When Girlfriends Chase Dreams

By Savannah Page

A novel about chasing dreams, for better or worse, and living your love story.

Claire Linley is finally a bride! After nearly ten years with her college sweetheart, Claire is going to become Mrs. Conner Whitley. She's got her bridal magazines, is the biggest Martha Stewart fan, and subscribes to all the major wedding blogs. She's been dreaming of this moment for years! How could planning her dream wedding be anything but perfect?

The easy-going and bubbly type, Claire will obviously have a blast planning, and with her fantastic group of girlfriends-made-bridesmaids she just can't go wrong. Whether it's wedding gown shopping, makeup trials, or cake-tasting, Claire's friends are there in a pinch.

But how big does the pinch get? All Claire wants to do is get married, but at every turn something seems to go awry and she's starting to lose it. How is a girl supposed to remain cool and collected when the pricey dream wedding planner isn't turning out to be so dreamy? When DIY projects and the perfect venue are going up in smoke? How is Claire supposed to marry Conner when the special day that's supposed to join them together, forever, is slowly tearing them apart?

This is the charming story about how sometimes the biggest events in life are defined by the smallest acts of kindness and love. It's a love story about dreaming large, loving deeply, and, in the end, truly having the happiest day of your life, no matter what happens (or doesn't). About what happens when girlfriends chase dreams.

While this Chick Lit is Book #4 in the When Girlfriends collection, it can be read as a stand-alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Savannah Page
• Release date: Oct 30, 2014

Savannah Page

Savannah Page is the author of Everything the Heart Wants, A Sister’s Place, and the When Girlfriends series. Sprinkled with drama and humor, her women’s fiction celebrates friendship, love, and life. A native Southern Californian, Savannah lives in Berlin, Germany, with her husband, their goldendoodle, and her collection of books. Readers can visit her at www.SavannahPage.com.

Book preview

Chapter One

I can’t believe the reflection in the mirror. It almost brings tears to my eyes. I, Claire Linley, am actually wearing my wedding dress. All right, not really my wedding dress. But a wedding dress. I’m actually—really and truly!—wearing a wedding dress, inside a bridal boutique, standing on top of a pedestal in front of a massive tri-fold mirror, so I can glimpse all angles of my white and fluffy and crystal-y bridal self.

I swish from side to side, imagining that I’m on the ballroom floor. I watch about in a daze as the gorgeous pieces of material sway with my curvy body, dancing with my short movements. Even my curly hair sways in tune with the gown; and somehow the bright white shade of the material and the sparkly crystals seem to make my hair appear a type of platinum blonde. I look like a princess. I feel like a princess! Oh, this is one of the best days of my life! The woman who looks back in the mirror, the image I’ve been dreaming about pretty much from the very moment I started going out with my amazing and handsome fiancé, Conner, is almost too much to bear. This is actually happening. I’m finally engaged to be married!

Wow! Just listening to that word…fiancé. And engaged! Such sweet, sweet words… I always knew I would be over-the-moon when I’d be able to use those words in the same sentence as my name, but I didn’t think they’d sound this lyrical. I didn’t know being an engaged woman could feel so magical!

But, if I’m completely honest, it’s also a bit stressful.

Oh, but no matter. I’m engaged! I am going to become Mrs. Conner Whitley just eight months from now! Well, it could have been six, making for a clichéd dream of an outdoor, June wedding, but planning a wedding is really tough stuff. So much to coordinate! It’s not like planning a birthday party or even a baby shower, which I got to do a couple of years ago for one of my best friends, Robin Sinclair. No, planning a wedding is a huge ordeal, and it can get a little overwhelming from time to time, to say the least.

But, as I said, it’s no matter, really, since I’m standing right here, inside one of Seattle’s most glamorous bridal boutiques, wearing a breathtaking wedding dress. It may not be my dress. It may not be the one! that all the bridal magazines swear you’ll recognize when you see it. But it’s a wedding dress just the same, and it’s on me!

