When Girlfriends Chase Dreams (24 page)

Strolling the aisles of the nursery and choosing which plant will go in what bed and which variety of flower will look best for a particular season is also a great appeal to gardening. Then sinking your gloved hands in the soil, tilling and nestling your newfound purchases into their new home, and, finally, getting to stand back and admire the picture-perfect work…it’s so fulfilling. And, of course, getting to do it with one of your best friends is always a bonus.

“Thanks so much for coming over, Em,” I say, as I remove a miniature rose bush from its plastic container, its yellow blooms nothing more than baby blooms right now.

“Totally,” Emily says. “I’m glad you asked me.”

“I’m surprised Sophie let you escape,” I tease.

“Oh.” Emily sighs. “That girl’s a hoot. She’s really stressing now that the grand opening is less than a week away. But we’ve just about got everything done.”

“I imagine.” I’ve tried to get together with Sophie for lunch, a cup of coffee, anything to catch up and offer her a break from the consuming café work. But each time, she’s had to refuse.

“I’m looking forward to working with her,” Emily says. “I know she needs the help, and she’s not really in a position to hire anyone. I’ve got the time, so why not help out?”

“I think that’s really nice of you, Em.” I take a short break and pull on my lemonade. “Want some?” I ask, leaning back to grab Emily her glass. She concedes and takes a mini break herself.

“Like I said,” Emily says after a long drink, “I’ve got the time, she needs the help,
and
, did you hear she’s got a lead on someone that a co-worker of hers knows?”

“What do you mean?”

“For extra help when she gets around to being able to afford another set of hands at the café. Once things pick up, I suppose.”

“That’s great,” I say. “I hope he or she is a whizz at scones, muffins…everything.”

“Hey,” Emily says, “if they’re using Sophie’s recipes, they can’t go too wrong.”

I set down my glass and pick up another miniature rose bush, this one pink, and proceed to plant it in the prepared bed under the front room window.

“And,” Emily continues, “it’ll be a nice change from my magazine work. I totally love it; photography is my dream. But it’ll be nice to do something different.”

“True,” I say. “I’m all for you choosing to stick around and help Sophie out. That means
you
,” I point a gloved, soiled finger at her, “aren’t going anywhere.”

Emily starts to plant some basic greenery around the back of the bed. “Well,” she starts, “not anywhere
soon
.”

“Em…” I whine.

“Claire. You know me. Staying in one place for a long while is just…not me. It’s not my thing…not who I am.”

“I know, but you like it here, don’t you?”

“Yes, I
do
like it here. Seattle will continue to be home base for a long while.”

“Base,” I scoff. “Well, where are you off to now?” I know it’s coming. Where will it be this time? Africa? Asia? Antarctica? Going on another extended trip down to the South Pole?

“Nowhere,” comes her reply, and it takes me by surprise.

“Really?” I pat down the soil on top of the newly planted rose bush. “I’m glad to hear it. Remember, you have to stick around
at least
until the wedding. And even then,” I look at her, “I wouldn’t mind you sticking around for good.”

“You know I’m not leaving before the wedding,” she reassures me. “I’ve only got a short trip planned.”

“What?” I get out, slightly panicked. “What do you mean short? And when?”

Short, for Emily, can be six months, a year… If she says she needs to do soul-searching in Southeast Asia, and that she feels her aura is particularly out of whack, then a short trip
definitely
means at least six months.

Emily’s giggling, and at last says, “One week—ten days, tops. Calm down, babe. You seriously need to chill.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I write off. “So, where to now?” I know she’s going to say South America.
 
I just know it! Or, maybe Europe! Hey, while she’s there, maybe she can make sure Daniel and George are reading their big brother’s emails and doing their groomsmen duties.

“Boston,” Emily replies.

“Home?”

“Yup. Work’s taking me over there for a summer regatta.” She shoos Schnickerdoodle, who has appeared from nowhere, away from the flowerbed. “It won’t be the Head of the Charles, which I shot one time. Wow.” She sighs, then says, “It’s just a small cup race, but one that’s generating some buzz among small clubs. Some Seattle schools will be participating, too. So they want me to shoot the event there and I figure, while I’m there, I might as well spend some time with the folks.”

“Boy, am I glad you’re not disappearing on us,” I say, openly relieved. I lightly shove Schnicker away from the flowerbed.

