Chapter 12
I don’t see why this is such a big deal. Can’t the restaurant accommodate her? It’s beef Wellington she’s asking for, not sautéed moon rocks.” Rian is stretched out on the sofa in his posh flat, an arm slung over his eyes.
Rather than seated next to him, I’m in the plush blue armchair Orla chose to complement the sofa’s sleek cordovan leather.
The carryout—shrimp in my Créole sauce—that I brought home from my shift at Baile Phadraig is moldering on his coffee table, but not because we’re absorbed in each other.
Orla has, despite not even being present, managed to sour our evening.
I try, without complete success, to keep my tone measured. “Rian, we have catering menus for a reason. The rules apply to me too. Padraig didn’t go off book for his own daughter’s wedding dinner last year.”
Rian rolls his eyes. “I really don’t want to be in the middle of this.”
A low growl dies in my throat. “I don’t either. You should have warned me this was coming, and you could have very easily headed all this off at the pass by suggesting she hold the damn thing elsewhere.”
He removes his arm from over his eyes and angles his head to give me a wary glare. “So this is my fault?”
“Partly.” Past me would have put the blame squarely on Orla’s shoulders, but that wouldn’t be entirely fair.
Part of Rian’s job is to protect my toes from getting trodden on by Orla and her interference.
“How would you react if my mother barged into your hospital demanding you do a nose job for her?”
His annoyed glare could blister paint. “You know I don’t do that. I’m an internist, not a plastic surgeon.”
I lean closer to him, my voice low. “If pressed, could you do it?”
He sits up and shrugs, taking a bite of the shrimp. “Maybe? It wouldn’t be ideal. She’d get a better result with a specialist.”
I lean back, thread my fingers, and cradle the back of my head. “Wow. It’s almost like you have a set . . . what’s the word . . . a menu of services you’re trained to provide and refer patients to a different doctor if their needs fall out of your bailiwick. Fascinating.”
He gives me an icy stare. “I hardly think it’s the same thing.”
I don’t break my gaze. “The stakes may not be as high, I grant you, but it really is the same. Your reputation is crucial to your job, isn’t it?”
He nods.
“Same for us. If you start performing the odd nose job with mixed results, people might talk. Same for us with off-book catering. If we go beyond our expertise, we can’t guarantee a good result, and our reputation can’t afford it.
Can we be somewhat flexible? Sure. But Orla has to follow the rules the same as anyone else. ”
He slouches against the sofa cushions, looking deflated in both senses of the word. “I guess I see your point, yeah.”
“I hope you do see it.” I could let things go here, but I decide to press one more issue. “Now last question: If my mother barged into your hospital demanding a nose job, would you want to deal with her on your own, or would you want me to help manage her?”
He tries to play it off. “Well, I’ve never met your mother . . .”
It’s clear he wants me to drop it, but I refuse. “Answer the question, Rian.”
He sighs. “Yes. I suppose I’d want your backup.”
Not good enough. I dig my heels in further. “Be honest. You’d want me to handle her so you wouldn’t have to be the bad guy with your mother-in-law.”
“Fair play. I suppose that’s true.” He’s lying limp on the couch, as though all of this has sapped his last bit of energy.
I recognize now that this is a ploy he’s been using to engender my sympathy.
I don’t know if it’s deliberate or if it’s a response that’s been conditioned by his interactions with Orla, but I won’t fall for it.
“Right. Because it’s easier to take heat from a bio parent than an in-law.
And you know you’ll have an easier time getting through to her than I will.
I’m asking you to do this for me, not just for the sake of my job and my professional reputation, but to set the tone for our marriage.
” I remember Fiona’s metaphor. “This won’t work if you aren’t the one drawing the boundary lines.
Orla won’t bother even looking at the map if I’m the one holding it. ”
“Grand. I’ll do my best to reason with her.” His sigh is one of such dramatic intensity, I worry that, brilliant doctor though he is, he missed his true calling on the stage.
“Rian, trying isn’t good enough. Your assignment is a simple one: Tell her she has to either follow Padraig’s catering menu or find somewhere else to host the party.
Either choice is perfectly fine by me. I’ll personally help her tweak our menu to her liking—within limits—or research the right alternate venue if we can’t make our menu work for her.