Claire? Claire dear?

I tear my eyes away from the almost-wedded-bliss image in the mirror to look to my mom. She’s looking up at me, holding a crystal-studded tiara in one hand and a waist-length veil in the other.

Which one do you like best, dear? she asks. She’s looking from left to right and smiling at me between takes, just like a game show girl who’s trying to strike up interest in the full set of Teflon cookware and the lifetime supply of canned soup—only a thousand times better. The crystal tiara really makes your blue eyes shine.

Neither, I breathe. I set my hands on my beaded waist, then quickly remove them. There are far too many beads and sequins on this wedding gown. How can a girl twist and move on the dance floor when she’s liable to scratch up her forearms and hands from such an ornate bodice? No, this dress won’t do. It’s beautiful, but not for me.

Mom makes a twisted face and brings the headpieces down to her sides. You don’t like either one? she asks dejectedly.

They’re beautiful, I quickly say. I look back at my reflection. This dress is beautiful, too. I turn back to Mom. But they’re not for me. They’re not ‘the one!’ You know?

Mom nods knowingly and hands the items back to one of the two boutique attendants who’ve been helping me for the past three hours.

Claire? It’s Sophie Wharton, my maid of honor. Even though I love and adore all of my girlfriends (and I seriously have the most awesome five girlfriends a woman could ask for), Sophie is the ideal BFF in the world. She’s the peanut butter to my PB&J, and I like peanut butter a lot! Sophie’s that best friend and super sister wrapped in one. And we really just, well, click. We first met when we were freshmen at the University of Washington, which feels like ages ago. We hit it off and eventually moved into a dorm together. Best friends, great roomies, and, nearly ten years later, we’re still a pretty dynamic duo, if I may say so myself.

Claire, Sophie says again, maybe we’re going about this all wrong. She gestures to the dress I’m wearing. You’ve tried quite a few different styles just to make sure you know you want to go for the more vintage look.

I nod enthusiastically.

Then…why don’t we stop trying so many different styles and go vintage all the way now? Sophie’s smiling brightly, taking charge of the situation as she often likes to do.

I sigh in a dramatic fashion and pick up the weighty pleats of the gown. This dress is beautiful but much too princess-like for my taste. I manage to twist around one-eighty on the pedestal and give a questioning look to my mom and the rest of the girls who’ve come along for the adventure today.

Robin’s making an expression that I can’t quite discern. She keeps cocking her head to one side and then another, maybe contemplating this dress for her own future wedding. I bet it would look really stunning on her. Although, I don’t think she’s really the princess and over-the-top kind of girl. And definitely not the conventional type of bride. Sometimes the girls and I (in a very loving way, of course) tease Robin and say she’s doing everything backwards. She gets pregnant, then finds a dreamy guy, then has a baby, then moves in with said dreamy guy (his name’s Bobby, by the way, and the baby, who rocks all of our worlds, is Rose), and Robin’s still saying that some day she’ll get married. Just not too soon, she always replies to our teasing.

I’m not sure what Robin’s thinking at the moment, but she’s not saying anything. She’s only meeting my questioning face with an equally curious gaze.

I look over at Lara. If anyone can give me strong and wise advice, surely it has to be Lara Kearns. Miss I’ve got my career and life together.

Okay, so the past year or so her life was a little on the rocks with this guy she was seeing from work. But that’s behind her now. She’s moving on and, as always, is more focused on her career than almost anything else.

Lara’s looking at me with a very sobering face, her arms crossed. She tightens her lips together before saying, I think Sophie’s right. We’ve tried so many different styles. It was a good idea to get a feel for all types of cuts and designs out there—

Just to be sure! Jackie cuts in.

Yes, Lara says, looking to Jackie. "To be sure you really want vintage. And I think now we know."

"Pssht. Yeah, Jackie says with a flutter of her eyelashes. She’s sitting on the plush, cream, carpeted floor, her small legs tucked underneath her. We’ve been here foreeever, Claire. Time to change our strategy."

