Chapter 27 Wrenley #2
We work in silence for a few minutes. Around us, conversation drifts through the room, and the bridal shower as a whole buzzes with the energy of people working toward a shared goal.
Have you seen the wedding dress yet? Audrey asks.
No, I say. Actually, I missed even seeing the plans.
Be glad, Beryl says. The original plans didn’t factor in that you already found your perfect dress.
She reaches beside her into a large tote bag and pulls out a leather folio.
When she opens it, I’m surprised to see a printed photograph of me in the dress from Anchorage, standing on the pedestal while the consultant fuses with the train behind me.
My smile is so wide it almost doesn’t look like me.
Beryl moves the first photograph and reveals another one, then another.
At some point, Remi must have been snapping pictures from every possible angle, but I don’t remember.
I only remember the feeling of being in this dress.
I’m laughing, smiling, or staring at my reflection with a look of wonder on my face in every photo. I’m genuinely happy.
My breath hitches when I see a photo of Ruger and me standing together on the pedestal.
The dress is still beautiful, but it’s not the first thing I notice.
It’s the way he’s looking at me. Like the rest of the room disappeared.
For a moment, I forget there are other people around us and can think only of that day in Anchorage, of the way my heart stumbled when I caught him watching me, and every moment after that changed the trajectory of our relationship.
I’ve already pulled off all the organza, and the vintage silk beneath is stunning, Beryl says, pulling me from my thoughts.
She taps the first photo. I can use the lace to recreate this mesh panel, and if you’re okay with a shorter train, I think we can make something very close to this.
She pulls out a sketch, and I look between it and the photographs.
There are differences, of course. The bow won’t be there, and the open back will be a full panel, likely to work with the fabric that’s already there and lessen the amount of work.
But the deep V-neckline remains, and the overall silhouette is remarkably similar. I actually like Beryl’s design better.
Beryl, this is… I trace my gaze over the sketch again. God, I don’t even know what to say. This is incredible.
You say that until we get you in it and you realize there are about a million buttons, Audrey says with a laugh.
I shake my head. I don’t care. This is perfect.
As I study the sketch and photographs spread across the table, I’m struck all over again by how generous these women are.
When Beryl first offered me the dress, I felt overwhelmed by the responsibility of it.
The gown carries so much history and meaning, and I wasn’t sure I could give it the ending it deserved, especially when I wasn’t even certain what my own ending would be.
Now that I can picture a life here, I feel up to the task of giving this dress everything it deserves. I feel excited to see this dress come to life and wear it, and by the possibility that this wedding is leading to something real.
I’ll have to get you measured up this week, Beryl says. And then I can get to work on the alterations.
Sounds good, I say.
We tidy off the table of the wedding dress and get back to work on the flowers.
A few hours later, and so much has been done.
The centrepieces line the table, waiting to be boxed up for transportation.
Bundles of faux flowers for the aisle have been sorted, assembled, and labelled so they’ll be easy to tie onto the chairs the night before the wedding.
The bridal bouquet sits carefully wrapped in tissue paper while the maid-of-honour bouquet is already taking shape beside it.
Remi even had time to assign women to decoration duties the night before the wedding.
Everywhere I look, there is evidence of progress, of people working together to turn an idea into something tangible.
By the time Remi and I make it to her truck, I’m tired, and strangely giddy at the same time. I climb into the passenger seat with a smile I can’t seem to shake.
That was great, Remi says as she puts her truck in gear. I love when a plan comes together and is executed perfectly. Gives me a hard-on.
I shake my head. Call Brandt for that one.
She lets out a laugh as she pulls onto the street.
While she drives, I pull my phone from my pocket and start clearing out junk emails. Most of it is the usual collection of spam, newsletters I forgot to unsubscribe from, and advertisements for things I don’t need. I’m halfway through deleting another message when a familiar name catches my eye.
My thumb freezes. For a second, I think it has to be some kind of scam. But when I open the email and look at the address, I nearly gasp with surprise. It’s real.
Tammie Roswell, I mumble.
What? Remi asks.
I don’t answer immediately.
Years ago, Tammie was one of the most powerful women at my ex’s fashion house.
Smart, ambitious, and completely ruthless when she needed to be.
While everyone else spent years climbing the ladder, Tammie seemed to take the elevator.
Then she’d left for Los Angeles and somehow managed to do what everyone dreams about doing.
She landed on her feet so perfectly that she became the story people told themselves when they needed hope that whatever risk they were taking in the fashion industry might pan out.
Seeing her name in my inbox feels like being unexpectedly connected back to the version of myself I thought I lost.
Wren?
I shake my head. Nothing.
I open the email.
To: Wrenley St. James
From: Tammie Roswell
Subject: Costume Designer Opportunity
Wrenley,
I heard what happened in Vancouver.