Diary of an Engaged Wedding Planner (Tales Behind the Veils Book 3)

by Howe, Violet

  Long pause.

  “I’m gonna buy twenty baskets. Do you think that’s enough?”

  “What kind of baskets are they? I don’t need twenty baskets. I don’t know if I need any baskets. Just hold off.”

  “If I hold off, they may not have them when you want them. It’s an outlet, Tyler. Close-out.”

  “I don’t think we need baskets, Mama.”

  “What about taper candles? They’ve got boxes of white unscented taper candles ten for a dollar. Ten candles, not ten boxes. Want me to get those? How many? Fifty? A hundred?”

  My pulse began to pound at my right temple.

  “We don’t even have a guest count yet, Mama. I don’t know how many people, how many tables. Just don’t buy anything. Wait until we’ve made some decisions and I have a better idea of what we’re doing.” Or better yet, don’t do anything at all and let me handle it. I wanted to say that so bad, but I refrained.

  “Okay, but you wait until the last minute to do all this and you’re going to have to settle for what’s left. I may go ahead and get these candles. If you don’t use them, I can give them to the church. I was in the craft store yesterday and they’ve got satin on sale. We could get your cousin Wanda to whip up some bridesmaid dresses if you pick a color. She’s such a good seamstress. You can’t tell her stitches from Pete when it comes to store-bought.”

  My mind blanched at the thought of satin bridesmaid dresses at the same time it analyzed where that saying came from. Who was Pete and why on earth is he referenced in conversation?

  “I gotta get back to work. I’ll let you know as soon as we make decisions. Don’t buy anything yet, okay?”

  She called again an hour later. I knew it would do no good not to answer it; she’d just keep calling until I did.

  “Yes, Mama?”

  “They have nice silk flower stalks dirt cheap. Want me to buy a bunch and me and Pearl could make centerpieces? We could put them in the baskets.”

  Both temples were pounding now, so hard it hurt my head for her to talk.

  “I think we’ll probably go with fresh floral, but thanks. Don’t buy anything.”

  “Fresh floral? Good Lord, child. Did you win the lottery? You keep in mind we don’t have the kind of budget those brides you work with have. We need to be cost-effective. I may go ahead and buy some of these silks. I mean, they’re on clearance. You’ll use them somewhere.”

  The train had left the station, and it was dragging me unwillingly behind it. I rubbed my forehead and squinted to shut out the light.

  “I don’t want any silk flowers. Do not buy any silk flowers.”

  “You’d like these. They’re high quality.”

  “I gotta go. I’ll let you know once we’ve made decisions. Don’t. Buy. Anything.”

  Friday, July 18th

  We all cringe when we get a groom doing the planning. More often than not, a man planning his own wedding is controlling, nit-picky, hard to please, and more than a tad bit anal.

  It certainly rings true with Richard.

  I don’t get what Laramie sees in him. He has vetoed her choice of colors, every song she’s suggested, and her ideas for the menu. He picked her dress and ordered it online, and he chose the photographer, the DJ, and the flowers.

  Most of his decisions were strictly budget-based, and if it came down to a choice between items, the cheaper one won out almost every time.

  He’s not rude, and he’s not unpleasant on the phone.

  But it’s his way or no way. Every time.

  Which I guess must work for them, since she never protests his decisions and she agreed to marry him.

  I watched Laramie tonight at the rehearsal. I looked for any signs of fear. Of regret. Of whether or not she doubted the union. I didn’t see any, so if she has them, they’re well-hidden.

  All I can say is, I would probably kill that man in his sleep if I had to live with him.

  “As we’ve been planning this and I’ve pictured this moment in my mind,” Richard said as we stood in the sand beside the lake rehearsing their ceremony, “I always thought her veil and her hair would blow that direction, away from her face. I always pictured her veil trailing out from her to make for a great picture with the lake and the palm trees in the background. But this is all wrong.” He pointed to Laramie’s face.

  The wind was blowing from behind her, a none too gentle breeze in the afternoon heat and an indicator that our customary afternoon thunderstorm was fast approaching. Her long, brown hair whipped around her face, covering most of her delicate features and forcing her to close her eyes.

  “This won’t do,” Richard said. “You can’t even see her. She can’t open her eyes. Will it be like this tomorrow?”

  I stared at him and swallowed every sarcastic response that came to mind. Was he actually asking me to predict the wind twenty-four hours from now?

  “All I can tell you is the forecast for tomorrow is only a twenty-percent chance of precipitation, which is good. As I explained, here in Central Florida, we are tropical enough to contend with the daily afternoon storms, but we’ve planned your ceremony later in the evening to hopefully avoid that.”

  “But what about the wind? Is it going to blow the wrong way?”

  I bit my tongue again. “Richard, I can’t say what the wind will do tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Well, you’ve done weddings here before, right? I mean, you guys set up the ceremony in this spot, so I’m assuming this is where it typically happens. What does the wind do? I find it hard to believe you’ve never had someone complain if the bride’s veil covers her faces in photos.”