I only want to be certain, I say. I don’t want to miss my dress if it’s here. You know?

You’ve practically tried on the whole store, Claire. Jackie’s whining now, just like a child. Although that’s Jackie’s style. She sometimes feels like the baby sister among us—always needing to be looked after, brought back down to earth, or given a talking to. She’s a soft and fragile little girl inside, mixed in with a wild and carefree kind of spirit.

"Surely there’s some dress here that you’ll love," Jackie says with a smattering of persuasion.

Jackie. I plant my hands on my hips and instantly remove them after the decorative detail pokes me. Not everyone can be so lucky to find the perfect dress in one shot and look fabulous.

Jackie Kittredge née Anderson married her mogul boyfriend of a year-and-a-half or so only two weeks ago, on New Year’s Eve. She had a very understated courthouse wedding and an intimate celebration at their opulent townhouse downtown. It was a New Years Eve party/wedding reception. She was engaged for a month or something super short and pulled it all off without much of a hitch. I don’t know how she did it—I’ve already been engaged for six months! (I know, I know. And the question begs to be asked: What on earth have I been doing this whole time? I’m working on it.)

Anyway, Jackie pulled off a stress-free wedding ceremony and a fun reception in record time. And, as is signature Jackie, she looked A-list while doing it. Jackie’s wedding dress was a very sweet Chanel number in eggshell with jet-black accents at the cuffs and the faux pockets. It may not have been very traditional for a wedding, much less very bridal in any sense other than its off-white color, but Jackie pulled it off. A little birdcage veil and pillbox hat and Jackie looked like one of those model/wedding blog brides. Or Jackie O, even!

My mom returns to my side, this time holding up one of my many thick bridal magazines. I’m surprised that my car, which is almost on its last leg, hasn’t completely keeled over from the sheer weight of the bridal magazines that collect in the trunk and backseats. My idol, Martha Stewart, insists that a happy bride is a well-researched bride. So that means when I’m not rifling through bridal magazines, or bookmarking favorite weddings on Style Me Pretty, or organizing my Pinterest boards, I must carry around with me oodles of inspiration. Besides, you never know how long that line at the grocery store or the wait in that dreaded doctor’s office might take. It’s always wise to have your bridal battle kit within arm’s reach.

What about this here? Mom suggests. She’s pointing at a gorgeous Vera Wang that has vintage written all over it. This is very chic.

I take the magazine and look over the details. It is a chic vintage dress. It definitely boasts elegance and class. And I bet it’d be suitable for my body type, too. I’m a bit on the short side (almost five feet and four inches) and have womanly curves. (Womanly curves—the term my mother taught to call my round bottom, slightly bosomy chest, and defined waist.)

It could work, I say with hope in my voice. Do you have this? Or something like this? I ask an attendant, showing her the photo of the gorgeous dress.

We could order it in, I’m pretty sure, she says with confidence. We’re always eager to have a new Vera to add to the collection.

I look back at the girls. Okay, I sigh. "Let’s try one more then for today, I point at the last dress hanging on the rack, and then we can get some lunch."

Emily gives a short applause and says that it sounds like a great plan. I’m starved, she exclaims.

Emily Saunders. I have to count my lucky stars that this girl is still here in Seattle helping out with the wedding. She is one of my bridesmaids, after all, as are all my girls. But Emily’s the unusual type. She’s a nomad. She’s the one who’s always jetting off to another country at the last minute. She’s big on exploring different places and learning about different cultures. Widening her global perspective, she says, or something like that. She’s even spent tons of time living in exotic locations and among tribes; she practically becomes a local wherever she goes.

Yet somehow I have managed to convince Emily to stick around, at least until August. When the wedding is over, then she has my consent to flee the scene, if she wishes. It’s not that Emily isn’t happy in Seattle or doesn’t want to be here with all us girls. She’s just a traveler at heart, and so long as she’s got her passport in one hand and her camera in the other, she’s a pretty happy camper.

