Wedding Girl (36 page)

“Just for the hell of it?” Ruth says. “Or is this some kind of blog or something that you think can turn into money?”

“It's a paid site,” Amelia says. “She gets paid to answer their questions.”

“What's it called? I want to see!” Jean says, pulling out her iPad.

Here we go. “WeddingGirl.com,” I say.

“Not really,” Ruth says, looking at me with incredulity.

“No, really, it's right here!” Jean says, handing the tablet to Ruth, who looks it over.

“This is you?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Some girl in my office was raving about it, something about saving her whole bridesmaid situation. She made it sound like you were some famous person,” Ruth says. “She literally said it was the best money she spent on her whole wedding.”

“That's so nice!” Amelia says loudly, waking Munch, who yips a bit, turns around, and then resettles and goes right back to sleep.

“This is so cool, why didn't you tell us?” Jean says.

“I was embarrassed.”

“Why on earth would you be embarrassed?” Ruth asks. “You're not stripping or hooking, which also would not be embarrassing, by the way, as long as you were being safe.”

I take a deep breath. “Because I'm doing it for money on the side because I have some debt I need to pay down, and the bakery was not enough money to do much more than make interest payments.”

“Oh, honey,” Jean says. “I had no idea you took such a bath on your place! I thought you sold it, did it get foreclosed?”

“Not that kind of debt. Credit card debt.”

“From the wedding, right?” Ruth asks, narrowing her eyes. “From that amazing wedding that asshole didn't show up for. He didn't pay for any of it, did he?”

“Nope.”

“But you didn't do it the way you could afford, or with the money your folks gave you, you just did it all,” she continues.

“Yep. Did it all. Put it all on the credit cards and figured
Dexter would pay it off for me once his trust kicked in. So stupid, in love and in finance.”

Ruth gets up from her chair and walks over to me. She puts her hands on my shoulders and looks deep into my eyes. “I'm really fucking proud of you, and I'm really sorry you didn't think you could tell us, and I'm really glad that it all happened because this past year you are more the you I remember from us growing up than you've been in a long time, and I missed her.” And then she kisses me, and musses my hair. “And you.” She turns to Amelia. “Thanks for doing that for her, for helping her out. You're a good one, and you may stay.” Having made this proclamation, she returns to her seat.

“So then, who is Best Man?”

I fill them in on Jake, the whole thing, and that I'm his date for the gala next weekend, and I still don't know what to wear, and I'm totally petrified that when I fess up to all of the lying that he'll hate me.

“Well, I can't do anything about the other stuff, but I can take care of the costuming,” Jean says. “Is your wedding dress upstairs?”

I nod. “Yep, in the closet.”

“Do you trust me?” she asks.

“Are you going to go all
Pretty in Pink
on me?”

“Sort of. But not cheesy.” She smiles broadly.

“Have at it,” I say, not at all sure what she plans to do, but knowing that whatever it was, the dress is now just fabric, and if it can become something remotely useful, it will be a good thing.

Jean runs up the stairs, and returns with the garment bag with my dress. “Okay, if she needs this for a week from Saturday, I need to get going.”

“I've got the job in the morning,” Ruth says.

“I'll walk you guys out, I have to take the dog for one more walk before bed.”

“I'm sorry, did I mess up?” Amelia whispers in my ear as I pluck the sleepy puppy from her lap.

“Nah. It was time for me to own it. Once again, you did me a favor.”

“Whew!” She gives me a hug.

“That's the thing about girlfriends. Even when you mess up, they're still there for you.”

And the four of us head out into the brisk night air, to walk a puppy who is suddenly all kinds of awake and playful.

Munch, despite his purported crate training, does not seem to be particularly interested in either getting into the crate, or settling down to sleep once I plunk him in there. I grab the sheaf of papers that the trainer who is coming in the morning left with Bubbles for me, and start to read, while Munch whines at me. The papers say to shut out the lights, but to talk a bit so the puppy knows you're still there, and if you have to, put the crate on the bed with you, or sleep on the floor next to the crate. If the dog really gets upset the first few nights, you can let it sleep in the bed with you. But I've never been a dog in the bed person, that always sounded intrusive to me, so I'm hoping the talking thing will work.

