Beach Wedding
By
Bella Cruise
Beach Wedding
Copyright © 2015 Bella Cruise
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For my mom and my dad, for always believing in me and supporting my dreams! And thank you so much to everyone who has helped make this possible!
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Chapter One
I love weddings.
I love everything about them: the flowers, the dress, the music. But most of all, I love the kiss. Somehow, it’s love brought to life in a single, perfect moment, when all the crazy chaos and pageantry melts away, and all that’s left are two people ready to share the rest of their lives together.
That’s not to say it always runs smoothly. Believe me, I’ve seen my share of hiccups. There was the groom who wanted a hole cut in the altar platform, so his six-foot bride wouldn’t look taller than him in the photos. There’s the bride who had to have emergency root canal six hours before the wedding and mumbled her way through ‘I do’. Then there’s my favorite: the couple who were literally struck with lightning. Look it up on YouTube if you don’t believe me; halfway through their charming vineyard wedding, the skies opened with a massive thunderstorm. They struggled on through the downpour, only to be struck by a bolt from the blue during their big kiss. (In case you’re worried, they turned out just fine – and the national news coverage paid for their whole honeymoon in Mexico!)
Yes, when it comes to that one perfect moment, I’ve seen them all. I’ve planned them all too – because, after all, that’s my job: Ginny Austen, Wedding Planner extraordinaire. It’s my duty to make sure my clients get the day of their dreams, despite high heels, Vicodin doses, and an appearance from El Nino.
Luckily, today the weather is on my side. It’s a gorgeous summer’s day in New York City, with the kind of blue skies and puffy cotton candy clouds that every bride – and wedding planner – pray for. “Are we ready?” I ask, checking my watch. Any minute now, the guests will start to arrive.
“Ready.” My assistant, Theo, pulls out his notepad, checking it over from behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “Everything is set to go. Right down to the poodle ring bearer – and, yes, the groomer is on hand, too. What, are you expecting poor Fifi to get her hair mussed up?” he teases with a grin.
“Do you remember what happened last time we had dogs running around?” I remind him. When it comes to a couple’s wedding day, I believe everything should be perfect. Not a hair out of place – not even on a dog.
Theo’s grin slips. “The schanuzers.”
“That’s right. Five minutes before the ceremony started, they were chasing a stray dove through a field. They left muddy paw prints all the way up the aisle. I’m not making the same mistake again.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Theo checks it off the list. “Canine stylists present and accounted for.”
He looks amused, but he’s only been working for me six months now. “Trust me,” I smile. “When you’ve been working this gig a little longer, you’ll get used to the crazy.”
Dogs don’t even come close to the strangest thing people want included in their special day – and it’s my job to make sure they get their heart’s desire. No dream too big, no detail too small. I can organize a hundred doves fluttering up in the air right as the newly-minted mister and missus exit the chapel doors. I can have fireworks spell out their initials in the night sky. I can make sure that hydroponically-grown orchids match the bride’s eyes. I do whatever it takes to make it perfect, and today, it is. The Central Park Boathouse looks like something out of a fairy tale. Pink rose and yellow hydrangea garlands hang from the dock, a rose petal strewn walkway leads up the aisle, and Liszt’s romantic Liebesträume, played by four members of the New York City Philharmonic, greets guests as they arrive.
“It looks like a million bucks,” I overhear a guest say.
“It should be, with the way his year is going, the lucky devil!” quips her date, in a suit that costs more than my rent. “Let’s just hope that today’s loss on the field won’t hurt the honeymoon!” I watch as the couple oohhhs and aahhhs at the canopy made from ivy and lace. I smile and glance at my watch for the thousandth time in the last hour. Precision is the name of this game.
Today’s clients are James, a successful sports manager, and Sarah, a sports therapist. A match made on the side lines – and these two are as specific as they are sporty. The bride wouldn't budge on the scented candles (maybe she’s been traumatized by locker room funk), and the groom insisted that seventy-percent of the hors d’oeuvres be bacon-wrapped. Both of them agreed, however, that their rescue dog, Bartholomew, a fourteen-year-old toy poodle, would be charged with leading them down the aisle. I actually love incorporating pets in weddings, but from what I’ve heard of Bartholomew, he has the potential to be the biggest diva at the event. I made precautions and assigned my second assistant to be in charge of him all day, so I shouldn’t be surprised when I get a MAYDAY text from Jody: “Doggone!”
Theo looks over my shoulder. “Seems like the pooch has flown the coop.”
Jody appears – a look of stark horror on her face. “Talk to me, Jody,” I beg.
“I went to get Bartholomew’s raw vegan lunch from the kitchen. When I came back, he was nowhere to be found,” she says, tearful. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” I try not to panic. “Get everyone you can spare, and find him. He’s old. He can’t be far.” I turn to Theo. “You go run interference with the bride. If she asks, precious Barty is off getting a special wedding pamper, OK?”