And we’re sure about the bridesmaid dresses? Mom says. You’re going with the same color, different styles?

I want to sleep on it a bit, I say, and all of the girls suddenly look deflated. "Just to be sure. I try to prove to them that the hunt for the ideal bridesmaid dresses won’t last much longer. They’ve been such troopers. But I think I’m sure, I add. They’re such a pretty shade of green."

I make my way back to the dressing room, more than ready to slip out of this heavy number and into the remaining dress. I’m almost certain it’s not the one!, but I still want to try it on anyhow. Besides, Emily’s been documenting the journey from fiancée to wife for me, constantly snapping photos of important events, like trying on dozens of wedding gowns. What’s one more to add to the album?

***

I’m so excited that they’re going to order that to-die-for Vera Wang! I gush, starting to daydream about slipping into the dress Mom had found at random. Maybe I have too many magazines and therefore can’t thoroughly scour each one—clearly I missed that gem!

Knowing you, Claire, Lara says with moxie, it won’t be ‘the one!’ She pops a French fry into her mouth.

I didn’t think it’d be so hard finding the perfect dress. You know? I chomp on a few fries myself. It’s probably one of the most difficult tasks I’ve had to do for this wedding.

You’re still looking for a planner, right? Robin asks.

Six months in to planning my dream wedding I finally realized I needed to stop doing everything by myself, and stop dragging my friends and family and anyone who would lend a hand into the planning mess. Don’t get me wrong—I’m still doing plenty on my own, and I’ll take all the help I can get, but I think it’s time to rally someone else to the Whitley Wedding Cause.

My fiancé Conner and I have estimated a headcount of a little over one hundred, and that’s proving to be too much to handle for one DIY-obsessed girl (and everyone else involved). As much as I love planning and crafting, this wedding is headed for the hospital. It needs a surgeon ASAP. That’s why I made it my New Year’s resolution to find a wedding planner. Someone who could design, coordinate, and pull off the most stunning fairytale wedding imaginable.

I’m only two weeks into January now, and I’ve already met with two of the three planners I have on list. Unfortunately, neither of them turned out to be the Franck Eggelhoffer I dreamed about. They weren’t even Howard Weinstein, funny-little-assistant material. When I rang up my mom, who lives back in my small hometown of Sisters, Oregon, to tell her that neither of the planners met my expectations, she very sweetly said I shouldn’t expect a Father of the Bride-style wedding, anyhow. That’s Hollywood, dear, she told me. Make-believe stuff.

I beg to differ, however. See, my brilliant and charming and very in-tune-with-me boyfriend—I mean, fiancé— proposed in a very Hollywood-esque way. I’m a huge Diane Keaton fan, and one of my all-time-favorite films is Something’s Gotta Give. Conner knows this. He’s had to sit through this well-worn DVD more than a dozen times. So what did Conner do last July? He not only surprised me with a trip to Paris, and he not only popped the question right there in the most romantic city in the world (and I totally did not see that one coming!), but he did so with my favorite Hollywood moment in mind. He got down on bended knee on the romantic Pont d’Arcole, right where Diane Keaton and Jack Nicholson meet at the end of Something’s Gotta Give. It was so romantic. Like something straight…well, straight out of the movies!

So you see, magical Hollywood moments can come true, which is why I’m a firm believer that my Franck Eggelhoffer is out there. And, if all else fails, would it be so strange to find Martin Short and ask him to play the part for me?

Claire’s already met with two of the planners, Mom answers Robin.

And? Jackie asks.

Not up to snuff, Mom replies with a simple shrug.

What was so wrong with them? Robin takes a sip of her water. Too expensive?

It’s not the money, I say. Luckily, my father has offered to foot the entire bill for the wedding, with some help from Mom, too. My parents had planned since my and my sister’s births to be prepared to cough up bridal bounty. Seeing how they did so with Maggie’s wedding last summer, it’s my turn now.

