He looked up at her. “Well, you found one. Better late than never, as they say.” His voice was bitter.
“It will be all right, Daniel.” She crouched on the steps, reaching for his hand. “Please believe me.”
“I don’t think we need to talk about this right now,” he said. “I think I need to be alone for awhile. You understand. Being alone is something you know all about.” He rose and climbed down the steps. She watched him walk in the direction of the bus stop as she sat alone on the steps of the museum. Replaying that last line in her thoughts. Being alone is something you know all about...
A lump rose in her throat, tears stinging her eyes as she blinked them back. His words were painful for the meaning buried within them. The memory of herself leaving him behind, escaping the possibility of something greater with him for the certainty of her freedom.
It wasn’t worth it; she felt it as keenly at this moment as she had denied it in the past. Now she was the one left behind, watching Daniel walk away with his heart broken.
*****
“Feeling lucky today?” Joan eyed Beatrice skeptically, her nail file grinding away on a white-tipped index finger.
“Not particularly, no.” Beatrice answered.
“I wouldn’t be either, if I were you.” This ominous remark was all the secretary had to say as Beatrice passed her desk. The grim look on Beatrice’s face was one of a hardened prisoner being marched to execution; the stretch of carpet leading to Gwendolen’s office door seemed a mile long to the massive carved panels. On the other side waited–what? Disgrace? Joblessness? A sound scolding from the second-greatest wedding planner in the city?
In a way, she didn’t care. She’d exhausted her supply of tears last night after Daniel’s cell phone failed to answer any of her calls. She was resigned to saying goodbye to her job with the crumbling of this wedding; almost relieved, really.
Still, her heart was pounding as she entered Gwendolen’s office, closing the door behind her. Gwendolen was seated behind her desk, a piece of paper in her hand. Beatrice had a strong feeling it was part of the Conners-Wilson file.
As Gwendolen glanced up, Beatrice lingered near the doorway, prepared for immediate dismissal. She knew her attitude reflected the inevitable: her pale face, her figure stiff despite her best business suit. Probably traces of puffiness from tears were evident beneath her makeup, at least to an eye like Gwendolen’s trained to notice details.
“I have a feeling you already know what I’m going to say,” said Gwendolen. “I had a long conversation on the phone yesterday with your client. When she was dismissing this firm as her wedding planner–due to your actions, as I understood.”
Beatrice didn’t say anything. Gwendolen waited a moment, then continued speaking.
“Are you aware what Ms. Conners claims you did?” she asked.
“I am,” said Beatrice. She didn’t blush with guilt when she said these words, although eye contact with her employer felt like slow torture. Fire me. Fire me now and get this over with before I scream...
“Is it true?” asked Gwendolen. “That you and the groom were a couple–and are a couple now?”
“Yes–and no,” said Beatrice. “Nothing happened this time.” The trite answer of the guilty; the same excuse as politicians and important figures caught lying and desperate to be believed.
With a sigh, Gwendolen flipped the file closed. “You know our policy here at the firm, Beatrice. You know how important it is to protect the reputation of this firm–of its planners–from any kind of scandal.”
Beatrice’s lip trembled; she felt the first tears blur the edges of her vision. “I do,” she said.
“The kind of accusation made by Ms. Conners is the worst offense for a wedding planner. It breaks our trust with the client–and breaks hearts, too.”
“I know,” said Beatrice. “Who wants to hire a firm whose planner ran off with half the couple?” Flippant humor she regretted a second later, the tremor in her voice betraying her true feelings.
“And you didn’t see any need to tell me that you and Mr. Wilson were–friends?” The gentle note of accusation in Gwendolen’s voice was the final straw in Beatrice’s silence.
“There wasn’t anything to say,” she said. “Me and Daniel–we hadn’t seen each other since college. And no matter what–I wouldn’t betray someone’s trust like that. I know it looks terrible, but nothing happened, I promise.” The words tumbled out in her haste, making her ashamed that she was almost babbling before Gwendolen.
