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Laughing, Mom gives Bailey’s hand a little shake. “Save that talk for your wedding day. Now, I can’t make promises, but why don’t you get out of that Bed Bath and Beyond monstrosity while I make a phone call.”
Half an hour later, we’re pulling up in front of an A-frame house tucked away in the hills west of Asheville. Shannon and Jenny apologetically bowed out because Mom couldn't give a solid time estimate for this mystery outing. I have no clue, other than the address she plugged into my GPS.
Bailey insisted on taking the back seat to give Mom the more comfortable front. I’m starting to see a pattern here. Though I admire it, I want, with as much force, to protect Bailey, to be the one to make sure she’s getting whatsheneeds.
But saying yes to whatever dress thing my mom concocted isn’t a terrible thing, so for now, I won’t step in and try to make sure Bailey is prioritizing herself enough.
More than once on the winding drive, other drivers honked at me because I got distracted looking at Bailey in the rearview mirror. I’m grateful when the GPS—which Mom reprogrammed to sound like asexy bloke, her words—directs me to pull into a circular gravel drive. I park behind an ancient Toyota truck with half the letters scraped off so the tailgate simply readsToy.
Dashing around to the passenger side, I open Bailey’s door before scooping Mom up in my arms.
“Whose house is this?” I ask, looking up at the house.
“A friend,” Mom says sagely, sounding like a fortune teller looking into her crystal ball, a black cat twining around her ankles.
“Is it someone from book club?” Bailey asks.
I wonder if her shyness extends to meeting new people in smaller groups. I’ll have to tack this onto the ever-growing question list. Maybe I need to take a page out of Alec’s book and make a spreadsheet, maybe two:Things I know about Bailey. Things I want to know.
“Nope.”
I don’t like the smug note in Mom’s voice. Forget a fortune teller. She’s like the fortune teller’s cat who just ate the creamandthe canary.
“Cute house,” Bailey says as we climb the front steps. “Almost looks like a Swiss chalet.”
“Just needs snow on the roof, some flower boxes, and a herd of mountain goats,” Mom agrees. Bailey still looks unsure, hanging back a little until I move so we’re standing shoulder to shoulder. I wish both of my arms weren’t needed to hold Mom so I could take Bailey’s hand. She looks like she needs a little dose of solidarity about now.
Though she didn’t seem happy at the bridal store, we showed up, derailed her whole plan to try on dresses with her best friends, and now are at some stranger’s house for reasons Mom won’t say but hopefully have something to do with finding Bailey a dress she doesn’t hate.
Mom presses the bell, and what sounds like a miniature dog chorus starts up inside the house. Shrill barks. A lot of them. It gets louder before the door swings open, revealing a woman who, even in bare feet, is taller than me. She’s wearing black joggers topped with a silk kimono-style robe, her multicolored braids twirled in what almost looks like a crown on her head.Her height is surprising and maybe a little intimidating, but her smile is wide and welcoming. She also looks familiar, but I’d remember if we’d met.
The dogs, all ankle-biters—some actually nipping at my ankles—spill across the porch, a blur of brown and white and gray and black.
“Maggie,” the woman says, reaching out to give Mom’s hand a soft squeeze. “I’m so glad you thought to call.”
“I’m so glad you had time for us. Zella, this is my son, Eli, and his fiancée, the beautiful—though she’ll blush and deny it—Bailey.”
Bailey absolutely blushes, the color deepening when her gaze snags on mine. Someone should really name a crayon or a paint color after the exact shade of pink in her cheeks. I’m not a huge pink fan, but I could see painting whole rooms in this color.
“Lovely to meet you, beautiful Bailey.” Zella clasps Bailey’s hand, the sleeves of her kimono falling down her arms, revealing tattoos of vines curling up her forearms.
For a moment, Bailey seems unable to speak, and the color in her cheeks deepens. Maybe I need a whole swatch of paint colors or a whole box of crayons inspired by Bailey’s blushes. From the first pale kiss of pink to the deep sunset red now.
Pink might be my new favorite color.
“Don’t be strangers.” Zella steps back and opens the door wide. “You! Dogs! Inside!”
The dogs immediately obey, and I almost trip over two of them as I make my way inside. I count at least ten, but with them moving, it’s hard to know if that’s on the low side, or if I accidentally counted some of them twice.
Inside, the house’s high ceiling, walls, and floors are all the same dark wood. Despite that, it’s filled with light, the whole back wall composed of windows. The large open room is partliving room with two mismatching couches facing each other, a coffee table made of a turquoise door between them.
The other part looks to be a seamstress’s studio. Not that I’ve been in one before. But with a large table covered in swatches of fabric, a few headless dress forms draped in rich purples and greens, and two different sewing machines, it’s a safe bet. Off to either side of the main room are doorways, a closed one likely leading to bedrooms and an open one giving a view of an ultra-modern kitchen that’s all white and doesn’t match this main room at all.
Reminds me of Zella herself, with the flowy robe on top and athletic pants on the bottom.
“Make yourselves at home,” Zella says, urging us toward the couches. “I have tea.”
There’s an intricately carved wooden tray at the center of the table with mugs and a large ceramic teapot, steaming. I settle Mom on a couch next to Zella. The dogs snake around our ankles like cats, and Bailey looks like she’s trying to pet them all.
