Читать книгу: «Made Of Honor»

Advance Praise for
Made of Honor

“Made of Honor is most definitely sassy, cynical, humorous chick lit. But in Mary’s inspired hands, her book is also custom-made with love, faith and a huge dollop of aromatic tenderness.”

—Sharon Ewell Foster, Christy Award-winning author of Ain’t No Valley

“With a voice that begs you to relax, sit down and put your feet up, Marilynn Griffith writes of the complexities of love, family, friendship and what it means to be the bride of Christ, and does so with honesty, humor and grace. Don’t miss Made of Honor or Marilynn—both welcome additions to Christian fiction!”

—Lisa Samson, Christy Award-winning author of Club Sandwich

“Marilynn Griffith’s voice just sings! Watch out, world, Made of Honor will make you laugh out loud and welcome you into the Sassy Sistahood.”

—Kristin Billerbeck, bestselling author of She’s All That

“Fun! Fresh! Full of faith! A merry heart does good like a medicine, and Marilynn Griffith’s writing is just what the doctor ordered.”

—Annie Jones, bestselling author of Mom Over Miami

“With poetic description and compelling storytelling, Marilynn Griffith delights readers with every sentence.”

—Stephanie Perry Moore, bestselling author of the Carmen Browne series

“Hilarious! Marilynn Griffith is a great new voice readers won’t forget!”

—Cyndy Salzmann, bestselling author of Dying to Decorate

“Whether it’s a book or a blog, Mary Griffith brings a fresh, funny, faith-filled new voice to the world of Christian chick-lit. More, please!”

—Lynn Bulock, bestselling author of Love the Sinner

“Marilynn Griffith is a fresh voice in Christian fiction. Her funny, breezy style is sure to take the market by storm!”

—Tracey V. Bateman, bestselling author of Leave it to Claire

“From the beginning to end, you can’t help but see the hand of God ministering through Marilynn Griffith’s work.”

—Vanessa Davis Griggs, bestselling author of Wings of Grace

“Marilynn Griffith digs deep inside to write a novel about everyday people who love the Lord.”

—LaShaunda C. Hoffman, editor, Shades of Romance magazine

“Looking for a sassy, engaging read that keeps you turning pages and recalling your faith? Look no further. Marilynn Griffith won’t disappoint.”

—Stacy Hawkins Adams, bestselling author of Speak to My Heart

“I roared with laughter when I read the opening lines! And what a refreshing change to read a novel where not one, not two, but most of the Christians don’t have lily-white backgrounds! Made of Honor is sassy and soulful, laugh-out-loud funny and oh-so-real. A welcome addition to Christian chick lit!”

—Laura Jensen Walker, bestselling author of Dreaming in Technicolor

Made of Honor
Marilynn Griffith

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my parents, Donna Lee McElrath and

Michael Onyedika. Thank you for giving me life.

Because of your love I was created, fearfully

and wonderfully made.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing a book is never the work of one woman. The fingerprints upon these pages are many. My apologies if someone is not mentioned by name as space is limited. My gratitude, however, is not, I thank you all, with all my heart. That said, special thanks to:

Christ, for helping me tell this story. As always, You brought me through.

Ashlie, Michelle, Fill Jr., Ben, James, John and Isaiah, thanks for eating all that Chunky soup without complaining and for tolerating all the soap and candles I made instead of dinner. I love you all.

Fill, for your unflinching belief in me, for proofreading my proposal, keeping my computer running, making graphics when I need them yesterday and tolerating my mania in general. You are my hero. Your love makes me strong.

My mother, Donna, and all the Freeman clan, thanks for being so funny, even when life was serious. I’m honored to be part of such a gifted family.

Kent and Debbie Nottingham and the family of Calvary Chapel Tallahassee, thanks for loving my family and teaching us the Word for the past ten years. Thanks for being a place of refreshing.

My editor, Diane Dietz, for laughing in all the right places and for being a pleasure even amidst her losses; executive editor Joan Marlow Golan, thanks for giving me a chance and for your hard work for our line.

Dave Robie, for his diligence in finding a home for my work.

Jessica Ferguson, thanks for being my best critic and my cheerleader in hard times. I never could have done this without you.

