by Laura Briggs
But Clare doesn’t want to be a bridesmaid! She already told you that—why can’t you listen?
This is what Gwendolen should have said, and on was on the verge of finding a kinder way to phrase it, when Erica motioned the fitting room assistant towards her. “We need to see about this dress,” she said, ignoring both her daughter and Gwen’s crestfallen expressions. “We're taking this one with us, and it needs alterations…”
Frustrated, Gwen turned away. If nothing else, to block Erica from seeing the anger that was forming on her face. This habit Erica had of ignoring her daughter’s feelings was about to reach a crisis level. Preoccupied with these emotions, Gwen bumped into another customer, a tall, blond woman in a hat and dress coat.
Wait a minute — haven't I seen her before?
“Sorry,” said Gwen. The woman had already breezed past her, slipping on sunglasses as she headed for the door. Gwen stared after her, the strange feeling of recognition growing. Curious, she moved after them, Erica still deep in consultation with the sales clerk as she passed by.
The woman’s hair shone gold-like as she stepped into the morning sun, heels clicking fast away from the shop. They weren’t a client or one of Gwen’s business contacts, but she definitely knew them.
She remembered. It was the same woman from the plant nursery, and later on, the lobby for the building where the groomsmen auditions were held. Not so weird, really, to see the same stranger twice, but something else bothered her about them, something she couldn’t put her finger on.
That gold hair is a wig. And those heels are ridiculous ... as well as the sunglasses. It's almost like a spy from one of those cheesy movies. She trailed after them, pretending to glance at shop windows, as she watched their reflection ahead in the glass. They seemed in a hurry, not glancing at their surroundings, and waving down the first cab they saw. Gwen watched them drive away with a growing sense of discomfort.
Something was odd about this, but she didn’t know what exactly, or why a stranger would be following her and Erica around, unless it was one of the paparazzi fishing for a story. Before she could puzzle it out, she found her thoughts distracted by the scene before her in the shop window. The display gowns for Bridal Boutique — or rather, the one that wasn’t there anymore.
The one she wanted, the perfect gown that fit her like it was made for her, was gone. The one she would have bought, if not-so-urgent business hadn’t called her away before she could make a final decision. Or if I hadn't felt so guilty for the thought of splurging on a dress that expensive.
Maybe it wasn’t gone. Maybe Kirsten simply hadn’t put it back in the window, thinking Gwen would want it placed on reserve. She held on to this slim thread of hope as she reached for the shop door handle. Only to freeze as Erica called to her from further down the sidewalk.
“There you are! The manager is taking care of the details for the dress, so we’re all set to go to lunch now. Unless there’s something else you need to take care of for the wedding,” she added, with a quizzical glance at the shop Gwen was about to enter. After all, Erica’s dress was already purchased in the form of a fifty thousand dollar commission — and she would never dream of making a selection from a store this un-exclusive, anyway, even if she was pretending to let Clare do the same thing.
“No, of course not,” Gwen said, releasing the handle. She could see Clare behind her client, back in her hoodie and jeans. Slumped and staring at the sidewalk, her mind no doubt on her own dress dilemma. Slowly, Gwen made her way towards them, giving the shop a last regretful look over shoulder. I'll be back, she thought to herself, but without any hope that what she learned inside would make her feel better.
*****
Gwen let out a shriek, nearly tumbling to the ice below. Except a strong pair of arms caught her, pulling her back up before she could make contact.
Giving her rescuer a kiss, she smiled and said, “That was just in time. You’re pretty good at sensing when I’m in danger.”
“Which is a lot of the time, when it comes to ice skating,” he joked. Receiving a playful punch on the arm for this comment, Gwen nearly slipping again as she delivered the blow.
Ryan laughed, steering her towards a bench on the sidelines. The skating rink at the park was crowded for a Sunday, lots of couples taking to the ice, as Christmas music blared from the set of outdoor speakers.
“This was a good surprise, by the way,” Gwen said, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Even if we did have to postpone it for a whole day. Sorry again for that.”
