Page 13 of A Week To Wed
I grunt, “Carriage?”
“Never mind,” she sighs. “If it’s a morning wedding, you should consider wearing a light suit. If evening, I think black would do better.”
“What if I just wear my good jeans?”
She straightens in the seat, and I can feel her indignation over here. “Absolutely not. This is your wedding, not a square dance.”
Hoo, boy. Good thing she’s cute.
“When you see the dress in person, you’ll understand why we need to talk about what you’re wearing. We should not clash. I’m thinking of a black tuxedo with tails for an ultra-formal evening look.”
I hear “tails,” and I’m ready to pull the truck over. “No way am I wearing tails.”
“It would look even better with a top hat and a cane.”
“Maisy. No. I’m not doing any of that.”
“But…old Hollywood glam!”
“That’s nice for you, but that ain’t for me.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
Isn’t that the question? Do I trust her? I feel a lot of things for Maisy. Feelings that grow by the day. I thought about her all day yesterday while I was doing my chores. I jerked one out last night while thinking about her just so I could get to sleep. But there are still some things I don’t understand and may never understand. Things she is not telling me. Like, who’s Godfrey? And why would she not invite her parents to our wedding when she wants a huge shindig?
All questions fly out the window the second I see Maisy in that feathered dress at the shop in Bozeman.
The saleswoman gasps. “You were made for that dress, my dear.”
My chest feels tight looking at her in that getup. That’s my bride. That goddess in the twirly feather dress is my woman. My Maisy. All mine.
No, I think. That dress was made for her, not the other way around. “Bag it up; I’ll meet you at the register.”
Maisy and the saleswoman exchange a knowing look.
“Lincoln. Sweetie, that’s not how it works.”
“It’s not?”
“You put a deposit down now, and we alter the dress to fit her. And then you pay the balance when you’re happy with the alterations, and then take the dress home.”
I look at Maisy. “And how are you going to make that happen by Saturday?”
The saleswoman balks. “Saturday! My dear, that’s not possible.”
Maisy smiles. “An extra five hundred bucks on your commission if you make it happen. And I’ll throw in the same as a tip for the seamstress to bump me up.”
The saleswoman immediately says, “You’ll have it by Saturday morning.”
I pay the deposit and happen to glance at the total amount. I nearly piss myself. I can afford it, but I’ve never in my life heard of any one piece of clothing costing that much.
Maisy catches the look on my face.
“Everything okay, babe?”
I don’t know what my face is doing, but I chastise myself for showing my consternation over the price of the dress. The wary look on her face makes me ache; her expression is that of someone who’s gotten used to being vetoed.
I know she’s putting on a show, calling me babe in public. And sweetie. Because strangers don’t need to know that we barely know each other. I let it sink in and warm me to my toes anyway. That’s just Maisy’s effect on me, and I’ll take any crumb of affection from her that she wants to give.
