Sheila Roberts - Starting Over On Blackberry Lane

“I was hoping we could move the party to Cass’s place,” Stef said, “but her ceiling fell in.” She nodded at the apricot torte. “You’d better have a bite of that or her feelings will be hurt.”

Griffin had a bite of a gingerbread boy every week for the same reason when she met Stef on her day off for coffee. Stef always finished her cookie for her. Stef had to be a witch, because she somehow magically sucked the calories out of stuff before she ate it.

“You got that right,” said Cass, who’d joined them.

Griffin cut a sliver and put it on her plate. “Your ceiling fell in?”

“Roof troubles,” Cass said with a sigh. “Thank God Charley loaned me her man for the day. He’s over there fixing the mess while I bury my sorrows in carbs.” She shook her head. “I dug my table out from under all the gook that was on it. Thank God I had a pad covering it, or the whole thing would’ve been toast.”

Stacy Thomas drifted out to the kitchen. “This is fun,” she said to Stef. “I love showers.”

“We should’ve had it at your house,” Stef said, frowning at the misplaced drapes.

“You should’ve said something. I would have. But really, Stef, nobody minds. We just all like being together.” Stacy took another piece of the apricot torte. “This is addictive,” she said to Cass.

It was good. Griffin had one bite and set the rest aside.

“You’re killing me here,” Cass said. “Do you rent out willpower?” She cut a piece from the other end of Griffin’s ignored torte and popped it in her mouth. “Never mind. Willpower is overrated.”

The doorbell rang, and Stef hurried to let in another guest.

Griffin and the other two women returned to the living room, which was packed with guests and extra folding chairs. Muriel Sterling-Wittman, the town’s local celebrity, was entering the room now. She wrote as Muriel Sterling and all her books were prominently displayed in the bookstore window. One of these days Griffin was going to buy one.

Talk turned yet again to the remodel in progress. “Men,” Dot Morrison groaned. “If Duncan had done this to me, I’d have beaned him.”

Dot’s husband had died early. One of the cattier residents of Icicle Falls once joked that he did so to get away from Dot. No one who knew Dot well paid attention to that. She was feisty and a bit of a smart-mouth, but she also had a big heart.

“I was ready to, believe me,” said Stef. “Why does he do this? Why can’t he finish anything?”

“I’m guessing it’s his one besetting sin,” Muriel said softly. “Every man has something that makes him human. Just like we do.”

“Didn’t you say I was perfect?” Samantha joked.

“All my daughters are close to it,” Muriel replied with a smile. Her daughters, Samantha, Cecily and Bailey, like their mother, were the uncrowned royalty of Icicle Falls. The family owned Sweet Dreams Chocolate Company. Often referred to as Sweet Dreams Chocolates or simply Sweet Dreams, it was the town’s source of both employment and chocolate.

“The problem,” Muriel continued, “is that when we consider our men’s flaws, we always think we’ll be able to fix them.”

“But what you see is what you get,” Dot added.

Griffin couldn’t help recalling what she’d seen before she left the house. Was that what she wanted to get? Okay, he wasn’t all that bad. He was nice, fun-loving.

Lazy, inattentive.

“Well, I liked what I saw and I’m glad I got him,” Bailey said with a decisive nod.

“Me, too,” seconded her sister Cecily.

“Me three,” Samantha chimed in.

“I’m keeping mine,” said Dot Morrison’s daughter, Tilda, the cop.

Stacy laughed. “You’re too newly married to get tired of him.”

Was Griffin tired of Steve? Was that the problem? And they weren’t even married yet.

“Okay, it’s time for a game,” Stef announced and pulled out sheets of scrambled words for everyone to puzzle out. “These are all things you find at a wedding. I’ll give you two minutes.”

Griffin found it hard to concentrate on the game. She kept mulling over what Muriel had said. The mulling didn’t end with the game. It continued as she opened presents and Stef put together her “practice wedding bouquet,” an arrangement of ribbons and bows mounted on a paper plate.

“A baby for every ribbon you break, kid,” Dot teased as Griffin tore a ribbon on a box from Stacy.

How many little Steves did she want, anyway?

She opened the box to find a lovely illustrated wedding memories scrapbook that offered her opportunities to record how he popped the question (“Hey, babe, I’m getting a raise. Let’s get hitched.”) to where they were honeymooning (they still hadn’t decided—he wanted to hang out in Seattle, she wanted Hawaii).

“What a lovely way to store all those happy memories,” said Muriel.

Happy memories, happy times—fake happy smile. What was wrong with her? This was her bridal shower, for crying out loud. She and Steve were finally getting married. She should be having fun. She should be ecstatic.

With the presents opened and the loot piled up by her chair, the women agreed it was time for more punch. As they moved back to the kitchen, Griffin found herself next to Muriel.

“Do you know where you’re going on your honeymoon?” Muriel asked. “Or is Steve surprising you?”

“We haven’t decided,” Griffin said.

Muriel nodded as if it was completely normal for people not to know where they were honeymooning in two months.

Griffin gnawed on her lip. Should she fess up here, at her bridal shower, that she was having second thoughts? At least if she did, then everyone could take their gifts back home with them. She wished her mom and grandma had been able to come. Mom had the flu, and Gram wouldn’t drive all the way up from Lake Oswego by herself. If Mom was here...

“Is everything okay?” Muriel asked gently.

Griffin found herself shaking her head. “How did you know your husband was the right one?”

“I had two husbands, and each time I knew.”

“But how?”

“By looking at him and seeing us together in the future and feeling happy about it. Each time I could hardly wait to start our new life together.”

There was the problem. Griffin could wait. They’d already started their new life and she wasn’t all that happy. “I don’t feel that way. I think I want...more.” Once upon a time, when they were younger, Steve had been enough. But now... What did she want? What was she holding out for, anyway? There was no Mr. Darcy. There was no mysterious, passionate Mr. Rochester. There was no Rhett Butler. Most men were Steves.

Except you wouldn’t think so to listen to the Sterling sisters. Or Tilda the cop, who’d let Griffin off with a warning a few months back when she slid through a stop sign; Tilda had said married life was making her mellow. Even Stef, although she complained about Brad’s unfinished projects, seemed pretty content with her life.

“Then perhaps you should hold out for more,” Muriel said. “There’s no shame in changing your mind.”

“At your bridal shower?”

“At any time before the big day.”

Griffin nodded, taking that in. “Thanks, Mrs. Wittman.”

She returned to the punch bowl for a refill and tried to assess her situation. She still loved Steve—at least she thought she did—but somehow it was no longer a big love. Was it a good idea to get married when your love had shrunk? Probably not.

She took a sip of punch and tried to screw up her courage to expose her cold feet. Around her everyone was chatting and laughing. The only one not having fun at her bridal shower was her. If that wasn’t a sign, what was?

The party was about to break up when Griffin stopped everyone in their tracks. “Thank you all so much for doing this for me. But...” Oh, boy, this was so embarrassing. Some of these women she still didn’t know all that well. She felt like a fool.