Decidedly with Wishes: By the Bay, #7

By Stina Lindenblatt

Bucket List Rule #1: Be careful who finds your list.

 

Oops.

 

As the future CEO of my grandmother's fashion empire, I'm not supposed to want to design a line of fancy dresses for girls with special needs. But when I pull out all the stops and present my vision to my grandmother, she agrees to let me try on one very questionable condition.

 

The condition?

 

I have to complete every item on the bucket list I wrote in college.

 

Challenge accepted.

 

Only, this is the same bucket list that includes going on a date with a hot hockey player, riding a horse, kissing in front of the Eiffel Tower…oh, and finding a husband.

 

The first one is where NHL player Eli Lawson comes in.

 

***

When my matchmaking mother sets me up with a date for my cousin's wedding, I tell her the only thing I can…that I'm bringing my girlfriend.

 

Except, I don't have one.

 

And I certainly don't have someone who will spend a week with me in Copper Creek, Montana for the wedding festivities.

 

When workaholic Nala Johnson wins a date with me at a charity auction, I think I've found the perfect solution to my problem. Even better when she tells me about her bucket list. Because I'm just the man to help her with it.

 

I mean, how difficult can it be to find her a husband?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stina Lindenblatt
• Release date: Jun 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201641818

Book preview

1

Nala

To-do List #543

Take flower girl dress to children’s hospital for Sarina to try on.

Order more pink organza and gold thread.

Flirt with new mailroom guy so he’ll deliver the daily mail to me first.

Few greater joys exist in life than when you see a child smile.

You look like a princess, sweet cheeks, I told Sarina, my best friend’s six-year-old daughter. She gave me a wide, toothy smile that had my heart floating in my chest like the balloons in the movie Up.

The sleeveless dress I’d designed for her was ice blue, with appliquéd gold floral patterns on the bodice and skirt. Impressed?

Sure, it took forever to sew, but it was worth it.

The tulle underskirt gave the dress the fullness of Cinderella’s gown, only instead of brushing the floor, the hem swung midcalf. I’d even hand-stitched gold thread and beads onto the Velcro straps on Sarina’s ankle-foot braces. Cinderella’s fairy godmother and those mice couldn’t have done much better.

Sarina had been born with spina bifida and needed her crutches and braces for walking. But that didn’t mean she deserved anything less than the finest of princess dresses.

I glanced at Amelia, who was leaning against the counter in the occupational therapy clinic at the children’s hospital, to see what she thought. Around us was an array of equipment in primary colors: seats, soft steps constructed from the same material as gym mats, scooters and swings that the children lie on, stomach down.

Amelia and I had been best friends since high school. We’d gone through so much together over the years, both highs and lows. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for her and her daughter. Which was why I was there, at the clinic where Amelia worked full time. 

She beamed lovingly at her daughter. Auntie Nala’s right. You do look like a princess.

Like Cinderella? Sarina’s hopeful smile lit up the room.

Exactly like Cinderella, I said. 

The little girl loved her Disney princesses, but Cinderella was her favorite. Both were blonde.

But if Sarina was Cinderella, her redheaded mother was Ariel from The Little Mermaid—something Sarina had pointed out numerous times. 

What do you say to Auntie Nala? Amelia asked.

Sarina crutched the short distance to me and hugged my leg. Thank you, Auntie Nala.

I crouched to her level and returned the hug. You’re welcome, sweetheart. I pushed myself to my feet. I should get back to work before my grandmother misses me.

My grandmother was the CEO of Ayanna, a high-end fashion house that had been dressing some of the most famous women for more than five decades.

She’d been in her twenties when she created the company, which had started as nothing more than her kitchen table. Despite the odds stacked against her, she’d been determined to make it a huge success. Back then, it was challenging enough for a woman to break into the fashion industry and make a name for herself—even more so when you were a Black woman.

Bibi hadn’t given two shakes of a goat’s ballocks about either of those limitations.

You aren’t going to watch me play wheelchair hockey? Sarina inquired. 

I exaggerated a gasp, hand pressed to my chest. You’re playing hockey in the dress?

Sarina giggled. No, silly. I’m gonna change first.

