Not Quite A Bride

by Kirsten Sawyer

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Thrillers

Synopsis

A hilarious and heartwarming debut novel of big dreams, big days, and even bigger lies . . . Molly Harrigan has always dreamed of the perfect wedding, she just never thought she'd be in scores of them as the bridesmaid. Now on her thirtieth birthday-after her younger, married sister announces that she's pregnant-Molly's old dream takes on an all-new urgency. It doesn't help matters that her best friend Brad drops the bomb that he's engaged to his spoiled brat of a girlfriend. Devastated, Molly does what almost no one in the same situation would do. With a giant wedding fund burning a hole in her pocket (courtesy of her late, beloved grandmother), Molly hires a fiance. Now armed with the perfect boyfriend, Molly stages a whirlwind courtship, engagement, and grand-ballroom-style wedding. Lying to her friends and family is a small price to pay for cake-tastings, gift registries, and dress fittings. But lying to herself could cost Molly her one chance at true love-with a man whose feet are turning as cold as her own . . .

Release date: January 1, 2007

Publisher: Kensington Trade

Print pages: 320

Sample

I’m sitting alone on the subway ... it’s Sunday, so there are hardly any other people. The few people in my car—a woman who looks like she may live there, an athletic couple in workout clothes, and a man with a cranky little girl—are staring at me. I close my eyes and lean my head back ... why wouldn’t they be staring at me? I must look like I came from The Night of the Living Dead prom.

I’m wearing one of the ugliest bridesmaid’s dresses I’ve ever worn ... and that’s saying a lot, because I’ve worn a lot. It’s lavender and chiffon and huge. I think my friend, Maggie, was going for some sort of Gone With the Wind theme ... for her bridesmaids; of course, her own gown was sleek and sophisticated and amazing.

I’ve been in the thing since 2:00 P.M. yesterday when we began the marathon three-hour photo session. My makeup is no longer where it started ... it’s all streaked down my cheeks. My fancy hairdo that I thought had enough spray to go through a wind tunnel looks like some squirrels took up residence and then had a domestic disturbance. And one of my adorable lavender Hype sandals, the only thing about my ensemble that didn’t nauseate me, is missing a heel. I can only imagine what a sight I am.

I’m sure you’re wondering why someone who looks as bad as I currently do would opt for the public humiliation of the subway and not take a private, less shameful taxicab? Well, I had some problems ... let me explain. I guess all the problems can be traced back to one big problem—namely, alcohol. I had too much of it. Then, at 11:00 P.M., the open bar ran out and switched to a no-host bar ... meaning: buy your own booze. At that point I’d already had too much alcohol to accurately judge that a) I didn’t need any more drinks, or b) spending my cab money on rum and Cokes was a really dumb idea. The second problem, and the reason I’m on the subway during daylight hours with other human beings and not in the dead of night, is Kevin (I think it’s Kevin), the extremely handsome (I think extremely handsome) groomsman.

Too much rum and not enough Coke allowed me to think for a brief, blurry moment that perhaps Kevin was “the one” (a common problem for single girls ... every human with a Y-chromosome could be “the one”), and so I joined him in his hotel room for a high-school-caliber make-out session that would have gone farther had another groomsman not been kind enough to pass out in the same room (I am a strong believer that after college it’s wrong to have sex when other people are asleep—or awake, for that matter—in the same room). I ended up passing out in the room as well and didn’t wake up until the pounding in my head got too loud at the crack of dawn this morning when I crept out (without disturbing Kevin, the other groomsman, or the third guy who I didn’t even know had come in) to do the walk of shame.

Thankfully, we arrive at my stop just as I feel the chunks of last night’s “wedding chicken” start to rise in my throat. You know what I’m talking about, right? The standard hotel chicken, in sickening sauce with smaller-than-usual vegetables to make them fancy and creamier-than-usual potatoes to ensure stomach problems, particularly for anyone in a hoopskirt. I get out of the station as quickly as a girl with a missing heel can and take a deep breath of fresh air. Well, as fresh as Manhattan air gets in July.

