Creed knew he had to tell Camille, but he didn’t know what to say to her. He was still pretty shaken up about finding her mother in such a weakened state. The woman who had always been a rock had suddenly become a feather. The only thing he’d refused to do for her on the way to the emergency room was to roll down the window and give her some air. He was afraid she’d drift off the seat and he’d lose her to the night sky.
He hadn’t slept. Maybe he’d dozed off in the chair for a minute or two waiting for Rosie to release him from his promise to take her home, but he hadn’t really slept. Top to bottom, he felt wrung out. The coffee wasn’t kicking in, and he was thinking about pulling up a chair and putting his head down on the table when Camille finally waltzed into the kitchen and gave him her cool, crisp “Good morning.”
He nodded. “Coffee?”
“It’s always nice to have it waiting for you, even if it is just like old times. Meaning I’ve slept all night, and you obviously haven’t.”
He gave her a steamy cup of coffee and a similar smile. “What do you say we complete the picture the way we used to, back when old times were good times?”
Unless he missed his read on her, she was tempted.
But she took the coffee and her interest in him away, opting for the newspaper. He’d never been interested in the paper himself, but he’d always brought it in and left it on the kitchen table.
“Mama let you in again?”
“She did.”
“Where is she? Out in the yard?” She checked the weather corner above the masthead on the Star Trib. “It’s such a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
She looked cute in her fluffy robe. He wasn’t going to tell her that, because cute and cuddly probably wouldn’t sound like a compliment to her ears. But it would be. He would have liked nothing better than to keep his mouth shut, close his eyes, and cuddle up with her right about then.
“She’s in the hospital,” he said.
Camille looked dubious, glancing behind him, as though he might be hiding her mother behind his back.
“She’s fine now,” he added quickly. “They said she was gonna be fine. They just need to build her up a little bit. Her blood count is low. They said there’s some medication they can—”
“How did you get in on all this?” she exploded.
“She called me and asked me to come get her and take her over to the emergency room.”
“When?”
“During the night. I don’t know what time, but it was late. You know, my side of the rotation. I guess she was hoping to get fixed up and be back in her bed before you woke up.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think?” And why was she yelling at him, for chrissake?
The answer to that question shone in her eyes. They were talking about her mother.
He kept his cool.
“She doesn’t want to spoil anything for you and Jordie.”
“Spoil…” She wasn’t keeping hers, of course. She was setting aside her coffee, backing off, staring at him wide-eyed, as though he’d just ripped something out of her hands. “She called you. She makes me drop her off at the clinic and pick her up later, but she calls you…”
“Hey, it’s not like I brought her over a pint of blood that I just sucked out of somebody’s neck.”
“No, but…” She flung her arm toward the other side of the house. “I was just in the next room.”
“You were sleeping. I wasn’t.” He took a step closer and explained very calmly. “Listen to what I’m saying, Camille. She doesn’t want you to worry. She doesn’t want her illness to take away from all the excitement. It’s her way of hangin’ in, and it’s a damn good way, if you ask me.”
“How…how bad…?”
“Like I said, she’s doin’ good. They said she did the smart thing to get over there right away when she started feeling woozy or whatever. We can probably bring her home later today. She really doesn’t want Jordie to know. She’s afraid she’ll get taken off the dress detail.”
“She’s going to die, isn’t she? My mother.” She glanced out the window toward the sunny backyard and whispered again, “My mother.”
“Sooner or later she will.” Because the truth of it made him sad, he ached to hold her, trade solace with her. If she would turn, look, move, invite him in any small way, he would take her in his arms the way he’d done with her mother. He could give her a lift, easy.
But there was no invitation, so he gave a chuckle. “If I know Rosie, she’ll make it later. She’s got an important job to do, and by damn she’ll get it done.”
Her glance out the window had become a hard stare. “I hate this.”
“I know.” He had to touch her. An easy hand on her shoulder, the touch of an understanding friend. “We’re not going to tell her that. How’s the dress coming?”
“It’s going to be breathtakingly beautiful.” She turned to him, brightened, didn’t seem to notice his hand. “She’s putting so much effort into it. And all that detail…I don’t know how many seed pearls and tiny crystal beads, all sewn on by hand.”
