With This Ring, I'm Confused Read online

  Praise for

  with this ring ,

  i’m confused

  by Kristin Billerbeck

  “Billerbeck’s story is savvy and hilarious. From the mundane pedicure to an outrageous wedding dress, readers will join in Ashley’s angst and laugh at the outcomes.”

  —EILEEN KEY, The Road to Romance

  “Better than a venti mocha slathered in whipped cream, With This Ring, I’m Confused, will take you through an array of emotions and leave you with a sigh! A definite keeper!”

  —DIANN HUNT, Author of Hearts Under Construction

  “I’m addicted to Kristin Billerbeck’s books. Her novels are witty and intelligent and wickedly funny. I laugh out loud on nearly every page. Ashley Stockingdale’s endless conflict with the worldly and spiritual provides a great backdrop to a hilarious plot. With This Ring, I’m Confused is chick lit at its finest.”

  —RENE GUTTERIDGE, author of Boo and Boo Who

  “Whether this is your first Ashley Stockingdale novel or third, you’ll be laughing with and loving this leading lady!”

  —www.epinions.com

  “Kristin Billerbeck has an innate talent to keep readers guessing. With This Ring, I’m Confused is packed to capacity with startling, dazzling humor that soothes the edges of life. I recommend it to anyone with stress. For that matter, I recommend it to anyone breathing. So much fun, you don’t even see the message until it’s hit you between the eyes.”

  —HANNAH ALEXANDER, author of Last Resort and Note of Peril

  “What a fun read! Kristin Billerbeck’s funky, energetic Ashley is one of those characters we wish we could be friends with in real life—and thanks to Billerbeck’s expert writing, it’s easy to forget she’s not just a phone call away. Her honest, believable approach to life and faith (both Ashley’s and Billerbeck’s) are the basis of this thoroughly enjoyable book that never had a dull moment. This is a must-read, even if you’re new to the Ashley Stockingdale series!”

  —ALISON STROBEL, author of Worlds Collide

  “I loved this book! Kristin Billerbeck understands what makes great chick lit—an over-the-top heroine we can cheer with and sniffle over, a fabulous setting (what beats California for fun???), the latest fashion, and discussions about relationships. The author takes it one step farther, however, by weaving in a spiritual message that’s never preachy. Reading an Ashley Stockingdale novel is like eating a quart of my favorite ice cream then discovering it was actually good for me.”

  —JANE ORCUTT, author of Dear Baby Girl

  “The highly addictive and captivating story of Ashley Stockingdale returns inWith This Ring, I’m Confused. Kristin Billerbeck can write chick lit like no one else on the planet. If you’re not a lifelong fan yet, it’s only because you haven’t read her books. Don’t miss this one!”

  —COLLEEN COBLE, author of Distant Echoes

  “Kristin Billerbeck has done it again! Wacky heroine Ashley Stockindale gets funnier and more endearing with every book. With This Ring, I’m Confused is a delightful chick-lit tale of fashion, faith, and frenzy. The characters are so real, they feel like friends. As Ashley wades through the murky waters of love, in-laws, and wedding planning, her struggles are as genuine as they are comical. You go, girl!”

  —MINDY STARNS CLARK, author of The Trouble with Tulip

  “Ashley Stockingdale is a delightfully ordinary human being who gets more endearing with each book. With this Ring, I’m Confused perfectly captures the essence of every bride’s struggle to meld her dreams with reality. Though Ashley thinks she’s shallow, I love her for her authenticity and genuine efforts toward spiritual maturity. Billerbeck has created both a wonderful heroine and a gripping story. I can’t wait to read her next book!”

  —JANELLE CLARE SCHNEIDER

  with this ring,

  i ’ m confused

  Other books by Kristin Billerbeck:

  Ashley Stockingdale novels

  What a Girl Wants

  She’s Out of Control

  Spa Girl Series

  She’s All That

  A Girl ’s Best Friend

  Calm, Cool, and Adjusted

  Split Ends

  © 2005 by Kristin Billerbeck

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Billerbeck, Kristin.