“I think you know what the dignity of this firm demands that I do,” said Gwendolen. “What our policy means I should do at this very moment.”
Beatrice drew her shoulders upright, ignoring the shrinking feeling within as the dreaded moment arrived. “Go ahead,” she said. “Go ahead and fire me. Because I don’t want to hurt the firm. I just ... I just don’t want you to believe the story she told was true.” Not that it mattered at this point. Her job was out of the question; Daniel’s engagement was beyond repair.
Gwendolen was quiet for a moment, then rose from her chair. “I’m sure you’ve heard the story behind how I started this firm,” she said, facing Beatrice as she leaned against the front of her desk.
Beatrice shook her head. “No,” she said. “I guess I thought you were born to do this.” She shrugged her shoulders.
Gwendolen let out a faint laugh. “I thought so, too,” she said. “But I didn’t start out at the top. I was the underdog for a long time, working for Grace Taylor’s firm. My first client–the reason I started this business–was far from a success. In fact, it was a complete disaster.”
Despite herself, Beatrice glanced at Gwendolen. “A disaster?” she repeated.
“Nothing happened the way it was supposed to–but in the end, it gave me the courage to do something new with my life,” said Gwendolen. “It was also the reason I insisted on this policy you’ve apparently disobeyed.”
Beatrice’s eyes widened. “You mean–you–made that kind of mistake?” she asked. Her eye darted to the stone glittering on Gwendolen’s left hand.
Gwendolen smiled inscrutably. “Let’s just say that in the end, I think my client was probably relieved with the way things turned out...and was no fan of Ms. Taylor’s for very different reasons. As for the eminent Ms. Taylor–she prefers never to discuss anything that might make her agency seem even a smidge less successful than its reputation suggests.”
By now, Beatrice felt as if her heart had taken flight. For some inexplicable reason, the sense of dread had passed in the feeling that Gwendolen understood–as if the two of them shared a connection.
“Sometimes what we want most is something we give up in order to do the right thing,” said Gwendolen. “And sometimes–” she placed a hand on Beatrice’s shoulders “–we get a second chance to have it after all.” She studied her employee’s face intently, a soft smile appearing on her own.
“Congratulations,” she said. “You’ve just become the newest senior planner at Creative Coordination.”
*****
There was no sign of Daniel a week after the canceled wedding, despite Beatrice’s best attempts to find him. Digging her crumpled contact list out of the discarded wedding file, she phoned every member of his science team listed there, only to receive vague replies and reluctance when it came to his hours or his definite location. As if they had been told to keep it secret by the former groom himself.
The government grant agency sponsoring Daniel’s study had a similar policy of silence. Despite Beatrice’s attempts to wheedle the details of his study, such as locations or public presentations, none of it was revealed.
“I’m sorry, but public information on science studies is limited,” explained the person on the other line. “I would suggest you try another source of information to locate the project director in question.”
“Thanks,” said Beatrice, hanging up with a sigh of frustration.
His cell phone number, his friends, the in
ternet–she’d exhausted all other sources of information at this point. At the peak of her desperation, she drove to the park and visited his lightening rod field, where she found nothing but holes in the ground where the metal poles once stood.
Hotel room empty, no forwarding address. Daniel’s work had taken him elsewhere without any need to let her know he was gone, apparently. She wondered if the gnawing ache she felt was the same as his own when she boarded a bus for her new future and left him behind.
“I can’t let go, Ma,” she said, slumped on the floor beside her kitchen counter. “I keep wishing that I could tell him how I felt or let him know how sorry I am.”
“What are you sorry for?” her mother asked. “You weren’t the one cheating on him, it was his horrible fiancé. All you did was warn him she was the wrong kind of girl.”
“But I was the first to leave him,” said Beatrice. “If I hadn’t, maybe none of this would have happened. You know–he wouldn’t be someone’s ex-fiancé; I wouldn’t be so ... alone.” This last part was the result of pain, the last vestiges of denial erased by her feelings. It was ludicrous to claim there was any connection between these two events, but she couldn’t help it.