I turn out the light, cooing at the dog.

“Good boy, that's a good Munch. Time for beddy-bye.”

At this point he begins to howl in a way that sounds practically like screaming. Someone is going to call the police, it's like I'm killing a baby in here. And so piercingly loud I fear for my eardrums, and I've literally got rock star earplugs in. Then it is weirdly quiet. And then the smell hits me.

I turn on the light, and look down. There is Munch, completely covered in his own poop, as is his blanket, the toys, and pretty much everything inside the crate, as well as many of the lower half of the crate bars themselves. I cannot believe such a
tiny little dog has produced this much crap, with such a powerful odor.

“Good lord, dog, we're going to need to not make this a habit, okay?”

He looks up and me, and I swear he smiles. The fact that he has his own poop on top of his head like a little fecal yarmulke does not take away from the cute. I go to the bathroom and grab an old towel, and come back to grab him, dumping him right in the bathtub for a good scrub. I make a note to check downstairs later to see if they bought doggie shampoo, since bathing him in my pricy extra-moisturizing shampoo for curly hair will be egregiously expensive. I plop the now-clean and weirdly citrusy-smelling dog in the middle of my bed with a chew toy, and grab the crate. I put everything that was inside in the washing machine in the hallway, and dump the crate itself in the tub, and hit it with the hand-held shower sprayer. Once it's clean, I leave it there to dry, making a mental note to Ajax the hell out of the tub in the morning. Then I go back to see the dog, looking innocent as can be, sitting on my pillow.

“C'mon, buddy, we're going to do another walk.” Although I can't imagine there is anything at all still left in his tiny body, maybe another walk will wear him out. There is a neighbor coming towards us with his dog. I stop and have Munch sit down, waiting for the beagle to approach, and after a very polite butt sniffing, and some hopping, we make our good-byes, and head for home.

Whatever crate problem he was having, Munch curls up between my feet without a peep and falls right to sleep, with the cutest little bit of a snuffly snore that you've ever heard. And before long, I follow suit.

(1947)

CORNEL WILDE AS GEORGE M
c
KESSON, KISSING VICTORIA:
How!

GINGER ROGERS AS VICTORIA STAFFORD, POST-KISS:
And how!

The licking wakes me. I open one eye to see Munch, standing on my chest, shockingly heavy for such a little guy, breathing his puppy breath in my face, smiling like a lunatic.

“Good morning, silly little man. Are you ready for a very big day?” I say, plucking a wayward earplug off of his left buttock. Apparently I'm a “let the dog sleep in the bed” kind of girl after all. I'm certainly learning a lot about myself these days, and I wonder if I'll ever really know me completely.

Today is moving day. After a decent twenty-four-hour interval, and confirming that my furry little dependent would be welcome in my new apartment, I accepted the Astor Place job. I went in for a meeting the next day, met with the executive pastry chef and some of the other key culinary staff. I'll be able to hire my own assistants once I get up to speed. We signed contracts, and Dave took me to see my new place. The apartment is everything I need, about one thousand square feet, with a decent-sized bedroom, a small living room/dining room, a well-appointed galley kitchen, and an en-suite bathroom in the bedroom and a small
powder room near the entrance. Since the apartments are designed for long-term business housing, they are furnished, which is a huge relief, since I don't own a stick of furniture. Dave said if at any point I wanted to swap anything out, I can just notify housekeeping and they will remove the hotel's stuff to make room for mine, but I can't think about that anytime soon.

The last two days I've gradually loaded in most of my boxes and belongings—between buttoning things up at the bakery and at home, and the constant attention a new puppy requires, my mind and body have been well occupied. Which is good, because if not, I'd be completely obsessing about tonight.

Jake emailed last night to confirm that he is indeed back in Chicago full-time, if jet-lagged, and that he would be picking me up for the gala at five thirty this evening. It felt really great to give him the address of the hotel, and when he replied asking why I was staying at a hotel, I said all would be revealed later. Jean dropped off the dress earlier today with the hotel, and is coming by around six thirty once I'm gone to puppy-sit, with Ruth bringing her dinner. I know that they are claiming they just want to be sure the little guy is okay his first night in the new place, but I also know that they could have stopped by to walk him and play for a bit; the whole waiting-for-me thing is about wanting to be there if the night goes south, or is amazing.