  With this ring, I’m confused / Kristin Billerbeck.

  p. cm.

  ISBN: 978-1-59554-033-1 (TP)

  ISBN: 978-1-59554-335-6 (repak)

  1. Weddings—Fiction. 2. Georgia—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3602.I44W58 2005

  813'.54—dc22

  2004028393

  Printed in the United States of America

  07 08 09 10 RRD 5 4 3 2 1

  CONTENTS

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  A hearty thank you to Jeana Ledbetter, my trusted

  agent and friend, and Natalie Gillespie and Ami McConnell,

  my fabulous editors, for helping me complete this

  book when the well had run dry!

  To Colleen Coble, Diann Hunt, and Denise Hunter: thanks for

  being there during the day when I need a pick-me-up.

  And of course, to my family who has to put up with too many

  Ashley moments when I’m on deadline.

  1

  I’ve imagined my wedding dress since I was a little girl. It’s an elegant shantung sheath with cap sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, and tiny seed pearls sewn on the cinched bodice . . . Seed pearls, hah! Now that I’m standing in the bridal boutique, something has snapped. Girlfriend, I want satin, yards and yards of it! I want sequins and crystals and a bum bow the size of Brazil, leg-o’-mutton sleeves, and a train that practically explodes onto the scene. I want something that screams, I’m the bride! lost in a snow flurry of white. Bring on winter, baby! Ashley Stockingdale is getting married!

  Okay, really I just want to tick off my future sister-in-law. Emily Novak, jobless in Atlanta, is here in Silicon Valley to make sure the wedding day runs smoothly. Granted, she has no experience in this field, but that doesn’t seem to stop her at any junction. She is the expert in her own mind, and apparently, that should be good enough credentials for all of us. That, and the copy of theWedding Planner by Martha
Stewart is supposed to impress me. Three days I’ve been searching for the perfect Tussy Mussy. Until three days ago, I didn’t even know what this silver piece of hardware was, but it is apparently quite important to “brides in the know” such as my Victorian ancestors and now me. It’s a bouquet holder. As in, you hold it in your hands, and no one sees the design anyway. The first rule of good fashion is it should definitely be noticed. Am I right?

  I hear Emily clap her hands, and I feel myself cringe at her entrance. “No, no, no. Who brought this gown to you? It’s completely wrong. Hideous! ” She stretches the word to its full three syllables with more than a hint of Southern drawl.

  I swivel around. “It has a butt bow.”

  She sighs extensively. I seem to make her sigh a lot. “Ashley,” she says, as though someone has expired. “My brothah has a reputation in Atlanta. His bride will be splashed across every society page in Georgia. This simply will not do.”

  “But I like it. It says, Baby got back. You know what I’m saying?”

  “I have no idea what you’re sayin’. A Novak bride should be above reproach, and that means, at the very least, elegant style. Classic. Think Jacqueline Kennedy, Princess Diana, Jennifer Aniston.”

  “Jennifer Aniston?” I ask, hearing that old Sesame Street song about how one of these things just doesn’t belong.

  “The point is, Ashley, you want Keh-vin to gasp at the sight of you, to draw in his breath and never forget the moment. That dress is truly forgettable, but don’t worry. I’ve got everything taken care of.”

  I beg your pardon. This dress is anything but forgettable. Apparently my good hair days have not spoken for me to Emily. I have impeccable taste in clothing. I could easily be a stylist instead of a patent attorney, but Emily is so fun to mess with that I can’t help myself. I want to try on the pink gowns, the blue ones, maybe even the golden, shimmery yellow one. I want Emily to imagine me as a satin Easter egg floating down the aisle, stealing her brother from good taste forever. Oh sure, you’re thinking I’m immature, but I dare you to waste three days on a bouquet holder and tell me you’d feel any differently. I’ve had patent processes move quicker than this.

