Can't Buy Me Love (3 page)

FOUR

B
ellamy had played one long life-game of lost-and-waiting-to-be-found. Feeling lost in the crowd that was her family of loud, gregarious brothers and sisters, and waiting to discover something—a sport, a talent, a college major, a ministry—that would help her feel “found.”

The first time Reid had said, “I love you,” Bellamy was no longer lost. With those words, Reid had found her.

And today . . . well, today was all about finding another dress that would enable her to stand out on her wedding day. Bellamy Hillman—no longer lost in the shadow of her siblings or of Reid's sister.

“Does Reid know you're shopping for another wedding gown?”

Elisabeth's question was a verbal splash of cold reality. She was, once again, sitting in a bridal salon dressing room, awaiting the arrival of Amanda, the wise-in-all-things-bridal saleswoman, charged with finding a replacement wedding dress.

“No, I told him that you and I were handling some wedding details. But it's fine, Elisabeth.” Bellamy tucked the silky satin robe around her body. Sitting here in little more than her underwear reminded her of waiting in a physician's exam room. “Reid's always said to have fun planning our wedding. How much fun can I have now that I've realized my gown is all wrong?”

“But Bellamy, you love the first dress you bought—”

“I
loved
it—past tense.” She pulled the rolled-up printed-off pages of
People
magazine out of her purse. Uncurled them and thrust them toward her friend. “Look at that photograph and tell me that my dress isn't almost exactly like Reid's sister's wedding gown.”

Elisabeth flipped through the sheets of paper that detailed Lydia's acclaimed wedding in both words and pictures.

“Just the first page—the first two photographs.” Bellamy tucked a strand of her black hair behind her ear. “There—American heiress weds British actor . . .”

“I can read, Belle.” Elisabeth held up her hand. “Linc Webster is a hunk, isn't he? A little like a British Keith Urban.”

“Stop drooling over the guy—Lincoln Webster is happily married. Just look at Lydia's wedding gown. She's wearing my dress!”

“Belle, calm down. These rooms aren't soundproof.”

“I can't wear my wedding gown after seeing this. She even opted not to wear a veil, just like I'm planning to do. What are the odds?” If only the room were larger, she'd pace. “The worst thing is, her gown is probably a designer original and mine is just a knockoff. I should have gone with the hand-me-down wedding gown suggestion.”

“Where did you find this?” Elisabeth returned to page one of the article. “Lydia got married over a year ago—before you and Reid were even dating.”

“I went on Pinterest after I got home from the engagement party—”

“Pinterest again? Seriously, I am going to have to give you some sort of computer curfew.”

“It's relaxing. I was just browsing, you know? We still need to pick a cake and I haven't decided on my hairstyle or jewelry.” Bellamy retrieved the pages, rolling them between her hands. “I ended up Googling Lydia's wedding and saw this. Our ceremony won't get as much news coverage as Reid's sister's wedding did—I'm not some up-and-coming actor, um, actress, after all—but I am marrying
the
Reid Stanton. I can't have photographers pointing their cameras at me. That fake photographer said it all yesterday: ‘Been there, photographed that.' ”

“No one is going to think that, Belle. This is your wedding. Your day. You're going to look gorgeous in that gown—”

“And who am I, Elisabeth? Bellamy Hillman, dog groomer.” She buried her face in her hands for a moment, her long hair brushing against her wrists. “Oh, won't that look lovely in the newspapers? Reid Stanton, heir to restaurateur Bruce Stanton, married Bellamy Hillman—dog groomer. I have no pedigree—”

“Very funny.”

“I'm serious. The only thing I'm known for is being ‘one of the Hillman kids.' Do you know how many times I heard ‘Oh, you're another Hillman, right? Are you the last one?' when I was in school? This is my wedding day. I need to look so . . .
astounding
, the reporters can at least say
the stunningly beautiful Bellamy Hillman, dog groomer
.”

“You're the woman Reid Stanton proposed to because he wants to spend the rest of his life with her—”

She waved away her friend's comment. “Not good enough, Elisabeth. Not good enough.”

“But Belle, isn't this a bit extravagant? I heard you tell the saleswoman to bring whatever dresses she could find.”

“Between my parents and Reid's parents, we're fine. I'm not ignoring the budget. Besides, it's not just me. I-I can't shake the feeling that Reid's father doesn't approve of me—”

“Are you sure you're not just imagining things?”

“I wish I was. He's cordial, nothing more. And then Reid asked me why I didn't buy a new dress for the engagement party . . . I have to do this right. The Stanton way. I just wish I knew what that was. There are so many unspoken rules.”

“You're going to wear yourself out trying to please Mr. Stanton, you know. And it's not about making him happy—it's about being who God made you.”

“Well, when it comes to this wedding, it is about making sure I pull it off so I don't disappoint Reid or his family.” Bellamy tightened the belt around her waist. “And before you say it, I haven't forgotten that I'm getting married in three months. That's why the saleswoman is bringing me off-the-rack and sample dresses. I found a link on Pinterest about saving money on wedding gowns and read about buying off-the-rack or samples. See? No worries.”

Her best friend didn't look completely convinced. “And what are you going to do with dress number one?”

“I've already thought of that, too. They have online resale sites, so when I find a new dress, I'll sell the first one and recoup the money we spent on the alterations.”

“Some of your money, not all of it.”

“I'm sure I'll be able to get most of it back. After all, it's only a few thousand dollars.”

“ ‘After all, it's only a few thousand dollars,' she says.” Elisabeth shook her head, muttering under her breath.

The door eased open as Amanda stepped backward into the room, her arms cradling gowns encased in protective plastic.

