All Dressed Up In Love: A March Wedding Story: A Year of Weddings Novella Read online

  ZONDERVAN

  All Dressed Up in Love

  Copyright © 2015 by Ruth Logan Herne

  ePub Edition © January 2015: ISBN 978-0-3103-9616-1

  Requests for information should be addressed to:

  Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546

  Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version and the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

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  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Cover design: Kristen Ingebretson

  Interior design: James A. Phinney

  To Jean, Kathy, and Donna, who welcomed me into “Bridal Hall” and made eight years of my life so much fun! God bless you, my friends! You are beloved!

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  Discussion Questions

  An Excerpt from In Tune With Love

  Prologue

  About the Author

  This fun novella wouldn’t exist without the grace of the Hall family, owners of a renowned independent bridal store in Rochester, New York. “Bridal Hall” was a long-standing and wonderful part of the Western New York bridal industry for decades. As employers, they were marvelous, kind, and caring. As friends, they’re more so! They offered jobs to two of my children in “Tuxedo Hall” as Beth and Luke worked their way through college, and on slow winter nights Ed Hall would say, “Bring your books and study if it’s quiet. Make good use of your time!” Also, big thanks to Matt and Zach Blodgett, my two boys who attended the University of Pennsylvania. Their years in Philly gave me a chance to know and love the city, from the streets of Old City to the hills of Valley Forge, a wonderful place to visit and live! And a huge shout-out to the missions and soup kitchens reaching out to the needy in our communities. Bless you for your living example of Christ’s words among us!

  Greg Elizondo stared at the daily ledger on the front desk of his mother’s bridal salon. The white leather-bound appointment book taunted him. He swallowed hard and fought the rising surge of panic.

  Six appointments were due in throughout the day and no one to handle them. Six future brides, along with whatever form of friend, family, or foe they dragged through the front door with them, coming to find the dress of their dreams for that oh-so-special day. And no one but him in the store.

  Panic escalated to full-bore heart attack mode.

  Call some of your mother’s former employees. Someone must be able to help.

  They would, too, if only they were available. They had gathered around him at the midsummer funeral, professing their love for his mother and pledging their help. And his mother’s regular employees—her “bridal team,” as she’d called them—had done a great job keeping things afloat all fall.

  Then Donna delivered twins at Thanksgiving, and Jean needed time off unexpectedly to care for her sick father. Kathy was down with the current stomach bug, and the newest bridal consultant had called in yesterday, the last day of her vacation, to give notice, saying she was staying in Louisiana to save some fish from extinction.

  Who did that kind of thing, anyway?

  Maybe there was somebody else. Anybody.

  His mother’s 1980s Rolodex lay in the top drawer. He leafed through it, searching for familiar names. Two of them had gone south for retirement, one had passed away the previous year, and the only other name he recognized had just been put into a skilled nursing facility near Valley Forge.

  Doomed by your own ineptitude. You should have taken care of this yesterday. There is no way Kathy could or should have handled this on her own, so blaming the norovirus doesn’t get you out of the hot seat. At this point, you deserve what you get.

  His fingers went numb. His head ached. He could handle boardrooms filled with Armani-clad executives. Toss him into dinner gigs staffed by tuxedo-wearing waiters who faded into the background while taking particular care to be attentive, and he’d be totally on his game.

  But this?

  Mermaid gowns with laser-cut lace? Dresses suited for a medieval drawing room with acres of organza? He wasn’t even sure what organza was, but he was pretty sure he hated it by default.

  Satin-filled walls pressed in on him as the clock ticked on.

  Why did Donna Martin have to go and have twins, anyway? Wasn’t the world populated enough?

  With less angst than he was feeling right now, he had faced down oppositional executives and told them that his law firm was about to take over their company, slice it up, and sell it off piecemeal, like leftovers from yesterday’s garage sale. Nothing fazed him. Nothing but . . . well, but this.

  The bridal team hadn’t listed phone numbers next to the names in the appointment ledger. If they had, he’d call these women, apologize profusely, and lock the doors on Elena’s Bridal forever. Except that doing so would break his heart.

  If he had a heart . . .

  He must have one somewhere, because it ached when he thought of his mother, the time he missed, the long weeks he barely saw her, even though they lived in the same quadrant of the city. His corporate ladder-climbing kept him forward focused, but now she was gone, unexpectedly, and there was no more time.

  There were no more chances. He was surrounded by the business she spent thirty years developing after his father took off with a long-legged blonde. From three days shy of his fourth birthday, it had been him and his mother, taking on life side by side.

  And now it was just him. What could be more distressing than shutting down? How could he even consider ruining thirty years of all her hard work in six short months? He hauled in a deep breath and checked the book again.

  Yup. Still six brides scheduled for their initial appointments, a day his mother referred to as “feast or famine.” Shopping for a gown either brought folks together or ripped them apart.

