“You know your business is going to take off the moment the media gets a hold of the fact that you create artisanal soaps. I figured I’d get my request in early.”
She wrinkled her nose at the thought. Chelsea liked selling her soaps because it was relatively anonymous and a fun, laid-back job that allowed her to devote time to her true passion—derby. If her business picked up, she’d have less time for Sebastian and less time for her Rag Queens. For some reason, that made her unhappy. She’d never wanted to be a soap mogul. She’d never wanted to be rich. She just wanted something that would pay enough (and most of the time, soap making didn’t pay much at all) so she could pursue her other passions. “We’ll see.”
If Gretchen heard the hesitation in Chelsea’s voice, she didn’t comment on it. Instead, she peered at an article about bridegroom gifts. “This whole thing makes me nervous, you know?” Gretchen said. “I joke about being a bridezilla, but I really want things to go well for Hunter and me. I know he’s doing the big wedding because I want one, and I feel protective of him. So I want things to be very much ‘us’ as much as they are part of the wedding. Things have to mean something. Like we’re going to have the wedding in Hunter’s gardens next summer, when the roses are blooming. I want to have a bouquet of his roses to carry. I’m going to pick everything in the menu, and I want it to be from my own recipes, not just what a caterer wants to foist off on me. I want everything to have meaning, even if I have to wrestle the jeweler and hold his arm as he creates the perfect matching bands for us.”
Chelsea smiled at her friend. It was so great that Gretchen was so excited about her wedding. “I think it sounds wonderful.”
“Which is why my soul dies a little when these magazines suggest I get him cigars or some shit as a groom present. Because the gift of lung cancer is the gift that keeps on giving, right?” She sighed unhappily. “But I don’t know what to give him, and these magazines aren’t helping.”
“Maybe a rose?”
“He can grow something better than I can get at a nursery.” She looked glum. “I just want it to be special.”
An idea hit her, and Chelsea snapped her fingers. “What about a portrait?” At Gretchen’s skeptical look, she continued. “Sebastian does art. Incredible art. Sketches, mostly, but I bet he could do a finished piece of you for your wedding. We’re trying to talk him into doing the trading cards for our derby team.”
Gretchen drummed her fingers on her lips. “Like . . . boudoir art?”
“Well, it doesn’t have to be—”
“No, I like it! And Hunter would blush like a madman, which means it would need to go in his office. Will you ask Sebastian about it?” She fluttered her eyelashes at Chelsea. “Pretty please?”
“He’s really shy about the art for some reason, but I know he would do it if it was for Hunter. I’ll tell him about it and feel him out.”
“Or feel him up?” Gretchen wiggled her eyebrows and then flicked the crown. “You’re keeping him busy.”
Chelsea grinned. “I sure am.”
The sedan parked, and Rufus and the driver got out, opening the doors for the women. They headed into the tiny bridal shop, where they were greeted by a cooing woman and ushered into a sitting room full of dresses and books. Taylor and Greer sat in the chairs, looking uncomfortable. Taylor had her phone out and was tapping busily at the screen, while Greer had a plastic garbage can held to her chin, a greenish cast to her skin.
“Oh my god, Greer, are you still sick?” Chelsea asked sympathetically. She sat down a few seats away from Greer and shook her head. “We could have rescheduled.”
“Just the car ride,” Greer said faintly, then gave them a wobbly smile. “I’ll be fine in a few.”
“Wait. I thought you had the flu?” Gretchen thumped into her seat and hauled a catalog into her lap. “You said you were fine now.”