“It’s not like that. It’s complicated,” I said, shushing him.
“Maybe you shouldn’t start hooking up with this woman,” Sebastian said, clinking his glass to mine. “It sounds like it could turn into a Russian mafia situation.”
Except that now that the idea was in my head, Ivy was all I could think about. But my contentious relationship with her was already a disaster.
I think I know how to fix it though.
15
Ivy
“Ihate New York City,” Brea said to me when I saw her at our morning meeting the next day at the shared kitchen space where Sophie worked.
“You mean you don’t like the sociopathic men, the piles of garbage, and the astronomical rent?” Grace asked dryly.
Brea glowered over the lace bridal gown bodice she was stitching. The girl never stopped sewing. “I am almost thirty, and I still live with my parents.”
“But you’re a small-business owner,” Amy said. “That’s something.”
“One sixth of a small-business owner.”
“There won’t be a business if Camilla doesn’t pay,” Grace said.
“I’m working on it.” I felt terrible that my own lack of boundaries was costing my friends money. “It will be fine, I promise,” I continued. “Another bride just called me about planning a wedding for this time next year. Her dad and fiancé are loaded. She seems nice too.”
“What’s the catch?” Amy asked.
I grimaced. “She has terrible taste. She wants her whole wedding to be North Maine Woods-themed, and she wants to have it at a sporting goods store.”
“Oof!” Elsie said as she passed out little salmon-filled pastries to us.
“Eat this,” she ordered. “Also, I can go talk to Camilla since she’s not listening to you.”
Amy winced. “Elsie, you know we love you…”
“But you can’t go accost Camilla,” Grace said. “You can be very… blunt.”
“I have to be. I run a kitchen,” Elsie said, crossing her arms. My friend was tall and a bit intimidating.
Sophie bustled over to the table with a platter of several exquisitely decorated miniature wedding cakes.
“It’s raspberry-almond-chocolate layer cake,” she explained, slicing into one and handing it to me. “I’m trying a new recipe.”
“How are the proofs coming? Do you need any help on photos?” I asked Grace.
“I’m on top of them for now. Honestly, I spend more time telling brides that yes, I’m still working on them and no, I can’t just send them the raw files than actually working.”
“I’ll gently remind all our brides that they need to go through me so that you all aren’t having to deal with so many emails,” I told her, making a note.
“If it’s just a comment here or there, I don’t mind,” Sophie said, taking another of the salmon pastries. “But it’s the brides like Imogen who send these thousand-word emails and then call you and scream at you when you haven’t responded within five minutes.”
“We need to start adding a bridezilla clause to our contracts,” Amy said.
“I feel even worse for the wedding party,” Grace added as she flipped through some of the pictures on her tablet to show us the ones from the bridal tea from Friday. “Look at the poor maid of honor!”
“Mika is the matron of honor,” I corrected. “Her brother Evan is the man of honor.”
“You’re going to be spending a lot of time with him then!” Amy teased. “Now that you’re going to be in close proximity with him all the time, I predict several instances in which the stress gets the better of you and you need a release.”