“Are you ready to try on some dresses?”

“That's why we're here.”

Elisabeth stepped sideways around the saleswoman. “Why don't I slip out and wait by the magic mirrors?”

“Very funny. But it's probably a good idea—” Bellamy managed to maneuver around the small space for a quick hug. “—since it's going to be crowded in here in a few moments.”

When she turned her attention to the dresses hung on the brass rod, there were only four waiting to be tried on.

Bellamy chewed off what little lip gloss remained on her bottom lip. “That's all?”

“Well, yes.” Amanda's silver angled bob framed her perfectly made-up face as she stopped unzipping the first plastic dress bag. “The challenge is finding a sample or off-the-rack dress in your size. We can't select something too large or too small—too many alterations.”

“Absolutely not.”

“But I did find some lovely possibilities.” She removed the first gown with a soft swish of material. “Now remember, samples usually require dry cleaning and some slight repairs—”

“I understand.”

“Then let's get started.”

Bellamy turned away from the mirror as the woman helped her into the gown. What color was this dress, anyway?

“You said you were looking for a statement gown.” Amanda arranged the dress and then zipped it. “This blush gown is a lovely color and it's quite trendy.”

Blush? Bellamy smoothed her hands down the strapless ruched bodice and overflowing skirt. Okay, if Amanda said so.

“This is a Vera Wang, and it has a rose ruffle skirt. It's quite a statement dress. It also fits you nicely—although you might need a slight alteration through the waist and the bodice . . .”

Bellamy repositioned the top of the dress where it gaped open. Once again, her body failed her.

“Well, let's go show Elisabeth. She's my maid of honor, after all.”

Amanda allowed Bellamy to lead the way to the front of the salon. Elisabeth sat in a cushioned chair, while another bride turned in front of a set of mirrors for a group of friends assembled in a small half circle.

“So, what do you think?” Bellamy stood still as Amanda arranged the dress around her.

Elisabeth leaned forward, squinting her eyes. “Is that . . . pink?”

“Blush.” Bellamy and Amanda spoke in unison.

“Oh, of course. Blush. That's what I meant.”

Bellamy gathered her hair into a messy, handheld bun, clutching the front of the dress with her other hand. “So, it's different, right? And we could fix the bodice with some alterations—darts . . .”

“I don't know, Belle.” Elisabeth tapped two fingers against her pursed lips. “Have you ever worn pink, um, I mean, blush before?”

“No . . . but that makes it all the more distinctive for my wedding, right?”

She turned away from Elisabeth to take another look at herself wearing a “statement” gown. Could she carry this off?

Amanda stood off to the right. “Well, there are three others—”

The sound of muffled crying interrupted Amanda's suggestion.

Bellamy's gaze connected with Elisabeth's in the mirror. Her friend nodded in the direction of the woman with blond curls clipped up on the top of her head standing in front of another bank of mirrors. Her face was now buried in her hands, shoulders shaking. Her bridal entourage gathered around her, some patting her back, some murmuring soft words—all seeming to wait for someone else to find the right words to comfort their bride.

“It's awful. It's nothing like what I thought it would be.” The woman's face was blotchy with tears. She didn't seem to care who heard her. “What was I thinking?”

“I think you look lovely—” One of her friends hugged her shoulders.

“You're just saying that. You have to say that because you're my maid of honor.”

Amanda moved behind Bellamy, using a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder to ease her toward the dressing room. “Why don't you go back and try on something else?”

“Probably a good idea.”

Bellamy battled the gown's voluminous skirt the entire way back to the dressing room. She couldn't buy this dress—she'd be fighting with it the entire time she wore it.

Strike one.

She vetoed the second dress immediately after Amanda showed it to her.

“I've seen that same dress a million times on Pinterest.”

“Ah, the ‘I've seen it on Pinterest' statement. Some brides-to-be use it to describe the dress they're looking for . . . and some use it to say ‘No, thanks.' ”

“I'm sorry—”

Amanda paused, playing with the silver chain attached to her teal reading glasses. “I have an idea. Wait just one moment.”

Bellamy slipped back into the robe embroidered with
JEANNE'S BRIDAL
, pacing the confines of the room. She would not give up. She would find a dress—her dress. She had to.

With a brief warning knock, Amanda entered the room, followed by the blond bride who'd just broken down crying a few moments ago. She now wore a wraparound robe identical to Bellamy's.

“I hope you don't mind the intrusion—” The other young woman offered a hesitant smile.

“Um, no, of course not.”

What was Bellamy supposed to say? And why was the other woman here?

Amanda stepped forward. “Bellamy, this is Samantha Tate. And Samantha, this is Bellamy Hillman.”

“And with that very brief introduction—” Samantha leaned against the closed door, one hand still clinging to the doorknob. “—let me explain why I crashed your appointment.”

“I have to admit I'm curious.”

“The gown you saw me wearing . . . and having a bit of a breakdown over . . . well, I special-ordered it. The design just hit the runway a few weeks ago and won't be in salons until next spring. I paid the reserve and the shipping for the dress because I fell in love with it when I saw a photograph of it online. I had to have it. I knew it would be perfect.” Samantha shrugged. “But you saw what happened.”

“Can't you return the dress?”

“It's a special order. No returns. No refunds. She knew that when she placed the order.” Amanda's tone was quiet but brisk. “I asked her if you could try on the gown.”

Bellamy stepped away from the other women. “What?”

“I agreed.” Samantha twisted her hands in front of her. “There's no pressure for you to buy it, of course. You don't have to rescue me from my mess.”