“Then she’ll be around awhile. She’s not about to leave it unfinished.” He stepped away, ostensibly needing a refill for his cup. “Starting this week I’m gonna be working in the neighborhood. If you need me for anything, I’ll be close by.” Laughing, he gestured with the pot to offer her the first refill. “You’re thinking, Hey, that’s quite a switch.”
“I’m thinking I can be quite a bitch.” She held out her cup. He filled it, then took what was left for himself. “Is that why she called you?”
“Come on, stop feeling sorry for yourself.” Clearly she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. “Your mama loves you, and she’s decided I’m okay, even if I’m not Mr. Perfect. I told you why she called me. Take it or leave it.”
“You’re right.” She sipped, nodded, sipped again. “As soon as she’s strong enough, would you like to go with us to sample cakes?”
“Cakes?” He smiled. Cakes had frosting, and frosting was like marshmallow cream. “Can we sample with our fingers?”
The order for the bridesmaids’ dresses came first. The girls arrived at the appointed time to be measured for the outfits that were to be custom made. Rosemary had sketched the design, but she was not up to attending the meeting with Valerie Florin at the bridal shop. Camille found herself missing her mother’s perspective, particularly when Valerie filed a magazine clipping with the order rather than Rosemary’s sketch. Valerie had asked for a picture, and Jordan had come up with one she said was close to what she wanted, but she gave a few verbal instructions for more of this and not so much of that. Camille tried to point out that the sketch was exactly what they wanted and that Grandma was a professional seamstress.
“Mom, they need a picture,” Jordan said.
“Maybe Grandma would like a job,” Valerie quipped as she noted Lauren’s waist and hip measurements in her file folder. “We have such a time finding good seamstresses. Nobody sews anymore.”
“Grandma has her hands full with Jordan’s dress, but I do think you should go by her sketch.” Camille reclaimed the drawing from the table, where it lay virtually ignored. “This has all the right—”
“But it’s just so sketchy. Don’t worry.” Valerie laughed, bypassing the drawing in Camille’s outstretched hand in favor of giving Jordan’s arm a quick squeeze. “I know exactly what the bride has in mind. The basic construction will be done by a company out of state. When the suits come in, we’ll call the girls back in for another fitting,” she explained as she took the tape measure to the next girl’s hips. “They’ll be custom fit and well worth a little extra cost because they’ll be exactly what you want.”
“Don’t worry, Mom.”
Camille scowled at her daughter, a signal that she didn’t appreciate the public loyalty switch. “Have you ever noticed how you’re more likely to worry when people tell you not to?” she asked pointedly.
“Oh, Mom.”
Oh, Mom? Camille was getting the old “Oh, Mom”?
Oh, Mama.
Was this what was known as a mother’s justice? Camille remembered wearing the daughter’s shoes, the cool ones that were so far out, while Mama’s were just plain out. It had taken her more than a few Oh, Mama’s to realize that, like the prophesies of Cassandra, Mama’s caveats generally had some merit. It was irritating when Mama knew, aggravating when Mama was right. But there was also a measure of reassurance to be had—if secretly—in those moments.
Oh, Mama. Who will I turn to after you’re gone?
In the back of her giddy mind Camille heard her mother’s likely response:
Don’t rush me.
Fortunately, Rosemary’s health had improved two weeks later, in time for the first fitting of the bridesmaids’ suits. The blue lavender crepe fabric was perfect. All four suits were several sizes too large, but Valerie assured them that they always ordered on the generous side.
“You gain some, lose some, it won’t matter,” she told Lauren when she emerged from a dressing room looking like a child playing dress-up.
Lauren flashed her lacy bra as she lapped the front of the jacket and boasted, “I’ll never be this big.”
“Of course not, dear.” Valerie went after the excess fabric, gathering a handful in the back, another at the waist. “We’re going to take this in. It’ll be fine.”
“That’s a lot to take in across the shoulders,” Rosemary said. “You’ll have to do a complete reconstruction.”