“No big deal,” he promised. “Skating is fun any day of the week, right? And definitely any time it’s with you.”
“Says the man who keeps preventing my almost-spills,” she replied. “You’ll be worn out from catching me before we call it a day.”
“It’s worth it,” he answered, softly. Pressing his lips to hers in a slower, longer kiss than before. Gwen nuzzled against him, feeling the warmth of his embrace, her smile one of deep contentment.
Snuggled close to him, she wanted to enjoy the moment. But snatches of the schedule on her day planner kept drifting through her mind, along with all the appointments she hadn’t kept, but desperately needed to reschedule.
Absently, her gaze drifted to the city beyond the park. Knowing Hilbourne Headquarters was somewhere among the tall buildings, the window to her office there overlooking this view from several flights above. With a shudder, she thought of all the work waiting for her, the crazy tasks Erica might yet dream up for her to handle as chief event coordinator.
She had woken up that morning to a list of phone calls and emails regarding wedding business, along with Therese's frantic one over a baby shower emergency. Even now, with her phone turned off, she knew she was only stealing a few hours before an avalanche of tasks buried her again. There were still groomsmen to be selected, another caterer to contact, and the situations involving the reception's musical act, and Clare's unhappiness ....
“You okay?” Ryan had interpreted her shiver as a sign of cold, evidently. “If you want to go somewhere else—maybe somewhere warmer—”
Gwen shook her head. “This is perfect. Exactly the surroundings I need to clear my head of all those work details floating around inside it.”
It might be, if she gave it a chance, at least. But it couldn't clear her mind of the personal ones, she acknowledged, with the sight of her groom a constant reminder their wedding was getting off track. Her beautiful dress was gone beyond claiming, her own wedding cake was still unselected, and the situation with the chapel was still unresolved — what if another couple had claimed their date already?
“About Christmas weekend, Ryan,” she began. “I really think we should take some time today and talk about the ceremony. Because I feel I’m letting it down, with so much time focused on my client’s needs. We haven't planned anything, really, and now your parents are coming, and so are mine. If we want to be married in front of them, before the New Year —”
“Don’t think about it right now,” Ryan answered, shaking his head. “This is your day off. Everyone deserves one of those, once in awhile.”
“It’s important, though. Those people are coming specifically to see us get married, Ryan. And we don't have a cake, or a reception planned —”
Ryan put a finger to her lips. “There’s only one detail I care about, Gwendolen Lynch,” he said. “And that’s marrying you—no matter where it is. Even this skating rink would do, if there was no other place for a ceremony.”
A dreamy, romantic thing to say. One that made her lean up and kiss him again, one hand resting against the side of his face. “You know I feel the same way,” she told him. “But don’t you think—”
“Come on,” he said, grabbing her hands. “Time to warm up with some exercise again.”
And so, the conversation was pushed aside once again. Gwen forgetting it for a little while as they spun across the ice, her fingers clasped firmly in Ryan’s grasp.
She felt guilty
for not pushing the subject when she knew how important it was. But with the squeeze of his hand, she felt butterflies again, ones which pushed away those worries for one more moment.
*****
“I’m terribly sorry, but the chapel is already booked for a wedding on Christmas weekend.”
Gwen almost groaned at the words. First the dress, now the chapel. It was just as she had feared on Sunday. Her wedding plans had been neglected too long, yesterday’s fun another misstep on the road to ‘I do’.
Frustrated, she told the secretary on the phone, “Well, thanks for checking anyway. I’m sure that other couple will have a lovely ceremony. The chapel is just gorgeous, judging from its brochure.”
This was said with a wistful note, as she glanced at the glossy pamphlet in her hand. Gwen couldn’t believe she hadn’t heard of the place before, the tiny historic building with its intricate stained glass windows and rose garden on the grounds. Surely that tour was worth rescheduling sometime, if nothing else, so she could recommend the site to clients who were looking for a cozier, low-key atmosphere.
But not the Lynch-Miller wedding. Only for somebody else's. Before tears could form, she folded the brochure closed again, tucking it out of sight in her work folder.
