Our Bridal Shop

Chapter 18 - Alex

The envelope was worse for wear. Repeated folds where it didn't fit into her journal; bottom right corner stiff from brown gutter water; spots of dried liquid beyond that, probably Bear drool; the corner unfastening of the flap where her fingertips had lifted and considered and lifted again. It was a metaphor for the months since the one in Clement Grant, Esquire's office, where she learned of Daddy's betrayal. He hadn't returned, not like he did in those early days. Probably mad at her for her failures. Believed he had raised her to do better, to go beyond his mistakes, given her head start in life, to be perfect.

Alexandra, it makes you part of the two percent who can think through challenges.

Unfortunately, she couldn't puzzle through how to open the envelope.

Opening the letter meant getting Daddy's final word, his attempt to explain choices he should never have to explain to his daughter. What if his final word wasn't right, wasn't enough? What if his answers weren't answers at all? Keeping the envelope sealed meant that unpalatable truths outdistanced her, the carrot of hope that she would be okay still dangled.

Her mouth watered. She needed a drink, but she craved clarity more. Her forearms itched. She fastened her hair into a messy bun then yanked it out again. Clipped her fingernails into the kitchen trash. Tried not to remember that Freesia was in Mama's sewing room, moving forward with her dreams, her life, while she was inert. Finally, she picked up the wheel of correction tape and embraced what she had set out to do.

Page ten.

She scanned the list like she hadn't read it every day for nearly thirty years.

Jours Parfaits.

Perfect Days. In painstaking, font-worthy lettering. French because it gave her fifteen-year-old self the illusion of privacy.

July moon, swimming hole

Acceptance letter, Daddy's tears

podium, stadium, audience after commencement speech

Jonah - ruins

George Street Gate @ Brown, first snowfall, 9 pm

Hancock Tower alcove, April 28, Michael's kiss

December 11, Holy Cross Cathedral, happily ever after

Stickers and thinly-veiled attempts at art framed the margins. A true work of self. The self she had been then; the self that was now a stranger. She tried to think of something to add. Nothing came to mind. Not. One. Thing.

Except....

Alex picked up the envelope again. Alexandra. A message from the dead had the potential to be perfect. She laid a pristine strip of white correction tape on page ten and pressed its edges. It was almost as if the Hancock Tower and that April morning and Michael and her failing happily ever after never existed.

Almost.

She placed the envelope, still sealed, between page ten and her sketch of the ruins, slipped to the rug and curled into the outstretched limbs of her sleeping Bear. At sunrise, she awoke to find a blanket laid atop them both.

Her eyes welled.

* * *

Alex, Charlotte and Freesia had not saved Match Made in Devon, but they had come as close as humanly possible during The April Experiment to putting it on a break-even track. Embracing technology and underserved brides while purging dated inventory and leveraging the social media attention that a Hollywood bridesmaid sent in their direction, they had crawled out of the mire of crippling debt and inefficiency to build a solid foundation.