“Maybe we have the jackets mixed up.” Valerie examined a tag pinned inside the back of the neck, eliciting an ouch of protest from Lauren. “Here’s the problem,” she proclaimed loudly, as though someone on the other side of the shop might have an interest in the proceedings. “This is the fourteen. This must be Beth’s jacket. Beth is at least a fourteen.”
Standing on the platform in front of the three-way mirror, a forlorn Beth Praeger turned from multiple views of her ample figure. “But this jacket almost fits me,” she said softly.
“No, dear, that doesn’t allow for any…” Valerie motioned to Beth. “Let’s switch, and then we’ll pin.”
“What about the skirt?” Lauren grabbed two handfuls of fabric.
“Don’t worry about that. That’s easy to fix.” Valerie shooed both girls back into the changing cubicles. “Makes you feel good to find yourself swimming in it, doesn’t it? Sort of like those diet commercials where they hold up the huge pants.”
Camille leaned across the arm of her observer’s chair and confided to her mother, “If Beth develops an eating disorder after this fitting, I don’t know whether I’ll sue that woman or strangle her.”
“I hope she has some good seamstresses working for her.”
Camille nodded and called out, “Valerie, how good are your seamstresses?”
“The best.” Valerie looked up from taking a hem measurement for maid of honor Amy Boulet. “They don’t speak English very well, but they can stitch up a storm.”
“A storm isn’t what we need.”
“Those jackets are too long and too boxy,” Rosemary said, gesturing with an aged but expert hand. “My design had simple but feminine lines. You’ll be taking these apart to make them—”
“Mrs. Delonga, this is why we have fittings.” Valerie rose to her full height, adjusted her glasses, and looked down her nose. “After I check everything out here and get the garments properly assigned, I’ll have Jenny take care of the rest. She’s with another customer right now.” She checked her watch. “She’ll be with us in a minute. We had to squeeze in an unscheduled bride.”
“So Jenny’s the fairy godmother with the magic wand?” Rosemary asked.
“She works magic, all right. Just wait and see.” Using Amy as a model, Valerie pointed out each area of concern. “We’ll mark the point of the pelvic bone on each girl, determine dart placement, sleeve length. They’ll be beautiful. Don’t you love the color? I would call it sterling rose, wouldn’t you?”
“The color is very nice,” Camille agreed.
Valerie smiled victoriously and flipped open the Burke file.
“Now let’s talk about the hotel decorations again, because I want to make sure you reserve everything you need from our garden collection. You say you’ve purchased brandy snifters, so you don’t need our rose bowls for centerpieces?”
Camille slid Jordan a quick glance and nodded. She’d forgotten to mention her latest find, but since it was an upgrade, Jordan would surely approve.
“That’s fine.” Valerie made some notes with a pencil. “But we want to use the mirror tiles and several votive candles per table.”
“We want lots of candles. Gobs of candles.” Camille jumped at the chance to make up for her consultation oversight. “Don’t we, Jordan?”
“I guess. As long as they blend in with our theme. This is the first I’ve heard of brandy snifters instead of rose bowls. When did you decide that?”
“When I found two dozen beautiful crystal stems on clearance for less than what they’re charging to rent rose bowls. And they’ll be yours to keep.”
“What am I going to do with two dozen—”
“You’ll have a brandy-tasting party,” Camille said with a bright smile. “I don’t know. It was a great deal, and they’re much prettier than the rose bowls. Trust me on this. Valerie, we definitely want the lattice panels decorated with white lights and tulle. Four double panels. Make it five.”
“And the curly willow in the floor pots?”
Camille stuck out her hand, palm up. “Let me see the price list.”
“I don’t have a printed list. My clients usually tell me what they want, and I do it for them.”
Not this client. Camille had her own running total.
“I’ll take care of the curly willow. I do my own willow arrangements every Christmas.” She smiled at her daughter, who had more or less suggested the lights on the branches. “That way it’s all ours.”
“Great,” Jordan said dryly.
“Mrs. Burke,” Valerie began, stepping up to Jordan’s side.
Camille answered with a cool gaze.
“Delonga, I’m sorry. The thing is, you’re the mother of the bride. You should trust me on this. No matter how creative you are, you don’t want to saddle yourself with a lot of details that might prevent you from enjoying this special day.”
“I’ll have it all ready ahead of time.”