Well, that’s a relief. There’s not enough magic in the dress to help you win the game. I stroked the top of her head. Not that you need any help in that department. You’re the best wheelchair hockey player I know.

She grinned; then her expression became as serious as a chocolate-coated Bundt cake. Don’t you want to meet the San Francisco Rock players?

While I would love to meet them, I said, not caring one way or another if I did, I really do have to get back to work. 

As executive assistant to the company’s CEO (and future CEO), it was my job to make sure the ship sailed smoothly. Which meant I was lucky to escape for as long as I had. 

Have you shown your grandmother Sarina’s dress? Amelia asked me.

Not yet.

But you’re still planning to show it to her and tell her about the fashion line you want to create? Disbelief and a heavy dose of eye-rolling laced her tone. 

For good reason.

I plan to talk to her about it this afternoon, I told Amelia and crouched to Sarina’s level again. How about I walk you and your mom to the gym? I can’t stay and watch, though.

She grinned and nodded, and I helped her out of her dress and into her shorts and hockey jersey. 

When we entered the gym a few minutes later, kids ranging from ages five to nine years old were hanging out on the other side of the room, waiting for the game to begin. The air was thick with excitement.

I need to go now. I hugged Sarina goodbye. Your mommy will send me a video of you playing, okay?

Okay, Auntie Nala. I love you.

I grinned the smile reserved for my favorite girl. I love you, too. Then I watched as she and her mother walked toward the awaiting kids and their parents. 

The opening notes of the song I’d programmed on my phone for Bibi played in my purse. 

I removed it and accepted the call. Hi, Bibi, I said at the same time as I turned around and walked into a brick wall. A brick wall I could’ve sworn wasn’t there a moment ago. Ugh!

I ricocheted back a step, almost losing my footing, thanks to my heels. And I would have if the tall, blond wall hadn’t grabbed my arm first, steadying me. My bare skin tingled at his touch.

His skin was that light-golden tan that came from being out in the sun for short periods of time—paler than the summer tan surfers often wore. His eyes were the deep blue of the sky just after sunrise, the perfect accompaniment to his crisp, pine-forest scent. And for a second, I was lost in them both.

He released my arm, much to the limb’s dismay, as my grandmother asked if I was returning soon. Marketing needed me to discuss a photo layout with them. 

Sorry about that, the man, who looked vaguely familiar, said.

I covered the phone receiver with my palm. No, that was completely my fault. 

Was he one of the models we had used? 

Maybe.

Even though Ayanna’s target market was women, having a hot guy in the fashion layouts never hurt sales.

And you had to agree that this man was definitely the type women could easily imagine as their date if they wore one of our dresses.

His lips curved into a soft smile, and my heart thumped unexpectedly in my chest.

Hey, Lawson. Another tall, good-looking man walked past us, pulling my attention away from the blond wall. Are you playing with us or just here to pick up pretty women? 

That was when I noticed both men were wearing San Francisco Rock jerseys. They must’ve been the hockey players Sarina had told me about.

Lawson glowered at his teammate. Lay off it, Mathews.

Maybe she’ll be your date for your cousin’s wedding. The other dark-haired man chuckled at his teammate’s expense.

My grandmother mentioned something else in my ear. 

Smiling politely, I nodded at Lawson. To Bibi, I said, I’m heading to the office now.

Perfect. I’ll see you shortly. And with that, she ended the call as I walked toward the exit. 

My heels clicked against the concrete steps and echoed in the empty stairwell. My mind whirled a mile a minute as I went over my mental checklist of things I needed to do after speaking with my grandmother.

And then I revisited a different mental checklist as I prepared for the presentation she didn’t know about. 

I stopped at my office first and jotted a few items in the notebook I kept on my desk. The pink pages with floral edging happily accepted my new list of things I needed to accomplish prior to leaving for the day.

Okay, it’s now or never, I told myself as I tucked my portfolio under my arm.

Bibi’s office door was open when I arrived. Judy, her assistant, glanced up from her computer. Hi, Nala. She’s ready for you.

Thanks, Judy. Oh, in case I don’t have a chance to tell you before you leave, give Owen my congratulations on his kindergarten graduation tonight. 

She smiled warmly. I’ll be sure to tell him that.

