It's Got A Ring To It Read online

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  She and Mom had only been over for about an hour and we’d already ripped a gazillion pages out of magazines and stuffed them into Lena’s gigantic wedding planner, which resembled a Trapper Keeper on steroids, as it brimmed over with dress clippings and possible vendors. When she first showed Mom and me, we were a bit taken aback. We had our own visions of how the whole shindig would unfold. Little did we know, we wouldn’t have any say at all.

  Mom’s Vegas-themed idea was shot down faster than my urging to limit it to a twenty-five person intimate family affair. She’d already pinpointed hideous coral taffeta bridesmaid dresses, which she said would go perfectly with her coral-and-cream theme. I was hesitant when she asked me to be her maid of honor. Despite the family obligation and tinge of flattery, I wanted to warn her not to put so much faith in one day. Maybe she was one of the lucky ones and it would work out for her.

  The way she plopped that jumbo binder on the table and caused the cover to flop open, I almost believed that it withheld special powers. In a way, I was disappointed to see a bunch of etiquette hoopla and tabbed side folders. There’s way too much to do and plan. It would probably be easier to just elope. At first, I was quite impressed by how organized she was. Each tab was labeled for budget, attire, wedding party, registry, vendors, ceremony, reception, stationary, and honeymoon. I even made it a point to compliment her on having such a great system. That was, until she smiled her most innocent, condescending smile and said, “I’m so glad you approve Laila, because as maid of honor and my only sister, I’m putting you in charge of it.” I nearly buckled over with laughter, until I realized she wasn’t joking.

  By the following Thursday, I was practically burnt out from serving my sentence as the maid of honor, I hadn’t had much time to linger on the void in my appointment book. I’d completed my millionth task on her never-ending to-do list…the bridal spectacular. It is just that—a spectacular gathering of anyone who had anything to sell to a bride and groom, all in one convention-sized location. Oh, the joy I had of spending three full hours with the bride-to-be, as her name tag stated. Really, the tag was more like a target to ensure all the vendors were accurately attacking the right person.

  I lagged behind a few steps just watching. A flyer from every vendor was stuffed in her bridal bag. The bride-to-be tag was like a badge of honor and she wore it proudly. She led the way as her bridesmaids, Denise and Olivia, and I hung back enough to let people know she was the bull’s-eye. She was the one getting married. On the inside, a nudge of laughter tugged at me. The bridal spectacular was nearing an end and we had to go, much to Lena’s chagrin and my sheer enjoyment. Seeing her frenzied, looking at this table setting and that limousine, was like watching someone on Supermarket Sweep in the last few seconds of the countdown, trying to grab a few more groceries and get back to the checkout. She was in her element, but with so many options, she was liable to go into overload.

  “Let me look at this last photo booth.” Frustrated, she rushed to see if anything had been overlooked.

  It was amazing how fast Lena was able to cover another aisle of vendors before we got to the exit. The thrill wound her up even more. “That was so much fun. Laila, you know you never told me how much fun these things were—” she stopped herself in her own tracks.

  “I had a really great time being here with you today. I’m so glad you finally settled on a location. The Lexington Mansion is going to be perfect. Um…what else is there to do?” I delved deep into the planner, my teary eyes idly searched for something to change the subject.

  I couldn’t get the look in Lena’s eyes out of my mind. It wasn’t intentional, but it was unmistakably pity. I’d become that girl. The bitterly depressed girl, who gets looks of pity. The one people really didn’t want to be around, because they knew they’d be walking on eggshells, looking out for my fragile feelings. That’s what the look told me. And I couldn’t bear the thought of being in her shoes again.

  I would’ve given just about anything at that point to talk to Dr. Reese. She knew the right thing to say to make me feel better. The pain began to creep in again. I’d worked too hard to let myself get pulled back into that dark place.

  As soon as I got home, I grabbed the wadded up letter from the nightstand and headed straight to the closet. On my hands and knees, I dug into the deepest corner where the dust piled along with the memories. The glossy white paint and yellow daisy stickers were barely noticeable, but my name managed to hang on by what little tacky glue was left. One of the handles hung on by the last upholstery stud. The scuffed edges and weathered wood had definitely seen better days. But, it was still intact. Carefully, I slid the hope chest from its perch, trying to avoid the little splinters, and plopped right down on the floor.

