by Lisa Kleypas
Sofia replied before I was able. “Joe Travis,” she said. “One of the Travises. Avery just met him.”
Steven glanced at me with acute interest. “They did a story on him in CultureMap last year. He won a Key Art award for that movie poster.”
“What movie poster?”
“The one for the documentary about soldiers and military dogs.” Steven looked sardonic as he saw our mystified expressions. “I forgot the two of you only watch telenovelas. Joe Travis went to Afghanistan with the film crew as the stills photographer. They used one of his shots for the poster.” He smiled at my expression. “You should read the paper more often, Avery. It comes in handy on occasion.”
“That’s what I have you for,” I said.
Nothing escaped the intricate filing cabinet of Steven’s mind. I envied his near total recall of details such as where someone’s son had gone to college, or the name of their dog, or if they’d just had a birthday.
Among his many talents, Steven was an interior designer, a graphic design specialist, and a trained EMT. We had hired him immediately after starting Crosslin Event Design, and he had become so necessary to the business that I couldn’t imagine doing without him.
“He asked Avery out,” Sofia told Steven.
Giving me a dark glance, Steven asked, “What did you say?” At my silence, he turned to Sofia. “Don’t tell me she shut him down.”
“She shut him down,” Sofia said.
“Of course.” Steven’s tone was arid. “Avery would never waste her time with a rich, successful guy whose name would open any door in Houston.”
“Drop it,” I said curtly. “We’ve got work to do.”
“First I want to talk to you.” Steven glanced at Sofia. “Do me a favor and make sure they’ve started setting the reception tables.”
“Don’t order me around.”
“I wasn’t ordering, I was asking.”
“It didn’t sound like asking.”
“Please,” Steven said acidly. “Pretty please, Sofia, go to the reception tent and see if they’ve started setting the tables.”
Sofia left the room with a scowl.
I shook my head in exasperation. Sofia and Steven were cantankerous with each other, quick to take offense, slow to forgive, in a way that neither of them was with anyone else.
It hadn’t started off that way. When Steven had first been hired, he and Sofia had become fast friends. He was sophisticated and meticulously groomed and had such an acid wit that Sofia and I had automatically assumed he was gay. It had been three months before we had realized that he wasn’t.
“No, I’m straight,” he had said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“But… you went clothes shopping with me,” Sofia had protested.
“Because you asked me to.”
“I let you into the dressing room,” Sofia had continued, increasingly irate. “I tried on a dress in front of you. And you never said a word!”
“I said thank you.”
“You should have told me you weren’t gay!”
“I’m not gay.”
“It’s too late now,” Sofia had snapped.
Ever since then, my sunny-natured sister had found it difficult to muster anything more than the barest degree of politeness toward Steven. And he responded in kind, his barbed comments never failing to hit the target. Only my frequent interventions kept their conflict from escalating to an all-out war.
After Sofia left, Steven closed the office door for privacy. He leaned back against it and folded his arms as he contemplated me with an unreadable expression. “Really?” he eventually asked. “You’re really that insecure?”
“I’m not allowed to say no when a man asks me out?”
“When was the last time you said yes? When have you gone out for coffee, or drinks, or even had a non-work-related conversation with a guy?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“As your employee… you’re right, it isn’t. But at the moment I’m talking to you as a friend. You’re a healthy, attractive twenty-seven-year-old woman, and as far as I know, you haven’t been with anyone for over three years. For your own sake, whether it’s this guy or someone else, you need to get back in the game.”
“He’s not my type.”
“He’s rich, single, and a Travis,” came Steven’s sardonic reply. “He’s everyone’s type.”
By the end of the day I felt as if I’d walked the equivalent of a thousand miles, vectoring between the reception tent, the ceremony pavilion, and the main lodge. Although it seemed that everything was coming together, I knew better than to succumb to a false sense of security. Last-minute problems never failed to plague even the most meticulously planned ceremonies.
The members of the event production team worked in concert to handle any issues that cropped up. Tank Mirecki, a burly handyman, was proficient with carpentry, electronics, and mechanical repair. Ree-Ann Davis, a sassy blond assistant with a background in hotel management, had been assigned as the bride and bridesmaid handler. A brunette intern, Val Yudina, who was taking a gap year before starting at Rice, was managing the groom’s family.
I used a radio earpiece and clip-on mike to stay in constant communication with Sofia and Steven. At first Sofia and I had felt silly using standard voice procedures for the hands-free radios, but Steven had insisted, saying there was no way he could tolerate both my voice and Sofia’s in his ears without some rules. We had soon realized he was right; otherwise we would have constantly talked over each other.