As I arrive at my apartment—an apartment I’ve lived in since I graduated from college—I feel enormous relief. It’s only 8:45 A.M., but I think I’ve sweated one or two pints in the three-block walk. I climb up the three flights of stairs and I am living proof of Dorothy’s wise words, “There’s no place like home!”

I absolutely love my apartment, and although it might not be as fancy as some with elevators or doormen, it really is a Manhattan gem. It was my grandmother’s for as long as I can remember. She passed away shortly before I graduated from college and left the unit to my dad. He and my mom agreed that a two-bedroom in a great Upper East Side location was the perfect place for my sister, Jamie, and me to live upon graduation. The plan was that I would live alone until Jamie graduated three years later; then she would move in with me. Only Jamie graduated from college madly in love and got engaged and then married and never moved in. Thankfully, I was able to keep the place all for myself.

The apartment wasn’t the only thing left behind by my beloved grandmother when she died. She left me an extremely generous “wedding fund,” which has been cruelly burning a hole in my pocket. Nana and I had an extremely close relationship, and we both shared a passion for weddings. Nana really started it all. She was a hopeless romantic, married to her high-school sweetheart from the day after their graduation until the day he died. Up until the very end, she still put her wedding dress on every year on her anniversary. According to her, this was so she could relive the happiest day of her life. When questioned by my father why his birth wasn’t the happiest day of her life, all she could do was shrug. She loved weddings. Nana could describe all eight of Elizabeth Taylor’s weddings (and wedding dresses) in detail. She was up at the crack of dawn to watch every second of coverage of Princess Diana’s marriage to Charles, she kept me up late to watch Joanie Cunningham marry Chachi Arcola, and she talked my mother into letting me stay home from school when Luke and Laura were wed.

Ever since the day she presented me with my first Barbie bride doll clad in a miniature white lace gown, she and I had been planning my special day. With Nana, no wish was too indulgent. Together, we planned for five-foot trains and six-foot cakes. All through my adolescence, I believed that these plans could and would come true. I was certain that, like Nana, I would marry my high-school sweetheart. It didn’t turn out that way ... instead I found him having sex with my best friend in the girls’ bathroom at our prom. As I entered my twenties, still alone, I started to have my doubts, but Nana never did. He’s out there, Molly, so you’d better think about these plans now so that you’re ready when you find him, she’d say.

I believed her, and kept planning. As my friends started to marry off, at first it gave me hope. I saw how it was happening to people around me—dreams were coming true—so my day in the sun must be just around the corner. The block kept getting longer and longer, though, and the corner was still nowhere in sight. When my grandmother passed away, a significant portion of my devastation was that she would not be around to share the day that she and I had planned for so many years.

Then my father informed me that Nana had specifically left me an inheritance to be spent on my dream wedding. While I knew the day would never be the same without her physically there, her gift made me feel like whenever Mr. Right came along, my wonderful grandmother would still play an important part in what she promised would be the happiest day of my life. My father was kind enough to help me invest my wedding fund until the day came when I was ready to use it. Thanks to him, what was an extremely generous gift to begin with had grown into what I was quite sure would afford me my dream-fantasy wedding. The only thing missing, of course, was that dream-fantasy guy ...

I struggle through the door trying to juggle the mail, the hoopskirt and my cat, Tiffany, greeting me with the excitement that only a cat can have toward a massive amount of lavender chiffon. I drop the stuff onto the table and add some kibble to Tiffany’s dish before I drag myself to the bedroom and remove the pastel monster that has been strangling me for twenty-six hours (but who’s counting?). I kick it into the back of my closet where there is a pile of pastel puffiness in a variety of disgusting shades and materials. My cat loves this bridesmaid’s-dress graveyard, so I haven’t had the heart to heave them down the garbage chute or start a bonfire—yet. I’ve been fantasizing about doing it, though.

Other than the “graveyard,” my apartment is adorable. I really love it; it kind of looks like Monica’s apartment on Friends, but less funky and more feminine. I am so happy with it ... the only problem is that if I could ever get a man to want to come upstairs, he’d probably take one look at my pink-and-green Pierre Deux couch and run for his masculinity.