“No worries, Ginny. I’ve got this,” Theo says, and for once, I can relax. He’s my magic weapon, the ultimate bride-whisperer. I found him on a job last year, working for a photographer, right out of college. Somehow, around him, everything seemed to run smoother: the warring mother-in-laws were charmed by such a polite young man, the drunken uncles were steered safely away from the bridesmaids, and even the bride managed to calm down with a reassuring smile. I hired him away that same day, and he’s been my right-hand man ever since.
Now he heads for the bridal suite while Jody starts scouting in the bushes. Crisis averted – until I see the best man walking toward me his bowtie undone and an undone look on his face. “Hey, Ginny, I…um…we…um…have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“The rings. They’re gone. I put them down on a tray next to my coffee…and then…” he trails off.
I check my watch and think about sending Theo to the nearest cheap jeweler for a couple of placeholder bands. But there’s no time. The ceremony is due to start in ten minutes.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him, my mind racing. “I’ve got this.”
I reach for the chain hanging around my neck with two rings dangling from it. My parents’ rings. They died in a car accident when I was nine, and I like to keep their ri
ngs with me for luck, especially for a big wedding. I guess today they really are a lucky charm.
“Here, use these.” I tell him, pressing them into his hand. “They’ll work for the ceremony, and we can switch them out later.”
Relief floods his face. “You’re a lifesaver.” He grabs the rings and crushes me in a quarterback’s hug.
“Whoa, just make sure you keep hold of those.” I detangle myself and smooth down my dress. “Now you go get into place with the groom, OK?”
“Yes, coach!”
He heads off, and I hear something even more beautiful than the string quartet’s rendition of Pachelbel’s Canon. It’s the sound of barking. I look around and find Jody gripping Bartholomew tight. “Theo found Bartholomew! I’m going to get him to the groomer to get that seafood smell off of him.”
“Seafood smell?”
“Seems like ol’ Bart found his way to the bacon-wrapped scallops.”
“A dog after my own heart,” I grin, relieved. “What about the bride?”
“All dressed up and ready to go.”
I let out a long breath of relief. We pause and look out at out the scene: friends and family all lined up in their seats, the water shining beside them under a canopy of green. It’s beautiful: just the way I’d want my wedding to look.
“You really hit it out of the park this time, Ginny.” Theo grins, holding up his hand for a high five. “Is there anything you can’t do?”
“Ask me once they make it to ‘I do’,” I laugh. On a wedding day, anything is possible.
I watch the ceremony from a discreet post off to the side, giving my silent cue to the musicians, and the man poised to release two dozen heart-shaped balloons after the vows. I keep an eye on my parents’ rings as they sparkle during their big moment. Somehow, the bride doesn’t even notice the substitute rings as she gazes into her new husband’s eyes and leans in for that first, perfect kiss.
I breathe a sigh of relief. From here on out, it’s smooth sailing. Even if the reception is a disaster, and somebody has an allergic reaction to the cake, and somebody else’s crazy uncle starts stripping to the Macarena, the couple won’t mind. All they’ll remember is the ceremony, and how it went off without a hitch. My work here is done.
As the crowd cheers and the newlyweds make their way back up the aisle, something else catches my eye. Or rather, someone else. Across the dock, a dark-haired woman in a designer suit lurks, watching the scene. Unlike the expressions on the faces of the invited guests, which range from “happy for the bride” to “dang, how much did that dress cost?” this woman has her eyes narrowed in scrutiny. I quickly run through emergency protocols. A jealous ex-girlfriend? Scorned client? I’m about to run interference when I notice she’s not paying attention to the happy couple, she’s looking at everything else: the flowers, the decorations, the band. When she sees me, she brightens, and comes cutting through the crowd.
“Ginnifer Austen?” she asks.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Marcie Miller,” she says with a bright smile and strong handshake. She’s about my age, with a fashionable choppy haircut and oversized gold statement jewelry. “Can I have a moment of your time?”
I glance around to see guests dispersing. Sarah and James are climbing into their rented Corvette, and I’ve already double-checked with the reception venue that everything’s ready to go. “Just for a minute,” I tell her. “I’m kind of in the middle of something here.”
“It was a gorgeous ceremony,” she says, still smiling brightly. “Great work. I won’t waste your time.” Marcie plucks a business card from her bag, “I’m with Star! Networks. I produce Park Avenue Princesses,” she says as though I should know what that is.
“Are you looking for a wedding planner?” I ask, still confused. “If you call my office and make an appointment—”
“Not for me,” Marcie laughs. “For Pixie and Clyde.”
Again, I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Who now?”
“Pixie and Clyde!” Theo’s voice comes from behind me, excited. He sees my blank expression and rolls his eyes. “Duh? They’re pretty much the reality TV it-couple.” He catches himself. “I mean, I’ve seen a couple of episodes. At the gym. The girls are always putting it on. While I lift weights. Big weights.”
“That’s great,” I say, puzzled. “But I really don’t have time—”
Marcie cuts me off again. “They’re getting married in the fall, and we’re looking for a wedding planner for the show.”