  Within the confines of the small rectangular box, I sat staring at my tucked away dreams. And that’s all they were, indulgences of my mind. Lightly, I traced the lines of Mom’s lace handkerchief sweetly embroidered with the lily of the Nile—my something blue. Holding it tightly, I continued sifting. There were the brochures of the destinations I spent hours dreaming about exploring—Italy, Paris, Greece, St. Lucia, and Spain. Distracted, I fingered a small blue cotton onesie and a teensy baseball mitt. But, something caught my eye. Beneath the folded “grand opening” banner next to the tiny red velvet box was a strand of pearls from my grandmother. The first item she added to each of our chests. An urge for something new overwhelmed me. Quickly, I threw in the wadded paper, closed the chest, and pushed it back into the imprint of the carpet.

  THREE

  The sun hadn’t been out in two days. Finally, it blazed its footprints across the sky and I had to be indoors, wading through bridal gowns. That’s the thing about weddings, there’s always something that needs to be done, picked up, picked out, coordinated, paid for, or outdone.

  The planning wasn’t so bad, except that the wedding somehow became an excuse for the parental units to relive and recreate their big day. Under normal circumstances, Mom and Claire—Sam’s mother—might’ve become the best of friends. But, with a wedding on the horizon between their babies, they found themselves at war, and Lena and Sam found their opinions out to pasture. The guest list grew past two hundred in a flash. Passively aggressive, they battled it out to see who was going to host the bridal shower and the rehearsal dinner. I claimed dibs on the bachelorette party, otherwise that would have easily become another point of contention. Things got so bad that Lena put her foot down and banned the mothers from dress shopping. She reserved the occasion solely for her ladies-in-waiting.

  Within a one-month timespan, I’d seen her try on a slew of dresses and then take them off just as quickly. Every minute detail came into play, and apparently, none of them were the dress. We were getting down to the wire on her game of musical dresses, running out of places to look. Lena banned us from searching any store online that didn’t have a physical location within the county. As our selection dwindled, the gavel came down on me. It must have been in the fine print of the maid of honor’s job description—in a clause that I’d missed—to ensure the bride had an endless supply of dresses from which to choose.

  Luckily for me, we were getting another crack at finding the one-of-a-kind gown, which could only be described as “fit only for the likes of a princess.” I really had no clue what she was looking for, or what she was talking about for that matter. We share the same long black hair and olive skin, and that’s pretty much it. From her five foot ten stature and meticulously lean figure, to her glowing honey-brown eyes and perfectly symmetrical face, boasting full lips, high cheekbones and lush eyebrows, she is all model in full form. Then there’s me, peaking at her shoulder and curvier than most, but at least I got the gray eyes.

  She’s a fashionista. Versed in every fabric and stitch, she is appropriate and stylish for all occasions. She kept mentioning something or another about ruching and mermaid cuts, so every once in a while I just nodded in agreement. Even she must have been confused, because
while driving to another bridal shop, I overheard her telling Olivia she was torn between a ball gown, empire, and trumpet.

  At the risk of getting my head chewed off, I leaned forward from the backseat to let them know the boutique was coming up on the right. “Isn’t that it? Jolie Jolie Bridal, right?” I pointed out the window toward the building, which resembled the celestial kingdom. The salon wasn’t listed, but Olivia found it on her way to meet a client. Optimistically, I prayed the dresses inside were doubly beautiful, since they had to name it twice. I kept my fingers crossed just in case.

  “Laila, this is it. We’re here!” Lena and Olivia shrieked with girly excitement. They’d waited all of their twenty-seven years for love and marriage to happen to either one of them. While Olivia was still waiting to meet her Mr. Right, she might as well have been getting hitched, too. For as long as I could remember, Lena and Olivia have been attached at the hip, daydreaming and doodling about their lives that would surely come with matrimony. For them, it was as if they hadn’t lived yet. It was the beginning. Although, according to them, that beginning didn’t technically start until the dress was found.

