night, after trying on forty-three wedding dresses over three bridal-salon appointments during which her entourage of eight consumed several bottles of domestic sparkling wine, Cara Brantley at last found her perfect wedding gown.
Beth Ann Grakowski, aka Elizabeth Gray of Elizabeth Gray Bridal Salon in Rocky Falls, Texas, lived for such moments. The look of a dream matching reality…followed by the sentimental tears…the happy smiles…the hugs…the healthy profit when a designer gown sold…she loved it all. Someday, it would be her dream matching reality, her sentimental tears, her happy smile, her fantasy wedding financed by years of hard work…but until then, by golly she was going to make sure as many Texas brides got their happily-ever-after storybook wedding dress as she could.
On the way to her office to get the paperwork started, Beth snagged a leftover bottle of champagne for a private, self-congratulatory toast.
“Nooooo!” A wail echoed through the salon.
Beth Ann froze. Her clients were having a happy moment, the happy moment. There should be no wailing during happy moments.
“How could that have happened?” Mrs. Brantley’s voice rose.
Beth nearly dropped the credit card that would let Cara Brantley walk down the aisle in a strapless, crystal-encrusted mermaid gown designed by Georgia Hanover.
“It’s ruined!” sounded clearly through the wall Beth’s office shared with the large dressing room at the back of the salon.
A shudder rippled through her. Please don’t let it be the Hanover gown. She visualized rips. She visualized a string of beading cascading to the floor. She visualized Cara’s mother realizing that the number on the price tag was a 7 and not a 1 and quickly swiped the credit card.
Drawing a deep breath, she returned to the fitting room where she’d left Cara, her mother, her sister, her grandmother, assorted bridesmaids and the videographer Mrs. Brantley had hired to record a video scrapbook. Cara’s mother held the camera as she, Cara and the videographer stared at a tiny screen.
In the background, Beth heard the ebb and flow of a vacuum cleaner.
“Do you hear that?” Mrs. Brantley shouted as whoever was running the vacuum cleaner in the tux shop next door banged it against the shared wall during each pass over the floor.
Oh, yes indeed, Beth heard that. William. She was going to strangle him. She’d told him that the Brantleys had insisted on an after-hours appointment so the salon would be empty and nothing would interfere with the recording.
He knew, he knew that sound carried between the two back dressing rooms of their shops. She’d considered putting soundproof padding in, or something, but that would mean a disruption in business and, well, she didn’t want to admit it, but she liked to eavesdrop on an occasional male conversation in the tux shop’s dressing room. She’d been known to pick up a few tips on what styles men found attractive. Once or twice…okay, maybe more, she’d steered a bride away from a certain style based on a snippet of overheard conversation.
William listened, too. Every so often, hadn’t he given her a heads-up if a bride had a concern about a dress?
Beth waved everyone outside the dressing room and into the main area of the salon where three carpeted pedestals were positioned in front of a bank of mirrors. Before following them, she pounded once on the dressing-room wall with her fist. The vacuum whined to a stop. “I’ll talk to you later,” she said in the empty room.
The group had gathered by the sofas and cushy club chairs available for waiting fathers or others who shouldn’t be privy to the sight of the bride struggling into complex underwear.
“Listen!” Mrs. Brantley ordered dramatically.
The videographer held out the camera and Beth dutifully gave her attention to the tiny screen. Sure enough, she heard the vacuum cleaner start up on the recording. “I do hear a slight hum.”
“Slight hum?” Mrs. Brantley was in full meltdown mode. After years in the business, Beth was extremely familiar with the signs. “That ‘slight’ hum has ruined the video scrapbook. The chapter on selecting the bride’s dress is second only to the wedding itself. The look of awe and joy on her face when Cara knew she was wearing The Dress brought tears to my eyes. But can we hear what she said? No. No, because of all the noise.”
As the bride’s mother vented, Beth tried to figure out what to say. It wasn’t as though she could dictate to another store’s cleaning crew. But she’d tried. Oh, how she’d tried. The truth was that William Seeger, owner of Tuxedo Park Formal Wear next door, was also her business partner.
“The vacuuming has stopped, Mrs. Brantley. Why don’t you re-create the special moment now.”
“Re-create? Re-create? There is no way to re-create the joyful awe—”
“Dear madam, do please sit down.” William and his fake British accent had unlocked the front door, made their way through the racks of gowns and were now in the salon.
Fabulous. This was all she needed. What are you doing here? she mouthed at him.
“You pounded?” he murmured, then swept past Beth, and zeroed in on Mrs. Brantley.
“I find that life’s disappointments are never as dire when one deals with them from a comfortable chair while sipping champagne.” William and his British-butler accent led Mrs. Brantley to one of the sofas.
Beth hated when he used that voice. He only did it to annoy her after she’d asked him to class up his act.
She really hated that it seemed to work. Put a man in a tux and add a British accent, and Texas mamas just melted. Go figure. She herself was immune. William irritated her. On purpose. And enjoyed doing it.
Without looking away from Mrs. Brantley, William held out a hand for a glass of champagne, which Beth supplied, and then stepped back and let him do his thing.
Why was it women responded to him? Yes, he looked good in a tux—but what man didn’t?
It had fooled her, hadn’t it? Regretfully, William lacked any sense of taste, sophistication or elegance himself, which Beth hadn’t known before partnering with him because she’d been seduced by a black wool suit with satin lapels and a matching stripe down the side of the trouser legs.
True, they were well-fitted trousers fitted to something worth fitting, but that was beside the point. Or maybe it was the point. Whatever. Even though William was a natural salesman, she should have known better than to go into partnership with a man who’d named his original formal-wear store the Monkey Suit.
They’d both relocated their stores to Rocky Falls from Wanda’s World of Weddings for a fresh start—a more elegant, tasteful, sophisticated start. It was why Beth Ann Grakowski now went by Elizabeth Gray and why she asked Bill to go by William. Little touches made such a difference, but William thought she took those things too seriously. Beth thought he didn’t take them seriously enough.
“You don’t need to hear what she’s saying,” William assured Mrs. Brantley. “You know your videographer is going to make a collage of clips with music—I’ve always been partial to ‘Thank Heaven for Little Girls’ from Gigi, myself.”
Mrs. Brantley nodded and sipped.
Beth