“On TV?”
Marcie looks at me like I’m insane. “Of course on TV. It’ll be a special episode, massive ratings draw. My team will call and set up a meeting, OK? We can’t wait to hear your ideas.”
“Now, wait a minute,” I try to protest, but she’s already stalked away.
Theo whistles and takes her card from my hand. “Big-shot. This could be the break you’ve been waiting for.”
“Or a total disaster,” I laugh, snatching it back. “I don’t even want to be on TV.”
“Not you, the brand.” Theo explains. “Do you realize the kind of free publicity you’d get doing something like this? Franc-Giorgio designed the gown for the last Bachelorette. There’s now a six-month waiting list just to get a consultation. He’s like a millionaire!”
I pause, considering.
“Plus, you’d make Kara green with envy,” Theo adds.
Now that I think about. Kara deKline is my big rival on the wedding planner scene. She’s been trying to poach my clients for years, rips off all my wedding ideas, and generally tries to put me out of business. If this Marcie could help put my business on the map, maybe I shouldn’t dismiss her so quickly.
“Fine,” I agree. “One meeting.”
“There’s my girl,” Theo cheers. “How bad could it be?”
Chapter Two
I love coming back to my apartment after a wedding day. It’s the opposite of the hustle and bustle of the city: my sanctuary from all the demands of the rest of my life. My place may be tiny, but it’s all mine, with mint-colored walls, and a mismatch of thrift furniture and cute patterned fabrics. I’m on the fourth floor, and when I open the windows, a rush of cool air breezes in, along with the sounds of taxis beeping and sirens wailing. City life. The gust of wind ruffles the sheer curtains and flits through the rest of my place. It rustles flowers and paperwork that’s been stacked on the dining table, reminding me that I need to clean up. Later.
I check my calendar and breathe a sigh of relief when I see that I left the rest of my weekend open. Next week is packed, but for now, there’s nothing left for me to do but slip into some sweatpants, grab a pair of bunny slippers from my closet, and snuggle my feet into their warm rabbity embrace. It’s a relief after a long day in high heels. I order some Chinese food from the place around the corner, grab my wedding brainstorm file, and flip through Netflix until I find what I’m looking for: all three seasons of Park Avenue Princess, lined up and waiting to roll.
Theo and Marcie clearly thought I was crazy for never having seen an episode, but the truth is, most of my workdays are spent dealing with high-strung socialites and fashion types. When it comes to guilty pleasure TV, I prefer juicy cop shows or weepy hospital soaps. But if I’m sitting down to pitch the wedding of the TV season, I need to do my homework.
The credits roll on episode one: the sparkling skyscrapers of New York City. A group of gorgeous young women are out shopping, talking about a party from last night.
“I can’t believe he showed up with Tallulah,” one of the women says. “You guys have barely broken up!”
“I’m fine,” another insists. “It’s like midi skirts for fall: so over!”
A nametag flashes on-screen: Pixie Dalton-Ross. I perk up. That’s the client Marcie mentioned, a wide-eyed blonde with her hair poofed up like a beauty queen. She’s got a plaid dog carry-case tucked under her arm, with a tiny bulldog poking his head out. I start to take notes as the show continues, brainstor
ming ideas and themes.
By the time the food arrives, I’m already swept up in the world of glamorous parties, friendship, and betrayal. I hit pause on the second episode before finding my phone to text Theo.
'park avenue princesses = amazing! How did I not know??’
I wait only a few seconds before his reply:
‘YEP. TOLD YOU. HAVE YOU GOTTEN TO THE MAKE YOUR OWN ARTISAN BUBBLE BATH EP, YET? IT’S INTENSE.’
‘not yet. No spoilers!!’
I kick my feet up on the couch, grab my carton of noodles, and hit play.
I stay up until three in the morning absorbing everything PAP, then roll out of bed at ten to start on the next season. In the beginning, the show focused on the whole group, but it’s clear that Pixie is definitely the standout. She has a naïve sweetness that shines through every scene, whether she’s donating a closet full of designer shoes to the homeless, or organizing a doggie fashion show. Her father made some fortune in real estate, and now Pixie spends her days swanning around the Upper East Side, attending parties, and hosting brunch.
I call Theo. “We have to do this wedding.”
“Yes! Have you seen Pixie’s spin-off yet, where she meets Mr. Right? It’s called The Princess and The Rock Star. It’s crazy. It’s excellent, but it’s crazy.”
I check Netflix and see a wide-eyed, smiling Pixie holding hands with a guy in a leather jacket who must be at least three decades older than she. “Downloading now. Who is that guy?”
“Clyde Kincaid. He’s the lead singer in that band, The Revolution.”
I frown. “They’re ancient. My aunts liked them when they were teenagers.”
“Yeah, he’s like fifty-something, but he’s a British rock star with a Mick Jagger accent. Can’t really argue with that.”
I hear my toaster announcing a freshly warmed bagel. “Gotta run, Theo. Cream cheese and reality TV wait for no one.”
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