  She clings to that Martha Stewart ringed book like it will unlock all the secrets of humanity. She has it tucked inside a Coach leather folder, trying to make me think she comes up with all this brilliance herself, but the truth is she’s a paint-by-number wedding planner and Martha holds the color code.

  The fact is, I want Brea. My best friend should be here, but I know getting a babysitter for two kids under two is virtually impossible. Especially in the Silicon Valley, where kids are considered dirt with noise. I know Brea would be enjoying my tacky fashion show with vigor and bringing in more for me to try on while we giggled and added sparkle-encrusted tiaras. But Brea is busy, lost in a sea of diapers and spit-up from her babies, and Emily is shockingly free. Go figure. Besides, Kevin is anxious for me to get to know his sister. She doesn’t have many friends back home, and gee, isn’t that a surprise?

  “Ashley! Sorry I’m late.” I hear Brea’s voice, and I want to run to her and kiss her feet. She takes one gander at my gown, and I see her smile ever so slightly. “That is gorgeous! But I think it needs a few more bows on the sleeves. It doesn’t really announce you enough. Let me go look on the racks.”

  “Stop! I’ll go look,” Emily shouts and leaves in a huff.

  Brea and I fall into a wave of giggles. “Check out my bow.” I turn and let her see that not only is my train covered in satin ribbon bows, but also that one special, prominent bow is probably a foot in diameter. “Am I hot or what? Name a man who could resist me.” I shake my bonbon with vigor.

  “You have to try on one of the pink satins. Did you see that fuchsia number on the clearance rack?”

  Do we think alike or what?

  “Poor Emily, she’s endured enough. I think it’s time we got down to business. Besides, I’m annoying Hannah the shop girl. I just had to have my protest moment. I’m fine now. What was I thinking to have my future sister-in-law as my wedding coordinator? Who am I, Jessica Simpson, that I need a coordinator anyway?”

  Hannah, the shop’s manager, is from my church and is a complete doll, but even she has her breaking point. I almost want to buy this gown to put it out of its misery, like the Charlie Brown Christmas tree.

  “The shop is never going to sell that number anyway, even on the clearance rack. You’re doing it a favor to try it on.” Brea crinkles her nose at my gown. “They probably got it free from an up-and-going designer. Does Emily know you already ordered the Vera Wang and that we’re actually here for bridesmaid gowns?”

  Tsk. “Sure, bring on the guilt. I was having a perfectly fine day until you had to remind me to grow up. Age is relative, you know.”

  “You’re terrible, and you have to live with this woman forever. You’re marrying into her family. The wedding is the least of your issues. You should be thinking about your first wrinkle—or egad, stretch marks, and how they’ll fight to hand you the plastic surgery cards. Gosh, they’re all like walking ad campaigns for Extreme Makeovers.”

  “Emily will be back in Atlanta before the weekend’s up!” I do a little jig. “I’m going to be good now. I was just entertaining myself until you got here.” I slink out of the gown. The black-velvet Elvis painting of wedding wear, if you will.

  Kevin, my fiancé, is from big money in the South. His father is a prominent surgeon and attends the proper functions that a good family should. This is why Kevin is in California, hoping to avoid this lifestyle and focus on his first love: medicine. I’m beginning to think the distance to Atlanta is not nearly as wide as I once thought. Perhaps there’s a surgical opening in South America.

  Emily enters the oversize dressing room with a multitude of boring gowns that say, I’m elegant and don’t have a mind of my own, nor a speck of vision. Now, I’m a realist, and I’ve seen my mother’s wedding photos. If they taught me anything, it was this: always go classic, never trendsetting. Otherwise, you risk looking like Carol Brady to the next generation.

  “Emily,” I say softly. “I’ve actually already ordered a Vera Wang gown. I just wanted to make sure it was the right one today.” I yank my suit skirt back on.