“Good morning,” Bubbles says as I come into the kitchen, Munch immediately running to pounce on poor Snatch, who is resting on the floor under the table.

“Good morning to you. What's all this?”

Bubbles has clearly been cooking up a storm. She's made her famous muffins, there is a pile of eggs that she has scrambled with chives, and a platter of grilled salami, cut half an inch thick and seared on both sides to crispy goodness. There is a dish of her hash brown casserole, the thinly shredded potatoes mixed with cream cheese, cheddar cheese, and sour cream, and
baked with a crunchy buttered breadcrumb topping. A basket of toasted rye bread, a bowl of strawberries, and a plate with a chocolate babka already sliced up. There is a pitcher of orange juice, freshly squeezed, and a bottle of champagne at the ready.

“It's your last morning, and your folks are back from their honeymoon, so we're having a family breakfast to celebrate!”

She barely gets the words out when we hear voices at the front door. Munch and Snatch take off as fast as their short little bowlegs will take them, Munch losing his footing on the hardwood floors making the turn and sliding right into Snatch's butt face-first.

“Well goodness, such a welcoming committee!” says my mom, scooping up the puppy in her arms and receiving his face-licking welcome most happily.

“Yes, we're happy to see you too, old man,” my dad says, leaning down to rub Snatch's head and slip him a treat from the bowl on the table by the door.

“Who are you calling ‘old man'?” Herman says, coming up the front stairs behind them, carrying a white box.

There are kisses and hugs and welcomes all around, and we help Bubbles bring the feast into the dining room, where we start to make hearty plates while she and Herman make mimosas for us all. I toss both of the dogs bully sticks to keep them busy.

“How was the vacation?” Bubbles asks, when we are all seated and tucking into the amazing food.

“Glorious,” my mom says. They did ten days in Berkeley, Napa, and Sonoma, plenty of hiking and wine tasting and eating, and two days at a funky spa in Calistoga with mud baths and mineral pools and couples massages.

“Really fun. But we're both exhausted. You know honeymooners . . .” my dad says with a lascivious look.

“Gross, dad, we're eating here.”

“Really, Bobby, not breakfast conversation.”

“Yes,” Herman says. “Save sex for lunch.”

“Well, for an hour after lunch, like swimming, you don't want a cramp,” Bubbles says.

“
Hey!
Horny old people. I'm
eating
!” Seriously, I don't know what they are all putting in their Metamucil, but they are some randy seniors.

“Forget our X-rated honeymoon, I want to hear about the job,” my mom says.

“Well, I'll be in charge of all special-event baking. So specialty cakes, but also any pastries or breads connected to events, from weddings and parties to corporate events. And when the main restaurant does their own special menus for holidays, I'll be brought in to assist with those as well. Once I get up to speed in the next week or so, I'll be able to hire a pastry sous chef as well as a full-time assistant, so I'll be managing a team of three to start, and as the event business expands, maybe more. They've set aside a separate baking kitchen for me, and it is amazing. Huge walk-in, all the equipment imaginable.”

“And the apartment is good?” my dad asks, picking up a round of salami in his fingers and taking a big bite.

“It's pretty cute. I mean, it looks like a nice hotel suite, with a kitchen. All in shades of gray, so it's sort of calm and soothing.”

“You don't worry about essentially living at work? How will you separate?” my mom asks.

“I thought about it, and for this first year at least, I think being there will make my life easier, especially for the larger, more complicated events. If I'm doing the wedding on Saturday night with the midnight snack buffet and the brunch on Sunday, not having to go far will work in my favor. Once things are up and running, and I have staff I trust, I might look to move off campus, but for now, it is easy, and free!”

“And the daily housekeeping service with in-house laundry and dry cleaning probably doesn't hurt,” Bubbles says.

“No, it certainly doesn't. And I've never lived right downtown like that, so it might be fun. It will certainly be good for Munch to be so close to the park.”

“I think the whole thing is terrific,” my dad says. “Good for you!”

“Hear, hear,” says Herman.