I lifted my chin, and with a slow cleansing exhale, I cleared my brain of everything not related to the presentation I was about to make.

I’ve got this.

It wasn’t like I was a woman who was new to the industry, hoping for a chance to prove herself. I’d been creating dresses since I was seven years old, when my parents gave me a toy sewing machine. From the first moment I put needle to fabric, I’d experienced the exhilaration of creating something with my own hands. 

Sure, the sewing machine hadn’t been all that great. The stitches unraveled faster than a pelican took flight if I was unlucky. They lasted a little longer if good fortune was shining on me.

But that hadn’t stopped me from sewing dresses for all my dolls and stuffed animals. 

A month later, Bibi gave me my first real sewing machine—and there was no stopping me after that.

I stepped into her office.

She was standing by the high-rise window overlooking the bay, her attention on the contents of the portfolio resting on her forearm. The late afternoon sun lit her face, softening the deep lines I knew so well.

Hi, Bibi. I walked over to her and kissed her vanilla-and-lavender-scented cheek. Her skin was a shade darker than my golden-bronze tone, and her hair under her hunter-green turban was short and gray. Other than that, we shared a number of the same features, especially our brown eyes.

She closed the leather portfolio before I had a chance to see what she’d been looking at. Hello, Honeybee. How was your little outing?

It was great. Sarina and Amelia asked me to say hi to you.

Bibi smiled warmly at their names. Then the corners of her mouth tilted down, furrows forming between her brows. I still can’t believe that little girl’s father wanted nothing to do with her because she was born with spina bifida.

Bibi frequently said that, though it never changed anything. And I doubted it would’ve made a difference even if Sarina hadn’t been born with the spinal defect. He hadn’t been interested in being a father, period.

Where was he now?

In an urn on his grandmother’s mantel. Amelia had long since moved on, doing her best to give Sarina all the love and support a single mother could.

You said you wanted to discuss something with me. Bibi stepped away from the window and set the closed portfolio on the corner of her neatly organized desk.

Yes. I would like to create a line of dresses for girls. They would be classic, fairy-tale-style dresses for girls of all ages, up to and including teenagers, and would still keep with the company’s vision.

There are several companies who already do that. We’ve always focused on women in their late twenties and older. It doesn’t make sense to diversify beyond that.

"I know, but these dresses aren’t your typical dresses. They’re designed specifically for girls with certain physical disabilities, and for girls who experience difficulty with their fine motor control, such as fastening buttons. They’ll be easier to put on and do up. They won’t irritate those individuals who are sensitive to something as simple as the way a label or seam might rub against their skin. They’ll accommodate whatever aid the girl needs to be mobile, whether that be leg braces, crutches, or a wheelchair. And they’ll make the girl feel like a princess—someone who doesn’t have to settle for less.

She can go to birthday parties or the prom or to the theatre with her family, and she’ll know that she looks as beautiful as her non-disabled counterpart. I presented Bibi with my design portfolio. 

She leafed through the pages, stopping long enough to study the sketches and to read the features of each dress. 

They’re gorgeous designs, Nala, which comes as no surprise. But we’re dealing with such a niche market, it wouldn’t be viable.

Was that news to me?

Not at all.

It was precisely what the banks had told me when I approached them. While some were impressed with my background—a degree in fashion design and an MFA in Fashion Marketing & Brand Management, both from the San Francisco Academy of Art—all had said the same thing: go talk to my grandmother.

She was my only hope.

I understand the line won’t bring in a lot of money. And we wouldn’t produce the number of dresses we normally do with our other lines. That means the dresses would only be available online.

I had given the last point a lot of thought. As great as it would’ve been to have them available in select shops, it wasn’t feasible. Most stores wouldn’t be interested in carrying them because it was such a niche market.

Bibi continued flipping through the pages, reading my business and marketing plans. 

The sinking sensation in my gut?

Definitely not a good sign. 

After the minutes stretched into what felt like a lifetime, she handed the portfolio back to me. I really don’t think it will work. However—she drew the word out with her dramatic flair, giving me a tiny ray of hope—I will consider giving it a trial run on one condition.

Anything. I said it a little too hastily, but this line of dresses had been a dream of mine for the past two years.

