by Tif Marcelo
Praise for
The Key to Happily Ever After
“The Key to Happily Ever After gave me so many emotions: I loved and cheered for all three sisters, and wanted to shake each of them in turn; I swooned for all of the romance; and I got choked up about their struggles and their victories. But mostly, I loved the de la Rosa sisters so much, and I can’t wait for the whole world to love them.”
—Jasmine Guillory, New York Times bestselling author of The Proposal
“A charming, fun read. I love these sisters! Clear your calendar—once you start, you won’t be able to put down this wonderful story.”
—Susan Mallery, # 1 New York Times bestselling author of California Girls
“A beautiful story about the bonds of family and the challenges of love—I was cheering for all the de la Rosa sisters!”
—Jennifer Probst, New York Times bestselling author of All or Nothing at All
“This is the most aptly titled romance. A true gem filled with heart, laughs, and a cast of delightful characters. I read (and adored) The Key to Happily Ever After in one sitting!”
—Nina Bocci, USA Today bestselling author of On the Corner of Love and Hate
“The de la Rosa sisters are much like the flower in their name: delicate and poised but also fiercely strong. As the trio takes over the family wedding planning business, they will need all those traits and more to transform their careers for a new generation. As they forge their paths both together and separately, these three sisters discover that love—like a wedding—is all about timing. Full of wisdom, wit, and, of course, wedding gowns, Tif Marcelo’s latest charmer proves that sometimes The Key to Happily Ever After comes along when you least expect it. This endearing, deeply poignant trip down the aisle(s) is full of romance, unexpected twists, and the perfect helping of family drama.”
—Kristy Woodson Harvey, author of The Southern Side of Paradise
“Devoted sisters, swoony new loves, and wedding drama—what more could you ask for in a perfect summer read? The Key to Happily Ever After delivers it all with Tif Marcelo’s enchanting prose. By the end, you’ll want to be a de la Rosa sister, too!”
—Amy E. Reichert, author of The Coincidence of Coconut Cake
Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster ebook.
* * *
Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions.
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox.
For the women I call sisters
part one
What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
—William Shakespeare
one
Mood: “At Last” by Etta James
The bronze skeleton key jingled among the other shop keys in Marisol de la Rosa’s palm, and the hopeful clinking noise brought a smile to her face. The key was multi-toned, some parts glossy, other parts dull, with one tooth notched in three places, its bottom blooming into a metal rose with six petals.
No longer a working key, it was an antique, representative of the deep roots the de la Rosas had in Old Town Alexandria, scuffed from being dragged and thrown about, stuffed in pockets and bags, jammed and twisted forcefully into keyholes. Given to Mari’s parents two decades ago as part of the deed of sale of this Burg Street business front, they’d considered the intricate rose design auspicious. And so, right then and there, in what had been a stuffy Colonial town house of dark red brick with hideous puke-green trim, drafty windows, and a nonexistent furnace, her mother had decided that the business would be named Rings & Roses, after that key and their last name.
Now in Mari’s possession, the key signified the turning of the tide, the passing of the baton. This morning, on this glorious first Saturday in March, Mari had walked into Old Town’s preeminent wedding boutique—the absolute best in the DC/Maryland/Virginia tristate area, if she said so herself—as one of its new owners.
Now if only the entire team took the transfer of power just as seriously.
“Didn’t I say nine? I explicitly texted nine a.m. meet-up,” she said to her middle sister, Janelyn. Mari hooked the carabiner of keys on a belt loop of her tapered jeans, bent down, slung a satchel on her shoulder, and loaded her arms with baskets of tulle-wrapped bubble favors and cigars. With a grunt, she stomped through the showroom and front lobby of Rings & Roses toward the front door. Weaving around eclectic flower-print upholstered chairs and a rack of wedding dresses—a select few to lure in the would-be bride—the tulle and lace fluttered as she brushed past. Jane followed behind her, lugging a box filled with seating cards, the guest list, and Mari’s event binder that contained every piece of information related to the “Jarvis”—or the Jardine-Davis—wedding. Her footsteps thumped against the restored original heart pine floors, a contrast to the clacking of Mari’s sling-back kitten heels.
“Technically? We still have five minutes,” Jane answered reliably, as the family’s mediator. She shut the door behind them, the bolt locking automatically. “Pearl should be here soon.”
Mari huffed as she stepped out onto the cobblestone sidewalk of Burg Street. She shivered in her thin white blouse. With her hair up in a bun and her neck exposed, the cold cut into her like a knife. March was known for its tricky weather. It changed with the position of the sun and the whip of the wind. Emerging from under the shop’s cherry red awning, they sidestepped pedestrians, Mari smiling brightly despite the struggle. These days, there were as many tourists as there were locals on Burg Street, where independently owned shops like Rings & Roses flourished. But one thing remained despite the changes over the years: a smile went a million miles, and in their business, the smile was paramount. It set them apart from stuffy, and lesser, wedding boutiques.
But once the sisters had jammed their supplies into their trusty hand-me-down Volvo station wagon and climbed into its leather seats, Mari continued her rant. “Should be is the key phrase. This is the first wedding since the changeover. I want it to be seamless.”
