by Howe, Violet
By the time I met with my bride, Angie, today, I was on my fourth cup of coffee and searching for any reserve of patience that might be lurking in the corners of my mind. A search that proved for the most part futile.
It’s not that Angie isn’t a sweet girl. She is, really. But this is our third planning session, and we still have nothing set in place for her wedding other than the officiant and the location.
She has a clear vision of how she wants her wedding to look. She’s spent no telling how much time flipping through magazines and poring over wedding web pages to find pictures of every detail she wants to incorporate. She carries around a binder filled with clippings and screen shots of every single aspect of her dream wedding. No stone has been left unturned.
White chair covers. Red satin bows. White silk draping from the rafters. A canopy of twinkle lights suspended over the dance floor. Lush arrangements of Casablanca lilies in cylindrical vases. An orchestra. A monogrammed custom vinyl dance floor. Arrival in a vintage Cadillac and departure across the lake in a decorated pontoon boat.
But we’re talking champagne tastes and beer-belly budget. Cheap beer.
Angie has five thousand dollars to spend and a guest list of two hundred.
It ain’t gonna happen. It’s mathematically impossible.
Champagne Angie refuses to hear that.
Both planning sessions so far have ended in a stalemate where she stomps out in tears and nothing gets settled.
When she called to book today’s meeting, she assured me she had a plan in place that would make everything work out.
I assumed she’d cut her guest count down to a manageable number or crossed a few dream items off her checklist.
But no. I should have known better.
She launched right into it as soon as she sat down. “Okay, so obviously the biggest expense we have is the food and the bar, right?”
I nodded, somewhat apprehensive to be in agreement with anything until I heard the whole plan.
“So I figure the easiest way to cut the budget is to get rid of the caterer.”
Not sure I’d heard her correctly but curious as to where she was headed, I leaned forward in my chair.
“I found a chicken place that can do a bucket of chicken and two side items for each table for six dollars a person. That includes biscuits—one per person—and they’re willing to throw in paper plates and wet wipes. So that’s way cheaper than the caterer. If we ask everybody to throw their stuff in the trash when they’re done, we wouldn’t need servers to clear the dishes, and people could use their wet wipes to clean off the tables after they finish eating.”
She looked at me like she had just handed me a top secret formula that would cure cancer, end hunger, and achieve world peace. With a wet wipe thrown in for free.
“Angie, darlin’, I know you’re searching for a way to make all this work. You’ve been real resourceful and diligent in your search, but honey, you can’t invite two hundred people to fly into town and sit on chair covers under a twinkle light canopy and feed them buckets of chicken and mashed potatoes with plastic forks. It’s just not done.”
“Oh, no, no, no. We weren’t gonna do the little white plastic forks from the chicken place. Mama said that’d be tacky. She found boxes of clear plastic forks—the real nice, thick plastic—at the dollar store and bought enough for us to use. I already told the chicken place we didn’t need theirs.”
I panicked as I realized she had already put this harebrain scheme into action. “Angie! Did you already book the chicken?” My brain rejected the notion of booking chicken so I mentally searched for the proper term. “Order it? Did you order the chicken? Have you paid them anything?”
Her elated expression wilted a bit at the tone of my question. “We gave them a deposit. Why? Is that bad?”
I rubbed my hands over my eyes and took a deep breath.
“Sweetie, you can’t do that. You can’t serve buckets of chicken with chair covers and Casablanca lilies. You just can’t. We either need to cut the guest list down to where you can afford the caterer, or we need to redesign the wedding to fit your budget.”
Her face fell into a frown and tears filled her eyes, but I didn’t let it stop me from talking sense.
“Look, I know you don’t want to cut anything, but trust me when I say your guests will not be impressed with buckets of chicken. They would much rather have a great meal and no silk drapings or chair covers.”
“But it’s really good chicken,” she protested. “We went and ate there before we gave them a deposit. It’s delicious. Not greasy or nothing.”
