25. Chapter 25
Chapter 25
Marcy
“Ow!” I winced from the poke of a straight pin. This tailor sure lacked a certain finesse that should be required for dress fittings.
A gentle gasp released across the room. Mamá looked up from her phone as I faced her. “You’re beautiful .”
The family wedding dress fit me frustratingly well. I’d agreed to the fitting since I needed to make a move on my inheritance money. This was a butter-up appointment to grease those account-unlocking hinges.
Nonna Russo dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “Just lovely.”
The dress was…fine. Perfect for a stage play. High-necked and lacy in ivory that looked vintage in a way that was not my kind of vintage. I looked like the lady in the 1980s movie set on Mackinac Island, where the dude goes back in time. The women in my family were obsessed with that movie so we often watched it at Christmas.
My own feelings aside, this dress was important to my family. And I wanted their money.
Okay, I was a horrible person. Truly. Here I stood, in ancient bridal glory, getting their hopes up for a wedding that wouldn’t happen, all so I could cash in behind their backs.
“If only Janine could have been here,” Mamá said in between photo snaps. “Maybe she can make the photo session. We’ll have to check with her on her schedule.”
Another poke came at my side, courtesy of the shop owner. I tried to ignore the sting. “Patrick’s mom? She doesn’t need to be here for this.”
My nonna clucked her tongue. “You’re her future daughter-in-law. Your gown fitting is a big moment.”
“But it’s not my real gown. It’s for you and your photo albums.”
Mamá stood to examine the fit. “One day you’ll show your daughter those photos and you’ll be glad you took this time.”
The cringe hit hard. There she went again, not only assuming I’d have a kid, but that I’d have a daughter. Little checkboxes dotted my vision. I envisioned setting them aflame.
Bracing against more pin pokes, my traitorous mind showed me an imagined vision of a little girl with Patrick’s fair skin and light hair. A little boy with dark wild curls and light olive skin like mine.
My breathing escalated.
“What? Too tight?” Mamá tapped the tailor’s shoulder. “Don’t pull too tight. She can’t breathe.”
The problem was too much breathing. I couldn’t stop these short, quick breaths. “I think I’m done. I need this dress off.”
“Careful, careful.” Mamá turned me to unfasten the zillion small buttons along the back. “Thank you, Anne. You do good work. My girl is a little worked up today.”
My cheeks lit with shame. If this fitting was for a real wedding, I wouldn’t be so combative. I wouldn’t be freaking out about a forever with my future husband and our potential future kids. Did Patrick want kids? I wasn’t sure we’d ever discussed it.
We were dating now. This was halfway to real, anyway. One day we’d face these questions, and that day seemed awfully close now that a piece of family history fit me to perfection.
After the fitting, we headed to lunch. An amazing idea now that I could breathe again. A nearby restaurant advertising farm-to-table, locally sourced food fit the bill.
We settled into a booth as the server brought a bread basket. I nearly fainted after the first bite.
“Who does your bread?” I had to ask.
The young server dude swept aside shaggy bangs. “Oh, uh, some bakery.”
How informative. Then again, this guy looked like his proudest accomplishment to date was clearing a sick jump with his dirt bike. “Is it a local bakery?”
He shrugged. “They aren’t from frozen or anything. That’s not our vibe.”
As he took our drink orders, I formed a new goal: ask an adult employed here the name of said bakery. Just how local were we talking? Would they be my direct competition?
“You and your obsession with bread.” Mamá shook her head, seated across from me. “At least one of you got the baking gene. It skipped my generation.”
“Perhaps it’s that cake shop you spoke with at the bridal expo.” Nonna rubbed hand sanitizer between her hands.
Tread carefully. “She only does cakes.”
“Oh, I see. You two were friendly. I assumed you had a shared interest.”
I kept my voice light. “Nope. Just wedding cakes.” Because I had an interest in wedding cakes. Yup. Lots of interest. I grabbed a menu.
“Janine will want to know when you have a cake tasting,” Mamá said.
“Sure. I’ll let her know.” The short ribs sounded fantastic. And I wanted more of this bread.
“And your dress fitting—the real one.” She threw me a teasing smile over her own menu.
My mind caught on to a pattern. “You sure have been mentioning Patrick’s mom a lot. And yes, I realize she is my future mother-in-law. Do you wish she was more involved or something? I mean, it’s early. Really early. There’s plenty of time.” Plen -ty of time to cancel or stall. Maybe a few years even.
“I hope she comes around,” Nonna said. “She’s been a bit distant. I suppose she’s always been that way. The lunch girls and I ran into her when we did our downtown Detroit day—a matinee performance and lunch.”
“At the casino?” Mamá scoffed.
“It’s a lovely venue. And if you’re asking, yes, we played slots for about twenty minutes.” She knew Mamá got judgy about gambling and clearly didn’t care. “I got the sense Janine was hesitant to speak with me. I tried not to be pushy about the wedding.”
I snickered. “There’s a first.”
Nonna tsk ed.
“What? You literally scheduled one of Patrick’s campaign events for him. When he has his own campaign team. Since when is being pushy suddenly a problem?”