“It will be. You and I are here,” Jane said. She took out her phone and texted their youngest sister anyway, and Mari’s phone buzzed with the text in their group chat. Where are you, P? Ate Mari and I are driving out in 3 min. Otherwise, meet you at the Distillery.
Jane, thirty, was only two years younger than Mari, and both were type A. Pearl, their baby sister? She was six years younger than Mari and type B all the way.
So long as Pearl had been completing her respective job at Rings & Roses, her parents had never given a stink about her tardiness. Now that each of the sisters were one-third owners of both their business and their shared residence a half mile down on Duchess Street, Mari would have to set some ground rules, starting with the absolute requirement of on-time attendance. Especially on Saturdays—Wedding Days.
No rest for the ambitious.
Yes, she was setting the rules, because she was still the oldest, naturally the leader of the crew, with or without her voted title of CEO. Making the rules was her birthright as the eldest sister, the ate. Besides, her instincts told her that while her sisters seemed equally committed to the shop now, she was sure to be the only one left standing. Jane, now the shop’s CFO, was a single mom to a seven-year-old and had recently emerged from what she called the “baby-toddler haze.” What if she decided wedding planning wasn’t actually her dream? And Pearl . . . well, Pearl worked like she dated. Despite her request to become a full-time
wedding planner—she was the shop’s social media director and in charge of day-of event coordination—she had other interests, which sometimes showed in her lack of commitment.
Mari only had one love besides her family: Rings & Roses.
She pointed across the street to the Colonial with red-orange brick and one-way privacy windows on the second floor, where a simple trifold chalkboard sign perched at its front door on the sidewalk read 8 a.m. Flow. “I bet she’s there, at Ohm, posing instead of working.”
“Stoooop.” Jane drew out the word and ran her hand through her windblown, black, chin-length bob. “Don’t get yourself riled up. Let’s get to the Distillery. She’ll be there—I’m positive. A little late, sure, but just in time.”
“That makes no sense. But fine.” Mari fired up the engine. It sputtered and whined but, after a couple of pumps of the gas, revved to life.
“Let’s discuss Pearl’s birthday gift since she’s not here. I still think the matchmaker gift certificate is the best way to go,” Jane said as they pulled onto the cobblestone road for their ten-minute drive to the Distillery. She scrolled through her phone. “Here it is. It includes a phone consult, a speed-dating event, and a couple of matched dates.”
Mari scoffed. “If there’s anyone who doesn’t need help getting dates, it’s Pearl. We should get her an old-fashioned alarm clock since she’s always late instead—”
“Ate Mari. Focus. Pearl’s birthday is next Saturday.”
“Just get whatever you think is best.” Mari sighed. Pearl and Jane were like two peas in a pod despite their four-year age difference. Their opposite personalities gelled, while Mari’s and Pearl’s often clashed and emitted a spark that sometimes turned to fire. Jane had a better hold on what Pearl should get on her twenty-sixth birthday.
Her baby sister was turning twenty-six. Damn. Mari felt old. In her beloved historical romance books, at thirty-two, Mari would’ve been considered a spinster, too far over the hill to have her own life, marry, and have children.
Thank God for the twenty-first century—Mari could be an entrepreneur and didn’t have to rely on a man. Although, sometimes with Pearl, Mari felt like she was wrangling a child.
T-minus two hours until the ceremony start time, and the Distillery was a flurry of delicate fabrics surrounded by wood, cork, and metal. With rectangular tables covered in taupe-colored linens set up in four parallel lines to accommodate forty guests each—over a hundred and fifty were expected today—the space was the perfect reflection of Mari’s clients, Maddie Jardine and Frank Davis. The Distillery’s catering team had arranged the buffet table at the rear of the space. Patty, of Shenandoah Petals, divvied up Virginia wildflowers—field chamomile, nodding thistle, and blazing stars—in pastel-painted mason jars tied with white tulle. Twinkle lights draped across the ceiling, softening the space’s imposing wooden beams. “Boho and Boom” was Mari’s original pitch for these clients, who were the classic opposites-attract, city-meets-country couple.
Mari all but skipped to the entrance, leaving Jane to set up the reception table, when one of her trusted vendors arrived. “I’m so excited to see what you have for me!” she said to Ben from Regalia Farms, who pulled a cart of stacked log slices. She picked up a slice. Rustic, natural, and romantic, it was heavy and solid in Mari’s hands. A contrast to the fluffy and whimsical tulle and flowers, the logs were the foundation of the centerpieces. “These are absolutely, one-hundred percent perfect. Thank you for driving this all the way out here.”
“Not a problem. Anything for Rings and Roses. Where should I put them?”
Mari directed him to the back, where the rest of the day’s decorations were stacked. She stopped by her designated command center, a podium, where her binder was opened to her Full-Service Client Day-Of Event Checklist, and checked off the box next to centerpieces.
And when she looked up from her spot, at what would soon be the realization of her clients’ dream wedding, satisfaction filled her.
