by Laura Briggs
“I guess we have nothing else to say,” came Gwen’s reply. “Now, if you would just leave us to finish our dinner in peace.” As if that were possible after what had transpired. "If you want to gossip about me, that's your decision."
Grace smiled. She didn't budge from her place. “Let’s make things interesting," she said. "Let's say that if you pull off this wedding, we'll call a truce. I won't spread the gossip about how you got your start, and you won't breathe a word about your days at my firm. But if you fail," she added, "—and the odds are good that you will —then you will agree never again to touch another society client whose business could be mine. Ever.”
Gwen didn’t answer this, aware Therese and Alan were staring at her. Along with a few of their fellow diners, heads turning in the direction of their angry tones. Probably they had recognized the premier wedding planner and wondered who this no-name was she appeared to be facing off with.
“What’s wrong?” Ms. Taylor taunted. “Don’t think you’re up to the challenge? Well, for once, we agree. Perhaps I have some phone calls to make; just a friendly word of advice or two for certain acquaintances of mine connected to the Hilbourne corporation—”
“No,” Gwen said. Fighting the urge to rise from her chair and physically stop the woman’s departure. “You can’t do that. It’s —it’s low and vicious and completely unethical.”
Grace Taylor’s laugh was sardonic. “Did ethics put that diamond on your finger? Even though I can barely see it from here, that little flash of stone must mean you sealed the deal with my former client's groom — the one you stole.”
Gwen wanted to yell that it wasn't true; she wanted to toss the rest of her glass of water in Grace Taylor’s smug face. Instead, she said, “You have a deal." She paused. "Except you’ll lose, because I intend to make this wedding a huge success.”
A little gasp escaped Therese, her coworker placing a hand on her arm. Across from them, Grace Taylor asked, “Then you accept my terms?”
“You don’t give me much choice, do you?” Tears filled Gwen’s eyes, but she forced them back, because there was no way she would give Grace Taylor the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Luckily for her, the woman was preparing to make her exit, pulling on a pair of gloves from her handbag.
“Well, then, Ms. Lynch we have a bargain. And when your career comes crashing down, you’ll be lucky if one of your friends asks you to plan their baby shower.”
With a final glance over her mink-draped shoulder, she added, “Don’t forget to have them fix you a doggy bag. I have a feeling you won’t be eating at a place this grand again for a long, long time.” With a satisfied smile, she walked out, leaving the ruins of Gwen's luncheon party behind.
*****
When your career comes crashing down.... Those mocking words echoed through Gwen’s mind as she kept the first appointment with her new clients. A ‘get to know you’ meeting, as Erica’s assistant had called it over the phone.
Now Gwen sat in a plush armchair, the happy couple on a sofa by the fireplace. On her lap was her electronic planner, along with some notes, and a sample book of wedding themes, in case she needed an illustration. Across from her, her clients seemed like a couple ripped from a billboard for a sultry-but-still-rugged cologne brand.
It wasn't a real fireplace beside Erica Hilbourne and her fiance — or, for that matter, a real living room around them. Rather, it was the set being used to film Erica’s latest holiday infomercial. Right now, the crew had been banished from the stage, the studio audience dismissed for a free lunch backstage. Only Gwen had remained, along with the bride and groom-to-be.
Tall and square-jawed, Brock Dresden was exactly the type she would have pictured someone like Erica paired with. A former athlete, he now ran a chain of popular gyms—and looked as if he spent most of his spare time working out in them. Taking Gwen's hand in a strong grip, he said, “It’s good to finally meet you. Erica really built you up with that story from the charity show.”
“Oh…well, I was glad to help,” Gwen replied. Wondering how she made such a lasting impression in so little time, and for something as simple as removing wine stains from a formal gown.
“Don’t be so modest,” Erica chided her. “You kept a ten thousand dollar dress from going to the dumpster. And I know you’ll work the same kind of magic on our wedding.”
Gwen was still digesting the price tag on the dress, when Erica remarked, “She’s already head and shoulders above that other agency. You know—the one we don’t speak of.”
