Arlene James - The Perfect Wedding

Layne had plenty of time to think and pray before Friday, and yet, by the time that last appointment of the day drew near, she was painfully conscious of a fluttering in her stomach. It was not unlike the moment when all her efforts seemed to culminate: the church was filled, the music ceased, the mother of the bride and both of the groom’s parents were seated, the wedding party in all its finery poised on the brink of movement, and then began the processional. Step, pause, step. Step, pause, step. Maids in beautiful dresses, their faces composed with serenity and joy, moved down the aisle on the arms of tuxedoed young men, grave and solicitous. Then came “Here Comes the Bride,” those first familiar notes ringing out with the authority of trumpet blows, and the crowd rose expectantly to its feet. Poised in the doorway was the bride in all her elegant finery, clutching the arm of a nervous father. She was always extraordinarily beautiful, and it never failed to thrill Layne that all the old pundits were right. The groom took one look and his chest swelled with pride, his eyes sparkled, and a smile touched his lips.

This was love, sacred and ordained, the very height of it, when commitment was made and reveled in. Everything after that moment was anticlimactic to Layne, though she knew it was not so for the couple involved. For them, the pageant had only begun, while her part in it was all but finished. Sometimes she wondered if she didn’t stay in this business just for the satisfaction of that one moment when she recognized love reflected in the eyes of the groom as he saw his bride as the most beautiful creature on earth. Just once she wanted a groom’s eyes on her.

It was the foolish thought of a natural-born romantic, and she thrust it away as soon as it formed, but it came flooding back to her when she heard chimes and turned to find Rod Corley staring at her, an appreciative gleam in the dusky blue depths of his eyes. Immediately, the butterflies in her stomach took flight, shivering throughout her body, and she was immensely grateful that she had dressed that morning with particular care. She rejected the impulse to smooth the deep coral bouclé knit of her slim skirt and tug at the ribbed hem of the soft matching sweater. Instead, confident that the color of the suit picked up the auburn highlights in her nut brown hair while its soft, slender shape made the most of her figure, she brought her hands together and smiled.

Heather was riding high in the crook of his arm, one chubby fist grasping his ear. Sammy and Dedrah stood at his back. The off-white sweater he wore with his jeans and boots made his hair seem darker by contrast and more of a single color. His hat was in his free hand.

“Hello.”

Just the sound of his voice warmed her almost uncomfortably, and she had the odd sensation that she was swaying dizzily; yet her mind was clear, her senses sharp. She let her eyes meet his and made her smile briefly personal. “Hello.”

“Hope you don’t mind that we brought Heather along again, but I thought it important that we all be here, and Dedrah’s mother had a doctor’s appointment. We don’t much like to leave her with anyone else. She’s used to her grandma.”

We? She wondered if he realized how much he revealed about his feelings for that child. “No, I don’t mind at all.”

“I didn’t think you would. Besides, she’s no trouble.” He turned his attention to the baby. “You’re no trouble, are you, sweetcakes?”

In reply, the little one put her arms about his head and squeezed, planting a sloppy kiss on his forehead. Everyone laughed, and Heather gave them a drooling smile, then suddenly began climbing over Rod’s shoulder to reach for her father. Sammy swung her down and settled her on his hip, while Dedrah chased the drools back up her little chin with a tissue.

“No!” Heather said, throwing back her head. “No…no.”

“Yes,” Dedrah reprimanded quietly, wiping her chin dry.

Rebelliously, Heather lunged for “Uncle,” catching her tiny hands in his sweater. Calmly, he turned and took her up again, saying, “Are you trying to make a liar out of me, shorty?” With perfect comic timing, she nodded emphatically, and everyone laughed again. “Well, you’re succeeding,” Rod told her, the very picture of patience.

Layne decided it was time to get everyone settled. She lifted an arm invitingly. “I have coffee and soft drinks in the other room, and I think I can find a can of fruit juice for the munchkin.”

“That’s all right,” Dedrah said, extracting a bottle from her purse. “We came prepared.”

Heather promptly snatched the bottle from her mother’s hand and popped the nipple in her mouth. Rod rocked her back in his arm, cuddling her against him, and she crossed one little ankle over the other little knee, looking for all the world as if she were kicking back on a chaise longue. Amazing, the way he handled her. Layne started toward the consultation area, and Rod fell in at her side, the others following.

“I’ll get another chair,” she said, skirting the table and heading toward the workroom.

“Let me help,” he insisted, tossing his hat onto the table, and though she opened her mouth to tell him not to bother, she found herself smiling instead of talking. Heather in tow, he followed her down the corridor to that place where she felt most at home, the workroom, the creative heart of her whole operation. It was here that every young woman’s dream gown was “sculpted” to fit her personal form or, better yet, designed and sewn especially for her, a true one-of-a-kind garment.

Layne knew all too well that she was very small potatoes indeed compared to the world-famous couturiers of New York, London or Rome, but she still took pride in her designs and special adaptations. Ethics forbade her “knocking off” another’s dress, but she had found over the years that she could take a basic pattern or a significant feature and build a garment around it that was both unique and pleasing to the client. It was very satisfying to see the joy in the eyes of a happy bride when her own special wedding gown met her hopeful expectations. There were disappointments, of course, such as clients who couldn’t be pleased or didn’t know their own minds, but one of the other kind was worth two such as these, and so Layne considered herself blessed to be doing what she did. Some of that pride must have communicated itself to Rod, for he took one look around the room when they got there and lifted his free hand to the back of his neck.

“Wow. I didn’t know. I mean, I thought you only sold dresses and bows and stuff.” He walked over to a fitting double and looked at the unfinished dress pinned to the carefully measured contours of the adjustable mannequin. “You start from scratch, don’t you?”

“Sometimes.”

“What do you begin with? A bolt of material and…”

“An idea,” she said. “It always starts with an idea.” She went to the drawing table and carefully peeled up a large sheet of paper.

Rod joined her, holding Heather to one side so that her tiny feet had no opportunity to kick at the drawing, and peered down over Layne’s shoulder to study the detailed rendition of an elaborate gown of medieval design. She heard the slow intake of his breath and the low whistle that followed it. He turned his head to look again at the mannequin. “Is that this?”

“No. We haven’t cut this one yet. That dress goes with the drawing pinned to the bulletin board over there.”

He strolled over to take a look, capturing Heather’s little hand in time to prevent her ripping down a bright pink invoice of some sort. He studied the drawing that hung beside it, then backed away, shaking his head. “You’re a woman of extraordinary talents, Layne,” he said, turning a look of more than mere approval upon her.