First, Greg Elizondo’s mother was pure genius at organization because each gown was tagged with a number that corresponded with area tags coded for each designer. If someone wanted a Maggie, she knew where to go. If they were after an Angelo, the chart showed Tara where to find it. If she had questions that needed to be looked up on the computer, she called on Greg to do that, and he seemed more than happy to help.
Still, by one o’clock she realized she was nearly an hour behind, and that wouldn’t bode well for the later appointments. Just when she thought she’d run into major time-crunch danger zone, an older woman with a pencil stuck behind her ear marched into the bridal area as if about to lead a delegation into battle. Or—and Tara hoped this was the correct assumption—she’d come to help.
The middle-aged woman stuck out her hand to Tara. “I’m Maisy and I do alterations here. I don’t want to brag, but if it’s a tricky fit or sizing, I’m first to be called. Now today, for instance?” She offered a brisk smile to the customers gathered around the first dressing room. “Greg called to see if I could come in to help.” She folded her hands across her ample middle, and Tara had a feeling that when Maisy meant business, she meant business. “I’m not one bit good at selling anything, but when it comes to moving gowns and dressing girls, well . . .” She clapped her hands together to show a job well done. “I can handle that with the best of them. And . . .” She stared at Tara as if groping for a name.
“Tara.”
“Tara here can tell you the ins and outs.”
Tara nodded agreement but then wanted to hug the older woman when she went on. “Normally we’d have a little more time to do things. We lost our owner not too long ago, so it’s been a tough holiday season for the Elizondo family.”
Instant sympathy marked every single face in the two groups of people.
“But with the new season on us . . .” Her tone said everyone should sit up straight and listen. They did, Tara included. “We’re pulling everybody back to work, and we’re determined to make this the best bridal season Elena’s has ever seen.”
The gathered shoppers adopted a “rally around the flag” attitude with gusto. Sisters and bridesmaids jumped in to help, and Tara became more like a sideline coach than a proper bridal consultant. With Maisy’s help, she locked in several sales before bride number four walked in the door at one thirty.
Hello, Bridezilla.
Tara recognized the symptoms from the score of magazine articles she’d read about not being Bridezilla. Obviously this bride—Aislynn—hadn’t read the articles, or didn’t care. With a single glance, Tara put a mental check mark in both columns.
“I don’t do princess anything,” Aislynn announced with an authority more at home in a boardroom than a bridal showcase. “And I’m not a bit froufrou. My style”—she paused with purpose, elongating the word as if it had multiple syllables while aiming a chilled look at Tara’s skater skirt, loose blouse, and bolero jacket—“is Hepburn elegant splashed with Hepburn chic.”
“Perfect,” Tara exclaimed, ignoring the condescending once-over because she thought this outfit was super cute. Take that, Bridezilla. “I love both Hepburns too.”
Tara’s quick take on the bride’s riddled request lightened Aislynn’s expression, a definite plus. “Katharine’s humor made her movies some of my all-time faves,” Tara continued, “and Audrey’s fragility?” She sighed. “Breathtaking. So why don’t we start with Dona Dona’s Vintage line?”
“You have the Vintage gowns in?” Aislynn appeared impressed, and Tara was willing to bet that not much impressed Aislynn. “I thought only select stores were allowed to carry that collection.”
“Stores in classic, vintage, and/or historic locations got the nod for the Vintage line because the backdrop complements the gown. You won’t find these in malls because Dona Dona decided a classic gown needed a similar setting and Elena’s is the only shop in the greater Philadelphia area allowed to carry them.”
“Aislynn, aren’t you glad I made the appointment here instead of at the mall? This is perfect!” Aislynn’s mother preened from the side.
“New York has plenty of shops, Mother. Well staffed with amazing designer connections.” Aislynn trained an impatient look on her mother. “But I wanted you happy, so I’m spending my last free Saturday for the next month here at”—she pursed her lips as if saying the words proved distasteful—“Elena’s place.”
Maisy almost growled. She didn’t, but Tara recognized the temptation because she felt the same way. She thrust two gowns at Maisy, excused herself, and went to the front desk to grab a new wedding folder from Greg. He angled his eyes toward the grumpy bride, then dropped his gaze to hers.
Those eyes. The kind a girl could get lost in. Lashes that should be considered wasted on a guy, but on him?