Long Time Coming

Rosalind’s expression brightened. “We don’t have to discuss money because Edgar and I will pay for the invitations, Bridget’s dress and accessories, flowers, music, the reception, including food and drink, the cake, photographer, accommodations for out-of-town guests and, of course, your fee.”

“Have you compiled a mailing list for your guests?”

“Yes. I’ll get it for you.”

“Please don’t get up,” Tessa said when Rosalind pushed back her chair. “You can give it to me before I leave.”

The two women spent over an hour going over the wording for the wedding stationery—the invitations, the place and reply cards. “Keep in mind,” Tessa suggested, “that with formal invitations guests’ names are handwritten in the top left corner or in the space provided within the wording of the invitation, and full titles are used. It’s going to be time-consuming, so Bridget will have to decide whether she wants to use them.”

Rosalind jotted notes on a legal pad. “What’s the latest we can send out invitations?”

“They should be sent out two or three months before the day, and certainly no later than six weeks before. I recommend including the preprinted reply cards and addressed envelopes with the invitations because they encourage guests to reply promptly. And the fact that Bridget and Seth are marrying New Year’s Eve may be to their advantage, because those who haven’t made plans for the holiday will have the perfect excuse to celebrate it at a black-tie affair.”

“So the invitations have to go out before the end of the month,” Rosalind mumbled under her breath.

“Realistically they should,” Tessa confirmed. “You’ll be given the choice between engraving, letterpress, offset lithography and thermography. Paper can be made of many different materials and come in all sorts of textures, finishes and weight. It’s the same with shapes. If Bridget and Seth want an unusual-shaped invitation, then they must keep in mind that it will call for custom-made envelopes. I always tell my clients that wedding stationery should be printed at the same time. Would you like a printed menu?”

“Yes. That’s something you can take with you along with the guest list. I—” A soft tapping on the door preempted her words. Turning, she glanced over her shoulder at Edgar. “Yes, dear?”

He walked into the room. He’d changed into a pair of sweatpants, a shirt and running shoes. The faded logo of Princeton University was barely legible. “Are you almost finished?”

Rosalind looked at Tessa, who nodded. “Give us a few more minutes.”

Edgar nodded, smiling. “Tessa, I hope you’re going to join us.”

“Join you for what?”

“Micah didn’t tell you?”

Tessa shifted her gaze from Edgar to Rosalind, her expression mirroring confusion. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Rosalind rested a hand on Tessa’s shoulder. “On Sundays the family gets together after brunch to play touch football.”

Tessa’s jaw dropped as she opened her mouth but no words came out. She couldn’t believe Micah had asked her to dress casually just so that someone could tackle her. If he’d mentioned football, then she would’ve told him that she didn’t do grass and dirt.

“I—I’m afraid I’m not dressed to play football,” she stammered.

Rosalind waved her hand. “Don’t worry about ruining your lovely twinset. You’re about the same size as Bridget. I’ll find something in her closet that’s certain to fit you.”

Seething and cursing Micah inwardly, Tessa forced a smile when she felt like grimacing. She’d come to New Jersey to coordinate a wedding, not play football.

Chapter 6

Tessa, wearing sweatpants and a Smith College sweatshirt and running shoes belonging to Bridget, studied the framed photograph of the woman whose clothes she wore. Rosalind had given her a new bra-and-bikini-panty ensemble to change into after the football game. The older woman appeared embarrassed when she disclosed her daughter’s obsession with frilly, delicate undergarments. The six-drawer lingerie chest was filled with bras, panties and camisoles in every fabric and color, many with the sales tags still attached.

Tessa discovered she and Bridget were almost the same size. She had an inch or two on her client in the hips, but Bridget was a cup larger in bra size.

She smiled. Now Tessa had a face to go along with the name. Smiling and staring directly at the photographer, dark-haired, green-eyed Bridget Sanborn radiated a youthful exuberance that enhanced her delicate beauty.

There was something else she’d discovered when Rosalind had directed her to her daughter’s bedroom suite: Bridget was feminine and romantic. Tessa felt as if she were on the set of a Merchant Ivory film. The furnishings and decor were unabashedly Victorian. A nest of gossamer pillows piled doubly high on a lace-trimmed counterpane graced a mahogany bed with a carved headboard and posts. Embroidered sheers at the windows filtered the afternoon light into a space with stark white walls. A collection of pale straw hats hung from pegs along one wall.

Photographs of Bridget, chronicling her life from infant to womanhood, along with photos of her brothers, parents, sisters-in-law, nephews and nieces, crowded the fireplace mantel. She stared at one of a younger Micah in his regulation NYPD uniform; her gaze shifted to an updated photograph of him with Edgar and Rosalind in front of Brooklyn Law School. There was no mistaking Rosalind’s pride when she smiled up at her son resplendent in a gown, hood and velvet tam.

Cognizant that the Sanborns were waiting for her, she left the bedroom and made her way down the long hallway to the staircase. She’d just placed her foot on the first stair when she saw Micah standing at the bottom, waiting for her. A sweatshirt had replaced his sweater, and as she came closer she saw Columbia University stamped across the front.

She stopped on a stair that brought her head level with his. Eyes narrowing, she glared at him. “I owe you one for tricking me,” she threatened softly.

He stared, unblinking. “What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t tell me that I’d become a participant in a football game.”

He flashed a smile, his eyelids lowering slightly, and she held her breath for several seconds. The expression was sensual enough to be X-rated.