“Oh boy,” said Brock, shaking his head. “Was that guy ever a jerk. Always trying to tell Erica what she should or shouldn’t do. Always inserting his big, stupid opinions where they weren’t—”
“Okay, honey, I think she gets the idea.” Erica laughed, laying a hand on his shoulder. “He’s so protective of me it’s ridiculous,” she said.
“I’m just looking out for you,” Brock insisted. “Making sure you’re treated right.”
“My knight,” Erica cooed.
Bride and groom exchanged a long look that Gwen sat quietly by for. After a moment, Erica looked at Gwen and continued with her speech. “So, anyway, that other agency just wouldn’t work. I have some very strong opinions about what I want, and no one’s going to tell me how to run my own wedding.”
“Of course not,” Gwen agreed. Pushy planners could be a problem, and she favored gentle persuasion herself when dealing with clients who made unfortunate decisions. Part of her couldn’t help wondering what Erica and the planner had clashed on. It was difficult to imagine the woman in front of her getting angry enough to fire anyone.
Right now, she was positively radiant. Beaming at Gwen as she said, “When you loaned me that stain remover at the party I had just sent the last agency packing. And then you turned out to be an event planner, and it just seemed like it was kismet, running into you like that.”
“Isn’t she cute?” Brock grinned, cuddling his fiancé closer. “She’s always saying stuff like that. Especially about me and her,” he said, a dreamy look in his face as it turned toward Erica.
Gwen smiled. These sickly-sweet exchanges were bound to wear thin after awhile, but she had learned to keep her smile in place, no matter what. Lovey-dovey couples were nothing new in her line of work ... but Erica and Brock felt like a little much, even compared to some of the most obsessed couples Gwen had worked with. Almost staged, if she were being honest. Or maybe it was just their surroundings making her feel this way, with camera equipment still set up for the next shoot.
She felt relieved when another person joined their party, breaking the couples’ focus on each other. Relieved, that is, until the bride’s demeanor changed. Like a switch turned off inside, Erica's smile had become one of impatience. Her eyes narrowed, her words emerging colder than before.
“Well, look who decided to show up," she declared, somewhat accusingly. "If it won't inconvenience you too much to trouble yourself, Clare, then come and meet the new wedding planner.”
Gwen watched as the recipient of this greeting came forward. About fifteen or so, with a stocky build and long dark hair with slanted bangs. She wore a pair of cargo pants and a T-shirt with a Woodstock music festival reference printed on it. A heavy backpack slid from her shoulders as she took a seat beside the couple.
“Gwendolen Lynch, this is my daughter, Clare,” said Erica. “She’s going through a difficult phase right now. The usual teen rudeness—so don’t be surprised if she’s late to all our little meetings,” she said, with a laugh that sounded strained to Gwen’s ear.
Clare, looking apologetic, mumbled, “Sorry. My choral practice ran late again.”
“It’s no trouble,” Gwen assured her. Smiling, as she held out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Clare. I’m sure we’ll like hearing your ideas for the up-coming ceremony.”
Not rude but shy, Gwen estimated. She was at that awkward age between childhood and adulthood, not enough of either to be sure of herself. It couldn't be comfor
table, having Erica Hilbourne for a mother, probably. And plans for a celebrity wedding surrounding you at all times.
The teenager blushed, tucking her hand back at her side. Looking as if she wasn’t going to share any ideas any time soon, as her mother launched into detailed plans for the rehearsal dinner. Erica handed Gwen a thick stack of printouts, as if the wedding was in a manuscript's form.
“We’ve got Degas for the catering—you’ve heard of them, I’m sure. Lets see…the event hall is booked already. Oh, but the live entertainment is still in the works. That’s something you’ll be handling from now on,” she added, with a smile in Gwen’s direction.
She would? Gwen imagined the Hilbourne name could command just about any musical entertainment it wanted for this event. So why wasn't one booked already?