But you need to present her with those two options and not make me look like the bad guy. ”
He sits forward again and takes a few more bites of food before responding. It isn’t just theater—he’s genuinely tired from a draining day at work, and I wish I didn’t have to rope him in on this, but she’s left me little choice.
“I suppose I must.” His words sound like defeat.
“I’m glad you see reason.” Finally. And he needs the full truth. “My promotion depends on her not intruding at the restaurant. They’ve made that clear.”
His eyes widen. “Really?”
I let out a shaky breath. I probably wouldn’t have been bold enough to tackle this head-on eleven years ago, but I am now.
“Explicitly. She calls the restaurant. She tried to ask Padraig himself to reduce my hours so I can spend more time, I don’t know, taking care of you?
I appreciate all she’s done for you, but I can’t allow her to interfere with my career. Or our marriage, for that matter.”
He rubs his face with his hands. “She thrives on helping people, Sabrina. And that’s exactly what she thinks she’s doing.”
“I get it, Rian. I do. Her heart is in the right place, but she needs interests and hobbies outside of micromanaging your life. And mine. She’d never interfere with your work as she’s tried to do with mine.”
He opens his mouth to object but stops. His decision to censor his comment is a wise one. “Of course. I’ll have a chat with her as soon as I can. Is morning okay? I don’t have to go in until late, and I’ll make more headway with her if I’m not knackered after a shift.”
I start to say, “Sure, that’s great,” but the sound of a key in the lock, followed by footsteps in the hallway, stops me short.
Of course Orla has a key to Rian’s place, even though I don’t yet, and she doesn’t bother to knock. She enters the living room carrying a garment bag and feigns surprise at the sight of me. She knew full well I’d be here.
“Oh, Sabrina, how lovely. I didn’t know you’d be over tonight.” She eyes the takeaway containers with suspicion. Even though I made the food myself, she probably doesn’t consider it a “home-cooked meal.”
“We both have the evening off,” I point out. “We spend those evenings together as a general rule.”
“Oh, yes yes yes. Well . . .” She looks at Rian, then at me. “Just as well you’re here. I think I finally managed to talk some sense into that Fiona woman. The menu is all set. And I have a surprise for you.”
She unzips the garment bag to reveal a long lace gown in a warm shade of candle-glow white. The vintage must be 1940s or ’50s.
“What’s this?” It can’t possibly be what I think it is.
She wouldn’t possibly presume to buy a wedding gown for me without me in attendance.
Asking to go with me to find my own gown would have been impertinent, but she can’t possibly be so far removed from reality that she thinks this is appropriate.
Is this how our wedding planning would have gone if I hadn’t called things off last time?
“Your wedding gown, silly goose. Now I know how much you like thrifted things, so I’ve been scouring all of Dublin’s secondhand shops to find just the right gown. It’s an old Irish design house, Ordaithe. They just don’t make gowns like this anymore.”
I resolve to be diplomatic, though I feel my grip on my filter slipping with each tick of the second hand on Rian’s mantel clock.
Orla approaches me with the gown so I can see it closer.
It is a lovely thing—handcrafted lace over rich duchesse satin.
Impeccable French seams the likes of which no one sees anymore.
But it’s not me. I always envisioned a plain sheath gown, something modern and without fuss.
I’d dreamed of a reception in a modern art gallery, not something traditional in a drafty old stone church hall, which I know in my bones is exactly what she wants.
The dress is also made for a woman a foot shorter with the frame of a hummingbird.
“Orla, it’s very nice, but there is no way this gown will fit me.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, seamstresses can work wonders these days.”
“Um, I don’t think it works that way.” It’s the most measured response I can summon.
This isn’t like medical technology that has made huge advances in lifesaving treatments.
Seamstresses might have a few new tricks up their sleeves, but to my knowledge, none of them involve magic fabric that expands to fit the wearer.
Letting out a quarter inch at the seams might be possible, but that’s nowhere near enough to accommodate my frame.
I doubt even panels would be adequate—even if matching lace could be found.
It is, objectively, a gorgeous gown, but it’s not for me.
Rian shoots me a pleading look. Please indulge her. Please make this work.
But I can’t.
I shake my head. “Orla, I really appreciate the gesture, but seamstresses are bound by the laws of physics. It won’t work. Maybe we can find something together.”
