Since our viewing of Romance Revival included snacks and airing other people’s dirty laundry, they were both insistent on joining us for the party. Wherever plentiful food and juicy gossip lived, Scoots and Beverlee were sure to be close by.
Beverlee stopped in front of the coffee table to unload enough snacks for a week. First out was a fresh baguette that I snatched before it even hit the surface.
She whirled, her hand on her hip. “Were you raised in a barn?” She lifted a brow and plucked the bread from my grip, pulling off a small hunk to toss me before depositing the rest on the tray. “No. No, you were not. I raised you in a perfectly respectable bungalow with perfectly respectable manners.”
I grinned and popped the crusty end into my mouth.
Just then, Scoots strode through the door. She dropped a plastic grocery bag on the floor next to the table, then sat down on the sofa with a thunk. “I brought a can of wine and a box of hot sauce sardines somebody left in the bottom of a briefcase I acquired this afternoon. Did I miss anything?”
I grabbed the rest of the baguette and waved it toward Josie before breaking off another large piece. “Our friendly neighborhood criminal was just about to tell us how her ex-husband, love of her life and former resident of the North Carolina penal system, has turned himself into a reality star.”
All eyes swung to Josie, who sat transfixed in front of the television.
“Let me get this straight,” Scoots said, studying the screen. “That man, the one with the big muscles and the wavy blond hair, was your husband?”
Josie’s chin dropped to her chest. “No, the other one.”
Scoots reclined onto the sofa cushion, her forehead wrinkled in confusion. “The man who looks like he should be selling vacuum cleaners to retirees?”
“William Beauregard Lyons, the third,” Josie replied with a stiff nod. “But everybody called him Beau.”
She was still gawking at the television. “But he’s… And you’re… Can someone explain this to me? Is he at least rich?”
Beverlee finished arranging a platter of cookies. “Leave her alone, Scoots. Sometimes the heart is blind.”
And Beverlee would know. She had been married three times and engaged a fourth. She was the grande dame of romance gone awry.
I raised the plate from the table and held it in front of Josie. “Talk,” I instructed. “Did they tell you he was getting out?”
She shook her head and chose a chocolate chunk cookie. “No. The last I heard, he was in prison.” She wiggled her ankle. “But to be fair, I don’t get out much.”
We sat for a moment, alternately shoveling food into our mouths and watching Josie gape at the sight of her husband center-stage, courting another woman.
On camera, Beau settled across the table from Lily Page, his lips curled up in a watery smile. He dragged his hand over the length of her arm, finally reaching up to cup her cheek.
At the sound of a low moan, we all swiveled toward Josie. Cookie crumbs rained down on the carpet in front of her as her hands contracted into tight fists.
“Beauregard Lyons will regret the day he sent me to jail and broke my heart,” she said with a scowl. “Because I’m going to kill him.”
2
That Sunday morning, I stood outside a nondescript building in the center of the Flat Falls waterfront district, trying not to throw up my breakfast. Nothing made a better first impression on a new client than a second shot at freshly swallowed avocado toast.
What had once been an area of industrial warehouses and fish canneries now harbored a charming row of bistros and ritzy gift shops targeted toward the rich tourists who liked to spend their summers on the North Carolina coast.
The warehouse, long abandoned and misused, stood as a last remnant of the shipping town before investors realized there was more money in the country club set than there would ever be in shrimp. It stretched a full city block in the space between the water and the street, weathered wood and rusted metal highlighting its slow slide into dilapidation.
When I was a teenager, though, the corroded signs that read Do Not Enter served as invitations to push aside the squeaky vent covers and sneak inside to hang out with friends or skip school.
“I’d better not catch you in there, young lady,” Beverlee told me more than once when I came tearing in the house seconds before curfew. “It’s dirty and filled with unsavory characters. You could get Typhoid. Or worse, pregnant.”
I shielded my eyes from the sun and took in the building now. Even though the sheets of plywood that once lined the windows had been removed, and the trim sported a fresh coat of paint, it still looked like it might require antibiotics to visit.