Conner and I were elated when Dad gave the official confirmation that we were to send all the bills his way. What a relief! Conner and I both have decent enough jobs and live well enough, but we could never fathom paying for a beautiful wedding with more than one hundred guests. Going to Paris was a huge deal, and it did cost a pretty penny. But that’s not an every-day kind of thing. It’s not like, left to our own devices, we could plan a wedding menu that didn’t have the words sandwich or cash bar on it. I mean, just take a look at my age-old car. And I just know that Dad would not be happy if his youngest daughter was feeding her guests (some of whom are his high-end clients and colleagues) microwavable mac and cheese.

If it’s not the money, then what is it? Jackie asks.

I tell the girls that one of the two planners with whom I’d met was very pompous. He had an air about him like he was better than me and that—as he was practically buffing his nails—he had planned far bigger, far more elaborate, and far more challenging weddings than mine! (Yeah, that’s a way to sell yourself.)

Not to mention the woodsy Elton John NEST candle that he burned in his office was really making me nauseous. (Up until that point, I never knew Sir Elton had branched out from the music world into an overpowering home fragrant line. What do you know? Learn something new every day.) Anyway, I had to leave. So that was planner number one down the drain.

As for the other planner, she told me that I would need to be just as involved in the wedding coordination and design as she, and that we should look at our relationship as a partnership. A team. And after I asked what exactly I was paying her for, I told her thanks but no thanks, and left, feeling dismal about the entire prospect of handing off a ton of my wedding stress to someone who was, supposedly, more capable. Two planners down, one to go.

That’s really too bad, Lara says. Maybe this third one will work out?

Yeah! Sophie chimes in. I bet she’ll be perfect.

She better be. I munch on some more fries. She’s my last hope. I can’t keep spending time searching for planners. This wedding will be here before we know it.

You can always change the date if you need to, Emily offers. Give yourself more time.

I hold up my hand and wag my index finger. Conner and I’ve already changed the date like a zillion times, I say. "There’s no way we’re changing it again. Besides, the Save-the-Dates have been sent, and I already pre-ordered invitations. August sixteenth is the day, for better or for worse."

I think the next planner will be the perfect fit, Mom says encouragingly. She pats my arm and smiles. She just has to be!

"Yeah, she has to be."

Chapter Two

After taking Mom to the airport that Sunday afternoon, I come home, seeking refuge from what started as a light dusting of snow but quickly became a full-on storm. I’d stuck around the airport to make sure her flight could take off and safely make it back home to an equally snowy Oregon.

I wish my mom and I lived closer, especially in the midst of wedding planning. Although I miss my small hometown of Sisters, Oregon on occasion, Seattle has been home since I moved here for college. And it is definitely home, because Conner and I have made these four walls a very comfortable and inviting three-bed and two-bath residence, right here at 1247 Parker Lane. In a very quiet Madison Park neighborhood, surrounded by beautiful parks, which are ideal for those routine walks with our Jack Russell Terrier mix, Schnickerdoodle.

I’m home! I call out. I flip on the living room lights. Anyone home?

Conner’s truck is in the drive, so either he’s hidden away in another part of the house or he’s out with one of his buddies—most likely his best friend, Chad Harris. They’re probably getting themselves into some sort of trouble—driving recklessly in a vacant, snow-covered parking lot with Chad’s souped-up truck, or bowling and beering their minds away, or watching some testosterone-amped film.

Conner? I call out. Or maybe he’s out walk— He’s not walking the dog; Schnickerdoodle comes racing from one of the back bedrooms and immediately starts to jump up and down at my feet. I greet him and give him a good rubbing behind the ears. Where’s Daddy? Huh? Where’s Daddy?

Daddy’s here! Conner’s leaning against the wall at the end of the hall, grinning and still wearing his pajamas.

We kiss hello and I can’t help but tease him about his choice of clothing.