  Surprisingly enough, in the myriad of complaints that people issue regarding weddings, I had never heard from one of my clients or through any of my colleagues about a veil complaint due to wind. I think most people are intelligent enough to know that no one can predict or control the flippin’ wind. I tried to figure out a way to say this to Richard without sounding condescending.

  “This is the ceremony site, yes, but the wind is different each day depending on weather patterns. And no, I have not had that complaint.”

  “Well, isn’t there someone you could call? Like a weatherman or something?”

  He wasn’t getting it.

  “Richard, the wind depends on a number of variables. I think they can predict which general direction the wind will come from due to fronts and barometric pressure and other weather stuff. But I don’t think they can say what direction a breeze will blow between seven and seven-thirty tomorrow.”

  He put his hands on his hips and scanned the lake. “This is ridiculous. We’ve spent all this money and planned for all this time, and you never thought to mention that this could be a problem?”

  “I don’t see where there’s a problem. The wind may or may not blow in several directions during your ceremony.”

  “I thought the whole reason we hired a planner was so the event would be planned down to the very last detail and there wouldn’t be any unpleasant surprises.” He crossed his arms and widened his stance in the sand.

  I looked at Laramie, who was watching us both now that the breeze had changed directions. I searched her face for any inkling that she knew her fiancé was an insane jackass. Nothing. She stared blankly at him. I began to think maybe she was hypnotized or under some form of mind control.

  “Richard, we have planned your itinerary to take into consideration a wide variety of circumstances, including rain or inclement weather. The direction of an afternoon breeze is beyond the scope of our planning.” I tried to say it politely. I don’t think I succeeded.

  Marriage is a lifetime commitment. Why on earth would someone willingly sign up to partner with him for life?

  I normally pray for no rain on wedding days. I guess tomorrow I need to pray for no wind as well.

  Saturday, July 19th

  Well, the wind cooperated today, which is more than I can say for Richard.

  He micromanaged every detail of every aspect of
the wedding. Standing over everyone’s shoulder and counting each penny as it floated out of his pocket. And I mean the shoulder part literally. He watched over the bartender’s shoulder for about twenty minutes after he disputed the amount of the pours.

  He kept asking to see the photographer’s photo count so he would know how many pictures were being taken per hour. He even counted the number of cake slices the catering staff cut to ensure he’d been given the correct amount of cake by the bakery and that the staff was serving it correctly to optimize the number of servings.

  I don’t know how he could have possibly enjoyed anything at the event. He was too busy auditing it and worrying about whether or not he got his money’s worth. I never saw him and Laramie standing together talking and laughing with guests, enjoying their day. Other than the first dance and the last dance, I never saw them together on the dance floor. In fact, I didn’t see them together very often at all.

  Laramie seemed to enjoy herself, though, and if she was concerned about his behavior, she never let on. I guess she knows how he is. She willingly signed up for this journey, after all.

  It was exhausting for me, though. Me and everyone else working the event. It was like being under a microscope. Like we were being inspected and scrutinized every minute.

  I would rather not even have a wedding than to have one and be so paranoid about every penny spent that I couldn’t enjoy myself.

  I feel like every wedding I’ve been doing since I got promoted has been bare bones budgets. It makes sense. The larger weddings with the deeper pockets are going to the more experienced planners with more seniority. I get that. But it sucks. I want a budget I can play with. I want to go over the top and plan extravagant things. With someone else’s money, of course. Not mine.

  Cabe and I have been talking budget, head count, and some details. So far, we seem to be in agreement on what is reasonable, which is nice. Neither of us wants to go overboard and spend a bunch of money on stuff that isn’t necessary, but I also want to go in with the mindset that whatever we spend, we spend without obsessing over it.

  What’s the point of having a wedding if you don’t enjoy it?

  Sunday, July 20th

  My family must have made a big impression on Cabe. He’s mentioned them at random times throughout the week.

  “Where did they come up with these names? Zula? Zona?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “Why?”

  “Don’t you think they’re odd?”

  I shrugged. “Coming from someone named Cable with a sister named Galen? Ha! You’re one to talk. I guess I never really thought about them as odd. They’re just my cousins’ names. We’ve got a Zolon, too, but on my daddy’s side. You didn’t get to meet all them.”

  “Yeah, I noticed most people seemed to be your mom’s family. Any reason?”

  “Some of that’s on me,” I said. “I didn’t call a bunch of people and tell ‘em I was coming. But some of it is small-town politics. Who doesn’t associate with who.”

  “I think it’s awesome that so many people came to your aunt’s just to see you and congratulate us. I’ve never had that many people related to me in one place at the same time. I don’t think I even know that many relatives.”

  I laughed and propped my feet up on the dashboard in the sun as Cabe sped down the highway toward the beach. “Yeah, I guess. But most of those people would have come to Aunt Clem’s for any reason, not just because I was there. Plus, you were big news. Everybody was curious to see what you looked like and who I’d brought home. If it had been just me, the turnout might not have been so big.”

  “Why does Aunt Clem call you ‘honey-girl’?”

  “When we were kids, we went to Aunt Clem’s every Sunday after church and spent the day. It was always a huge crowd, people coming in and out. The adults took up all available space in the house, so us kids would run around in the woods all day or play in the yard. Aunt Clem had bee houses set up back behind her barn, and I was notorious for sneaking back there and stealing honey. I loved the stuff. Couldn’t get enough of it.”