Seagulls flitted about overhead, and my fingers curled around a caramel latte from the Grind and Go down the street. I shifted back and forth on my heels as I peeked at my watch for the twentieth time. Whenever a vehicle slowed down on the other side of the small parking lot, I pasted on a cheerful smile.
Finally, a silver sports car squealed to a stop next to the main entrance, and a woman stepped out dressed in a tailored black suit. With her straight, chin-length dark hair, enormous eyes, and bitter scowl, she resembled a cross between a ninja and an anime princess, and my posture involuntarily straightened at the sight of her.
She bordered on being overdressed for Flat Falls, but as she flicked a disapproving glance down my body, I wished I had donned something fancier than a denim shirt dress and brown crocodile flip-flops. But they were my good flip-flops, so I was doing my best.
When her gaze made it back up to my face, she pursed her lips. “Are you the wedding planner?”
I bobbed my head and held out the black leather portfolio Beverlee gave me when I returned to Flat Falls. When she didn’t make a move to take it, I stuffed the folder under my armpit and extended my hand instead. “That’s me. Glory Wells with Carolina Weddings.”
Her brows slashed together in a frown before she reached out slowly to shake it. “Well, at least you’re on time. I’m Mimi Wakefield, the producer of Romance Revival.” She gestured toward the warehouse. “Before I take you inside, I will need to see your signed non-disclosure agreement and footage release forms.”
Coffee sloshed over my hand as I jiggled the portfolio from under my arm. I tried to find the confidentiality paperwork the studio sent over a few days earlier, but I was short a limb. I held the drink out to Mimi. “Would you mind…?”
She responded with a thin-lipped stare.
Realizing I was blowing my first legitimate job since returning to Flat Falls and opening Carolina Weddings, I deposited the cup on the curb behind me.
I shuffled through the pages of printouts and plans, finally producing the papers with a triumphant whoop. I fluttered them in the air in front of her. “Got your forms right here,” I said with far more enthusiasm than I was feeling.
She took them with the tips of her fingers as if I were asking her to hold my used chewing gum. She dropped them inside her patent leather tote bag, wiped her hand on her pants, and spun toward the warehouse. “Okay, then. Follow me.”
She was already through the entrance before I remembered I’d left my coffee on the side of the street, so not only was I awkward and underdressed, but I was also a litterbug.
An icy blast hit me in the face as I followed her through the door. At least the air conditioner worked. Late fall in North Carolina still felt like walking into Satan’s armpit, so a touch of cool air was always welcome.
Immediately to the side of the entrance, an enormous arrangement of fresh flowers partially hid the woman sitting behind an oversized wooden desk. “Check in here whenever you arrive,” Mimi said, swishing her hand over the guest log. “She will provide you with the proper credentials while you’re on set.”
I tried to give the receptionist a warm greeting as I passed by, but she didn’t make eye contact. And since Mimi had taken off at a high speed toward the center of the building, I practically had to gallop down the hall to keep up wit
h her, my flip-flops smacking on the scarred concrete floors.
Mimi bypassed the craft services table piled with muffins and fresh fruit, then came to an abrupt stop when we rounded a corner into an area crowded with people and gear. She twisted toward me with her finger pressed to her mouth.
If I squinted around the cameras and lights and ignored the dozen strangers manning pieces of equipment I had never seen, the set could pass for somebody’s living room. An intricate pulley system suspended an oversized chandelier with cascading teardrop crystals over a salmon-colored velvet sofa, and modern art dotted the wood-paneled walls. Fake windows were lit from behind by large, fabric-covered light boxes.
Two cups of coffee and a plate of finger sandwiches rested untouched on a glass coffee table, and multiple cameras perched around the periphery focused on a couple engaged in conversation.
I recognized Lily, the studio lights reflecting off her shiny blond hair. The man had his back to me, so I couldn’t see his face. He had hair the color of the dishwater after I’d washed a greasy pan, and he was wearing a dark polo and khaki pants, a brown-loafered foot kicked up on his opposite knee as he tilted toward his companion.