“No,” Emily reassures. “Only a family and work trip.”

“Don’t know what I’d do without you, Em.” And this makes her laugh. “I’m serious,” I say. “You’re a huge help. All you girls are, and I really like having you around like this.” I dust the loose soil from the delicate leaves. “It seems like it’s been eons since you hung out in town longer than a few weeks’ time.”

“Well, with you having my head on a chopping block if I don’t hang around for the wedding, and with Sophie threatening to let loose Hades’s wrath on me if I bail out…” She laughs. “Don’t you worry.”

“Worry’s become her middle name,” says Conner, who’s just appeared on the front porch. “Looking nice, ladies.” He pats his thighs for Schnickerdoodle to come his way, and it works.

“It is not,” I whine in response to Conner’s poking fun.

“Where you off to?” Emily asks Conner casually. She wipes an arm across her sweaty brow.

The sun is really starting to shine, and while warm sunshine is welcome, it’s also making gardening a little uncomfortable—and dangerous.

I am paranoid about burning. I’ve already lathered up twice with SPF seventy-five, so I hope I don’t get burned. God! Could you imagine? A lobster-skinned bride walking down the aisle? Yeah, just what I need. Add to a sunburned bride the fake peonies (because I could totally imagine Melissa pulling that number to cover her rear), the potentially suit-less groomsmen (I really am wondering if Conner has his act together), and, well, it’d be a wedding no one could forget—and
not
in a good way.

“Taking Schnicker for a walk,” Conner answers. “Then I’m going to help Chad over at Sophie’s. Something’s wrong with one of the ovens, and they can’t figure it out.”

“Drive safe,” I say, blowing a kiss his way. “Love you.” I pull off my gloves, deciding it’s nearly time to apply a third coat of sunscreen. It’s really getting warm now.

“Love you too,” Conner says sweetly. “See ya round, Em.”

“See ya!” Emily says as she pats down the last of the greenery for the flowerbed.

***

That evening, after I give Conner a complete tour of the gardens that Emily and I worked on for hours, we’re cuddling together under the soft, lightweight blanket on the couch. It’s one of our favorite spots—comfortably nestled right in front of the television. We’re not watching anything in particular, and that’s how we like it. Sometimes we just want to zone out in the comfort of each others’ embrace, doing nothing but enjoying each others’ company.

I look up into Conner’s blue eyes and ruffle his sandy blonde hair. He’s overdue for a haircut, but he still looks damn good. The way his locks kind of flop to one side, limply hanging there, then, when ruffled, they’re all frazzled in a very post-rumble-in-the-sheets way. Very becoming, especially as he relaxes back into the couch, one arm loosely around me, wearing only a pair of khaki shorts.

I trace the large, intricate pattern of the tattoo that barely peeks over his left shoulder. I follow the sun’s inky rays, entwined with vines and thorns, as far as I can along his back, and he looks down at me and smiles.

“You about ready to turn in for the night?” he asks.

I pull the blanket closer and shake my head. “Not yet. I’m in my favoritest spot in the world.” I rest my cheek against his warm, tan chest for a second.

He kisses the top of my head and pulls me tighter.

I heave a sigh of comfort. A sigh of relief. A sigh of confidence. Not everyone is as lucky in love as I am. With a man like Conner, even though we have our kerfuffles now and then, I never have to second-guess if he loves me. All right, sure, I’ll panic and worry for no reason—fret that he’ll have altar-shock or something. But deep down I know that Conner was meant for me, and I for him, since, well…forever.
 

***

I pull my cell phone from my scrubs’ pocket to take note of the time. The day has been moving so slowly, I think I might die of boredom. All of the patients I need to check on are doing fine—and that’s great!—but it certainly makes for a slow-moving day. Not just slow, but annoying. No one seems to be in a very good mood, and I can’t say I would blame any of these hospital patients. I mean, they are, after all, in a hospital. Either they have IVs running through their arms and hands or they’re wearing catheters or situated with bedpans, all on bed rest.

The bemoaning grandpa in room 205 makes me want to pull my hair out, though. I love helping people, but usually the climax of a good day or a job well done is when you can actually
help
that person. That’s the main reason I love my job! For the grumbling grandpa, however, the pillows are either located too low on his back, or they’re too lumpy. I’ve already rearranged the pillows half a dozen times and switched out three different ones. There’s nothing more I can do, and he’s still grousing.