  And so, we stood at the pearly gates of Jolie Jolie Bridal Boutique, and awaited not only the glorious garb, but also the commencement of consciousness.

  As I lived and breathed, I expected the heavens to open and angels to sing songs of divine order, but nothing of the sort blessed our entrance. Instead, I remained overwhelmed, only more so with about a thousand extra gowns to view, sort, and bash. If a picture is worth a thousand words, I had no clue how many pictures a thousand dresses were worth. Armed with my numbered cards to rate the gowns—my mission from her majesty herself—and my camera, I was determined to get this item checked off my list. I marched up to Lena and waited for my orders. “Ok, so what’s the plan, Lena? What’s my goal this time around?”

  “Darlings. Welcome to Jolie Jolie. I am Lark Fairbanks. Which of you is the lucky lady I’ll be assisting to find the perfect dress?” The most elegant creature I’d ever laid eyes on greeted us. We stood dazed. Really, her timeless beauty was alarming, the way it kind of caught us off guard. Classic glamour with lips so shiny and red. Eyes as green as grass, glistening fresh after the rain. Bone-straight platinum blond hair—over porcelain skin—perfectly coiffed and sheered at the shoulder blade, and parted left. Nothing on her was out of place, especially her freshwater pearls over an expertly tailored black pantsuit.

  Lena stuttered to respond. “I’m…I am Lena.” Like a child seeing her idol for the first time, Lena stared admiringly at her style, only fueling her love affair with fashion.

  “Well now, darling, when is the big day?” Lark smiled and finally the heavens did open. I had renewed hope. Surely, if anyone could help us find the one gown that could epitomize Lena and make Sam thank his lucky stars, it would be her. Lena took her place by Lark’s side, as they headed off on a tour of the salon, with Olivia trailing closely behind, feverishly taking notes in preparation for her future day in the hot seat.

  Halfway around the store, the hymn of bridal babble picked up pace as Lena reached full Zen. The chickens were clucking. Cluck cluck…next fall…cluck cluck…sweetheart, fitted lace…cackle cackle…gossamer silk tents under the starlit night…cluck…pink peonies…cackle.

  I’d heard about her vision a million times already. Not to mention, I was in charge of the reception blueprints and a miniature model scaled to size. I wouldn’t have called her Bridezilla exactly, but surely Lena’s anal retentive attention to detail made her kin. If only my mind’s eye could’ve spoken to hers, we could have spared ourselves a lot of time and frustration.

  With the three of them knee-deep in their element, I welcomed the chance to find a quiet corner within the metropolis to sit back and relax, check my text messages, and work out the kinks of my pitch. Sweet ideas should’ve been fluidly rolling off my tongue given all the love in the air. Still, I couldn’t seem to conjure up one useful concept for my candy shop brand marketing and licensing. The Sweet Tooth was the brainchild of my obsession with candy. I was at the dentist so often growing up that he became a family friend. We had a running joke. He’d say, “Laila, should we extract your sweet tooth today?” and I’d laugh and tell him how much I’d miss being able to chew without any teeth.

  The Sweet Tooth wouldn’t be accurately described as a mom-and-pop shop. Its quaint atmosphere and vintage character threw it into more of a boutique category. Right in the heart of Summerlin’s shopping district, it exuded luxury and welcomed clients into an experience, instead of just a purchase. The decor was pink and black with damask accents. Flowing chocolate fountains and fondue stations brought to life during private parties for those with fancier tastes. The kids much preferred the design stations for flavored jewelry. The place just reminded me of simpler times, when I could choose to treat myself with or without breaking the bank.

  The shop was one thing, but I wanted to do something bigger. I needed potential investors to see that it wasn’t going to be just product pushing, but an outing—and eventually a household name. The ideas kept running through my head, but I kept coming up empty. I had nothing concrete. A catchy slogan to accompany my logo would’ve helped, or even some kind of eye-catching display. All I could think about was how it would only take one right move, and I would have a franchise. Retailers and vendors would be begging to be ambassadors of my brand.