To the many people who gave input on this book at varying stages: Lisa Samson, Sharon Ewell Foster, Laura Jensen Walker, Linda Baldwin, Beth Ziarnik, Tracey Bateman, Lynn Bulock, Rachel Hauck, Stacey Hawkins Adams, LaShaunda Hoffman, Vanessa Davis Griggs, Stephanie Perry Moore, Dr. Gail Hayes, Cyndy Salzmann, Kristin Billerbeck, Colleen Coble and everyone I’m forgetting to name.

Angela, Jackie, Vicki, Donna, Rosemary and the other godly single women in my life. You inspire me.

My friends, Joy, Melissa, Gail and Claudia, thanks for tolerating my silences and disappearances. Each of you is a gift to me.

The ladies of The Threshing Floor: Amy, Jennifer and Staci, thanks for your great feedback and support. You mentored the mentor.

Yolanda Callegari Brooks, for your friendship and support. I love you. Sisterly.

My Faithchick.com sisters. Blogging with you and getting to know you has been a pleasure. I’m honored to know you all.

To Heather, Claudia, Bobbie, Paula and all my friends in the blogosphere. Thanks for being there. It means a lot.

To the Word Praize family, thanks for your support and friendship and for hanging around despite all my absences. I believe in each of you.

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

1 As the book opens, Dana has mixed feelings about her best friend’s wedding. When her instincts turn out to be correct, she prays for Tracey and tries to help her sort out her feelings but realizes she wants her own marriage to be different. Have you ever known ahead of time that a relationship might not be the best idea for you or for a friend? Did you go through with it anyway? What happened?

2 Dana, Tracey and Rochelle are some of the last members of the Sassy Sistahood e-mail list. If you had a chance to join a group like this, would you? If so, which of the three friends would you probably be closest to? Whom did you identity with most?

3 Dana’s sister has done some hurtful things to her, but now Dahlia’s trying to live for Christ. Would you struggle with having someone like her back in your life or would you freely forgive Dahlia, knowing that God will transform her as she grows as a Christian? Did Dana do well in how she handled this situation? If not, what could she have done better?

4 Austin, the local news reporter who visits Dana’s shop, becomes a new and unexpected friend. Though the two women seem to have little in common at first, as they spend more time together, they realize they have much to share. Have you ever made an “instant friend” like Austin? Are you still friends with that person today?

5 Dana spends a lot of time thinking about the past with Adrian and struggles at first to consider a future with him. Though her memory of him stealing her business idea turns out to be false, something much worse turns out to be true. Have you ever reached a turning point when you had to let go of the past to grab on to the future? What did you decide? Do you think that Dana made the right decision with Adrian?

6 Dana’s relationships with her father and brother start out rocky at best. Yet, in the end, Jordan and her dad are there for her and support her. Have you ever had to rethink your feelings on someone in our family? Has someone you know made a great turn around in their life? Did you find their new life hard to accept?

7 Though Dana’s goal is to make products to help women relax, she stresses herself out to do it, to the point of endangering her own health. Have you ever been so concerned for others that you couldn’t find time to take care of yourself? Do you struggle to balance work, family and faith? If so, what is one thing you can do this week to relieve some stress?

8 Throughout the story, Dana struggles with her weight, although she ends the story at the same weight she started at. At the end of the tale, however, she is healthier and feels better about herself. What do you think made the difference in her attitude?

9 Dana’s business started out as a hobby. Is there something you’ve always wanted to try or learn about, but you’ve never had the time? If your resources were unlimited, what kind of craft or hobby wold you try? If the funds for a business startup were at your disposal, what kind of business would you be interested in?

10 The verse at the front of this book is Psalms 139:14 “I praise You because I am fearfully and wonderfully made…” The return of her brother and old boyfriend, starting a new business and almost losing her life certainly showed Dana what she was made of. In the end, she was both stronger and weaker than she’d thought. Have circumstances in your life revealed what’s in your heart? Were you surprised by what you saw? If not, what do you think made the difference?

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter One

I’m turning into a Chia Pet.

With legs.

Little children are starting to toss dandelions when they see me. The brides of Leverhill, Illinois, have taught the kiddies well. One little darling wants to grow up and be just like me—a big flower girl. She nailed it, especially about the big part, but we’re not going there. Not today, with my formerly fat friend looking like Twiggy-goes-bridal, while I gasp for breath in a dress fit for a train wreck. My only consolation is not having to worry about Tracey aiming a floral missile—known to some as a bouquet—at me later on.

