For the fourth time this week, I am running errands for Sadie’s wedding. My maid of honor assignments just keep coming. But at this rate, one would assume we were racing against an altar deadline of tomorrow.
I’m happy to help my great friend, but it can be awkward handling some decisions and discussions with bridal industry representatives. Half the time they assume I am the bride. The woman at the bakery said the “Sadie + Carson” sugar cookies needed to be paid for up front. She actually grabbed a sample chocolate marshmallow cookie from my hand which was on its way to my mouth and held the treat for ransom. I immediately wrote a check for $150 on Sadie’s behalf—because she is good for it—but mostly to get my cookie back.
My car complains with each turn of the wheel, so much that pedestrians look at it with an accusatory expression. I shrug once in a while to make it clear that I don’t know what it is saying exactly, either. But if it is taking cues from me today, it is whining.
“Purse Strings,” I read from a sign decorated with silk strings and vintage floral appliques. Maybe this will be one of the best tasks yet. After all, I am here to pick up our bridesmaid gifts. Sadie, on a business trip, was appalled to ask me to pick up my own gift, but the shopkeeper told her that there was always the possibility our gifts would be mistaken as new inventory and sold to the general public. I think it was the phrase “general public” that really scared Sadie into action.
Everything I see in the storefront window changes my formerly martyr mood into a very hopeful one. Daintily embroidered clutches, monogrammed silk wrist purses, even a cashmere drawstring evening bag doesn’t seem over the top among this collection. As I step into the vanilla-scented store I can feel myself breathe more deeply. I’m happy to do this. I’m happy to be here, even though it meant leaving Angelica to completely manage the monthly birthday party at Golden Horizons. She insists that she did not mutter “cake fight” under her breath after I asked her to help me.
“Mari?”
I turn around expecting to see a salesperson, but instead I see the man sold on dating Angelica. “Peyton!” We embrace with genuine affection. I’ve been rooting for him to win over Angelica’s confused heart for nearly a year now.
Once we are standing face-to-face, the juxtaposition of him against the backdrop of silky, shiny women’s accessories raises a few questions. “So, Peyton. Whatcha doin’ in a place like this?” I spread out my arms to reveal his true surroundings in case he meant to walk into the magazine store next door.
“I love it here.”
I motion for him to keep talking.
“They have the most exquisite pieces in town.”
“I know that. Apparently Sadie knows that. And probably so do the best-dressed women in town. But how do you know that?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “I give my top clients a special purse every year for their birthday.”
“Female clients, I hope.”
“It should go without saying that my top pharmaceutical reps are all women.”
“Touché. Well, I give my best clients at Golden Horizons a huge, sugary cake from the Shop Club. In fact, I’m not even doing that today, Angelica is…” I stop midthought.
“It’s okay. Angelica and I do work in the same corporate office. I have to hear her name plenty.”
“Do you see her? Talk with her?”
“She avoids me whenever possible. If we make eye contact it is only accidental. It is as though I did something to hurt her instead…”
“Of the other way around. I know. And she knows. She doesn’t have ill feelings for you at all, Peyton.”
“My self-esteem just soared.”
“I mean—it is the opposite. I am still convinced she is very attracted to you and wants this eventually. I cannot believe you are holding out for her.”
“But you can a little, right? We both know what she is like when she lets her guard down. Wonderful.” He looks so sincere and smitten.
“Sir, your purses are ready.” The sales manager looks at me. “Are you with him?”
“No. I’m Mari Hamilton, picking up for Sadie Verity.”
She smiles a curious grin and puts her palms together in a very Japanese way, though she looks more like a California beach transplant. “Yours are available too. Won’t you both join me over here?”
“We’d love to. Shall we?” Peyton grabs my elbow and ushers me toward the side of the store where a counter has two large pieces of velvet folded over like envelopes.
“Ladies first.” Peyton offers graciously.
“Let’s look at what your ladies will receive.”
“No, we should honor Sadie,” Peyton returns.
The saleswoman seems to fear that we will go back and forth like this all day, so she opens the envelope nearest Peyton. We both suck in our breath in pure appreciation.
“Clearly, by the monograms, these are not for me and the girls.”
“You are right. These beautiful pieces are for Mr. Foster.”
“I cannot wait to see mine.” I look expectantly at her and notice that funny, nearly mischievous grin again.
“Here are your very original choices.”
When she unveils them, I quickly say, “Not my choice. Sadie’s choice.”
“They are very unique,” Peyton says as we all stare at the delicate yet strangely bulbous creations made of silk, lots of tassels, and—now I see the cause for the facing palms gesture—Japanese writings along the seam line. But it isn’t the cultural flair that surprises me. It is the odd striping combination of a creme de menthe green and a sunless tan lotion orange which makes happy words difficult to come by.
“Um. Hmm. Wow. They are…wow.”
“You can say that again,” Peyton and the saleswoman say in unison.
“I take it these are for use after the wedding. I love the shape. They are surprisingly roomy.” Peyton opens one up and reveals a hollowed out bowl fitted with more silk, this piece the color of a cranberry.
“I thought they were to go with our dresses. But I must have misunderstood.”
Saleswoman of the year shakes her head. “You understood. These came from our sister store in San Francisco, where the dresses were ordered.”
This makes me most curious about the dresses, but I trust my friend Sadie, the classiest gal I know. “Cover them up, please,” I say shortly. “To protect them from the sun.”
Peyton’s hand brushes over the purse with Angelica’s initials. “Would you mind if I put a note inside this one before you protect it from the elements?”
“She won’t see this until the day of the wedding. This purse is a surprise.”
“Sure is.” The saleswoman takes her parting shot.
“That’s perfect,” Peyton says.
I open and close the bubble purse so that it is talking. “It’s your heart, go for it.”
He smiles and reaches across the counter for a pen. On a blank receipt slip he scribbles out a note to the girl who won’t let herself love and places it into the silk wishing well.