I glance at my cell phone only a minute later, and yet I’m stunned to find that time has hardly passed at all. Hmph, clearly I’m not very needed here, unless it’s for pillow-punching duty—and apparently I’m no good at that.

There’s tons of stuff I can still do for the wedding back at home. I still need to call my dad back, too. We don’t talk much (as if I need to point that out), so his call this morning during a busier portion of the workday caught me off-guard. He might as well have not left a message, though; he left his signature brief message completely devoid of any helpful information: “Hey Claire, give your dad a call.
Ciao
.”

Ciao.
What, are we Italian now? Upper echelon society or something? No, only pure cheese. It was all a show, I bet, for whatever tween he’d picked up at some dumb sales convention or behind the desk of a company to which he was peddling whatever it is he sells. Securities…safeties…secrets—I don’t know. Whatever. I sure wish he’d leave messages with information; then I could better gauge the urgency of a callback. For now, I’ll abide by the hospital rules and keep the personal calls for later, and—is that grumpy gramps? Again?

Looking at the flashing yellow light above the room where there is only pillow trouble to be had, I find myself wanting to call my dad…
preferring
to call him. At least the end of the long workday isn’t too far off. Until then I’ll have to make my Jell-O serving rounds, check on the pain medication quantities, and punch a few more pillows.

Not five minutes after I arrive home, my feet sore from standing and padding along the never-ending, hard, vinyl floors of the hospital, my cell phone rings. It’s Melissa. As much as I want to slip into a hot bubble bath, I know I shouldn’t miss an opportunity to talk with her.

“Claire!” Melissa gasps in a syrupy tone. “Oh God, am I glad to catch you. Is this an okay time?”

I flip off the front room lights and meander to the master bathroom. Might as well get a start on drawing that bath. I tell Melissa to go on; now’s as good a time as ever.

“Excellent! Okay, the boutique called, and guess what?” Melissa sounds extremely enthusiastic. “Oh my goodness, you’re going to be so excited. So
thriiilled!
”

I rifle through the bathroom cupboards under the sink in search of my favorite bottle of bubble bath. “What’s the news?” I ask her.

“Your dress. Your wedding gown!”

I drop the small bottle of lotion that’s in my clasp and shriek, “No! Omigod!”

“Yup,” Melissa shouts back. “Your dress is in and ready to be tried on, sized, fitted…that’s right!”

This is brilliant. I’m so excited. My dream dress.
My
wedding dress. It’s here!

Once the initial shock and enthusiasm subsides, I wonder how Melissa got charge of the boutique affairs.

Then, in a telepathic manner, Melissa says, “I went ahead and took the liberty to take that stress off your shoulders, by the way, dear. All information about your wedding wardrobe will go through me.”

“Oh…” I’m not sure how to react. Part of me thinks it’s great that she’s being proactive. That she’s, um, doing her job. Another part worries that she will, like the birdcages, the peonies, the invitations, and I could go on, screw the pooch on this one, too.

Speaking of the invitations, Conner and I received our
first
RSVP the other day! Lara was right; I really just need to calm down and breathe. Everything will work out somehow.

“You there?” she asks, syrup still in her voice.

“Oh, yeah.” I close the cupboards when I decide there’s no hope of finding my favorite bubble bath. Instead, I reach for the jar of Dead Sea bath salts next to the sink. “Thank you. So…we have a fitting?” I speak with a more upbeat pitch, letting the reality of my dress’ arrival really sink in. This is great. My wedding dress is actually here. Now it just has to fit and be altered!

“That’s right,” Melissa says. “How does this weekend sound? Saturday morning?”

I’m about to give a vociferous yes when I remember that Friday night is Sophie’s grand opening. I don’t know how late into the night the opening will go, and if I know Sophie, she’ll want to celebrate aplenty. She’s been working so hard. We all have. Surely there’s some night on the town planned afterward or something like that.

Not to mention, Saturday will be the
official
opening day of The Cup and the Cake. I offered to lend a hand for a few hours doing, well, whatever it is that café people do. Take orders…ring up purchases…make cupcake suggestions. Ooh! I’m really good at that. I know how
all
of Sophie’s cupcake and baked goods taste.