I’ve been making major progress, he asserts himself. Come on. He takes my hand and leads me into one of the spare bedrooms that we use as an office; although, as of late it’s been Wedding Central, with yards upon yards of burlap and tulle wadded up in one corner and covering my sewing table. I’m working on some fabulous drapes for the wedding décor. It’s going to look amazing!

Now it’s just the beginning, Conner says. He takes a seat in the plush swivel chair and fiddles with the computer’s mouse. It’s still a work-in-progress, but I think it’s really coming along. He turns to me and points at the screen, which is vibrantly colored with the familiar squared sequences of cartoon events.

Nice, I compliment.

When Conner’s not busily working in front of the screen where he works as an accountant downtown, he’s having fun making his own comic strips. It’s his artistic release; and since before we met, he’s either been sketching cartoon characters or creating impressive storyboards on-screen.

He’s really quite good, and I’m not just saying that because he’s my boy—I mean, fiancé. Gosh, that’s still so hard to believe even after all these months of being engaged! Conner could probably take his skills to a local newspaper—get a regular daily feature or something—and see where it could go from there. But anytime I mention it, Conner casually shrugs and says, Nah.

If he didn’t love his job crunching numbers so much (and if cartooning were a guarantee of a nice pay), I would think he’d try to turn his hobby into a career. He insists, however, that keeping it at hobby level is a big part of its appeal. It’s a fun form of artistic expression and something to do when he chooses, never because of a deadline.

It still needs a lot of work, he says. I’m not sure about the way I’ve made the frogs look. Almost too cartoony, you know?

I nod sincerely, not really understanding how a comic can look too cartoony, but knowing that he won’t stop the strip until it’s done to his satisfaction. I also know it’ll look awesome no matter what he decides.

One time, a few years ago, he was so hung up on how his femme fatale spoke—saying her dialect was too garbled for someone who was so one-track-minded and almost simplistic. He’d toyed around with her lingo from bubble to bubble in that particular story for months. Even though the strip wasn’t longer than four pages or so, it consumed more of his time than some of his much lengthier stories. So long as he enjoys the cartooning and has fun, I say he should go for it. And, of course, so long as he manages to set aside some time to lend a hand with all of the crazy wedding stuff.

I give him a kiss on his sandy-blonde head and tell him that I’m proud of him, but that I also think it’s about time to get dressed for the day. It is, after all—I glance at my watch—nearly one o’clock.

***

How was the morning with your mom? Conner calls out from the shower after I’ve managed to drag him away from the desk.

I tap my thighs, encouraging Schnickerdoodle to jump up onto my lap. He does so instantly, and I inch back comfortably onto the bed.

It was great, I shout. Sad, as always, to say goodbye.

When’s she coming back? Conner’s sudsing his head with shampoo, his words coming out all gurgled as the soapy water courses over his face.

Not sure yet, I say. Schnickerdoodle starts to lick my hand. Maybe in a month or two.

Mom is a physician’s assistant. She’s the sole breadwinner because she’s been a divorcee since I started college, so she can’t afford to skip out on work. I’m fortunate, though, that she’s been able to come up to help organize wedding details a few times since the news of the engagement.

That’ll be nice, Conner says. He turns off the shower and proceeds to towel dry. What’d you two chat about?

Oh. The usual. Wedding this. Wedding that. She’s been a real help. You know, she may have found my wedding dress!

Conner looks at me incredulously. You still haven’t chosen one?

It’s not easy, I whine. "You’re lucky you don’t have to deal with picking out the perfect ensemble. You’ve got it easy."

He makes a psh sound and rapidly rubs the towel over his head.

You do! I insist. Just a tux. Or a simple suit. And the worst of it is you have to pick a tie. But that’s also my job, really. Coordinating colors, styles, patterns… Then a thought occurs to me that I’ve yet to even consider, because, as I’ve said before, planning a wedding is a big deal, and it seems like no amount of magazines, or checklists, or planning notebooks can help you think of everything. What do you think of bowties?