Okay, so now you know my secret ... I’m one of those women. I live alone in an overly feminine apartment with a cat.

I pull a tank top and boxer shorts on (so much better!) and collapse on my bed, not even bothering to pull my Ralph Lauren quilt back or remove the seventy-five bobby pins poking me in the skull.

I don’t stir again for many hours, and by the time I finally do manage to heave my body off the bed it’s starting to get dark. I head back out to the living room, where I am faced with an angry white cat (cats don’t like to be ignored for two days straight) and a stack of mail, which I flip through, only halfway paying attention.

“Wedding invitation, wedding gift thank-you, shower invitation, baby shower thank-you, engagement party ... what?!? When did she get engaged?!?” That gets my attention because it’s the story of my life.

Oh, I should tell you at this point ... I talk to myself, sometimes under the guise of talking to my cat, but sadly, she’s not always in the room. As I’m flipping through the mail, rubbing salt on my wounds, I notice the answering machine blinking and hit the button.

“Time of call: 6:57 A.M.,” the friendly, computerized voice tells me.

“Jeez, who called that early?!?”

Okay ... I also talk to the answering machine man ... and occasionally—all right, often—to TiVo.

“Good Golly Miss Molly ... it’s hard to believe ...”

My mother ...

“... that thirty years ago at this time my first baby was born. Daddy and I love you ... we will see you next weekend for your birthday dinner? I hope you had a lovely time at Maggie’s wedding. Did you meet a man?”

I can hear my father grumbling something in the background, and then my mother hissing something with her hand over the receiver.

“It doesn’t matter if you did or not, ’cause we love you very much, Molly.” CLICK.

Ugh ... I’d kind of forgotten ... and I was kind of trying to keep it from you. Today is my thirtieth birthday. So now you know the rest of the secret ... and I’m sure you have a clear picture of me in your head. Oh, wait ... and did I mention I’m a schoolteacher? There you have me: a single, thirty-year-old schoolteacher who lives with a cat. It’s not what you think, though. I’m not a spinster or old-maidish at all ... at least, I don’t think I am.

“Time of call: 12:04 P.M.”

“Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthda—” a voice sang. CLICK.

My sister, Jamie ... she sings every year. I don’t need to hear it and you definitely don’t need to hear it. Jamie is wonderful, but she’s always happy and upbeat and that can be exhausting. She’s also a schoolteacher (maybe that helps explain why she’s not opposed to leaving musical messages for people?) and so is our mom, just so you understand the genealogy. Jamie and I are exactly the same in some ways and couldn’t be more opposite in others. The similarities mean that we are really close but sometimes that can cause us to bicker like we are still little kids ... plus she has some middle-child issues. Jamie is three years younger than I am, she’s much trendier, and she’s way more “cutting edge.” I’m so uncool that I say things like “cutting edge.” People are always shocked when she tells them she teaches third grade, whereas they look at me and nod like it’s an obvious fact. The biggest difference, though, is that she’s married to her college sweetheart. They were together five and a half years before they tied the knot, and if I didn’t love Jamie and her husband, Bryan, so incredibly much, I’d hate them both to death.

“Time of call: 2:42 P.M.”

“Molls, it’s me ...”

“Me” is my best friend, Brad.

“I hope you don’t feel as bad today as you looked last night. Hahaha ... just kidding! Be ready at seven tonight ... I’m coming by to pick you up.” CLICK.

Brad Lawson has been my best friend since the first weekend of rush parties our freshman year of college. We both had bad first experiences with something called jungle juice—it’s a highly potent fraternity concoction that tastes suspiciously like Kool-Aid. Anyway, Brad and I ended up puking our guts out on the same bush outside the Phi Kappa Psi house. He ended up pledging there, and many of our happiest college nights finished up on that same poor hedge. When we met, we were both awkward freshmen, but by senior year my sorority sisters were both thrilled and confused by our strictly platonic relationship. I cannot count how many girls begged to be fixed up with him, thinking he was some kind of California surfer stud. He did grow up in Southern California and has blond hair and blue eyes ... but actually he’s from somewhere called Tarzana in the San Fernando Valley, and he’s never been on a surfboard. He made me swear to keep that a secret, though.