The last words turn to ash in my mouth. I do not want to go wedding dress shopping with this woman, even to make Rian happy.
Given my druthers, I wouldn’t take Robin either.
Maybe Chloe, but most likely I’d prefer to do a round or two on my own before bringing in a small brain trust to break any ties.
“But you have this one, dear. Let’s not be wasteful.” She turns to Rian. “I’ve saved the date at the church and the hall for October. We’ll have Sabrina’s little restaurant do the catering, of course.” She glances back to me with a saccharine smile.
One . . . two . . . three . . . “We don’t cater off-site events—”
“Oh, I’m sure they will for you, dear. If they like you as well as you claim.” The barb in her words isn’t even concealed.
I shoot Rian a death glare, but he remains conspicuously silent.
“Orla, the restaurant doesn’t have the licensing to do off-site catering. Nor the equipment. It’s not possible. Rian and I can handle the planning on our own. We appreciate your help, but we can handle this.”
Orla shoots me a withering look of her own. “There are several months left for them to get all that in order. I’m sure they will. Now, I’ll leave you two to your evening. So much left to plan, you know.”
“Orla—”
But she’s on her way out with a click of the door before I can voice my displeasure.
Rian has the sense not to meet my gaze directly. I point to the door she just exited. “She. Is. Insane. We don’t even have a date . . .”
He flops on the couch once more. “She’s just excited, Sabrina. Cut her some slack.”
I hear my brother Brian’s voice echoing in my ears with those words. “Cut Mom some slack. She’s been through a lot.” Well, so have I. I lost Dad too. We all did.
And Orla may be excited about the wedding, but it’s not hers.
I am the bride, for heaven’s sake. I should have a say in the planning of it.
A say in my own damned dress.
But that isn’t even the worst of it.
“Rian, that loon is going to get me fired. You have to stop her.”
He throws his hands up in despair. “You see how she gets, Sabrina. I’m not sure how I can get through to her. And it’s not like you’ll be working at Baile Phadraig forever.”
“Well, no, but I can’t afford to get a bad rap because of her. I’ll need Padraig as a reference when I move up.”
“You don’t think you’ll want to slow down a bit once we’re married? Once the kids come along?”
I feel the wind deflate from my lungs. “Slow down? Kids?” We always talked about kids—or most likely a child as a distant possibility.
Ten years down the road . . . if ever. Rian has never seemed exceptionally keen on starting a family.
If anything, he rather seems on the cool side of indifferent to children in general.
“Orla isn’t getting any younger. If we want her to help, it may be wise to get a jump on things. And it’s not like you need to work once we’re married.”
I stand there slack-jawed, staring at him. “This isn’t the life we discussed at all.”
He closes the lid of the takeout container and crosses to put it in the fridge, his appetite vanished, same as mine. “You think everything will stay exactly as it is? That getting married is just moving in together and sharing bills and deciding what’s for dinner?”
“Mainly, yes.” I stand rooted to the ground where I was standing when Orla left. “I don’t see why it requires me to change my thoughts about having children or to deprioritize my career. That isn’t what I signed up for and you know it.”
“I thought you’d change your mind when reality hits.
” He shuts the door of the fridge and leans his head against the freezer.
“But you’re right. None of those changes need to happen overnight.
I’ll talk to her about the catering. Your work makes you happy and you should stay with it as long as it does. ”
“How generous of you,” I seethe.
He looks at me with tired eyes. “Don’t be that way, Sabrina. I am serious about wanting to make a beautiful life with you.”
I know he speaks the truth, but for the first time since I hopped backward, I wonder if his version of a happy future and mine look the same.
“I think I need some space, Rian. I’m going home.”
His face falls, but he doesn’t press. “I understand.” He picks up the garment bag Orla left behind and hands it to me. “Take this with you, yeah? It would mean a lot to her if you tried to make it work.”
“Why? It’s not an heirloom or of any special significance. She found it in a thrift shop. Without me.”
He sighs. “It’s just a dress, Sabrina.”
“It’s my wedding dress, Rian.” I’m pretty sure I’ve gone from Nordic ice queen to full Viking warrior princess now. He simply heaves another sigh and thrusts the bag into my hands.
Despite wanting to shove it down his throat, I take the bag and escape down into the cool evening air on the street below before I say words that no cosmic redo can ever erase.