“And we understand you may have a buyer for the building?” my dad asks him.

“Juni . . . Mark is working on it. He won't tell me details, says to just do what I do until he brings me an offer he thinks is the right one, but I do know there is someone interested, and he seems hopeful they might come to acceptable terms.”

“And what about a wedding date for you two?” my mom asks. “I have to say, as long as you keep your stress in check, it really is a wonderful thing to do!”

We all laugh.

“We were thinking maybe Valentine's Day,” Bubbles says. “You know, we're elderly, so we figured we'd better pick a date we could remember.”

“I think that sounds wonderfully romantic,” my mom says. “A dreamy winter wedding.”

“Would you want to do it at the hotel?” I ask. “Dave says that I get a forty-percent discount on events that I book for family and friends for the first year while we are building the business.”

“That sounds lovely, dear, thank you for the offer. When we figure out what we are really talking about, we will let you know,” Bubbles says.

“Well, regardless . . .”

“We know, you'll do the cake!” Herman says, and the group breaks up again, and digs back into seconds and thirds.

After we clean up and visit a little more, my folks head home and I go back upstairs to finish packing up the last load of stuff that I'm taking to the hotel. I weirdly wish that Mark had been there; he's been mostly in California lately, according to
Herman. Our little blended family seems somehow incomplete without him around. I called him yesterday and left a message, thanking him for the introduction to Dave, and what I presume was his influence in my well-timed new job offer. He called back and said that he was delighted for me, but that he had nothing to do with the job. Dave had just really been impressed with me from the cake competition, and had apparently sent some secret diners to the bakery to bring him samples of my other work over the course of a couple of weeks right after, and then sent his sister with her kids on Halloween to bring him all the specialty items, and that locked the offer in.

“But something tells me that the interest in my dad's building might have something to do with you,” he said.

“Only if it has a great outcome. If it doesn't, I had nothing to do with it.”

“Duly noted. But thank you, regardless.”

“You know, Dave says I get to hire my own staff . . . any chance you want to leave the world of high-stakes business and get back into baking? You have some skills.”

He laughed. “I think that contest was my last baking hurrah, except for the occasional banana bread. I do make a superior banana bread.”

“You'll have to make it for me sometime.” This comes out flirtier than I mean it.

“Maybe I will.”

“Well, thanks again, at least for the intro to Dave. You might not have put me up for the job, but I doubt I would have gotten it without that connection, so I just wanted you to know that I appreciate it.”

“Hey, what is family for!?” he says with a wicked tone in his voice.

“Ugh. You seriously are going to have to cut that out. The whole family thing gives me the willies.”

“Why? Didn't you always want a step-cousin-brother or whatever we will be?”

“Um, no, and particularly not one that I've . . .”

“Seen naked?”

“
Really?
You promised we'd not speak of that. It's all too
Flowers in the Attic
. I was going to say not one that I've come to think of as a friend.”

“Awww. That's so sweet. And I haven't spoken of it at all. But speaking of it, how's your absentee boyfriend? Still hiding from you?”

“Actually, we have a date tomorrow night.”

“Wow. Well, where are you going? You know, maybe I should come in case he doesn't show up again.”

“I'm not worried. He's taking me to a gala.”

“An event expert headed to a fancy event. Seems appropriate.”

“What does that mean?” How would he know about Wedding Girl?

“I mean, don't you make wedding cakes and special-occasion cakes? Didn't you help plan your parents' wedding to perfection? Won't you be helping my dad and Bubbles?”

Whew. I've got very little time left to give my advice to the wedding challenged, and since Mark has decided to play the teasing friend role with me, I don't need him to have any more ammunition than he already does. “Yep, that's me, wedding expert at your service.”

“Maybe someday you'll help me plan mine.” I don't know why this stung, but it did.

“If you're lucky.”

“Indeed. Congrats on the job, Sophie, you'll be amazing. But you were always going to land on your feet. They're lucky to get you, be sure you don't forget that.”

I look down at Munch, who is defiling a sock he plucked out
of my suitcase. “Dog, you ready to go home?” He hops up and does a happy little spin. “Okay, let's do it!” And I grab my bags, and turn out the lights, and we take those first steps together.