“Oh, Bee,” said her mother. “Why’d you have to wait so long to think of this?”
“I don’t know,” Beatrice groaned. “I really don’t know.”
*****
“You said you wanted to see something different, so here we are. What do you think?” Beatrice asked.
She posed the question to her latest client–the first as a senior planner for the firm–a sedate thirtysomething bride who studied the room’s unusual mural of tropical birds, the lush orchid plants on display, with a serious expression.
“I think you did it,” she answered, after a moment. “It’s lovely–and the museum is open to letting the public rent this room, I trust?” The woman tapped her fingers lightly on her stylish handbag.
“Of course,” said Beatrice. “The museum only uses this room for its fundraisers; the rest of the time, it’s available for rent. Couples love it, since the windows overlook the butterfly room.” She gestured towards the tree branches visible in the area below, where monarchs and tiger-striped wings fluttered among the foliage.
The bride was a major Audubon supporter, the groom a physicist–Beatrice felt certain this option would please them. Her own excitement was bubbling beneath the surface, ready to break through her confident smile with rays of triumph if her client was satisfied.
Even being in the science museum hadn’t diminished her pleasure at a job well done; but she still felt a pang at the sight of a poster for the new Weather Room, where schoolchildren gathered to watch clouds formed in science demonstrations and press plastic buttons to watch footage of tornadoes tearing across the prairies. For a moment, she felt the vivid sensation of Daniel’s hand holding hers comfortingly as she panicked at the lecture on dangerous weather patterns.
“I’ll reserve it for the reception hour and phone you with the details,” Beatrice continued, as they made their way to the directory zone of the museum floor. “There’s also a cake design which might interest you. The bakery creates spun sugar feathers in parrot colors or even peacock.”
“Sounds heavenly,” said the bride. “I see the new fountain in the lobby is open. It would be a perfect place for photographs, don’t you think?” The woman drifted towards the stairs to the museum’s main floor, studying the new brochure in her hand as she walked. Beatrice followed, her steps slowing as she saw the entrance to the Night Sky dome.
The lights inside were still blue, fading to violet as the cycle of stars began again. She moved towards it, then entered the darkened doorway. The bench in the middle of the room was vacant since no schoolchildren were touring the display, no sign of any visitors except herself.
Above, the stars appeared in the projected sky: the constellations ebbed into being, a Milky Way splashed in a haze of white, an Orion with Sirius the Dog Star blazing against the blackness. Once, Beatrice had been able to identify them all, the images magnified by the lens of Daniel’s telescope.
“Aquarius,” she recited, softly. “There’s Leo. And just beyond it...”
“Jupiter.” The sound of a familiar voice in the room startled her. “The bright light is Jupiter.” Daniel’s outline was faintly visible in the darkness near the doorway. Her eyes were no longer gazing at the stars but with astonishment at him.
He moved to join her, sitting beside her on the bench. “The secretary at your firm said you’d be here,” he said. “When I called. Sort of like fate, isn’t it?”
“You called,” she said. “And I missed it.” A blush was spreading across her cheeks, making her grateful for the darkness. “You know, when I pictured myself apologizing to you, it was in a more normal setting.”
“I think I’m the one who owes somebody an apology,” he answered. Reaching over, he touched her cheek. “You were trying to protect me. And I–I was hurt. I said things I didn’t mean when it was over.”
Beatrice laughed, her tone slightly bitter. “That part about me leaving was true.” Her mouth twisted itself with emotions that were both pleasure and pain in the form of her words. “I deserved what you said. You made me think about what it meant...walking away from us like that. How scared I was of something I didn’t understand. How angry I was at myself for doing it afterwards.”