An hour before the guests were scheduled to be seated, I went to the reception tent. The interior had been floored with eight thousand feet of rare purpleheart hardwood. It looked like a fairy tale. A dozen twenty-foot-high maple trees, each weighing half a ton, had been brought inside the tent to create a lavish forest, with a scattering of LED fireflies winking among the leaves. Strands of unpolished rock crystal hung in loops from a row of bronze chandeliers. Luxuriant live moss crossed the long tables in organically shaped runners. Each place setting had been accented with a wedding favor of Scottish honey sealed in a tiny crystal jar.
Outside, a row of ten-ton Portapac units pumped nonstop, chilling the air inside to a blissful sixty-eight degrees. I breathed deeply, relishing the coolness as I looked at my final countdown list. “Sofia,” I said into my mike, “has the bagpiper arrived? Over.”
“Affirmative,” my sister said. “I just took him to the main lodge. There’s a crafts room between the kitchen and the housekeeper’s room where he can tune up. Over.”
“Roger. Steven, this is Avery. I need to change my clothes. Can you handle things while I take five? Over.”
“Avery, that’s a negative, we’ve got an issue with the dove release. Over.”
I frowned. “Copy that, what’s going on? Over.”
“There’s a hawk in the oak grove next to the wedding pavilion. The dove handler says he can’t release his birds with a predator in the vicinity. Over.”
“Tell him we’ll pay extra if one of them gets eaten. Over.”
Sofia broke in. “Avery, we can’t have a dove snatched from the sky and killed in front of the guests. Over.”
“We’re at a South Texas ranch,” I said. “We’ll be lucky if half the guests don’t start shooting the doves. Over.”
“It’s against state and federal law to capture, harm, or kill a hawk,” Steven said. “How do you propose we deal with it? Over.”
“Is it illegal to scare the damn thing off? Over.”
“I don’t think so. Over.”
“Then have Tank figure it out. Over.”
“Avery, stand by,” Sofia interrupted urgently. After a pause, she said, “I’m with Val. She says the groom has cold feet. Over.”
“Is this a joke?” I asked, stunned. “Over.” All through the engagement and wedding planning, the groom, Charlie Amspacher, had been rock-solid. A nice guy. In the past, some couples had given me cause to wonder if they’d make it to the altar, but Ch
arlie and Sloane seemed to be genuinely in love.
“No joke,” Sofia said. “Charlie just told Val he wants to call it off. Over.”
Three
O
ver. The word seemed to echo in my head.
A million dollars, wasted.
All of our careers were on the line.
And Sloane Kendrick would be devastated.
I was filled with what felt like the equivalent of a hundred shots of adrenaline. “No one is calling this wedding off,” I said in a murderous tone. “I will handle this. Tell Val not to let Charlie talk to anyone until I get there. Quarantine him, understand? Over.”
“Copy. Over.”
“Out.”
I stalked across the grounds to the guesthouse where the groom’s family was getting ready for the ceremony. I fought to keep from breaking into a run. As soon as I entered the house, I blotted my sweating face with a handful of tissues. The sounds of laughter, conversation, and clinking glasses floated from the living room of the main floor.
Val was at my side instantly. She was dressed in a pale silver-gray skirt suit, her microbraids pulled back in a controlled low bun. High-pressure situations never seemed to fluster her; in fact, she usually became even calmer in the face of emergency. As I looked into her eyes, however, I saw the signs of panic. The ice in the drink she held was rattling slightly. Whatever was happening with the groom, it was serious.
“Avery,” she whispered, “thank God you’re here. Charlie’s trying to call it off.”
“Any idea why?”
“I’m sure the best man has something to do with it.”
“Wyatt Vandale?”
“Uh-huh. He’s been making comments all afternoon, like how marriage is nothing but a trap, and Sloane’s going to turn into a fat baby machine, and how Charlie better make sure this isn’t a mistake. I can’t get him out of the upstairs parlor. He’s stuck to Charlie like glue.”
I cursed myself for not having anticipated something like this. Charlie’s best friend, Wyatt, was a spoiled brat whose family’s money had afforded him the luxury of delaying adulthood for as long as possible. He was crude and obnoxious and never wasted an opportunity to demean women. Sloane despised Wyatt, but she had told me that because he had been friends with Charlie since first grade, he would have to be tolerated. Whenever she complained about Wyatt’s vileness, Charlie told her that Wyatt was good at heart but tended to express himself badly. The problem was, Wyatt expressed himself perfectly.
Val handed me the glass filled with ice and amber liquid. “This is for Charlie. I know about the no-booze rule, but trust me, it’s time to break it.”
I took the drink from her. “All right. I’ll take it to him. Charlie and I are about to have a come-to-fiery-Jesus moment. Don’t let anyone interrupt.”
“What about Wyatt?”
“I’ll get rid of him.” I gave her my headset. “Keep in touch with Sofia and Steven.”
“Should I tell them we’re going to start late?”
