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CHAPTERONE
MELISSA
“Your total is two thousand forty-eight dollars,” I tell the beaming bride-to-be who’s nearly blinding me with her over-the-top white teeth. She’s like Ross Geller from that one episode ofFriends.
I used to dream of being just like her—hopeful, excited, no visible baby bump while planning my impending nuptials. Unfortunately, life has kicked me in the teeth often enough that I’m slowly stepping away from that fantasy. Instead, I’m focusing on the fact that women like her are probably more stressed out than your average sky diver during a tornado.Will he say yes? Does his mother hate me as much as I think she does? Should we really be spending this kind of money on one party?And the most important—Does he know I was serious when I said I don’t clean toilets?The list goes on and on.
“You’re the best, Melissa!” the petite blonde with the unnatural orange tan gushes. She says this like I just brought her bail money at two in the morning. As she hands me her credit card, she adds, “You must love owning a bridal shop! I mean, could there be a better job?”
I didn’t think so ten years ago when I became my mom’s partner at Bride’s Paradise. I had recently graduated from college and was so full of hope and anticipation about my own wedding I couldn’t imagine anything better. Not that I was engaged or even dating anyone at the time, but I was raised on television shows likeSay Yes to the Dress,Bridezilla,and David Tutera’sMy Fair Wedding.I’d fantasized about my big day for over a decade at that point.
For a generation that is meant to believe there’s more to life than marriage, we sure spend a lot of time dreaming about it. Being fed a constant visual diet of what our big day is supposed to look like wreaks havoc with expectations. Somehow a wedding has become more about the show and what we wear than about true love.
Had I only gotten hooked onLaw and OrderorDr. Who, I might have become a lawyer or even a Time Lord. Note to self: investigate the kind of credentials needed to become a Time Lord.
I hand the credit card back to Brooklyn as her wedding party circles around her. Her maid of honor squeals—loudly—“Oh my GOD, Brook! This is it!! You said yes to the dress!” We’ve already taken pictures with the requisite signage and hashtags to ensure that everyone the bride has ever met will know where she bought her gown. Hashtags are the backbone of my business. #BridesParadise #ElkLakeWisconsinWeddings #LoveIsInTheAir #ImSoSickOfMyJobICouldSpit
Fine, I haven’t used the last one, yet. But I’m getting closer every day.
I sigh loudly as the cluster of women exit my shop. Even though it’s late August, it’s still technically summer. As such, Elk Lake remains full of tourists—some of whom are trying to decide if they want to have their wedding here next year. I have three more appointments today. Even though I will assist in dozens of gowns being tried on, I’ll be lucky if one of them commits to a dress. Yet I still will ooh and aah and gush like the future Mrs. Something-or-Another is the most enchanting of Disney princesses. Forest animals will gather around us and sigh at her beauty. Wicked witches will cast spells on her fruit.
“My word, Missy, you look like you’ve just been sentenced to death. Put a smile on your face.”Yay, my mom is here.
“Hey, Mom. I just sold another dress.” She loves to know about every sale, which includes the purchase of a mere garter.
She hands me a take-out bag from the diner down the street. “Then why do you look so glum? Every sale helps keep the doors open another day.” Having a bridal shop in a vacation town means we’ll never be forced to close, but my mom doesn’t seem to be aware of this fact.
Instead of answering her, I take the bag and sniff it. “This doesn’t smell like a patty melt and french fries.”
“That’s because it’s a chef’s salad.” She opens the till and starts shuffling through receipts.
I arch one eyebrow in a fierce what-have-you-done-with-my-food glare. “I must have your bag then,” I tell her. Even though she was only carrying one.
“Patty melts and french fries are no way for a thirty-two-year-old woman to eat. You’re not a child anymore, Missy. Those extra calories are going to start sticking to you like a barnacle on a boat.”Fun.I love nothing more than being likened to a boat.
Putting the bag on the counter, I retrieve my purse from the shelf underneath. “I’ll be back in an hour. You’ll need to start the next appointment.” As an afterthought, I add, “The bride is an interior designer from Chicago.” My tone is sharp enough to cut through steel.
“Where are you going?” my mom demands loudly. “I brought your lunch so you wouldn’t have to leave.”
“Had you brought what I asked for, I wouldn’tbeleaving.” Then, without further ado, I march out the front door. The air isn’t quite as humid at the end of the season, which is very welcome in my current state of mind. The last thing I need is to drown from just trying to get enough oxygen to stay alive.
I’m so tired of brides and weddings and champagne, I’m not even sure I want to get married anymore. Maybe I’ll sell out to Mom and buy that boat rental business for sale down by the lake. I don’t know much about boats, but I do know they won’t talk my ear off or ask me about my own non-existent wedding. And if my mother is to be believed, I’m in danger of looking like a boat so I might as well surround myself with familiar objects.
I don’t start to calm down until I’m a block down Main Street. I have always let my mom make choices for me and I’m sick of it. I often wonder why I don’t stand up for myself, but deep down I know the answer: My mom was a broken woman when my dad left.
I was ten at the time, so I was old enough to know she took full responsibility for the split—she claimed she didn’t dote on my father enough. As if adoration were a one-way street. But once he left, she was determined I wouldn’t grow up and make the same mistakes she did. That was the year my life changed forever.
Margie Freemont—she married my stepdad Howard Freemont fifteen years ago—changed my fashion style from jeans and t-shirts to prissy dresses with an undertone of preppy nerd. She chose the college I went to right along with my major. She declared I would go into business with her—although I didn’t really fight her on that one. She even decorated my apartment for me without asking what my preferences were—it’s not that I hate the pink and green plaid curtains in my living room, but I would have chosen something different. And now she’s telling me what I can and cannot eat for lunch? No, Margie. Just, no.
I storm into the diner like a pillaging Viking hunting for a mutton chop, and immediately catch the eye of my friend Anna. Even though we went to school together from kindergarten through high school, Anna and I didn’t become good friends until she bought her wedding dress at Bride’s Paradise two years ago. Since then, I’ve become close to herandFaith. Faith is her bestie who married movie star Teddy Helms. They live here in Elk Lake but are currently in Los Angeles promoting Teddy’s new movie,Alpha Beast: Attack of the Gorn.
I stride over to Anna who’s sitting alone at a table in the corner. “Where’s Chris?” I ask before pulling out a chair and plopping down.
She smiles brightly before telling me, “He’s working on a couple of closings today.” Chris is a real estate lawyer who is busiest during “the season,” when city folks are intent on buying a vacation home in Elk Lake. As if owning a piece of heaven will make their daily hustle and bustle worth it.
I inhale slowly as I study my friend. Anna is quite literally one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met. She’s tall, slim without being skinny, and her skin is even more radiant than I thought possible. “Are you pregnant?” I demand like I’m accusing her of shoplifting a prom dress.
Her eyes blink rapidly. “Why would you ask that?”