“Marcy, don’t be rude.” Mamá shot a weak-beamed glare at me. A first offense glare. “That bridal expo was a huge success. Have you looked at Patrick’s campaign account on Instagram? He has more followers than Matteo now.”
I had no idea how many Instagram followers Matteo had. Of all the things my brain needed storage for, that stat didn’t make the cut. Come to think of it, I hadn’t even looked at Patrick’s campaign Instagram since his upgraded media team had taken over.
I grabbed my phone and went directly to the account, filtering out the conversation at the table .
Holy carp. Patrick’s campaign did have a lot of followers. My mouth fell open as I scanned. These photos were incredible. Each shot made Patrick look gorgeous or successful, or some combo of the two. Some shots offered an artistic flair, which I did not think possible for a politician’s account. A shot of Patrick on stage at the county fair had a sepia tone filter applied, giving a soft, almost yesteryear vibe. The photos posted before and after featured still life shots of his campaign swag in artful arrangements.
And then there were the photos of us. Posed shots from the fundraisers and a few candids. In one, I looked up lovingly as Patrick appeared to be readying to kiss my hand.
My stomach somersaulted. My Patrick. He looked so freaking good. I couldn’t believe I’d been in denial for so long. My neck broke into a sweat.
Wow, all that from looking at a photo.
I took a screenshot of the pic for myself. We looked in love. Believably in love. If that’s what people saw when they looked at Patrick’s life, then our plan, it was working.
We were working. Though we hadn’t said the words outright yet, I knew without a doubt I loved Patrick. I believed he loved me too.
The thought didn’t even scare me. I loved Patrick. I loved him!
I pressed my lips together. Mamá and Nonna were oblivious to my epiphany. They were talking about some TV game show getting a new host.
I scanned the comments, mostly congratulations on the engagement or similar. Except for one. Convenient timing.
The commenter’s profile led to a private account, so no visible posts. The profile image showed a photo of a pine tree. The username, a vague Mark with a string of numbers behind it. A spam account? Why did a tree-themed spam account have opinions about our engagement ?
It didn’t matter who the commentor was. They saw through us. And besides, even if Patrick and I we were moving toward a real engagement we weren’t actually engaged. This was public-facing media. And we were lying.
We’d agreed to this arrangement knowing deceit was part of the plan, but I didn’t like the reality of it. Then again, Patrick’s team came up with the idea themselves, so we were simply following orders.
Is what I told myself.
It took me until we finished placing food orders to work up the nerve to ask the question most pressing on my mind. The reason I’d agreed to the dress fitting. Patrick had suggested we talk to my family together about the money, but I needed to do this on my own. Or at least lay a base. Get the convo started. Now or never.
“So, uh, I wanted to ask about…” I prepared for a final warning glare from Mamá. “The inheritance money.”
The chastising landed immediately. “So rude. I asked you not to bring this up again.”
Nonna flitted a hand in the air. “It’s okay, we can talk about it.”
Did I dare look at her? I better dare if I wanted her to listen. Here we go. “Thanks. I understand the timing seems a bit…suspect, and we haven’t set a wedding date yet, but I was hoping that maybe you’d possibly consider…releasing the money.” I swallowed. “Now. Or soon! Like, sort of soon.”
Mamá muttered about me being spoiled and rude, but Nonna simply nodded slowly. “I imagine you have all sorts of plans running through your head. Probably expensive ones.”
Boy, did I. She assumed houses. Or a new car, like a crossover or a hatchback for a potentially growing family. I meant a storefront and a commercial kitchen. “Yes, exactly that. There’s so much to do and plan for. I’m thinking ten steps ahead.” And so what if I was a scaredy cat and couldn’t tell her what I wanted the money for? She’d already told me once the money was mine, I determined what it would be spent on.
Nonna opened the calendar app on her phone. “I’ll call my attorney about the trust. I’m setting a reminder.”
My heart climbed up my throat. “R…really?”
Was it that easy? Well, easy being we’d orchestrated a fake engagement topped off with weeks of deceit.
“What do you need this money for?” Mamá asked, exasperated. “You can’t be looking at a house yet. It’s expensive to break an apartment lease. And besides, you’ve barely said a word about what you want for your wedding and now you’re off onto some other unknown expense. Are you thinking—you’re not thinking a destination wedding .”
An offense possibly worse than the courthouse, the way she made it sound. “No. No destination wedding.” Sweat made its way down my back. I needed a bone to throw. Quick. “It’s, well, I saw how expensive weddings can get at the expo, so I figured it could be helpful to have that money now. You’ve all done so much already.”
Nonna laid a hand over mine on the table. “You’re ready to move ahead, I understand. I never doubted you and Patrick. It’s been a long time coming. I’m thrilled you two figured things out and are moving toward your next stage.”
My eyes watered. I ignored Mamá’s continued muttering and squeezed Nonna’s hand. Patrick and I, we really were moving toward our next stage. We’d committed to each other, just a step or two behind what everyone else knew. But we actually could get married.
And maybe it wouldn’t be all that far off.
“I’ll call my attorney tomorrow.” Nonna squeezed my hand back.
I hadn’t felt this happy in ages. I was getting my money.