She wouldn’t do me like that, would she? Nah. At least that’s what I tell myself, but then I thought this wedding wouldn’t happen, either. Still, this bride is one of my closest friends and my roommate for the past three years. Tracey Cox—well, Tracey Blackman now—has picked enough baby’s breath out of my teeth to know better.

Just in case though, a pint of Chunky Monkey and a pedicure appointment await me after this reception. Who knows? Tracey just might snap and throw long. Marriage does things to people. One day they’re normal and the next they’re inviting total strangers to wear ugly dresses in their weddings, and then after the ceremony, said brides proceed to cut off all communication with members of the wedding party except for goofy Christmas photos of the newlyweds cradling an ugly dog, signed “from all of us.” And don’t let them actually get pregnant. Have you ever seen an entire album of birth photos? Not cute.

Do I sound bitter?

I’m not. I have friends. And trying to keep up with them, keep my job and stay right with God occupies most of my time. Like now. I need to find Rochelle, my other best friend—yes, I have two—and founder of the Sassy Sistahood e-mail list. If I don’t catch up to her soon, she might make a fool of herself.

Or me.

Though my girlfriend is a paragon of virtue most days, weddings turn Rochelle into a gelatinous pool of desperation. Remember the birth photo album I mentioned? It’s worse. Okay, so nothing’s worse than that, but it’s bad. Even the sight of me, tangled in tulips after a bouquet toss, is easier on the eyes.

Using my emergency X-ray vision, activated by squinting so hard I almost fused my contacts to my eyeballs, I glimpsed a pink satin horror similar to my own, but a set of three-inch shoulder pads blocked my view. Who would wear a power suit to a wedding—?

My boss. There she was, looking just as angry as when I’d left her at work last night. I ducked before she saw me, recovering from my shock that she’d even shown up. The bride, who left our office to start her own graphic design firm six months ago, insisted on inviting Naomi, her former and my current employer, and Renee, my assistant, who was probably somewhere taking pictures of me for later blackmail. She’d be giggling in my ear for the next month. At least.

My next few weeks of torture aside, I was proud of Naomi for actually leaving the office—I think she secretly lives there. For her to show up at her own funeral would be the height of etiquette. Some people just don’t grasp interaction, you know? And having “interacted” with Naomi daily for the past six years, I could do without her today. Besides, I needed to find Sassy Sistah #1 before she melted down and kissed somebody.

With that thought as fuel, I forced my satin shoes that were dyed to match the gown—the dye was free, I guess Tracey couldn’t resist—across the sprinkle of autumn leaves on the ground. Rochelle tiptoed up beside me, fanning her face, despite the growing chill. Man Mania was in full swing.

“Did you see Ryan’s brother?” she said breathlessly. “From the looks of things, Tracey should have picked him.”

From the reality of things, anyone seemed a better choice. I mentally squashed the nagging doubt about my friend’s hour-old marriage. Thoughts like that were getting me nowhere. It was done. God would have to take it from here. Me worrying myself to an ulcer before I got back to work on Monday was definitely a waste of resources.

I shook my head at Rochelle and considered reaching out and shaking hers. This time she was really in the zone. I spoke right into her ear, hoping it would jar her brain. “I wasn’t really paying attention to the brother of the groom.” Or any other man around here. What would be the point? The last guy I dated had just married my best friend.

Rochelle made a clucking sound. “You should have been paying attention. His brother is fiiine.” She rolled her neck for effect, but didn’t quite pull it off. I just stared. She’d been watching too much UPN again.

“Come on.” I tugged at her arm and started back across the smattering of red-gold leaves, away from Mr. Fiiine. She’d hate me tomorrow if I didn’t. If a man showed up later on in response to Rochelle’s flirting, she would run for her life while dictating a restraining order into her recorder.

Usually, her wedding trance would have been long since broken. But this was Tracey’s wedding. And whether Rochelle and I were willing to admit it or not, we’d both thought that if anyone got married, it’d be us, not the cute, fat, geek of the group. Not that Tracey was fat anymore. Plump-but-cute girl was currently being played by moi, my midsection pressed against the strangling fabric of my dress as if in agreement.

Rochelle made a shrill sound, almost like a whistle. The weary-in-well-doing sigh. Not a good sign. Her pink leather t-strap shoes, designed by her own hand and much prettier than my prom knockoffs, peeked from underneath her Pepto-pink frock, several sizes smaller than my own. Our skirts skimmed the lawn every few steps. This was downright antebellum.