The couple carried on an animated discussion, and I was so engrossed in feeling like a voyeur I jumped when the director’s booming voice came out of nowhere. “Stop. Nobody wants to hear about how you got your heart broken at summer camp. I liked the story about your daddy issues, though. So, try again, but give me more of that.”
The man on the sofa turned in my direction. Sharp, bird-like eyes met mine, and a languid smile slithered across his face.
Beau. Josie’s ex-husband.
Interest flashed across his face, and he raised his hand toward the cameraman. “Can we take a break for a few minutes?”
Several people murmured in agreement, and Beau stood up from the couch. He didn’t even acknowledge Lily. Instead, he looped his thumbs through his belt loops, thrust his chin in the air, and headed straight for me.
When he got close enough for me to smell his breath mint, he stuck out his arm. “Beau Lyons, reality star. And you are?”
Disgusted. But I forced a polite acknowledgement and took his reptilian hand in mine. “Glory Wells, wedding planner.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners, and his chest puffed out. He pressed his mouth to the inside of my wrist, and I felt my pulse thump against his chilly lips. “Ah, so you’re here to make my every dream come true?”
I wrenched my palm free and fought the urge to search for the closest bottle of hand sanitizer.
Beau didn’t notice my revulsion. Instead, he popped another mint, winked, and walked off the set with a stilted swagger.
I found Mimi examining me with squinted eyes. “Don’t get involved with the cast.”
“Wasn’t planning to,” I replied. At least not with that guy. “Is he one of the finalists?”
She looked down at her clipboard. “Yes. We’ve narrowed it down to two couples. You were just watching Beau and Lily. Jason and Hazel are shooting off-site today.”
I pulled out my portfolio. “Your assistant told me you’re in a bit of a time crunch. She said the goal is to plan a simple ceremony to take place on the same day as the engagement shoot. Is that correct?”
“Mostly. But I’ve added a few extra things to the list to make the episode picture-perfect for the camera. No big deal—just flowers, cake, coordinated paper goods. Maybe a band.” She plucked a pen from her jacket pocket and tapped it on her watch. “And we’ll need them ready a week from Friday.”
A fresh burst of panic made my fingers twitch, and my nails dug into the portfolio’s cool leather. Pulling together a fake wedding in two weeks was one thing, but anything more would require a matrimonial miracle. I tried to slow my breaths so I didn’t hyperventilate in front of my client. “Do you need an officiant?”
“The show’s host, Javier McMasters, went to a seminar in Vegas last summer, so that’s already taken care of.” She flipped through a stack of papers on her clipboard and extracted two. “Here’s what we would like and a shot list for you to use in your planning.”
I scanned the list and blinked. Then swallowed. Then blinked again. “You want a full wedding,” I stammered, my gaze shifting down the page to ensure I wasn’t imagining things. “Including a seven-tier cake and an ice sculpture replica of the Eiffel Tower, in less than two weeks?”
Mimi raised brows so dark and thin they appeared drawn on with a Sharpie. “Is that a problem? If so, I’m certain there’s another wedding planner in this town who would be happy to handle it for me. Think of all the publicity.”
A wave of nausea rolled through me. I couldn’t think of the publicity. I could only think of Magnolia Winters, the only other wedding planner in Flat Falls. Maggie had been tormenting me since I was in elementary school, and I would rather stab myself in the eye with a dirty shrimp fork than let her have this victory, despite Mimi’s ridiculously obscene timeline.
“No problem at all,” I replied, dread pooling in my stomach.
I would succeed with this wedding, no matter how much trouble it caused me. I couldn’t let my first job with Carolina Weddings end in failure.
Our last stop on Mimi’s whirlwind tour of the studio was the threshold to her office. “Stay here,” she said, closing the door in my face.
A few minutes later, she returned carrying a folded beach towel embroidered with a yellow sea turtle and a silhouette of the Flat Falls water tower.