Conner gives me a deadpan look, as expected. I tell him to hear me out, and he goes back to rubbing out the water from his hair.

Claire, he says finally. "I don’t know about a bowtie. I know we’re going kind of 1920s old school or whatever for the wedding theme, but a bowtie for me? For Chad? He laughs loudly. I don’t know, babe. Could look ridiculous."

I decide to brush it off for now and move on to the next matter that’s been weighing on my mind rather heavily since I hugged Mom farewell at the airport.

Something else we chatted about, I start up. The venue.

What about it? We’re still doing the Mansfield Mansion or whatever it’s called?

Chanfield Manor, I correct. Yeah, that’s the problem.

Conner raises his eyebrows. Changed your mind?

On the contrary. Chanfield Manor is one thing I’m certain about for this wedding. That and the groom, of course, and my four bridesmaids and maid of honor, and the vintage theme. Everything else is a come-along-as-it-does kind of thing. Chanfield Manor is this brilliant mansion up in the picturesque hills of Queen Anne. It’s in the neighborhood where all the richie-rich folks live. It’s more than a hundred years old and sits perched up on a hill, overlooking the beautiful city and Elliot Bay. It’s so stunning! Almost the second our plane touched down on return from Paris I called up Chanfield Manor and booked the place. They asked for a date, and that was when the wedding date marathon began.

Conner and I spent a few months trying to pinpoint the ideal date for our wedding, and we finally agreed on the seventh of June. Imagine a fresh, summer wedding, not too warm, nor too chilly. Outdoors. Sunshine filling up our day, an unforgettable dusk reception. Maybe even a dusk ceremony, too. All outdoors…

Then somewhere between spending countless hours on handmade Save-the-Dates with the perfect June date stamped on them and the arguments with both sets of parents over summer vacation, school terms, and ideal times to take off from work, Conner and I moved the wedding date to sometime in July. Then another time in July. Then once more back to the seventh of June. Until we finally decided on the sixteenth of August. No going back.

When August the sixteenth was agreed upon (and I told Conner to tell his twin brothers, Daniel and George, that they’d better find a way to be back from their study abroad session no matter what), I took my latest copy of Martha Stewart Weddings and filled my Judy’s Arts and Crafts shopping cart with all new Save-the-Date products. The second time around with that craft project I had had a vision and knew how to improve the design, so that was sort of a blessing in disguise.

Those replacement Save-the-Date cards were hand-stamped with the most darling bird image, and that was when I became adamant that vintage and bird would somehow become the theme for every aspect of the wedding. Maybe birdcages as part of centerpieces? Embossed on various paper products? Oooh! Name the reception tables after birds? There’s an idea!

Then I have to ask, should I use the Latin name of the bird species, or go with the everyday-English name that people would know? Then again, I’m not sure many people would know (much less be too keen on) why their assigned table was called Rough-faced Shag. Then again, opting for the Latin sister Phalacrocorax carunculatus isn’t much better. People could misconstrue that and think phallus or something. No. No, I’m not sure that much bird innuendo should be used. I could talk to the planner about that when I meet with her on Wednesday. God. See what I mean? This wedding stuff is overwhelming!

Claire? Conner asks. He’s waving his hand in front of my face.

Huh?

You were saying? He pulls on a pair of jeans. You were talking about the venue. And?

Oh! Yes. I snap back to the conversation at hand. So get this. I take in a dramatic breath both for effect and because, in all honesty, this is some of the most upsetting wedding news with which I’ve had to contend. Mom said that my dad really wants a church wedding. Conner doesn’t say anything, so I continue. Dad told Mom that she needed to talk to me about our venue choice while she was here. I pull Schnickerdoodle further up onto my lap. Told her that she needed to tell me that it was a church wedding or else.

Or else what?