Bibi opened the lower drawer of the desk, riffled through the files, and removed a folded piece of paper. She passed it to me. Do you recognize this?

I opened the page and could’ve sworn my eyes widened to rival an owl’s. Where did you get this? My gaze rescanned the bucket list I’d written in college. 

Or rather, a black-and-white photocopy of the list. The original version had color illustrations sketched in the side margins.

You have my permission to create the line of dresses, with you as the head designer. We can see what happens and evaluate in a year or two to decide if it will remain part of the company’s portfolio.

I was about to fling my arms around her and tell her a million thank-yous—but she beat me to the punchline.

However. The word punctured the air like a honey-covered bullet. Before I grant you permission, you need to complete everything on that list. She nodded at the piece of paper in my hands. And you’ve got three months to do it.

I stared at her, unblinking, positive I’d misheard her. 

Bibi wasn’t the kind of woman who made jokes, but maybe that was part of her early New Year’s resolution. Her very early New Year’s resolution, given it was six months and six days until the new year.

So, I did what anyone would do in this situation—I laughed.

Only Bibi didn’t laugh with me.

All right—let’s step back for a second and discuss my bucket list.

Did it contain death-defying feats such as skydiving? 

Thank the Lord, no.

Item #1: Ride a horse (a real one, not a carousel horse).

Item #2: Go on a hayride.

So far it didn’t sound too tough, right?

And it wasn’t…if you didn’t count the part where I didn’t know anyone who owned a horse.

But it got better.

Or worse, depending on your perspective.

Item #3: Learn to make a beautiful cake (like a wedding cake).

Why did I put the previous point on the list? I had no idea. It might’ve been because one of my college roommates had been newly engaged, and we’d been flipping through her wedding magazines, discussing our dream weddings.

That was before the fiasco with the man who would later be my fiancé…and then ex-fiancé. 

Item #4: Kiss in front of the Eiffel Tower. 

A little problematic given I didn’t have any plans to fly to Paris anytime within the next three months.

Item #5: A date with a hot hockey player.

Yep, no idea why that had made the list either. I hadn’t known any hockey players at the time (and still didn’t). And it wasn’t as though the San Francisco Academy of Art had a collegiate hockey team.

But my friends had been hockey fans, and I guess the vodka coolers we’d been drinking had given me all kinds of ideas. 

Hence item #6: Find a husband.

My gaze shifted from the list in my hand to my grandmother’s smiling face—a smiling face with satisfaction clearly painted on it.

And just so you know, she said, he can’t be a fake husband. So no pretending you got married. It has to be true love.

I hadn’t thought my grandmother was going senile, but now I was having second thoughts. You really expect me to fall in love and get married in less than three months?

Absolutely not. To fall in love requires you actually getting out and meeting men. Since you spend most of your time either here or in your apartment making dresses, I can guarantee there are no men in your life right now.

I inwardly huffed at that.

2

Eli

Hey, Sunshine, I said to the little blonde girl with braces on her lower legs. Her real name was Sarina, but she reminded me of a ray of sunshine, hence my nickname for her.

I fist-bumped her, and she beamed at me. Hi, Eli. 

My favorite thing about being an NHL player?

I mean, other than the part where my team, the Rock, was doing great when it came to this year’s Stanley Cup playoffs. We were currently in the Western Conference finals against the Calgary Flames. The winning team of that series would earn the Campbell Bowl and would be headed to the final series. 

But despite our focus being on that for the next couple of weeks, four of us were at the children’s hospital to play wheelchair hockey with a group of kids—one of my other favorite things about playing in the NHL. And if the smiling faces were any indication, the kids appreciated us being here.

How are you doing?

Her smile grew wider. My auntie Nala made me a pretty dress that she said makes me look like a princess, and I’m going to wear it at my uncle Chris’s wedding. I’m going to be a flower girl. The words rushed from her faster than a player skating down the ice during a power play after stealing the puck from the opposition—and the player’s team was the one in the penalty box.

I kneeled in front of her. That sounds really nice. Your auntie Nala sounds like a wonderful person.

Oh, she is. She’s Mommy’s best friend, and she’s really nice and makes pretty dresses.

All right, everyone, Glenda, the recreational therapist, said, preventing us from talking further. Are you ready to play a game of hockey?