“My mother is a graduate of the if-you-want-it-done-right-do-it-yourself school.” Jordan folded her arms, taking a standing-on-sarcasm stance. “You’re a founding member of the Twin Cities Clearance Sale Club, aren’t you, Mom?”
“Really?” Valerie looked at Camille with new appreciation. “Do you have a large membership, or does it fluctuate with the economy?”
“It’s really more a matter of principle than economy. We actually take an oath.” Camille slid Jordan another look. No guilt this time. Just pure fun. “I’m thinking of advertising our Web site in Minnesota Bride. We could help save a lot of mothers from vendors without price lists.”
“I have a list. It’s just that people don’t usually ask for a printed copy. My services are tailored to the bride’s wishes.” Valerie offered Jordan a sympathetic glance. “Generally.”
“She’s putting you on, Valerie,” Jordan said.
“You started it, sweetie.” Camille touched the bride’s advocate’s arm. “I’m sorry, Valerie. We were kidding, of course. Your services are a godsend.”
“If you were to hire a wedding planner…”
“I had a wedding planner.” Adjusting the blouse she’d just tucked into the waistband of her slacks, Lauren joined them. “My wedding planner took care of everything, and it turned out perfectly.”
“We’re doing it differently,” Camille said. The other three girls had also emerged from the dressing rooms. “However it turns out will be our version of perfect. Right, girls?”
There was an affirmative chorus from Lauren, Amy, Beth, and Kelly.
“Right, Jordan?”
“Right, Mom. Absolutely.”
Jordan stood before the floor-length mirror in her grandmother’s room watching Rosemary adjust the front of her hem. Her dress was a perfect fit. Her grandmother knew every measurement of her body, along with its history. The lines of her wedding dress would enhance the long torso she had inherited from her great-grandmother. Her strong shoulders must have come from her father’s side, but she had her mother’s long neck and Rosemary’s legs.
There was a time when Jordan would have protested being made up of other people’s parts. She looked like herself, not the stern old woman wearing the silly black hat in the black-and-white four-generations photograph her mother kept on her dresser. Not the dear, frail woman who knelt at her feet on toothpicks rather than legs. Not the Indian women who used to tell her she was too skinny and needed to eat more fry-bread and sweet, fruity wojapi when she went to the powwow to hear her father sing. Certainly not her mother, whose husband had gone away. Or astray. Jordan had tried not to wonder too much about the details. But she wasn’t like her mother. She was like herself.
And she was also like them. A little bit. Maybe. Her mother was smarter than she was. Her grandmother was more skilled. Her aunts were stronger in so many ways.
But she was younger than any of them. She looked beautiful in the long white dress that draped sumptuously over her every curve. And James Mayfield was in love with her. James Mayfield loved Jordan Burke. She smiled at the image in the mirror. Maybe she had some smarts and some skills and some strength somewhere in there.
She was, after all, made up of good parts.
“You’re pleased,” Grandma said, looking up from the floor and catching the reflection of that smile.
“It’s incredible. There simply aren’t any words to describe it.”
“It’s not nearly finished.” Rosemary poked fine pins into finer fabric. “I’m moving slowly on the handwork.”
“Grandma, don’t wear yourself out over this. It’s already the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen.”
“Wait until you see the finished product. I’m taking my time, working slowly and carefully.” She used the arm of an upholstered chair to gain a boost to her feet. Then she stepped back to assess the work she’d just done. “Once I have the edges in place, I’ll start applying the seed pearls,” she said as she disappeared into her closet.
Grandma emerged with a froth of gossamer white silk laid across her forearms. “I think I’ve finally got the veil right, but we still need the perfect anchor. What do you think? Crystal or pearls? Maybe both?”
Jordan was almost afraid to touch the delicate-looking fabric, which was trimmed with tiny crystals and pearls.
“Grandma, this is so beautiful. I can’t stand the thought that I’ll only wear it once.”
“Neither can I, which is why…” With a flourish, Rosemary gathered the length of fabric and draped it around Jordan’s shoulders. “It converts to a shawl.”
“Oh, Grandma, you’re a genius.”