"Or else…nothing. Mom said that since Dad’s paying for, well, pretty much the entire wedding, we should probably just appease him." I roll my eyes.

And what does your mom think of this?

I lean back on my elbows and say, She thinks it’s typical Dad. His usual BS for no reason.

I didn’t know your dad was so religious. Conner looks at me with an inquisitive face.

He’s not. That’s what makes it all so…so ridiculously absurd! I don’t know why he’s acting like this.

Conner’s shaking his head in a small and discrete way, his hands crammed into his well-worn jeans’ pockets.

"She said Dad is adamant about it. Adamant," I emphasize.

And if we choose to stick with this Mansfield Manor?

Chanfield, I correct. If we stick with Chanfield for the ceremony then, yeah, he may not pay for the wedding.

All of it? Conner looks like he’s beside himself.

I don’t know. I cave my shoulders, feeling as forlorn as I had been when Mom hastily delivered the bad news practically as she boarded the plane. At least the venue portion, maybe…

I’m not sure, but knowing my Dad, who is so unpredictable when it comes to petty things like this, he could pull the plug on the whole thing.

Forget it then, Conner says dismissively. If all that stands in between your father paying for this wedding is a lousy venue, then who cares?

I follow Conner into the kitchen, and Schnickerdoodle trails along happily. Conner, it’s not a lousy venue. It’s a dream venue.

Dream venue or not, he says, this wedding’s already estimated at forty grand. He pulls open the cupboards and rifles around, setting boxes and bags on the Formica countertop.

Thirty-two, I say softly.

Thirty-two, forty, how about ten, he says. He tears into a bag of snacks. It’s all the same. Too. Much. He tosses a handful of crunchy snacks back, and I can’t help but sneak a few for myself.

Normally I’m pretty careful with what I eat. I totally understand the concept of snacks, but healthy ones. Like baked Cheetos and chips, or reduced-sugar Oreos, or fat free chocolate pudding cups. And, if I must have a soda (and since diet tastes bad, and I’ve read that artificial sweeteners are the precursor to the modern day plague), only half a Coke is suitable. Halving it is like a diet soda, right? Half the calories is better than all of them.

I say we just do as your dad wishes on this one, Conner says with a full mouth.

I hand back the box. But it’s my dream location for a wedding, Conner. I can’t let this one go. Giving up the ideal June wedding date was one thing, but having to spend so much more time on new Save-the-Dates was another. Even trying on scores of dresses, none of which were ideal, and one that had left a few unsightly scratches on my arms, was not as bad as letting go of Chanfield Manor. Chanfield Manor is ours—it has to be!

Claire, Conner says. He pulls in close to me and tips up my chin with a salty finger. Baby. He smiles. I love you, and I don’t care where I marry you. He kisses me with even saltier lips. As long as I marry you, I don’t care. At Chesterfield, at a church, in our living room—I just want you.

I steal a few more snacks. "I love you, too. And I also just want to marry you. I crunch. But a church wedding? You do realize that all of that drapery I’ve been working on will be for nothing, don’t you?"

Conner shrugs, then jumps onto the couch, flipping on the television. We can still use it at a church.

Conner, I moan, I don’t think you’re taking this as seriously as I am.

He continues flipping through the channels.

You realize that when we’d finally set a date I booked that place, don’t you? I say.

You mean for the June date? he asks, staring at the screen.

Yeah, and then I had to change it to August.

It had been a hassle to change it, but luckily the later date was still available, and our deposit could be transferred. The only hiccup, though, was that the time slot for the August date was narrow, and I had to take all that was available. It wasn’t ideal, but it was all I could manage. Since changing the date, yet again, was not in the cards, my hands were tied.

Conner, I repeat. He looks over at me. I paid a deposit for this place, and I can’t get it back. What am I going to do? I scratch my head.

Maybe your dad isn’t being that serious. It’ll all work out… Conner doesn’t say anything for a while now, and when I suggest that maybe I can finagle a way to use the venue for a