Rochelle’s words cut through my thoughts. “I can’t help feeling romantic on days like this. Lately, I even wonder if—”

“If what?” My body stiffened. I’d heard this speech before. All my die-hard single friends give this little talk before crossing over into the sea of wanna-be wives. Tracey’s little rant three months ago was still fresh in my mind. Rochelle? Despite her wedding breakdowns, I never thought I’d hear it from her. Well, not this soon anyway.

“I’m just talking,” she said, moving faster. “It’s nothing, really.”

More like a big something, but I decided to leave it. This day had enough mess going without adding to it. Time for a detour. “I hope the punch is good.”

Rochelle nodded, gathering her skirt to gain a little speed. Good punch could cover a multitude of sins. Even Tracey marrying Ryan. Okay, he’s not so bad. He’s rich, handsome and loves her to pieces. But there’s just something creepy about the guy. I don’t know. Forget I said anything.

While I pondered the groom’s strangeness, Rochelle grabbed my wrist, digging her natural-length nails into my flesh. Without looking at her, I knew it was already too late. And we’d almost made it to punchdom.

Tracey wouldn’t, couldn’t throw that bouquet at me.

But she did.

A few inches ahead, a group of women floated onto the green in front of us, forming a frightening pastel cloud. The bride broke through, holding her weapon of choice—peach hybrid roses from the Leverhill Botanical Gardens.

“Run!” Rochelle screamed with the concern of a fire marshal at a brewing blaze.

Obeying her command was my first mistake. The stop-drop-and-roll technique is always best to achieve my goals: avoid head trauma, keep the contacts in and keep the dress covering my backside.

As previously stated, I deviated from this method.

When nothing tagged the back of my head—seriously, they stopped aiming for my hands two summers ago—I did a dumb thing and turned around. The bouquet slapped against my forehead like a Jackie Chan sound effect. I tripped on my skirt trying to escape—she’d already nailed me, of course, but it was instinct. My dress ballooned around my waist like a giant boat made of Bubble Yum.

Then…the pain burned beneath my eye. What was that? I dropped to one knee, jerking the whole pink mess of me back into place, while peeking through my fingers. Something I mistook for tears trickled into my mouth. Blood.

I wobbled to my feet. “What in the world?” I’d been hit with a lot of flowers, a few small shrubs even, but no one had ever drawn blood. This was past wrong.

Rochelle hovered over me, panting and picking greenery from between my braids. Satisfied with her job on that, she peeled back my fingers and surveyed the scratch under my eye. “The thorns. Tracey forgot to have them removed. It was the only thing on her list…sorry.”

I took my hand off my eye. Rochelle’s tone let me know that she hadn’t been in on this but she had been aware of the possibility. Not for the first time, the Sassy Sistahs made me mad. Tracey approached slowly, waving like she always does after doing something crazy. I felt my anger wash away at the sight of her silly grin. Still, this was a bit much. “Thorns? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Wish I was.” Rochelle dabbed my face with a napkin from her clutch. No doubt there was a first-aid kit, needle and thread, makeup bag and two shades of pantyhose crammed in that tiny thing. How she’d even managed to hold on to it while trying to drag me to safety was beyond me, but I’d long given up on trying to figure out Chelle’s superhuman womanhood. She just has skills like that. I’m lucky to keep my shoes on. Although I did manage to keep my contacts in. A new accomplishment.

Just before Tracey reached us, someone from the groom’s family intercepted and wheeled her away. The beginning of the end. She was no longer my roommate, my best friend. She was someone’s wife. We walked past Tracey, giving us the “be right there” signals.

Rochelle smiled.

I sulked. “Knowing Tracey, she probably thought it was more Christlike to leave the thorns on.” Mock disgust sounded in my voice. I was trying to be mad and couldn’t.

“Hush you,” Rochelle said, using our code phrase for when one started in on another of the three. It was the standard defense, but right now I felt like pushing past it.

Tracey joined us and slipped an arm around—well, almost around—my waist. “Got you, didn’t I? Sorry about your eye though.”

“You’d better be glad I love y’all,” I whispered as people packed in around us. Pain seared my scalp where Rochelle had raked a stem through my hair.

“Maybe if you’d helped with the wedding errands, you could have taken care of those thorns,” Rochelle said, reaching back in her purse for her dabbing cloth.