  Great.

  He stood and squared his shoulders. He could do this. He needed to do this.

  He didn’t have to dress the women. Their friends or sisters or mothers could do that. Worst-case scenario, they could dress themselves, right? The sight of an alterations room at the end of the right-hand hallway gave him an idea. He’d call the seamstresses and see if any of them were available to help.

  No one answered. He left messages for all three, hoping someone would hear his plea and take pity on him. Having one of those talented alterations women on hand would be a huge help, but if none of them came through, he needed
a Plan B.

  What would his mother do?

  He didn’t have to think twice. If Maria Elena Elizondo were here, she would do it herself. Her example had trained him to handle whatever came his way. Today was no different, but it was a whole lot lonelier.

  So that was it. He would show the brides and their entourages through the store, let them pick out what they wanted to try on, then guide them through the sales process.

  Could it be that simple?

  Common sense said no. If selling a wedding gown were that cut and dried, why did his mother list follow-up phone calls as part of her training manual? With hundreds of gorgeous designer gowns to pick from, didn’t women usually just find one that looked great, plunk down their debit card, and leave?

  Fittings and alterations. Hems. Veils. Tiaras. Jewelry. Shoes. Hosiery, hoops, petticoats . . .

  His mother’s checklist went on to undergarments he didn’t know existed.

  The panic re-spiraled. In twenty minutes the store would open, the first January appointment would walk through the door, and he’d be toast. And once word got around that Elena’s Bridal had no help, online reviews would tank and he’d be putting a For Sale sign in the front window.

  So much for all his mother’s hard work. Everything he needed in life—everything he was—had come from this shop. Parochial school. Holy Ghost Prep. The University of Pennsylvania. Harvard Law.

  His mother had gone the distance for him, working night and day, never a word of complaint. Losing her suddenly was bad enough, but ruining her hard-won business because he was clueless?

  That would cost a bunch of jobs. No one wanted to be jobless in Philadelphia right now. Not in today’s tough economy.

  So the economy is your fault? Don’t you have enough to do with the Weatherly merger? If you want a job alongside the heavy hitters in Manhattan, focus on what you do best: dissecting inept companies and selling them for parts.

  A sharp rap on the front glass snagged his attention.

  A young woman stood there, tapping her keys against the glass. A customer? He glanced back at the book and caught a glimpse of a name: Jasmine. It had to be, right?

  He stared, spellbound, wondering why she was so early. He started to point up to the clock, then realized that was a horrible way to do business and went to the door. He unlocked it, swung it open, and leaned out. “We’re not open yet. Sorry. But would you like to wait inside?” He added the last as a gust of arctic-cold January wind swept down the narrow side street filled with rustic-looking shops. “It’s really cold out here.”

  She stepped in, glanced around, then turned his way, expectant.

  “Are you Jasmine?”

  She frowned, shook her head, and pulled down the scarf she had tucked and wrapped around her collar. Honey-brown curls spilled forth, a lot of them, like in one of those shampoo commercials that promised the best hair ever if you bought the product. Whatever product she used, worked, because this woman had the best hair ever.

  “I’m Tara. Tara Simonetti.”

  He frowned. There was no Tara Simonetti in the book. “Are you meeting a bride here, Miss Simonetti?”

  She looked startled, then laughed and shrugged out of her coat. She tossed the coat and scarf on one of the chairs inside the door, turned, and stared at the bridal room beyond him.

  “Whatever I do from this moment forward, please don’t hold against me.” Reverence marked her gaze and words as she swept the racks of gowns with a long, slow, almost comical look of appreciation. “I’m in heaven.”

  She moved forward, and Greg wasn’t sure if he should call the police or a mental health facility. The look in her eyes said she was about to go ballistic. And if there was one thing Greg Elizondo purposely avoided, it was women who went ballistic.

  You’re in a bridal store, buddy. Trust me. It happens.

  He brushed the internal warning aside and started to move forward, but then she turned, shoved her hands into her pockets, and breathed deeply. “Are you the owner?”

  “Not intentionally, but yes.” A jab of pain struck his midsection. “I am. Greg Elizondo. This was my mother’s shop.”

  “Your mother?” Tara stopped. A look of realization passed over her face, a very pretty face, alive with emotions. Bold eyebrows, strong and sharply etched. The mass of hair framed a slightly squared face that seemed perfect for her. Golden-brown eyes that would have matched her hair, except for the points of ivory making them brighter. A generous mouth for her petite face, and she wasn’t afraid to use just enough makeup to enhance features that didn’t need embellishment.

  “Is she gone?”

  He nodded, still unable to say the words out loud. No one should just up and die suddenly in their midfifties, before they had the joy of retirement and the fun of bouncing a grandchild or two on their knees. But the unexpected cardiac arrest said otherwise, and the admission made his throat grow tight. “Yes. Last summer. It was sudden.”