The kids cheered. 

With their parents’ assistance, those who didn’t usually require a wheelchair climbed into the kid-sized sports wheelchairs waiting on the sidelines. While the kids were getting ready, my teammates and I planted our asses in the hospital-grade wheelchairs that weren’t designed for competitive sports. 

Glenda assigned Logan Mathews, Grant Weiland, Kai Korhonen, and myself to the two teams…and the game began.

I’m a talented hockey player. I wouldn’t be in the NHL if that weren’t the case.

But when it came to playing wheelchair hockey?

The innate talent that came alive when I stepped on the ice abandoned me the moment I sat in a wheelchair.

Fortunately for my wheelchair hockey team, they didn’t need my skills to win the game. We won by a narrow margin of 6-5. 

Way to go, Bears, I said to the six kids on the team with Logan and me. 

We high-fived them and signed the Rock T-shirts we’d brought with us.

What do we say to Eli, Logan, Grant, and Kai? Glenda asked the kids once the four of us had finished chatting with them and signing the memorabilia.

Thank you! Good luck in the playoffs! they all yelled at relatively the same time, causing us to chuckle at their enthusiasm. 

As I walked toward my truck, located in the outdoor visitor parking lot, my phone rang. I removed it from my pocket and checked the screen.

Oh, shit.

Already suspecting her reason for calling me, I deliberated the wisdom of answering. But then I realized it was easier to rip off the Band-Aid and hope for the best. Hey, Mom.

Hi, Sweetheart. I’ve got some great news for you.

What news is that? Oh, good. She wasn’t calling to see if I had a date for my cousin’s wedding. For the past three months, she and my two aunts had been sending me photos and information about potential dates.

Aunt Lana, who lived in San Jose, had been pushing a little harder than the other two because her selection of women lived in the same state as me. There was—in her mind as well as my mother’s—a better chance of me falling for one of them and getting married someday soon.

Sharon McNair is going to be your date for the wedding. There was as much conviction in Mom’s voice as a nun saying her Hail Marys.

I released a long hard sigh. I don’t need a date for Hazel’s wedding. Especially not Sharon McNair. I can go solo.

You’ll really like her. Aunt May said she’s smart and sweet.

Meet my mother. I swear that she believed her purpose in life was to find soul mates for single people. Forget online dating and the algorithms that claimed to find your ideal match; Mom believed her intuition was sharper than all those programs combined.

Case in point, her history of success stories.

All five matchups had gone on to be married.

My cousin Hazel was the latest to join the list.

And since Mom was hoping I’d provide her with additional grandchildren soon, she was determined to find me a girlfriend even though I didn’t want one.

Why do I need a date for the wedding? I asked, approaching it from a different angle. 

Sweetie, you’re twenty-nine years old. It’s time you find a nice woman to settle down with.

You make it sound like I’m ready to trade my skates for a rocking chair on the porch. I can guarantee I’ve still got plenty of years left in me before that’s the case. I could easily imagine her rolling her eyes, and I inwardly chuckled.

I get it that you’re gun-shy after your ex-fiancée got pregnant and claimed you were the father, she said with a sigh in her tone. But that shouldn’t keep you from finding someone else. 

Way to go, Mom, on dragging me down that old road again.

Your ex was a ninny, Mom powered on as though standing in a courtroom, playing the role of prosecutor. They aren’t all like that. There are plenty of nice fish in the sea. And I promise you, Sharon is one of them.

Ha! That was where Mom was wrong. 

How did I know Sharon?

She and I had been in school together. Until I moved away to play on a junior hockey team, she’d been crushing on me, her binders covered with Sharon + Eli = True Love Forever.

And if that weren’t enough, she’d followed me everywhere and giggled hysterically whenever I’d glanced in her direction.

The last time I was in Copper Creek, she’d cornered me and told me that over two hundred years ago, a woman’s reputation would be ruined for something as simple as being alone with a man without a chaperone.

To save her reputation, the pair would have to wed.

I couldn’t get away from her fast enough after that.

When I was a kid, one of my cousins had an ant farm. I used to love watching the ants at work, building new tunnels, creating a new world. I thought they were lucky because they didn’t have to read or go