Now what? There were lots of other perfectly nice chapels and venues in her file of contacts, but Gwen and Ryan had both agreed that this place looked special. With a terrible sinking feeling, she imagined his disappointment when he learned that she had failed to reschedule their tour because someone else had already booked the chapel.
I will make this up to you, Ryan. I don’t know how, but believe me, I definitely will. They would find another special place, even though the clock was ticking against them. How long until his parents arrived? Weeks? Or was it sooner? Except for the date for Erica Hilbourne's wedding, Gwen had forgotten all others.
“Hey there stranger.” Therese offered this greeting as she entered the doors to Creative Coordination. She balanced a cardboard tray of fast-food coffees, the morning paper tucked under her other arm. Behind her, Alan was shrugging off his coat and scarf in the office’s tiny entryway.
“We were starting to wonder if you worked here anymore,” Alan joked, passing one of the coffees to Gwen, as he took one for himself. "I was all alone in the office while planning that retirement party on Thursday."
“Well, I’m not here for much longer today,” Gwen admitted, checking her watch. “I have to be at the Hilbourne offices by seven-thirty. Just enough time to drink this coffee you so thoughtfully brought.”
As she said this, she pulled a handful of creamer and sugar packets from the top drawer of the reception desk. Therese set down the cardboard tray, unfurling her copy of City Insider. Glancing over the headlines, she turned to the next page. And froze.
“Uh, oh.” A note of disbelief in her voice.
Alan leaned over her shoulder, curious to see what it was. His expression quickly grew as worried as her own. “Um, Gwen?” he said, not taking his eyes from the paper. “I think maybe you should see this.”
“What is it?” she asked, tearing open a packet of creamer. “More snowstorm predictions? I’ve been worried Ryan’s parents might have to cancel their flight—”
She dropped her coffee cup as they showed her the headline. Her Styrofoam cup bounced off the desk, liquid escaping beneath the snap-on lid. But Gwen didn’t notice, her eyes latched on the headline that screamed ‘HILBOURNE WEDDING FAKE AS HER AIRBRUSHED PHOTOS?’ The name Mitzy Rogers was on the byline.
“No,” Gwen whispered. "She didn't."
Snatching the paper away, she scanned the rest of the article. Finding everything from the eyeliner dilemma to the hybrid flower project spelled out in unforgiving detail. Even the groomsmen auditions were there, listed among what Mitzy called, her ‘Sideshow Notes’, complete with a tiny circus tent silhouette.
“With such outlandish tactics behind-the-scenes,” the journalist snarkily speculated, “one wonders if even the guests will be made to conform to the bride’s perfect standards. Perhaps free makeovers will be performed on those who arrive looking less than photo-shoot ready. And a costume technician will be standing by to outfit them in the latest designer look in case their formal attire is a few weeks out of date.”
It was all there, in black and white. The truth, mostly, though Gwen winced at the harsh and mocking way it was phrased. Erica might be a perfectionist to the extreme, but she deserved her privacy at least. And Mitzy had vowed to respect that, something she obviously hadn’t meant. She was playing up Erica's trust so she could find the juicier parts of the story.
“Mitzy, how could you?” Gwen muttered. Therese and Alan were both giving her sympathetic looks, but neither seemed to know what to say. Perhaps they sensed there was nothing they could do to help her smooth this over right now.
How did this even happen? Gwen pondered the question on the commute to the Hilbourne building across town. Maybe one of the groomsmen had broken their contract for some quick cash. Or maybe a mole had been planted amid Erica’s staff at the company. Or maybe…
It was the stranger in the coat and high heels. A blond wig, sunglasses, and a few little changes to her voice had transformed the journalist’s appearance, even though it hadn't totally hidden her familiarity. She had pieced together the truth about Erica's little cover-ups, and secret surprises like color debut for the rose, from spying on them the last few days.
This was worse than a tabloid report—-and Erica would probably blame her for it! After all, she had made it clear Gwen was to supervise the journalist’s coverage of the wedding, and guard the secrets that weren't fit for print. And Gwen had failed to see through Mitzy's disguise until the last time.