Unfortunately, I had to consider the possibility that if Angie and her mama thought finger lickin’ good was an appropriate wedding menu description, their guests might be thrilled, too. But I had vendors to protect and our company image to uphold, so I focused on the other limitations of the budget that chicken didn’t solve.
“Let’s look again at the decor. If we just nix the silk draping and then—”
“No! I love that silk draping. Look at this,” she said, digging through her binder for a magazine clipping. I’d seen it before. Every time we’d met. A concert hall in Manhattan draped with yards and yards of imported silk, uplit with colored gels every few feet so that even the shadows on the ceiling several stories above danced with colors.
In stark contrast, Angie’s location was a one-story pavilion on a lake. Tin roof with wooden rafters. A large wooden pole in each corner holding it up. Patio pavers for flooring and palm trees planted in between the poles. Not exactly the same canvas to start with, so no matter how much money she spent on silk draping, it was never going to look like the picture. Which I had explained. Several times.
“Angie, it’s beautiful, but as we’ve already discussed, you can’t afford it, and it’s not going to look the same as the picture without the lighting and the high ceilings.”
Tears rolled through the trail of mascara down her face, and emotion painted vivid red splotches on her cheeks.
“But it’s my wedding. I should be able to have whatever I want. It’s the one day in my life where everything is about me. It’s my day, and I want it to look like this.”
She jabbed a bright blue fingernail at the magazine clipping and glared at me, defiance flashing in her eyes.
I sighed and wondered how rude it would be to get up and pour more coffee in the middle of our conversation. Crushing dreams in a gentle manner required more sleep or more caffeine. Or both.
Angie must have taken my hesitation as a sign of me wavering.
“So are you going to give me what I want, or do I need to talk to your boss?” She tucked her chin and raised her brows as she said it, certain she’d just handed me a package sure to make me quiver in my boots.
I almost busted out laughing for sure that time. The only boss in the office was Lillian. I had no fear whatsoever that she would be on my side in this argument. Bring it on.
“Angie, my hands are tied. I understand you want your wedding to be wonderful, and it will be, but you have a very limited budget. We have to work within that budget, and I don’t have control over the vendors’ prices.”
She shook her head and put up her hand to stop me. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but you leave me no choice. I will not allow you to ruin my wedding. I need to speak to your boss, and I won’t take no for an answer.” She crossed her arms and turned away from me.
I wasted no time in getting up and going to Lillian’s office to convey the request.
“Is this the twit you told me about before? The one who wants a five hundred thousand dollar event with five thousand dollars?” Lillian raised one eyebrow to a sharp angle and peered at me over her glasses.
I nodded.
“I don’t have time for this,” Lillian said, removing her glasses with an exhale and shoving back her chair from her desk. “When is her wedding? How many guests? Buckets of chicken, my arse.”
Lillian swept into the conference room with a
ll the authority and haughtiness in her possession. A quite formidable entrance that wasn’t lost on Champagne Angie, who immediately sat up straight and wiped the tears and mascara from her face.
“Angela?” Lillian’s British accent was clipped so sharp it almost stung.
“Yes?” Champagne Angie nodded and sniffled, her gaze darting back and forth between me and Lillian with a mixture of apprehension, confusion, and blatant fear.
“I understand you have an issue with Tyler’s handling of your affairs. Tyler has been gracious enough to take on your event, even though it falls far below the budget threshold we deem essential for our clients.”
I blinked and tried not to look at Angie. If we had any such threshold, I’d never heard of it before now.
“She did this out of the goodness of her heart because she is passionate about brides and she took a particular liking to you and wanted to help. However, I fear it’s become obvious that in order to create the wedding vision you have in mind, you cannot afford our services. The money you are spending to have Tyler’s assistance would be much better put toward the trappings of the day to get you closer to achieving your dreams. If you’ll just follow me, I’ll have my assistant Carmen draw up paperwork to cancel our contract and refund your deposit, which you can then redirect for your silk drapings.”