But really, once you learn to ignore his West Coast good looks, he has an amazing soul. Brad is the kind of friend you can count on to come pick you up in the middle of the night when you’re driving home from a boyfriend who has just dumped you and it’s raining and you get a flat tire. He’ll show up at your door with an Egg McMuffin when he knows you are nursing a hangover. He’ll even send you a dozen long-stemmed roses on Valentine’s Day when you’re sad and single. A better friend could not be found ... honestly, he has done all of these things (and more) for me.

I glance at the clock on the microwave and can’t believe it’s practically 4:30! I only have two and a half hours to recover from last night and be ready to go, looking twenty-five years old, to celebrate my thirtieth birthday! Perhaps I should have checked my messages sooner?

First stop: bubble bath.

Somehow, and don’t ask me how I did it, only two and a half hours later I am ready to go and looking adorable—I really am—except for the slightly funky tan line from the hour we spent outside taking pictures in the lavender curse. And even with the strange stripes around my shoulders, the hours I have spent with the free weights have left my arms looking anything but thirty. I’m telling you, prepare to watch me get carded tonight. I’m also working really hard on my positive attitude. I will not let turning thirty make me bitter.

At 7 P.M., practically on the dot, my front door buzzes. I’m in the final stages of the getting-ready process ... final sprays of perfume, buckling of sandals, lip gloss, etc.

“Crap ... who is that?” I ask Tiffany ... as if a cat knows who’s at the door. “Hello?” I holler into the intercom.

“Molls, it’s me ... buzz me up.”

“Brad?” I question Tiffany, who looks at me, confused. “Why is he so early?”

Brad enters my apartment carrying a single chocolate (my favorite) cupcake with a burning candle in the shape of a three.

“You bought a new candle for me?!?”

The birthday cupcake isn’t a complete surprise ... it’s more a tradition, really. Since my 21st, Brad has always “surprised” me with a cupcake. What is a surprise, though, is that the wax candle in the shape of a two that was used to celebrate the past nine birthdays (he never bothered to specify where in my twenties I was, which was always appreciated) has been replaced.

“Nothing but the best for you. Happy Birthday, Molly. Make a wish.”

I blow the candle out ... we all know what I wished for.

“It’s going to come true, I promise,” he says as he kisses my head.

I smile at him as I take the cupcake and start peeling off the paper. Whoever said, “Life’s uncertain, eat dessert first,” was definitely onto something.

“You’re so early—thank goodness I’m dressed!”

Brad looks at his watch, “I’m not early—it’s seven on the dot.”

“Exactly—who’s on time? On time is today’s early.”

He starts to laugh, and I can’t help but look at him fondly because his whole face twinkles when he laughs as the buzzer buzzes again.

“Huh? Is this a birthday surprise?!? (Into the intercom) Hello?” I say, looking suspiciously at Brad.

“Molly, it’s Claire. What is taking Brad so long? I’m holding a cab, you know.”

The happiness, the joy, and the anticipation of a nice birthday celebration come to a screeching halt. Brad has brought the human equivalent of nails on a chalkboard: Claire Reilly. Now I know I said that I personally don’t find Brad attractive; however, based on the reaction he gets at every bar, club, and dental office I’ve ever seen him in, all other women do. Okay, I’m lying ... I mean, I’m not blind; even I can see how good-looking he is. I have just convinced myself that he’s not, because I never want to jeopardize our friendship. But why he has chosen Claire Reilly to be with for the past year is beyond me. She’s truly awful and evil. She doesn’t work because her grandfather invented whatever thing it is in pacemakers that makes them pace and then died (ironically) of a heart attack shortly after, leaving her with an enormous trust fund. The really annoying thing is that she genuinely doesn’t understand why everyone doesn’t live off their trust fund and often acts like Brad’s job, as a writer for an extreme-sports magazine, is a hobby. She is insanely uptight and the exact reason why Brad was ringing my doorbell at 6:59 P.M.