“And I have something else to show you.” She ushered Jordan to the corner desk, where her computer stood ready to connect an old woman with an active mind to the outside world. “I want to do this for you myself, but only if you and James both like the idea.”
A few clicks, whirs, and beeps unveiled…a car?
Grandma gestured as though she were presenting the crown jewels. “What do you think?”
“It’s an old—”
“It’s a 1949 Packard limousine. The handsome fellow holding the door comes with it, dressed in his vintage uniform.”
Jordan laughed. “I get it. You want to meet the chauffeur.”
“He’s also the owner, and he does have a pleasant voice. I just thought it would be a nice touch with the forties theme.”
“I thought we had a garden theme.”
“With forties-style dresses, maybe it’s a victory-garden theme. You’re marrying your childhood sweetheart, which seems like a victory to me.”
“We weren’t sweethearts, Grandma. He was my hero, and I was his pest.”
Rosemary laughed. “I’ll make a note to tell your mother to add garden pests to the decor. She wants every little detail to have some meaning. Now let’s e-mail the link to James and see what he thinks of the limo.” She rolled her mouse on its floral pad and called up her address list. “And then you’ll have to go away, because one of my auctions ends in a few minutes, and it’s something I don’t want you to see.”
“Grandma,” Jordan warned.
“Don’t ‘Grandma’ me, young lady. How else am I supposed to do my shopping?”
Jordan’s wedding dress was back on its satin hanger, and Grandma was enjoying her latest hobby. There was no point in arguing with her, no reason to discourage her. Jordan was convinced that her grandmother would keep on truckin’ as long as she believed in what she had to deliver.
But it wasn’t necessary to humor her mother. Jordan found her in the kitchen preparing supper.
And she was just as pleased with herself as Grandma was.
“I’ve almost finished the arrangements for the doors to the banquet room,” Camille said, closing the oven door on some kind of casserole. “Want to see?”
“Mom, don’t you think this is getting out of hand?”
“One thing about a wedding: With stuff like candles and flowers and little accessories, you almost can’t overdo.”
One thing about her mother: She’d never been oppressively perky, and she’d certainly never been an obsessive accessorizer. Not until she’d caught this weird wedding bug.
“Have you been possessed by some sort of demon cherub?” Jordan asked.
Camille’s laugh irked Jordan all the more. Her mother simply didn’t get it.
“I’m serious,” Jordan said. “You don’t even ask me half the time. You just do it. Are you trying to show me yet again how to make something out of nothing? I’m well aware that you’re a magician and that all the world is your stage, but do you have to—”
“Wait a minute, Jordan. Your father is the performer, not me. I’m just trying to do what I can to make this wedding very, very special.”
“This wedding? Whose wedding is it?”
“Yours,” Camille said innocently. “Yours and James’s.”
Hers and James’s?
The innocence was a crock. Her mother wasn’t getting it because she didn’t want to get it. Getting it would mean giving up on doing it her way, which always turned out fine, looked good, worked well. But it always had Camille Delonga written all over it.
“Why do I feel as if James and I are fast becoming an afterthought? Walking, talking decorative elements?”
Camille looked up from the utensil drawer, the hurt shown clearly on her face. Not a big wound, but a little sting, which was all that Jordan intended.
“If there’s anything in the works that you don’t like, just tell me.”
“I am.” Jordan glanced away, then back again, steadying herself. “Whatever happened to simple, tasteful, and inexpensive?”
“Still my mantra,” Camille said with a quick shrug. “I embrace all those principles, but wait until you see what I can do within those parameters.”
“I know what you can do, Mom. And I know you’re doing it all for me. But I want…”
What did she want? What did she not want? The dress was beautiful. She’d never seen sweeter favors, and she’d been pleasantly surprised at how nice the brandy snifters were. She knew James would get a kick out of that antique limo. They were all great ideas. She liked them.
But they hadn’t been hers.
“You want it all to go smoothly,” Camille said. “No screw-ups. No wilted flowers, no flat tires. You want—”
“I just want to get married!”
Jordan had to hold on to herself to hide the awful shakiness that had suddenly struck her inside. She didn’t know why or where it had come from or what to do about it.
And she didn’t know who would, other than the person who always did.
Her mother.