. At one point, this had been a neighborhood of people, places, and dreams, folks who worked together, worshipped together, and waited for their loved ones' ships to come into the harbor below.

There was no neighborhood feel now.

Gorgeous, yes, in its own way. But when he envisioned life, a life so close he could almost reach out and grab
it, it wasn't here, in Manhattan's cool, calm collection of high-rises.

It was in Old City, a niche where history was celebrated, not relegated. It was with Tara by his side, working, playing, shaping his mother's store into a new millennium showcase. A place where their kids—two, he hoped, but maybe she could be talked into three—could romp and play among the other young families, rich in the past, alive in the present.

As he approached the hotel, bells from the church began to ring. He tried the church door. It opened under his hand. He stepped inside and slipped into a back pew.

He'd walked into the middle of a candlelit evening prayer service. Attendance was minimal but heartfelt. A couple of homeless people had claimed pews on the far side and were curled up, sound asleep, away from the cold city night.

When I was hungry you fed me. Naked, you clothed me.

The image of the two sleepers stirred his heart. God had already given him so much. What need did he have for more?