  “Oh. I’m so very sorry.”

  She looked sorry. Her face, her gaze, the way she reached out a hand to his arm, as if his mother had meant something to her. She hadn’t, of course, but still, the sincerity of the emotion seemed nice.

  “Is that why you need help, Greg?”

  He stared, perplexed.

  She crossed to the chair and withdrew a sheet of paper from her coat pocket. Suddenly things began to look clearer. “The ‘Help Wanted’ flyer I posted in the commons area at Temple.”

  “Which has now been taken down because the minute I saw it, I knew I wanted this job.”

  Relief flooded him. “You’ve got experience in bridal, Tara?”

  “Doesn’t every girl?” She laughed, eyes bright. “Barbie 101. I could dress her and Ken with the best of them.”

  “So . . . you don’t have experience.” He’d been almost hopeful for just a minute.

  “Not hands on, as yet. But here’s hoping that will change.” She flicked a sunny glance around the broad, open shop where white walls met natural wood in a calming effect of neutrality. “I’ve always wanted to work in a bridal shop, but I’m from a tiny northern Pennsylvania town and there was nothing like that there. I’m in my third year of law school doing work I could have completed my second year without breaking a sweat, and my student loans and grants have been sliced and diced by federal budget cuts. On top of that, I have a great appreciation for regular meals. Working here will give me the taste of bridal I crave, the hands-on experience of working with fabric, and the added bonus of food money. Total win, right?”

  It was so far from a “win” that Greg had to choke back the first thoughts that came to mind. “Tara, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but the bridal industry isn’t like anything else in retail.”

  “And you’re an expert on retail and bridal?”

  Her cool rebuff put him on guard. “Not an expert, but I’ve watched my mother and her friends run this business for years, and it requires a certain level of insider knowledge. I’m a lawyer, you’re a 3-L, and we both know we don’t take classes in silk and shantung in law school.”

  “Really?”

  She hiked a brow his way, and something in that arched brow told him that if he was shooting pool with Tara Simonetti, she’d be pocketing the eight-ball before he got half his stripes played.

  “Is your mother’s staff here?”

  He grimaced and clapped a hand to the back of his neck. “No. One has eight-week-old twins—”

  “Oh, I love twins!” Tara couldn’t possibly be inventing the look of joy she shot his way. “Boys, girls, or a mixed set?”

  “Boys. As I was saying . . .”

  “Fraternal or identical?”

  He had no idea. Why would he ask that? Why would she ask that? He started to bring the question back around to the matter at hand, but she put up a hand to pause him. “So she’s out for a while, I take it.”

  “Yes.”

  “And who else works here?”

  “Jean, she’s marvelous, but her father’
s ill and she’s got to have a few weeks to take care of him. He’s a great old guy.” He shrugged because Jean’s dad had been good to him for the twelve years she worked here. No way could he begrudge her time with him, even if it left them in a lurch.

  She glanced around the roomy store, puzzled. “That’s it?”

  “No, of course not.” Two people could never run a thriving bridal business. The idea was ridiculous. “There’s Kathy, she’s been the assistant manager for years. She’s the greatest lady.”

  “Is she in the back?” Tara moved left and peeked around a corner, then turned back with a questioning gaze.

  “Norovirus.”

  “Ouch. So she’s out for—”

  “A couple of days, most likely.”

  “Which leaves you. Unless you’ve got other employees?”

  “We’re in a bind, but honestly, Miss Simonetti . . .”

  “Tara.” She corrected him as she flipped her head forward and down, the mass of hair tumbling halfway to the floor. He stared as she wound it into a twist, tucked it up and under, then wove a pencil through the hair, creating an old-fashioned and very professional knot just above the nape of her neck.

  And a very pretty neck it was.

  “Greg, you don’t know me. And I’m going to bet you don’t know bridal all that well, because the minute I saw your name I recognized it. Anyone who’s followed mergers and acquisitions would realize you’ve been too busy dissecting companies to have much wedding experience yourself.”

  Was that a backhanded compliment or a clever dig? He wasn’t sure. “While that’s true, I—”

  A young woman appeared at the entrance and peered in through the glass.

  Tara glanced toward the door. It was the stroke of ten, Saturday morning. The first customer had arrived.

  She smiled and offered a challenge. “Let me have a try with this one. If it’s a total bust, you win. I’ll leave and go flip burgers to earn food money.”

  “And if you do well?”

  “Then we settle on wages and compensation at the end of the day.”

  “Compensation? Don’t wages qualify as compensation, Tara? Because they do in the corporate world.” He said it as a challenge, but he had to admire the way she tossed the barter out there, as if she had bargaining rights.