Tears were building in her voice, threatening to fill her eyes in an uncharacteristic display. As if sensing this in the darkness, Daniel wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. Her face was pressed against his shoulder, smelling the scent of his cologne, feeling the softness of silk against her cheek. His tie, she realized, when her tear-blurred eyes opened. A row of miniature rocket ships against a purple background, barely visible in the dim glow.
“Maybe we can just ... start over,” he suggested. “You and me. Just pretend that the point where you left didn’t happen.” He glanced down as she drew back from his embrace, attempting to read the meaning in his eyes.
“Then we’re still friends,” she said. “Aren’t we?” A note of hopefulness had crept into her voice; she couldn’t expect more, but at least that was still possible.
“That’s all?” It was a question, not a statement. As her eyes were still locked with his, she knew what he must be seeing within them. Her hand crept towards his fingers. As they touched, his hand closed around hers, caressing it as he held it tightly.
He released a faint laugh as he shook his head. “What do you think?” he asked.
Without answering, she leaned up and pressed her lips against his. He could push her away, she knew; but for once, she didn’t feel the urge to be free of his hold. She felt his arms around her, drawing her closer beneath the stars as the heavens reached the peak of their glory in the projected sky above. The same constellations which shone so brightly before, the two of them holding hands as they peered through the lens of a battered old telescope.
Deleted Scene from the best-selling novel The Wedding Caper
There was a risk to the masquerade of being Grace Taylor–and an excitement, Gwen decided. Although the excitement seemed less glamorous when it consisted of racing up the stairs, past the broken elevator, as she crammed a pair of flats on her feet in motion.
The stiletto heels were stuffed into the oversized purse swinging beside her, along with the electronic planner; no need to call attention in the office to the fact that meek little Gwendolen was no longer burdened with a sheaf of papers for her errands.
Puffing slightly, she paused in the hallway and drew an oversized sweater over her head. It snagged on the elegant French knot of the faux Grace Taylor, pulling several pins free in a scattering cloud of metal. No time to retrieve them–she seized the loose hair and knotted it swiftly in place with a pencil pulled from her bag. A quick glimpse in the glass of the door next to Perfect Vows entrance assured her the transformation was complete. A dowdy girl with dishwater hair, a rumpled corduroy sk
irt bagging limply around the knees.
She reached for the door handle to the reception room, then froze. Menus. She had forgotten the menus. What would Joan say? The new list of caterers was on Grace Taylor’s ironclad to-do list, not to be neglected. Frantically, she dug through her bag for any kind of substitute: food catalogs, internet brochures, even fast food coupons. Her fingers closed over a jumble of papers, pulling them from inside and thumbing through them frantically. Even a parking ticket would provide an excuse.
She felt the agency’s door swing open. “Excuse me, may I–oh, it’s you.”
Glancing up, she saw the brooding face of Gisele, one of the firm’s hired planners, an employee whose status above Gwendolen’s was marked by tailored pants suits and patent shoes.
“Sorry,” said Gwendolen, meekly. It was too late to retreat; clearly, Gisele expected her to walk through the door. She brushed past the elegantly-attired planner and into the office, sneaking a peak in Joan’s direction. The secretary was noisily smacking a piece of gum, busy glancing through the appointment book.
Quietly, Gwendolen drifted in the direction of her own desk, her mind focused entirely on the world of Gwendolen Lynch the assistant, shoving thoughts of Mrs. Harlett’s menu complaints and Ryan’s smile out of reach. Until a harrumph from Joan startled her in mid-creep.
“Got the menus?” Joan asked. She shoved aside the appointment calendar as she looked up.
She must have eyes in the top of her head. “Um, they didn’t have any available. Yet,” Gwendolen added, by way of excuse. “Lucian’s said they were waiting for the printers– plus, I got this thing. A–an email from my dentist about an appointment I forgot.” Her hand was gesturing with the crumpled sheets of paper as if they were evidence of her excuse. The lies tripping off her tongue sounded fake to her, even if guilt hadn’t been surging through her veins like fire.
Bride Has Two Faces: A Wedding Caper Sequel Page 11