Lillian spun to go as if it were a done deal simply based on her saying so. Angie’s mouth opened and closed as she watched Lillian leave the room.
“Wait! I don’t want to cancel. I can’t do all this by myself. I need Tyler to help me.”
Lillian came back and peered at Angie. “Oh, but you can, my dear. You can do all this by yourself. You have been. Just look at all this work you’ve done.” She swept her hand to indicate the clippings spread across the table. “You don’t need us. Your money would be better spent elsewhere.”
“No. I want a wedding planner. I want Tyler. I need her to help me.” Champagne Angie had stopped crying, the distress in her eyes outweighing her earlier defiance. She shrank a bit in her chair as Lillian leaned over the table and braced her weight on her knuckles to tower over the young girl.
“Then I suggest you allow her to help. You are hiring Tyler for her expertise and her guidance. If you want to pay for her services, then get the full value for your money and allow her to plan your event to be cost-effective and beautiful. Otherwise, your money is wasted. As is her time. Are we clear?”
Lillian stood back up to her full height and cocked that sharp, fear-inducing eyebrow again.
Angie nodded in an uneven rhythm, her chin shaking but her gaze unwavering. “Yes, ma’am.”
I almost felt sorry for her. She had no idea what she’d asked for when she demanded to meet my boss.
“There now,” Lillian said with a huge smile that lit up her face but did nothing to ease the eyebrow arch or the set of her eyes. “I’m so glad we got that settled and can move forward. Tyler, do let me know how plans are progressing? I’m anxious to hear what you come up with.”
It took almost two hours more, but we nixed the silk draping and decided to talk to the florist about doing a cheaper arrangement with maybe a single Casablanca lily or perhaps another flower similarly striking but less expensive. We also discussed possibly doing away with the chair covers, but I could see the disappointment weighing on her so I tabled that decision for a later date. She left with a promise to cut people from the list and revisit her available funds.
I feel bad for her. I really do. I want her wedding to be everything she wants it to be. I know how much it means to her, and I’ll do whatever I can to make it happen. But you can’t squeeze blood from a turnip. There’s only so much I can do with the money she gives me to work with.
It naturally turned my thoughts to my own wedding. I don’t want to go into debt or put anyone out for a huge wedding. It’s just not necessary. Besides, where would we have it? If I have it here, most of my family wouldn’t be able to come. Not that Mama would let me do that anyway. She’ll insist it’s in our church back home. But I don’t know if that’s what I want. I’d kind of like to have it here and hire the vendors I work with and know so well.
We also have to consider Cabe’s family. That situation is so messed up right now I’m not sure who would even come. He’s still not speaking to his sister after Galen joined forces with the dark side and invited Cabe over to meet their half-siblings with no warning.
He has at least been talking with his mom since they fell out over Maggie taking Galen’s side and calling Cabe’s father, but they’re not as close as they used to be. Every time I ask about her, he’s not eager to discuss it.
The more I think about it, the more I think it would solve everything if we just eloped.
Saturday, June 14th
Mama called this morning as I was getting ready for work. I should have let it go to voice mail, but I felt guilty that I haven’t talked to her in so long. Even more so since I’m basically hiding some pretty important news from her.
“Hey Mama.” I put her on speaker so I could finish my make-up.
“Hey sugar. You having a wedding today?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m getting ready now.” Oh, and by the way, I’m having a wedding of my own. I couldn’t say it out loud.
“Well, I won’t keep you. I was just calling to tell you Marlena’s getting married.”
Great. Just great. My aunt Marjorie’s daughter Marlena is a year younger than me and has always been the gold standard my mother used as a comparison.
Why can’t you be more like your cousin Marlena? Why don’t you act like Marlena? Why couldn’t you just try to do it like Marlena?