Some cities had award-winning skyscrapers or Andrew Lloyd Wright-designed homes. Flat Falls boasted a statue of a pig named Earl and a shiny red water tower hand-painted by the mayor’s party-boy son to resemble an enormous crab pot. But since he was more than likely still drunk when he painted it, the black lines were crooked, and the result was less like its intended subject and more like Spiderman had crashed into it at top speed after a bender.
“I picked this up at the gift shop across the street,” she said, holding the towel out to me.
I took it between my hands, its cheap fibers scratching my fingertips. “Thanks for the present.”
“It’s not a gift.” She contemplated me with open scrutiny. “But you appear unprepared for the day ahead, and you Southerners love to be neighborly. I’m letting you borrow it for this morning’s shoot, but please return it this afternoon. Washed, but not starched, if possible.”
I considered her suggestion that people out there starched their towels. “What are we doing this—”
“We’re filming Beau and Lily’s last date, and we need footage of you gathering information about their ideal wedding.” She pointed toward the warehouse entrance and made a shooing motion. “Get to the docks, Ms. Wells. They left ten minutes ago.”
I hurried out the door and made it to the Flat Falls docks in less than five minutes. When I arrived, a crew of about ten people stood on the back of a commercial parasailing boat.
Anxiety threaded its way through my body. I had never been parasailing before, but I believed if people were meant to fly behind speed boats strapped to parachutes, we would already have wings.
Lily, outfitted in a harness and bubblegum pink life jacket, bounded off the boat and tucked her arm through mine. “You’re the wedding planner, right? Come on, we’ll have fun. I can’t wait to hear your ideas for our ceremony.”
A cameraman came around to the side of us, rolling his hand in the air to show he was filming.
Lily led me toward the boat, a sly smile showing she knew I wouldn’t back out on camera.
When I stepped aboard, she motioned to a cooler strapped to the boat’s deck. “Can I get you something to drink before we go?”
I shook my head, trying to figure out the charming, farm-fresh woman in front of me. With light makeup and her rosy cheeks stippled with freckles, she looked more like the star of a milk commercial than a conniving socialite with a fondness for devouring men’s souls.
But before I could make sense of it, Beau strolled toward us,
eyeballing me from head to toe. He seized Lily’s hand and brought it to his chest before guiding her to the bench lining the boat’s stern.
“We have a few minutes before we get started,” I said, pretending to rifle through my notes. “So why don’t you both tell me what you envision for your special day?”
Beau directed a brief smile at Lily. “I’m afraid I won’t be much help in that department.”
“No?” I asked, failing to hide a smug snicker. “But it says here you were married once before. Did you help your wife plan that wedding?”
He ran his fingers through his hair, surveying the water with a disinterested glance. “It was a long time ago. Things were different then.”
“How so? You’re young. It can’t have been that long ago.”
My quick math pegged Beau and Josie’s wedding date at almost six years before. Long enough for him to lose track of minute details, but not so long that he’d forget everything.
Beau shifted on the bench and twisted his neck so he was facing away from Lily. “Don’t you think it’s disrespectful to bring up my past in front of the woman who could very well be my future?”
Romance Revival was a reality show based on flaunting its contestants’ failures. I had no doubt a team in a production room somewhere had already dug up dirt on his misdeeds, including every innocent bride he’d ever sent to jail. I pinched the bridge of my nose to keep from rolling my eyes and turned to Lily, who was sitting with her hands folded in her lap. “Why don’t you tell me about your dream wedding?”
Lily beamed and squeezed Beau’s hand. “I’ve always wanted a big, glamorous ceremony like they have in all the bridal magazines.”
I scribbled notes as she spoke. “That’s it? Your only requirement is for your wedding to mimic a magazine?”
“Until the show came around, I didn’t think I’d have another chance to find true love.” She rested her head on Beau’s shoulder, her cheek pressed into his yellow life jacket. “But after the… incident, the producers contacted me and said what I needed was to believe in myself enough to grab my fresh start.”
Tying the Knot (A Wedding Crashers Mystery Book 2) Page 2