Mari had been ready for this. She’d studied, jumped into, and completed a master’s in business when, a couple of years ago, her mother had brought up becoming an expat and retiring. Regina de la Rosa was whip-smart, respected in the industry, and still sharp, but the workload had become overwhelming. Couples, over the years, had become more and more discriminating. Her mother had begun to don impatience like a second skin.
The next step in her parents’ chapter had been inevitable—passing down the de la Rosa legacy so they could finally enjoy the fruits of their labor. To travel and cruise and golf and whatever else their father, Fred, had up his sleeve, and spend most of the year in the Philippines. The time had come. The couple’s friends had slowly morphed into international snowbirds. Pearl was almost five years out of college and, though none of Regina’s girls were married—this had been her prayer wish at Mass every Sunday—they were all independent and successful.
The turnover had been an easy process. A few signatures, dozens of initials for the Rings & Roses building, as well as their shared family residence. One meeting with their lawyer.
And with almost seventeen years under her belt at her parent’s company, Mari took the helm like a superhero who’d worn her costume part-time and was finally free to shed her boring overgarments.
Mari’s phone buzzed on her hip, knocking her out of her thoughts. Unclipping it from her belt loop, she saw it was Pearl responding to their sister group text: I thought you meant to meet at home! I’m driving to you now.
From across the room, Mari met her sister’s eyes. Jane didn’t have to say a word, but their communication defied science and Mari understood that look: I told you she’d be here.
It took less than ten minutes for Pearl to burst through the venue’s front door—Mari timed it—which meant she’d probably sped through Alexandria. She was dressed in their standard Rings & Roses outfit, in neutral colors to blend into the background. Her ombré-highlighted hair was unclipped, down, and wavy.
The whole room stuttered to a stop at her entrance. “Hey, everyone,” she said, wearing a guilty expression.
Mari’s first thought: Good. You should feel guilty.
The next second, she shook her head. Mari didn’t mean it. Pearl had been her charge since she was old enough to babysit. Mari had taught her how to flip off the swings, shown her how to kick a guy in the balls just in case, and actually had threatened one of her junior high boyfriends who dared to raise his voice at her.
It was only in this arena, the business, where their personalities clashed.
So, Mari didn’t yell. She didn’t nag. She swallowed her admonishments.
“I swear, I was only, like, two minutes late,” Pearl said as she approached Mari, knotting her hair into a bun then grabbing a pencil from the podium to secure it in place. “I was just in the wrong place. Mommy always had us meet at the house first, and I had that on the brain.”
Mari, distracted, pointed at Pearl’s bun. “I needed that pencil.”
“But you’ve got a pen right there.”
Mari breathed in, let it out.
Pearl scrunched her eyebrows as if it was the silliest thing, as if Mari’s ways were foreign. Everyone in the shop knew how Mari worked, though: she utilized lists with standard operating procedures, a pen for permanent notes, a pencil for updates. A highlighter for incomplete items. Post-it flags for reminders.
Pearl removed the pencil, and her hair cascaded down her back. She handed it to Mari like a peace offering. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“It’s okay. We’re all still getting used to this.” Mari smiled, forcing the moment forward. “Besides, there’s no time to fuss about it now. If you could stay here with Jane and the rest of the crew to set up, I’m meeting the photographer at the bride’s home in about twenty minutes.”
“You’ve got it. But hey, I need to tell you something. When I got home, I found something on our sidewalk.”
“Don’t tell me.” Mari pressed her fingers against her temple with the sta
rt of a headache. The de la Rosa town house, 2404 Duchess Street, was divided into four separate apartments, with Jane across the hall from Mari on the first floor, her parents’ now-part-time apartment above Mari, and Pearl’s apartment across from it, occupying the shared side with 2402 Duchess, the single-family town house next door. From the outside, 2402 looked similar to theirs: a traditional redbrick Colonial with three floors, each marked by a set of two thick-framed windows. Gas lamps on both sides of a red door. Each had a brass plaque nailed next to the buzzer with the house number and street name, marking it as a historic building. The only differences were that 2402’s windows were framed with black shutters, and while the de la Rosas owned their building outright, 2402 was a luxury short-stay rental.
Recently sold, 2402 had become a playhouse for vacationers. Close enough to DC that its guests could be at monuments and museums within a half hour but far enough away from the stuffy suits of our nation’s capital, the town house had been occupied by a different set of strangers almost every day for the last two months.
The short-stay rental attracted tourists to the area, true, but it also brought in partiers and noise. The rental had become a nuisance. How many times had they called the police since it had changed hands? Every couple of weeks? They’d already lodged several complaints with the property manager to no avail.
“It’s our neighbors, right?” Mari asked.
“Yeah, so, the thing on our sidewalk? It was a car.”
Mari gasped. “A car?”
“A smart car, literally on our front step. And color me impressed, but the thing fit. Anyway, I knocked on their front door. I could tell someone was inside, but they refused to answer.”
“This is getting ridiculous. We can’t let this go on.” Mari slammed her book shut and gathered her things into her tote. “You know what? I’ll take care of it. Let’s kick butt with this wedding. Then, meeting, tomorrow ten a.m.”