  As Lena and her entourage headed my way, I ducked under the fluffiest, tulle contraption I could find, which looked more like a tissue and cotton ball storm than anything resembling a dress. As itchy as it was, I thanked my lucky stars for the cover. Still in her comfort zone, she blabbed about her reception plans, “…and after the cake-cutting, it’s on to the candy station, followed by more photos, and a video montage before the dancing starts…” She trailed off again, but for some reason, the candy station stuck in my mind.

  When she asked me to design the whole table for the station, I just figured I’d do it because she’s my sister. It hadn’t dawned on me that it could be another selling point. I couldn’t believe it. To my annoying little sister’s credit—the one whose diet once consisted of paste and mud pies—I owed a debt of gratitude. The pieces to my presentation started coming together.

  First, I would talk about my shop and all it has to offer then go into the whole candy station feature, and end it all with a bang when I pitched a color-coordinated candy line for brides.

  Ooh, I wanted to do the happy dance right there, in the middle of the bridal abyss, but the words that I had just heard the saleslady utter stopped the reel dead in its track. Rewind. What did she say?

  “Myles Donovan called to say he’s on his way. He’s with the woman who’s in dressing room three,” she said to another consultant. His name breezed nonchalantly from her as if it meant nothing. The man who has terrorized my life was going to be in the same place at any minute? My luck had never been that timely, or favorable.

  I didn’t know whether to hide or stand at the storefront ready for combat. Settling for discretion, I pretended to be checking out shoe clips and tiaras, as if they interested me at all. Their voices were low, but I heard them hemming and hawing about his rugged good looks. Not only was it completely tacky for them to be swooning over someone else’s fiancé, but they were clueless to the nightmare of outlandish harassment he’s put me through. What type of sicko would want to marry him?

  As if on cue, a woman floated out of dressing room three—to request a smaller size, no less. Not only was she mind-numbingly gorgeous, she was a skinny twig, too. For heaven’s sake, it was Barbie, anatomically correct in all her splendor. In pink and black lace trim La Perla, I was practically drooling.

  At her beck and call, someone rushed in with clamps to cinch her dress. Once she was out of earshot, Wilma and Betty—the saleswomen—jabbered on about their hopes of seeing him again. My mind was fixated on what I’d actually say to him. “Hi, I’m Laila, the woman, whose phone number you’ve given to
every creditor in the world and personally asked to call me daily at the wee hours of the morning.” Something short and sweet perhaps, “Die.” Better yet, “I hate your guts, have a nice day.”

  Right at a good part in the gossip, the chitchat stopped, and I knew he arrived. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Wilma losing all consciousness. Her arms fell to her sides. Her entire face turned red with embarrassment. By the time Betty clued in, they became drones. Slowly, I turned my head in the direction of their attention.

  “Hi, I’m Myles Donovan,” the words sashayed from his mouth rhythmically, like a songbird. Could he be the same Myles Donovan? Betty and Wilma mentioned good looks, but I figured their taste in men would be directly related to their mediocre ratings in the looks department.

  As I contemplated whether he was indeed my Myles or an impostor, the same question loomed over me. What should I say to him? I didn’t know. My usual arrogance was completely undermined by the sheer sight of him. Unknowingly, he’d taken me off guard, and off my mighty high horse.

  Actually, Wilma and Betty were right. He looked like he’d be nice. And, the poser did have rugged good looks. In addition to, a chiseled jawbone, wavy McDreamy hair, translucent eyes, and a body that didn’t have to beg for more—since it probably got offers regularly. Not that I was paying much attention. Dazed, I couldn’t help but notice how his strong hands appeared so protective, the way he gripped the pen. I had no clue what he filled out. Some kind of paperwork or information card or something. It didn’t really matter. I was losing my nerve with every sweep of his pen.

  Grinning from ear to ear, Betty was suddenly overly helpful. “Is your best contact number still 5-5-5-2-3-7-9?”

  He said something else, but it was all I needed to hear. It was as if things slowed to a glacial pace. Right in front of me, she confirmed that he’s been giving out my number all along. No longer hypnotized by the walking identity thief or the rhinestones of the tiara I clutched, I couldn’t contain myself any longer.