Page 83 of A Second Chance Summer in Dublin
I nod in understanding. And in total agreement. We have found one another and we are eternally grateful. I can’t wait to find out everything there is to know about this man. Wiping my damp eyes, I strut into the middle of the floor and cast my eyes around at what will soon be my very own bridal atelier andstore. I can see it all so clearly. Just as I’ve always imagined it. Unique. Exciting. Remarkable. Holbein carpet with the brick walls decked out in black-and-white photos of wedding dresses. An Anthropologie full-body mirror on the back wall, vintage Baroque décor. The perfect chandelier is already hanging. I want to create a distinctive but comfortable experience for my brides and bridesmaids that they will never forget.
‘He’s absolutely right.’ I nod, stand tall and proud in the centre of my new stunning space, beaming at these wonderful, supportive people.
‘I got a little gift for you.’ Donal walks behind a pile of stacked boxes and wheels out what looks like a clothes rail covered in a white sheet.
‘What is this?’ I ask as they all stare at me. Goofy smiles on all their faces.
‘I asked a friend who owed me a favour to do this last night. She’s a soft goods designer. I rang her as I was on the way to Howth in the taxi. Ready?’ Donal asks, then he pulls the white sheet off.
I’m right. It is a clothes rail. A shiny gold clothes rail. Hanging on it are dress bags. I look to him. He nods. I reach over and take one of the red-hangers and lift the dress bag off. I gasp. It’s aBy Grace Algarbridal-couture dress bag. It’s in chalk-white and glossy, with thick lettering of my brand name elegantly embossed in a contemporary black uppercase font with a classy sheen.
‘Ten dress bags, all ready to house your wonderful work,’ Donal says, and another wave of tears comes, as I hug the bag tightly to my chest. The happiest tears I have ever shed. I stand on my tippy-toes and kiss him passionately as his sisters all clap and holler and whoop. He’s everything I should have been dreaming of.
For the first time in my life nothing is missing.
No alterations needed.
Epilogue
Two years later
As the early morning sun casts a warm golden hue over Fitzwilliam Square, I stand at the basement window ofBy Grace Algar, my beautiful bridal store, looking up at the sky. I’m a little apprehensive about taking a week off, but business is booming, commissions flooding in. Thanks to Kathleen, word of my distinctive gowns spread through the bridal community like wildfire, here and abroad, after Carla Deliginue’s gold dress was copied by a chain outlet. I’d hardly had time to catch my breath as work finished on my store. I know I can leave my business in the very capable hands of the two amazing young designers I’ve employed and the very special intern from Inchicore College I’m mentoring, whom I have high hopes for.
By Grace Algarturned a significant profit last year, it’s become a go-to for major celebrities. I still pinch myself. The sun peers out from behind the clouds for a brief visit and I think about that unprecedented heatwave summer in Dublin, two years ago now, when my life changed forever with Donal Kearney stepping into it. Speaking of, I check the time on my phone in my hand.
It’s my wedding day.
But let me take you back to the proposal.
‘Hollywood hottie Nicola Pawley and Logan Hunter split in very public Las Vegas spat after a whirlwind marriage,’ Donalhad read out to me from his phone on that snowy Christmas Eve last year, when I was just closing up the store.
‘Oh, well I hope they’ll be very happy apart.’ I rolled my eyes, turning the shop sign to closed. I honestly hadn’t thought about Logan since Belinda’s wedding day. I knew he’d moved to LA to try his hand at a movie career.
‘Me too, to be honest.’ Donal kissed me gently.
‘How did I get so lucky?’ I’d kissed him repeatedly.
‘We. How did we get so lucky.’ He’d run his long fingers through his beard. It was much more manscaped since we’d moved in together to his house in Fitzwilliam Square after six months of dating. I’d shut the door on my little flat in Old Camden Street with a bittersweet feeling. I had to laugh when I received a huge bouquet of red roses from Emma Stark congratulating me on my success and wondering about a possible Emma Stark/Grace Algar cross-over collaboration? First thing I’d noticed was how she’d put her name first. I’d sent her back a cute thank-you note, but had no intention of engaging any further. The note had a secret double meaning for me: if it wasn’t for Emma, I’d never have met Donal Kearney. If I hadn’t have been so desperately trying to avoid her in town that day outside Fallon & Byrne, I wouldn’t have dropped my bag, I wouldn’t have been on my knees scrambling to pick up my rolling beads, Donal wouldn’t have stopped to help. LikeSliding Doors, we’d have passed each other by.
Everything happens for a reason.
Anyway, the proposal. On that Christmas Eve, Donal was dressed in dark jeans, a black shirt and a dark denim jacket, with his trademark oxblood-red Docs on. His hair remained in a short, tight cut.
‘I thought I’d give you your Christmas present now?’ He patted his jacket pocket.
I shimmied my shoulders as my stomach rumbled. ‘Sure.I hope you’re cooking something with pasta tonight? I’m famished.’
He nodded. ‘Okay, close your eyes.’
I did so and folded my arms.
‘Now open,’ he said softly.
My eyes sprang open again. ‘Huh?’
‘Grace Algar .?.?.’ I looked down and saw him on bended knee.
‘Oh my God. You’re not .?.?.’ My words were hushed in a panting sound.