“Molly ... are you ready? Come on, we’ve got to go.”

Oh, and did I mention that Brad is completely pussy-whipped?

I grab my bag and buckle the left sandal strap as I hop out the door. I finger my hair as we literally run down the stairwell and secretly curse Claire for preventing me from doing one last mirror check.

Out on the street, she’s holding open a cab door and tapping her little Jimmy Choos on the curb while she keeps time on her Cartier watch.

“Sorry, baby. Molly wasn’t quite ready.”

I open my mouth to protest, but what do I care? Let her hate me. The feeling is definitely mutual.

“You know, Molly, when people say seven, they mean seven.”

She ushers me into the cab and I feel like an eight-year-old who is late for the school bus. Actually, worse ... I teach eight-year-olds, and I never talk to anybody like that! Claire is one of those people that you would probably be compelled to hate even if she was an angel, because she is physically flawless. She has skin that looks like porcelain, lavender-blue eyes, and pale blond hair without a single dark root or a moment of frizz. She has a great figure and a wardrobe to match. Everything is perfect. The fact that she’s evil just makes it that much easier to wish her dead.

We get to my favorite restaurant in Little Italy where I have been coming for years and everyone knows me. I’m never sure if this thrills me or embarrasses me. A long table is set and waiting. And guess what? We’re the first of our party of nine to arrive.

We sit down and get to work on a bottle of Chianti. Well, Brad and I do ... and about fifteen minutes later my very timely sister and her husband show up with arms full of gifts. (Ooh, hooray, I forgot there would be presents!)

“Molly! Happy Birthday!! I can’t believe you’re thirty!”

Ouch ... did someone just drop an anvil on my heart?

“Jamie, can we please celebrate without using the word or any references to the number thirty?”

Jamie laughs ... does she realize I’m serious? They look around the empty table.

“You guys are so early! We thought we’d be the first ones here and could set this stuff up (meaning the stack of presents hiding Bryan). Didn’t you say 7:15?”

Claire has to cut in. “Actually,” she says, pointing to that stupid watch, “it’s 7:30.”

Jamie looks confused, but she’s never one to rock the boat, so she shrugs it off.

Over the next half-hour my friends slowly show up. It’s a good thing looks can’t kill, or Claire would have murdered my two best girlfriends from college, Alex and Lauren, and their husband and fiancé, respectively, Steve and Rob.

Lauren and I were pretty inseparable until a year and a half ago when she met Rob. We were the lone single girls from our group of core college friends and could always count on each other. Then she met Rob while interviewing for a job ... he was actually the one interviewing her. He called to tell her that she couldn’t have the job because she was just too cute, and instead of being upset (as a normal person who’d been out of work for seven months would), Lauren thought this was just the sweetest thing in the world, agreed to go out with him ... and one thing led to another. Honestly, when I have to hear them tell the story, I throw up in my mouth, just a little bit. After Rob came into the picture, Lauren forgot about our sisterhood and all the humiliating bouquet tosses and lonely Valentine’s Days we shared. Rob is great, but I still constantly have to remind myself not to be bitter and jealous ... I know it’s not intentional.

Alex is the opposite of Lauren and me ... I don’t think she’s spent a total of five boyfriendless minutes since I met her my freshman year. Although, everyone was completely shocked when she announced her plans to marry Steve, the rebound from a three-year relationship that left her completely crushed ... but he fell so head-over-heels in love with her that she was convinced by it and vowed ’til death do them part only seven months into their relationship. Because Alex was always busy with one (or two) guys, we were never as close as I was with Lauren, but I still consider her a “core” friend.

Once everyone is settled and happy (except Claire, of course) and drinking, I can’t help but look around the table: married, married, engaged, relationship, and me. I’m not sure which hurts more ... that or thirty. I push the thought out of my. . .