  “We really should have picked the gown first. And in fact, I did pick the gown—to go with the theme. I was waitin’ to show you the style as the grand finale.”

  “I’m missing something,” I say. “I’m the bride, and you picked the dress?”

  “I had to. To pull off the theme.”

  “Theme?” I croak. I’m afraid to ask. I’m having prom flashbacks.

  “Your name is Ashley Wilkes Stockingdale. Your dog is Rhett. Your husband is from Atlanta, the home of the great Margaret Mitchell. Your theme has to be Gone with the Wind.”

  Um, no, actually it doesn’t. “You know, Scarlett and Rhett didn’t exactly part on the best of terms. I’m thinking maybe that’s not where I want to go with a wedding theme.” I’m all smiles. I could be head cheerleader at the moment. “Right?”

  “Ashley and Rhett are forevah in love, as you and my brothah will be. I’d love to see you walk through raised swords of Confederate soldiers.”

  “But I’m a Yankee,” I say with the utmost seriousness. I’m a “Yankee”? I’m a patent attorney living in Silicon Valley in the new millennium. Something about this conversation is making me forget that reality. “I mean, I’m a native Californian. Beach, Hollywood, movie stars.” Granted, I live nowhere near these things, but I’m reaching here.

  “We won’t hold that against you, that you’re a Yankee. The Confederate uniforms won’t clash with Keh-vin’s tuxedo, like a Union soldier’s would, aftah all.”

  Help! I look to Brea. My gaze tells her, I think she’s a crazed lunatic. Help me!

  “I think what Ashley is trying to say is that this is not the wedding she imagines for herself,” Brea says. “You understand how a bride dreams of her day, and I’ve never actually heard of a
wedding planner selecting the gown.”

  “Well, my brothah is the groom. He has some say too.” Emily only sounds very Southern when she’s getting angry. Look out for the accent.

  “Kevin never said anything to me about soldiers at the wedding.” I can’t imagine my Dr. Kevin Novak, pediatric surgeon at Stanford’s Lucille Packard Children’s Hospital, hoping for a Confederate wedding, but then, maybe we haven’t known each other long enough.

  “Ashley, a weddin’ is about mergin’ two families together.” Emily threads her fingers. “Our family is Southern and proud of its heritage. Just because your family is without history does not mean we should forget our roots. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  My fists fly to my hips. “Without heritage? I’ll have you know, we’ve had the chicken dance at every one of our weddings. And we start the music with Kool and the Gang’s ‘Celebration,’ like every good American wedding should. I suppose you think the ‘Macarena’ is tacky?”

  I feel Brea’s hand on my back. “Ladies, this is serving no good purpose. Let’s start the selection of the bridesmaid gowns, shall we? We’ll just have to work the theme around Ashley’s dress, Emily.”

  Emily shakes her head. “The dress is the theme. I’ve found a seamstress for the bridesmaid gowns, a woman who made the reproductions for the Road to Tara Museum. We’ll have the traditional tiered skirts, with ruffles and cinched waists.”

  Brea comes undone. “Listen, I’m not wearing ruffles. I’ve just had a baby, and I’ve got enough ruffles of my own. In fact, I’m wearing a shaper to get rid of those ruffles, so I’m certainly not adding any more!”

  “Let’s not get excited,” I say before Brea goes postal. “Maybe it’s best that we don’t decide this today. Tensions are high, and there’s still plenty of time to work around a theme. A different theme,” I say.

  Now I’ve got nothing against the South. Gone with the Wind is one of my favorite movies, despite my ridiculous moniker, but I’m just not sure I’m ready to recreate the moment at my wedding. In California. With my high-tech friends.

  I munch my lip, thinking. “I’m not even sure most of the engineers here have heard of the film. Now if I was going to have a Lord of the Rings wedding, I’d be stylin’!” My cell phone rings. “Excuse me,” I say, lifting a finger. “Ashley Stockingdale.”