Ouch. That hurt way more than my eye. The truth always does. I pushed away Rochelle’s hand, preferring to blink my own way back to health. In a minute, there’d be no skin left on the right side of my face. That girl was dangerous with a Kleenex.

Tracey started to say something, but was called away…again. I took a deep breath, watching her walk to the punch table with her mother-in-law. Where was the groom? Why was I the one getting jealous instead of him? Shouldn’t her husband have been the one hunting her down?

Like I said, he’s a little weird. This whole deal was. But there was no use trying to explain that to Rochelle. She wasn’t trying to hear it. So I did what I always do—tried to explain it anyway. “Look, Rochelle, I already regret not helping out with the wedding. But I just wasn’t sure about this. When I dated Ryan—”

She tried the neck thing again. With success this time. “Dated? Is that what you call it? That mess was so boring he just stopped calling and came back to the singles group. So he wasn’t for you. No reason he can’t be the one for Tracey.” In a deft motion, she grabbed a napkin from the table next to us, wadded it quickly and removed several layers of my epidermis. “There’s just one last spot….”

She reached out again, but I shook my head, thinking I should have thrown in some cookies with the Ben and Jerry’s waiting for me at home. The line we’d joined without meaning to inched toward the punch and some gruesome-looking cake with what appeared to be bubble gum toothpaste for filling. I definitely should have helped with the wedding plans. At least the punch looked good. It would have to be.

The line crept on. So did the conversation, though I was reluctant to respond. “Just to be clear. I do not want Ryan. Never did. I don’t want anybody. And I don’t appreciate the insinuation.” My lips barely moved as we spoke through our smiles so no one would hear. Only a ventriloquist could do better.

Rochelle nodded. “Okay, so that was a bit much.”

“Quite a bit. I’m just not feeling Ryan, okay? I know you’ve got a chapter and verse for why I shouldn’t think that, but I’m just being real. Tracey is like a piece of me. How can Ryan be totally wrong for me and totally right for her? I’m having a hard time understanding that.” I glanced toward the punch bowl at Tracey. She looked happy. So why did I doubt she’d stay that way? “I’m surprised Ryan put down his cell phone long enough to get married, actually.”

“Me, too,” Rochelle whispered, in a moment of weakness. “But he married her,” she said, regaining strength. “Now we have to keep them lifted up in prayer.” She squeezed my hand.

I squeezed back, knowing she’d prayed for me just that quick. She was right. I needed to let this go. “I can’t believe you thought I was jealous though.”

I wasn’t, was I?

Rochelle smiled. A knowing smile. “The real problem is that with Tracey gone, you’ll be alone like the rest of us.”

My neck craned forward, as if to catch the truth of her words before they hit the ground. The punch bowl was almost close enough to touch now. I needed a cup. Bad. When my friends nail me, I get thirsty. And this time, Rochelle had me. Since my mother’s death, I’d only lived with Trevor years ago, the boyfriend I almost married, and Tracey. There were always Dad’s sporadic visits when he wasn’t drunk, but not frequent enough to count. Going it alone with God was frightening, but exciting, too.

An older man, the color of ripe peaches and scented with Old Spice, lingered over the cups. I slid my feet back into my shoes—I wanted to kick them off so bad—and tried to be patient. I couldn’t help thinking that a drive-thru would have been faster than this.

I rubbed my arms. Between the tight sleeves and the cold air, it was a wonder my blood was still circulating. “You got me about the living alone thing. In my defense though, I did suck it up—with the help of a Lane Bryant cheetah girdle no less—and put on this dress. There has to be some points for that. Do I look like Miss Piggy with cornrows or what?”

Rochelle’s eyes turned into brown, wet suns. She covered her face in anticipation of wild laughter.

I shook my head. Rochelle could be so silly. Tracey, too. And I was being serious here. When I actually went for funny they just looked confused. “For real, though, did you see anything when my dress flew up?”

She choked back a giggle. “Not a thing. It looked like a pink sailboat…covered with roses.”

I pinched her arm. Hard.

When I turned back, there was Tracey. And the punch bowl. Perhaps I should have taken more time with my cup selection. When would this awkwardness go away?

Lord, let me be wrong. Let them live happily ever after. Somebody around here needs to.

Hard to believe the svelte beauty was once chubby, innocent Tracey, whose first experience with men was the warm touch of our personal trainer. Well, her personal trainer. I fired him after the fourth session. Why pay somebody to call you a failure? That’s what friends are for.