"On your way somewhere?" The voice chilled Gwen as she approached Erica's office building's front doors. A few feet away, Grace Taylor stood beside her Mercedes.
"Yes, I am," answered Gwen, trying to sound calm. "And I'm in a hurry ..." she trailed off, because she could see the folded newspaper under Grace's arm.
"Oh, yes," said the wedding planner. "I read it. Very thorough in its analysis of your clients' big day, Gwendolen. And, I would say, very thought provoking for Ms. Hilbourne. Wouldn't you?"
Gwen faltered. "It's not a completely honest picture," she answered. "And I'm sure Erica will understand —"
"You need to understand that you're going to lose," Grace hissed. "This is it, Gwen. You failed." Her words were biting, her tone mingling iron and triumph for a cold, bitter effect. "Now you're going to watch as your business trickles away when you’re kicked to the curb by a society client. And I —" she smiled, "— am going to watch, too. And savor it from a distance as my firm continues to grow, and you're lucky to plan so much as a goldfish's birthday party."
"I think you're overestimating the power of a single newspaper article," Gwen shot back.
"Really?" Grace raised one eyebrow. She stepped aside, letting her driver open the door to her car for her. "I think you're forgetting just how cold clients can be, Gwen. Good luck finding a firm to hire you after this is over." Climbing inside, she gave Gwen one last mocking smile. "Goodbye, Ms. Lynch." The closing car door hid the sight of her triumph from Gwen's eyes. She stood there, fuming, watching as the wedding planner's car drove away.
Inside, Gwen was barely through the elevator doors before someone grabbed her arm. Erica’s personal secretary, Sandra, her bug-eyed expression signaling she had also seen the morning paper.
They've all read it, Gwen thought. She had been hoping against hope that this issue of the journal would somehow be declared meaningless and marginal by Erica's crowd — or that the cosmetics mogul would have forgotten all about Mitzy's planned article, as stupid as that seemed.
“Where have you been?” Sandra demanded, in a tone that indicated she knew who to blame for this unflattering press. “We’re going crazy here trying to do damage control. This is a disaster. The rose's debut is completely blown, the criticism about Brock's pitiful fa
ke wedding party is the worst —”
“I know,” Gwen said. “Believe me, I’m just as surprised as you are.” She paused, taking a breath before asking, “Has she seen it yet?”
The secretary shuddered. “No. Not yet. She’s been in her dressing room since six a.m. Conducting a, er, product test. But she knows the issue is out.”
“Right,” Gwen mumbled. Better to get this over with as soon as possible. Pulling her shoulders back, she marched straight towards her client’s dressing room, Sandra scurrying along behind her.
“No one’s allowed in there,” Sandra warned her sharply. “Not even me. You really shouldn’t —”
But Gwen ignored her, knocking twice before she turned the knob.
The door swung open to reveal Erica’s makeup artist, Terri, perched on the edge of the dresser, reading a magazine. In the chair across from her, a middle-aged woman with a protective cloth over her clothing. A man in a white coat was poised above her, a syringe in his gloved hand.
Gwen stared. “Erica?” she asked.
The woman in the chair was pale, with noticeable age lines around her mouth and eyes. For a second, Gwen thought her client must be sick. Until she realized it was the absence of layer after layer of expensive makeup that made Erica Hilbourne seem all but unrecognizable at this moment.
The man in the white coat had turned around, regarding Gwen’s presence with confusion. “Who are you?" he demanded. "This is a private consultation.”
“I…” Gwen faltered, realization hitting her. That this man was probably a doctor of some kind. And that Botox—or some similar cosmetic treatment—was likely the contents of the syringe poised above Erica’s forehead.
Good thing Mitzy’s not here, she thought. Just imagine if that little secret had made it into the City Insider as well, that Erica's flawless skin wasn't the result of cleansers, anti-aging creams, and collagen-infused cosmetics, but the work of plastic surgeons and secret injections. Not that it made much difference, given how much other stuff the journalist had already exposed.