  “You stole honey from the bees? Didn’t they sting you?”

  I shook my head with my chin held high with pride and defiance. “Nope. I was the only one who never got stung. I could walk up and pull out a rack of honey and eat my fill. They’d swarm a little, but they never bit me. I even got honey from a wild hive once when I was thirteen. Climbed up a tree and got me a snack. Daddy always said my blood was too sweet for the bees. Aunt Clem said it was a gift, and she called me honey-girl.”

  My heart smiled at the memories. A strong longing for home clutched at my chest and tears sprang to my eyes.

  “I wish you could have known my daddy.”

  Cabe switched hands on the steering wheel so he could reach and take my hand in his. “Me too, babe. I would love to have met him.”

  I swiped at the tears and swallowed the lump in my throat, remembering Daddy’s laughter and the strength of his big bear hugs. I rarely let my mind focus on his memories, knowing that when I do, it can send me in a funk that lasts for days. But riding to the beach on such a sunny day with Cabe by my side and the sunroof open made me feel like it was safe to let Daddy creep into my thoughts.

  I told Cabe about our fishing trips, and how Daddy always laughed at me because I loved to catch the fish but couldn’t stand to touch them and get them off the hook. Or how he tried to take me duck hunting, but since I couldn’t be still or quiet, I scared all the ducks away. So Daddy started calling it our early-morning-sit-in-the-woods instead of hunting.

  We laughed about the mule dragging Daddy across the yard when his foot got tangled in the rope, and I sent Cabe into fits of laughter describing Daddy’s multiple failed attempts at teaching me how to shift a standard transmission.

  By the time we’d reached the beach, my heart was as warm as the sand beneath my feet, and I could feel Daddy’s presence surrounding me. I really should talk about him more. Set him free every now and then.

  Monday, July 21st

  I think the wedding gods were listening to my plea, and they’ve granted my wish to have a huge budget wedding to play with.

  Laura called me into her office as soon as I got into work today. If I get called in by one of my bosses, I’d always rather it be Laura, but it still makes me a bit nervous. Even when I know I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s kind of like that ‘called to the principal’s office’ feeling in your gut.

  “As you know, part of your promotion to a senior planner involved an internship with another company to expand your experiences and help you gain new practices. I was at a social event this weekend and bumped into Reynalda Riley, and she mentioned she has a large event coming up and is short-handed.”

  I sat up a little straighter in my chair. When I’d offered to intern as a solution to my lack of experience outside our company, I figured it would be with one of the other planners in town that we normally conversed with. I never dreamed it would be with Reynalda Riley.

  She’s probably the most well-known planner in Florida. One of the best known in the Southeastern US. If anyone getting married is even remotely statused as a celebrity in these parts, Reynalda does their wedding. Lillian says it’s not because she’s a great planner, but she’s a master at self-promotion.

  Reynalda has made the cover of pretty much every wedding-related or event-related magazine. She’s consistently quoted as an expert on weddings in various magazines and newspapers across the country—not just in Florida. Her television appearances and radio interviews have grown too numerous to count, and she is a permanent fixture at any cocktail gathering or party of note in Orlando.

  To be assigned to intern with Reynalda was a pretty big deal, and a little tingle of excitement fluttered in my belly at the prospect.

  “It’s pretty close in,” Laura explained. “I would imagine most of the planning has been done, but she’d love to meet with you and answer any questions you may have, and then you would be onboard for
any remaining planning sessions or meetings with this event and to help out the weekend of.”

  “Whose wedding is it?” I asked and then immediately stammered a recovery so I didn’t look starstruck. “I mean, I’m just wondering the scope of the event and how involved it might be, that’s all. It doesn’t matter whose it is.”

  “Some hip-hop star? Marrying a swimsuit model, I think? Not anything that’s on my playlist so I couldn’t tell you for sure, but here’s her cell if you want to call and set up an initial meeting.”

  I went back to my office and dialed her number with a little more gusto than necessary, all the while telling myself to play it cool and not act like a groupie.

  “Reynalda Riley.” She answered the phone with her name only. No hello. No how can I help you. Just a clear statement of who I’d reached.

  “Um, hi, Reynalda? This is Tyler Warren with Lillian & Laura? Laura asked me to give you a call to set up a meeting about interning there for one of your events?” I couldn’t believe how nervous I felt. I’d turned every sentence into a question without meaning to.

  “Let me get my assistant.”

  She placed me on hold without any sign that she knew what I was talking about. I wondered if maybe Laura had misunderstood.

  “This is Heidi. Tyler, right?” A much younger voice came on the line, and relief lowered my shoulders a bit when she actually knew my name without me telling her.

  “Yes, Laura told me to call about interning an event?”

  “Right. Can you be here tomorrow at nine o’clock to meet with Reynalda?”

  I checked my calendar and mentally went through my wardrobe at home to figure out what was clean and presentable for a meeting with Reynalda Riley.

  “Sure. How long should I plan to be there?”