Free When Girlfriends Chase Dreams by Savannah Page Page B

her offer. But it’s not. I’m in Seattle, and the proposition is just preposterous.
    “She does such lovely work, Claire, dear,” Mom says. “And since she’s a good friend of mine—we are part of the same gardening club—I could get you a deal. And your father and I would appreciate a de—”
    “Mom?”
    “I know it’ll be a little more hassle than necessary, but—”
    “Mom?”
    “Did you go to the link I emailed you? Check out her work? She really is a very talented florist…”
    I shake my head and mindlessly flip through one of the many bridal magazines sprawled across the dining table.
    That’s a pretty veil , I think, as I come across a page filled with short, antique-looking veils. I wonder if my boutique has any of these in stock…
    “Claire? Claire?”
    “Yes, Mom.” I dog-ear the page of pretty veils and attempt a two-way conversation with my mother once again.
    “Don’t you think this is a splendid idea?” she queries. “It’s a great way to save money, you know?”
    I’m not one for confrontation. I don’t want to ruffle feathers—that’s the nature of the peacemaker. The peacemaker likes things calm and collected, and the status quo shouldn’t change much, because the status quo should always be smooth sailing, positive, and approachable. Get my mom in the middle of wedding planning and using finances as her anchor, and what can I do? Be an innocent bystander? Listen and nod and say, “Mmhmm, yes, you’re right”? Normally, probably so. So a party doesn’t go according to plan? It’s not the end of the world and it’s better to have peace among everyone than to have a party planned just the way you imagined. Or wanted.
    But it’s my wedding. It’s that special day a girl dreams about. When she’s sitting in the sandbox at five with other pink-dress-wearing girls, holding the plastic shovel like it’s a bouquet of roses, draping the hood of her jacket over her head to mock a veil, and slowly shuffling along the sand as if it were a petal-covered aisle, all the while humming the wedding song to her small female audience. This is the day I’ve been dreaming about for at least twenty years! At least since the first time I got a Ken doll to accompany Barbie. This is my wedding day, and while a lot isn’t going according to plan or shaping up exactly the way I pictured, some things just have to. Some things, right?
    “Mom,” I say as firmly as I can muster, “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
    She doesn’t say anything. Oh no. Have I hurt her feelings? Will she take me for a spoiled and selfish child? There’s no question that my mother is in fact my mother. She, too, is the calm and usually positive and peace-making type. But sometimes when she gets an idea and thinks it’s brilliant, getting her to let go is like getting Schnickerdoodle to release the dead bird in the backyard. It can be a tricky task.
    So I repeat myself, but in a less firm way. Yet I still don’t receive an answer.
    “I just think—” I begin, trying to make myself heard while at the same time keep my mom from shutting down completely. “I think that—that—that— Maybe it’s a better move…a better move both financially and logistically that we choose a Seattle-based florist.” When Mom still doesn’t reply, I quickly add, “And neither of us wants to put any unneeded stress on your friend’s shoulders, you know?”
    “I…suppose…” Finally! A response.
    “Just imagine all of the extra stress she would have, packing up all of the flowers just right, then transporting them so many miles … That’s too much to ask of a friend.”
    I think I’ve made my point and saved myself from a blowout or a row with my mother.
    “But she is coming to the wedding, Claire,” Mom counters. “It wouldn’t be any more of a hassle for her to just bring some flowers with her. She’s a Class One gardener in our club, too.”
    I heave a very heavy sigh, then cradle my cell phone in the