Marlena was a pageant queen. Marlena was stick thin. Marlena had perfect teeth. Marlena’s hair never frizzed. Marlena made straight As and got a college scholarship. Marlena finished college and got her degree. Marlena took a job as a pharmacist at a children’s hospital right out of school and actually helps people for a living. Marlena has been dating a pediatric heart surgeon and the two of them travel to Uganda and Peru each year to provide medical services to the unfortunates of the world.
Now Marlena is getting married. The bar will be set. High. Very high.
Any thought I had of telling Mama about my engagement dissipated.
There is no way I am going to plan a wedding at the same time as Marlena or anywhere within a year after her event.
I might just be moving my date up. I don’t even have a freakin’ date set yet, but whatever Marlena’s is, mine needs to come first.
That’s it. I gotta talk Cabe into eloping.
Sunday, June 15th
“I have a surprise for you,” Cabe said when I arrived at his place. His eyes were wide with excitement and mischief, and his broad smile made me all tingly inside. “Close your eyes.”
He took my hand and pulled me inside the house and down the hallway to his bedroom.
“Okay, open them!”
The smell of fresh paint overwhelmed my nostrils as I slowly took in the transformation. He had painted his walls to match the deep lavender of my own bedroom.
“Do you like it? You like it, right? It’s the color of your room.”
He was so excited he couldn’t stand still, and the grin on his face was echoed in his eyes.
“Yes, it is.” I turned slowly again, noticing the different nuances in the color with the additional windows in this room. In my room, the color appeared a bit darker, more gray. The brighter lighting brought out a more delicate variation of the shade. “It’s beautiful, Cabe.”
“Yes! You like it!” He picked me up and twirled me, kissing me as he put me back on the ground. “I hoped you would. I did the first coat Friday night after you left and finished it up yesterday while you were at work. You said the house looked bare, so I thought I’d add some color.”
I nodded. “It looks good.”
“You like this color, right?”
“I picked it, didn’t I?” Memories of the day I’d picked that color for my
walls flooded back. Cabe and I weren’t together then. I’d painted over my memories of us as I prepared to move forward without him. Now, here I was, embarking on a completely different journey with him by my side. Did the color still work?
“What made you pick this color?” he asked.
“It seemed calm. Serene. I needed serenity. Why’d you pick it?”
He laid across the bed and pulled me down with him. “I wanted you to feel at home here. In this room. This house. Our house. Our bedroom.”
I lifted onto my elbow and propped my chin in my hand to look at him. “Our bedroom?”
“Yes, our bedroom. I always intended for it to be ours.”
He meant it. I had no doubt. But it still bothered me that he’d gotten the house while we were apart. I would have liked the house better if we’d picked it out together. Searched together. Bought it together.
“What’s up, Buttercup?” He pushed my hair away from my face and tucked it behind my ear. “Does that bother you? For me to say it’s our bedroom?”
I shook my head but didn’t meet his eyes.
“Ty, I needed to get out of the pool house. I crashed there when I came back from Seattle, but it was past time for me to stand back on my own two feet and get a place of my own. Plus Mom and I were barely speaking, which made it awkward as all hell living in such close proximity.”
I met his eyes again. “I know that. I’m not saying anything about it.”
“No, but I can tell it bothers you that I bought the house without you. I need you to understand why.”
I flipped onto my back, uncomfortable facing him while I pouted.
“I do understand why. You don’t owe many explanations. We weren’t together then.” My heart pricked a little at the memory of our time apart.
He turned my face to his and moved so close we were almost touching noses.
“Ty, I bought this house because I needed to make commitments toward a future. Our future. I needed to establish some roots. Some stability. A place to offer you when I came begging for you to take me back.” He kissed the tip of my nose and caressed my cheek. “I never thought of it as just my house. It was always ours for me. I only looked in the neighborhoods near our lake. I purposely searched for a big kitchen with the island so we could work side-by-side when we cook. I made sure it had a fenced-in yard because I knew you wanted a dog.”