“About the guest list. Two thousand in all—”
“What?” Gwen nearly toppled her stack of papers. Fumbling to catch them as she said, “Oh, I didn’t realize…the email didn’t include the number.” It was something she would have noticed, Gwen felt certain, barely believing she heard the number correctly. "That's impressive," she added, dutifully. Thinking, when was the last time I had to worry about a thousand people or more in one place?
“Well, now you know,” Erica replied, without missing a beat. “Now, I’ve had several charts drawn up for the seating arrangement—you’ll need to have my personal assistant make copies of those…”
Gwen tried to keep up with this stream of information, shuffling her notes to unearth her planner. The twenty page digital document Erica’s assistant had sent her appeared on its screen. A very efficient, bulleted list of items Gwen had tried to absorb before bed last night, falling asleep on her fourth read-through. Apparently, that was nothing compared to the information being handed to her now.
“We’ve booked Oakmont Lodge for the ceremony and reception,” Erica said, naming a resort Gwen had seen in brochures and travel guides. “I know, I know— it’s kind of rustic. But it’s where Brock and I first met, at a conference for health and wellness, so we’re a little bit sentimental.”
At more than a hundred thousand square feet, with four star dining and a luxury spa, it hardly qualified as rustic in Gwen’s book. But she pretended to get the joke, noticing it had more than enough rooms to accommodate the couple’s guest list, should any of them choose to stay over.
An hour later, they were on to the wedding party, and how Erica’s Maid of Honor would miss some of her duties because of scheduling conflicts with her commercial shoot. “It’s in Canada,” she said, with a sigh. “If it were California, things might be easier, but we’ll have to make due.”
“I see you have seven bridesmaids,” Gwen said, glancing at the planner’s screen.
And no groomsmen, a point she was about to bring up, when Erica said, “It would have been eight bridesmaids, you see, but Clare here would rather die than make an effort for my special day. Wouldn’t you,” she teased, poking the teenager in the arm. But the voice was not entirely kidding, Gwen noticed. It contained a note of something else — disappointment, maybe. Or annoyance.
“I just don’t want to,” Clare mumbled. She briefly met Gwen’s eye. “I’m just…not bridesmaid material.”
That glance told Gwen the girl truly dreaded the idea of being in her mother's wedding party. Shrinking back in her seat, Clare looked as if she might somehow turn invisible to the people around her.
“Help me talk her into it,” Erica pleaded, squeezing her daughter’s shoulders in a forceful move. "Remind her that it's her mother's big day and that it's really, really important to me that she support me in this." Sledgehammer hints, scarcely buried in the cosmetics mogul's speech. “She’s being stubborn, but I know we can break through to her if we work together.”
"I don't want to," Clare repeated. Something a little desperate crept into her voice this time. Brock cleared his throat and pretended to be interested in studying the fake painting on the set's wall.
“Well,” Gwen said. Taking a breath, she hid her dislike for the thought of 'breaking' an unhappy girl's will. “You know, I’ve found these events tend to go much smoother if no one is forced into a role they dislike. And seven is a lucky number,” she added, attempting to brighten the mood. "I think we can get started with the plans as they stand."
It didn’t work. Erica's face fell, her lips forming a pout. Her daughter gazed solemnly at the floor. The silence was interrupted by Brock’s cell phone beeping.
Checking the screen, he frowned. “Darn—it’s from work. Gotta go, Babe,” he said, kissing Erica’s cheek. “You ladies have fun,” he added, with a pat for Clare’s shoulder. He offered the girl a polite smile, one she clearly didn't notice with her eyes glued to the floor.
Gwen couldn’t see them having fun anytime soon. Not with mother and daughter so clearly at odds, their bodies facing opposite directions as they sat silently on the sofa.
*****
What had she gotten herself into?
Gwen tried to tell herself it was first-day jitters. She would have this under control in no time—the wedding details and the mother-daughter conflict. After all, family conflict was nothing new to an event planner. It was part of the territory, and just because her client was a major celebrity shouldn’t change the way she dealt with it.
Except it might leave you unemployed this time, she thought. An icy feeling washing over her that wasn’t from the cold, as she helped Ryan search the Christmas tree lot for a cedar that would fit inside his cramped apartment.