I should know.

Tracey gave me a “be good” look as her mother-in-law filled my cup halfway. She never did like me and probably never would. No cause to be stingy with the punch though. It was a wedding, after all.

Ignoring the full serving plus a napkin that Rochelle received, and observing that the mother of the groom had somehow managed to pick a cute dress for herself while uglying up the rest of us, I headed for the nearest chair, tied back neatly in ivory linen. I had picked those chair covers, way back at the beginning, but nobody seemed to remember that. I sat down and brought the cup to my lips, and then froze, half sitting, half standing. Sure the liquid had been yellow instead of red, but I never thought…. The secret punch. She didn’t forget me.

Rochelle’s hand pressed into my shoulder. I eased down into the chair. Tears stung my eyes. “Tracey used my favorite punch for her wedding?”

We sat quickly, pretending strangers didn’t flank us on all sides. Rochelle took a long sip, almost longer than my first. “Another drink was planned, but when you never showed up to any of the wedding functions, she thought you were upset and fought with Ryan’s mother to serve your favorite, Pineapple Passion Fruit.”

I dried my already raw eye. “But how? Daddy doesn’t give anybody the recipe—”

“He made it himself. Ten gallons. And the ice sculpture, too.”

That dolphin. I knew it looked familiar. A sob stalled in my throat. That old man. Just when I want to give up on him, on myself, he does something like this. And Tracey, too.

“Yoo-hoo!” My assistant Renee called to me from where she sat squeezed in between my boss and one of Ryan’s big bosomed aunts, in a dress barely zipped up. They were two tables away, but still too close. Naomi nodded slightly, wearing her game face, permanently plastered on, no matter the occasion.

And so she should after the way we’d both been kicked out the conference room a few days ago. I’d recovered—with the help of a few bear claws—but Naomi was still sulking over the cancellation of the Java Lava scent project. Apparently, people liked to drink coffee, but weren’t too crazy about smelling like it. I’d have to absorb Naomi’s whirlwind anger on Monday at Scents and Savings, but there was no sense rushing into a tongue-lashing from her now. I stayed put, despite Rochelle’s elbows, also known as hospitality prompts, digging into my ribs—well, the fat covering my ribs.

“Good to see you two. Some wedding, huh?” Despite my attempt to sound casual, even businesslike, my desire to run screaming to my car was apparent.

The deejay’s bellowing voice swallowed Naomi’s terse reply, leaving me free to shrug and turn away, savoring the deliciousness of my last sip of punch. The tangy sweetness reminded me of Daddy’s Sunday afternoon dinners and lazy summers. Reminded me of a man who smelled like this punch tasted.

My first love.

It’s official. I’m losing it. Can’t even give me wedding punch now. I’m turning into Rochelle.

I pressed my wrist to my nose, as if trying to exorcise the memory of Adrian Norrell, the man never spoken of in the Sassy Sistahood. The original heartbreaker. Though my sister and ex-boyfriend did a pretty good job following up behind him. Still, that fiasco didn’t compare to me losing Adrian, who seemed always to be at the edge of me on days like this, even though he was long gone. Vanilla Smella, the bestselling scent in my line of homemade bath and beauty products and Tracey’s favorite, met my nose with notes of honey and crème brûlée, a warm blend that seemed to remove the chill starting to nip at my skin. At times like this, my I-don’t-have-a-man-but-I-can-make-stuff tendencies came in handy.

If only I could get Rochelle to stop trying to make me quit my job and open a shop when she wouldn’t even use my products. Maybe by the time I was making her honeymoon basket, she’d want to do more than decorate her bathroom with my stuff. As uptight as she could be sometimes, she’d still be married before me. Naomi would probably even beat me to the altar with her mean self.

I’d long since stopped trying to make sense of it. It’s just the nature of things. Some girls get married and some girls get…

Flowers in their hair.

The reception dragged on, though I never felt received. People from BASIC, our church singles group—it stands for Brothers and Sisters in Christ, but it I secretly call it Brothahs and Sistahs in Crisis—stopped to speak to Rochelle and me, dropping not-so-subtle hints about who might wed next. My name was never mentioned. In the present company, that was a relief. Alone again, Rochelle and I indulged in girl talk, something we hadn’t had time for in a while. Not face-to-face anyway, though we volleyed e-mails like Venus and Serena.