Chapter Four
Theresa Stanford was one of the bubbliest people Rose had ever known. But there was champagne bubbly and there was a kid taking a straw and blowing bubbles into a glass of milk bubbly. Most of the time, Theresa was the good kind of bubbly. But sometimes, Rose felt little splatters of milk landing on her arms. “So, I hear you and Matt Vasilopolous know each other,” she said in a loud voice right in the middle ofBride Knows Best.
The women of the bridal party were bridesmaid dress shopping. Rose was too busy to shop, and Theresa had assured her that they could choose something without her, but Rose had carved out time by skipping her Saturday workout. Better a hint of cellulite than being stuck with a butt-ugly dress. “Yes. We do.”
“It is such a small world.” They were currently flipping through catalogues and looking at samples at the boutique where Theresa had chosen her wedding gown.
“Yeah. I have admitting privileges to the same hospital where he works. We don’t know each other well, we’re colleagues.”
Theresa nudged her with an elbow. “He says you’re an interesting woman.” She said it in a sly tone, as though Rose ought to be thrilled.
Rose’s hand tightened on the satin sleeve of the green gown she was assessing. She liked the straight, simple cut, but when she tried to picture all of the bridesmaids together she suspected they’d look like spears of asparagus. She turned her head. “Interesting woman? That’s what he said about me?”
No doubt hearing the disdain in her tone, Theresa said, “Interesting is good.”
Not that she cared what Matt thought of her, but ‘an interesting woman’ was the sort of thing you’d say about a politician you admired, a feminist activist, or an author whose books you didn’t really understand who was being interviewed on television. Rose tried not to let vanity rule her life, but she was accustomed to hearing herself described in terms like beautiful, fascinating, or, at the very least, attractive. But interesting?
She felt like a maiden aunt who’d enjoyed a long career as an archaeologist.
“And what did you think of him?” Theresa asked in that same coy tone, like a matchmaker about to score. Rose had no idea why it happened, but it seemed like the second one of her friends became engaged she turned into a determined matchmaker. Maybe it was because she wanted all her friends to be just as happy as she was, or perhaps she simply wanted her single friends to become her married friends. Either way, the engaged woman trying to marry off her friends was a phenomenon Rose found particularly distasteful. Especially now, and with Matt.
“I think he needs to get on better terms with his hairbrush and his razor,” she said, hoping to nip any matchmaking ideas in the bud.
The nipping did not work. “I know!” Theresa gushed. “He’s got that sexy, sleepy look, like he’s too busy saving lives to bother with personal grooming.”
“You’ve been watching too muchGrey’s Anatomy. Trust me, even a busy surgeon has time to shave.”
Not that she had any interest in him herself, but Rose was curious about whether Matt had a girlfriend or not. She wished she knew how to ask without Theresa thinking she was interested. Luckily, Sarah, one of the other bridesmaids, piped up from behind a row of bridal veils so she looked like a ghostly silhouette. “I heard he’s really hot. Is he single?”
Every one of the bridesmaids’ heads turned to hear Theresa’s response. The bride-to-be shrugged. “I think his social media profile would read, ‘it’s complicated.’ I’m pretty sure there is a woman in his life, but I get the feeling it’s casual.” Rose knew all about casual relationships. It was so tough to keep a relationship going and build a career in medicine.
Sarah pondered the words, as, Rose suspected, the rest of them were. All of Theresa’s bridesmaids were single. “So, he’s available?” Sarah asked.
“I say, knock yourself out.”
Rose spent the next thirty minutes using all her tact, as well as her years of staying on top of fashion trends and her natural sense of style to guide Theresa and the other women towards bridesmaid gowns that didn’t make them look like some version of tropical fruit. Since it was a February wedding, which, even in the rainy Pacific Northwest, was considered winter, the fashion was for bold colors. Reds, blues, and greens. Luckily, none of the bridesmaids was interested in frills and bows and poofs. Eventually, they all settled on navy blue dresses that were figure hugging without being too sexy.
There were samples of the dress hanging in the boutique, and one was in Rose’s size. She stripped off her cherry-red sweater, designer jeans and her favorite black boots and slipped into the sample.
As she contemplated her reflection in the change room mirror, and watched the way it hugged her curves, she decided that no one looking at her in this dress would think of her as an interesting woman.
They ordered the dresses. The most important decision made, the five women headed out shoe shopping. What they wanted was a shoe they could all fall in love with, and all wear again. The perfect pair was surprisingly easy to find. They were from one of the less expensive designers; low heeled enough that no one would be toppling, but stylish, too, with a small blue satin bow—fortunately removable—perched over the toes.
During lunch she got to know the other bridesmaids better. Sarah was a talkative, nosy, noisy woman who worked for a bank. Kimberly was her opposite in every way. A quiet, shy woman who Rose had never met before. She said little, not that anyone could get a word in with Sarah and Theresa around. She had pale blonde hair and soft features, and seemed to shrink into herself if asked a question. She was a cousin of Theresa’s and Rose got the feeling that she’d been forced into being a bridesmaid by her family. The final bridesmaid was Marta, a cheerful Mexican who laughed at all of Theresa’s jokes. Rose could see why they were friends.
All of them laughed as they related various horror stories from weddings they’d attended.
When she was half way through her Cobb salad, her younger brother James texted her wanting to meet up.
In Portland on cop business, he texted.
Coffee?
Of course she didn’t have time for coffee, but then she didn’t see James nearly as often as she’d like. She texted back.
Sure. Come pick me up.
She gave him the name and address of the restaurant. Theresa was telling them a story of how she’d almost lost her engagement ring down the kitchen sink and Stephen King himself couldn’t have imbued the tale with more horror or suspense, when James walked in the door of the restaurant.
