Part 1 (1/2)

Made of Honor.

by MARILYNN GRIFFITH.

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 s.p.a.ce is limited. My grat.i.tude, 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, Mich.e.l.le, 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 Tallaha.s.see, thanks for loving my family and teaching us the Word for the past ten years. Thanks for being a place of refres.h.i.+ng.

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 G.o.dly 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 Thres.h.i.+ng Floor: Amy, Jennifer and Staci, thanks for your great feedback and support. You mentored the mentor.

Yolanda Callegari Brooks, for your friends.h.i.+p 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 friends.h.i.+p and for hanging around despite all my absences. I believe in each of you.

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 c.o.x-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 alb.u.m 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 G.o.d occupies most of my time. Like now. I need to find Roch.e.l.le, my other best friend-yes, I have two-and founder of the Sa.s.sy 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 Roch.e.l.le into a gelatinous pool of desperation. Remember the birth photo alb.u.m 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 eyeb.a.l.l.s, 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 a.s.sistant, 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 Sa.s.sy 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. Roch.e.l.le 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. G.o.d 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 Roch.e.l.le 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.

Roch.e.l.le 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 Roch.e.l.le'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 Roch.e.l.le 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 moi, my midsection pressed against the strangling fabric of my dress as if in agreement.

Roch.e.l.le 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.

Roch.e.l.le'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. Roch.e.l.le? 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.”

Roch.e.l.le nodded, gathering her skirt to gain a little speed. Good punch could cover a mult.i.tude 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.