“We are going to start precisely on time,” I said grimly. “If we don’t, we lose the best light for the ceremony, and we also lose the dove release. Those birds have to fly back to Clear Lake, and they can’t do it in the dark.”
Val nodded and put on the headset, adjusting the microphone. I ascended the stairs, went to the parlor, and tapped at the partially open door. “Charlie,” I asked in the calmest tone I could manage, “may I come in? It’s Avery.”
“Look who’s here,” Wyatt exclaimed as I entered the room. His expensive tux was disheveled and his black tie was missing. He was full of swagger, certain that he’d ruined Sloane Kendrick’s big day. “What did I tell you, Charlie? Now she’s gonna try and talk you out of it.” He shot me a triumphant glance. “Too late. His mind’s made up.”
I glanced at the ashen-faced groom, who sat slumped on a love seat. He didn’t look at all like himself.
“Wyatt,” I said, “I need a moment alone with Charlie.”
“He can stay,” Charlie said in a subdued voice. “He’s got my back.”
Yes, I was tempted to say, that knife he stuck in it sure makes a nice handle. But instead I murmured, “Wyatt needs to get ready for the ceremony.”
The best man smiled at me. “Didn’t you hear? Wedding’s been canceled.”
“That’s not your decision,” I said.
“What do you care?” Wyatt asked. “You’ll get paid anyway.”
“I care about Charlie and Sloane. And I care about the people who’ve worked hard to make this a special day for them.”
“Well, I’ve known this guy here since first grade. And I’m not gonna let him be pushed around by you and your flunkies just because Sloane Kendrick decided it was time to put a noose around his neck.”
I went to Charlie and handed him the drink. He took it gratefully.
I pulled out my cell phone. “Wyatt,” I said in a matter-of-fact tone as I scrolled through my contacts list, “your opinions are not relevant. This wedding is not about you. I’d like you to leave, please.”
Wyatt laughed. “Who’s gonna make me?”
Having found Ray Kendrick’s number on my contact list, I autodialed him. As a former rodeo rider, Sloane’s father was a breed of man who, despite cracked ribs and bruised organs, willingly climbed atop an enraged two-thousand-pound animal for a ride that was the equivalent of being whacked repeatedly between the legs with a baseball bat.
Ray answered. “Kendrick.”
“It’s Avery,” I said. “I’m next door with Charlie. We’re having an issue with his friend Wyatt.”
Ray, who had been visibly annoyed with Wyatt’s behavior at the rehearsal dinner, asked, “That little sumbitch trying to stir up trouble?”
“He is,” I said. “And I thought you’d be the one to explain to him how to behave on Sloane’s big day.”
“You got that right, honey,” Ray said with untrammeled enthusiasm. As I had guessed, he was more than happy to have something to do rather than stand idly in his tuxedo and make small talk. “I’ll be right over to give him a talkin’-to.”
“Thank you, Ray.”
As I ended the call and Charlie heard the name, his eyes bulged. “Shit. Did you just call Sloane’s father?”
I turned a cool stare in Wyatt’s direction. “I’d get lost, if I were you,” I told him. “Or in a couple of minutes there won’t be enough of you left to wad a shotgun.”
“Bitch.” Glaring at me, Wyatt stormed from the room.
I locked the door behind him and turned to Charlie, who had gulped down his drink.
He couldn’t bring himself to look at me. “Wyatt’s just trying to look out for me,” he mumbled.
“By sabotaging your wedding?” I pulled up a nearby ottoman and sat to face Charlie, steeling myself not to look at my watch or think about how I needed to change my clothes. “Charlie, I’ve seen you with Sloane from the beginning of the engagement until right now. I believe you love her. But the fact is, nothing Wyatt said would have made a bit of difference unless something was going on. So tell me what the problem is.”
Charlie’s gaze met mine, and he gestured helplessly as he replied, “When you think about how many couples divorce, it’s crazy that anyone wants to try it in the first place. A fifty-fifty chance. What guy in his right mind would go for those odds?”
“Those are the general odds,” I said. “Those aren’t your odds.” Seeing his bewilderment, I said, “People get married for all kinds of wrong reasons: infatuation, fear of being alone, unplanned pregnancy. Does any of that apply to you or Sloane?”
“No.”
“Then when you cut those people out of the equation, your statistics are a lot better than fifty-fifty.”
Charlie rubbed his forehead with an unsteady hand. “I have to tell Sloane that I need more time to be sure about all of this.”
“More time?” I echoed dazedly. “The wedding ceremony is going to start in forty-five minutes.”
“I’m n
ot canceling. I’m just postponing it.”
I stared at him incredulously. “Postponement isn’t an option, Charlie. Sloane has planned and dreamed about this wedding for months, and her family’s spent a fortune. If you call it off at the last minute, you’re not going to get another chance.”
“We’re talking about the rest of my life,” he said in rising agitation. “I don’t want to make a mistake.”