“How about this one?” he asked, picking a tall, bushy one that couldn’t be spanned with his arms.
She laughed. “Too big. Unless you plan on a rooftop tree. Or one that goes through the roof, at least.”
Ryan made a hurt face, patting the tree apologetically. His short blond hair was covered with a winter cap, a scarf and coat layered over his business suit. He linked her arm through his as they strolled through the aisle of greenery.
“Know what I love about this?” he asked, squeezing her hand as he spoke. “I’m guaranteed free, professional decorating after we lug it back to the apartment.”
She swatted his arm, pretending to be offended. “Not so fast, mister. I have a pretty full schedule right now and may not be able to squeeze you in.”
The words had more truth than she wished, though. It was daunting, the lists of details she had for the Hilbourne-Dresden wedding. Not to mention the unknown ones, emergency scenarios and last-minute changes that were bound to come up.
“Look at this one,” said Gwen, purposely choosing a puny, Charlie Brown style tree to see Ryan’s reaction. Her voice innocent as she continued, “Isn’t it cute? I could really fix this up. A few lights, maybe some tinsel and bows—”
“Cut it out,” he said, nudging her. “That’s a desktop tree. If I wanted one for my cubicle, then maybe that would work. At least pretend to take this seriously.”
“Like you have?” she countered. “Picking those big, Godzilla size trees—”
“Hey, that last one was my height.” He grinned, stopping in the middle of the aisle. A tender look replacing his teasing one as he leaned in to kiss her.
Gwen pulled him closer, glad no other customers were around at this moment. Lights twinkled from the shops in the distance, a chill breeze stirring the lapels on her coat. “We should get back to the tree hunting,” Ryan said, reluctantly pulling back from her a few minutes later.
“And after that, we should get somewhere warm,” she said, hugging him close as they moved through the rows of trees.
Finally, they settled on a tree about Gwen’s height, its tapered branches a promising fit. The two of them heaved it onto the roof of Ryan’s car, tying it in place with heavy rope. “That deserves a treat, I think,” he told her, steering the car downtown to their favorite bakery.
Inside, they split a funnel cake and sipped hot chocolate. Ryan told her what he was getting his nephews for Christmas—a toy space station from the
ir favorite comic book—and asked if she had any suggestions for the white elephant gift at his office Christmas party.
“Hmmm,” she said, pretending to think about it. “I don’t have a lot of experience gift shopping for computer nerds. But I guess I’ll have to learn, since I’m about to marry one.” Hiding her grin behind the coffee mug, as Ryan feigned indignation.
“The correct title is technical expert,” he said. “And just because I happen to love computers, and Nintendo, and space shows—”
“And go to science fiction and comic book conventions every chance you get,” Gwen interrupted, dodging a crumb from their funnel cake. “I see what you mean. Definitely not a nerd.”
Outside again, they strolled down the sidewalk, admiring the window displays. Gwen paused at the one for Bridal Boutique, staring at the gown on the middle mannequin. A slender ivory satin, with sequined bodice and graceful half-sleeves. It was gorgeous, her heart fluttering as she pictured trying it on.
“Love at first sight?” Ryan suggested, his reflection appearing beside her in the glass.
Gwen shrugged, making her voice casual. “I might try it on. If I happen to be in the neighborhood in the next few days.”
It was way out of her budget range, probably. Not a chance in the world she would wear it in her wedding, but it would be fun to pretend. Fun to try on a dress like that, for once, instead of seeing it in a magazine picture, or watching a client emerge from a dressing room wearing it as their fortieth selection.
“Un-huh.” Ryan grinned wrapping an around her as they moved towards the car again. “You know,” he said, “I think it’s a little late for tree decorating. Maybe we should make this adventure a to-be-continued one. As in tomorrow night.”
“A date with you, two nights in a row?” Gwen raised her eyebrows at the suggestion. “You must like me more than you let on, Ryan Miller.”
“Maybe a little,” he teased. Kissing her cheek as he unlocked the car door.