I woke hours later, snug in Larissa’s guestroom. Someone had left a cup of coffee on the nightstand. It was warm to the touch, and I gulped it down for one blissful moment pretending I wasn’t Luna Faye Anderson, public enemy number one.
Forgetting.
Within seconds, everything rushed back to me on waves of pain and regret. My heart hammered against the inside of my ribcage, and I sat back.
Oh, Luna. What have you done?
But what woman wouldn’t have done the same in my position?
***
The next few days passed in a blur. Larissa insisted I stay with her until it all blew over. Since they lived about an hour outside the Twin Cities, the paps hadn’t traveled that far to get their story, preferring to interview anyone and everyone else, filling in the blanks with their own collection of sordid details not even resembling the truth.
The truth.
Something I believed in with all my heart, but I couldn’t tell my version of it. Larissa tried to keep me away from the TV and the papers, but some of the confusion and downright hatred crept through. I almost couldn’t believe how much perfect strangers hated my guts.
People had named me the Runaway Bride. Thorn was in a supposed state, though he had no trouble expressing his sorrows at cheap strip joints with Benjamins, an open fly, and VIP bottle treatment. In a haze of self-induced purgatory, I watched him on television. His first game since I’d left him stranded at the altar. After the seventh inning stretch, I’d gone and hidden away in the bathroom, fighting the urge to vomit up the contents of my stomach. I couldn’t believe what I’d done to him. I couldn’t believe what I’d done to myself.
A soft knock on the door snapped my head to attention, and I tried to swallow the lump of agony in my throat.
“Luna,” Larissa whispered through the solid oak door creating a barrier I didn’t even think my very best friend in the entire world could break through. “Honey? Something’s happened.”
“Yeah?” I clamped my eyes shut not wanting to hear it. Wanting to hear it.
“Honey, Thorn’s injured. They’re saying it might end his career.”
My insides evaporated. “No.”
“I – they’re blaming it on you. They say he lost focus because of… because of what happened.”
And just like that, everything I’d known – my business, my reputation – crumbled into dust.
Luna Anderson was over.
Done.
Chapter 1: Luna
I stood under the eaves of my home and office on Summit Avenue, gripping the glossy portfolio to my chest. I’d chosen a pale, cream blouse and black pencil skirt for the meeting. Partly because I needed to maintain an air of professionalism, and partly because I didn’t want to stand out so much that I garnered attention along with possible recognition.
The engaged couple who’d agreed to meet with me had just moved to St. Paul. God, I prayed they’d just moved to Minnesota too. If not, I’d be fired before I was even hired.
A year had passed since the incident and not a single day had gone by that didn’t include threats, insults, or being spat on in the street. Even Summit Avenue wasn’t a safe haven. Glancing around the beautiful architecture and regal trees, I hugged myself tightly. I loved this neighborhood, and I hadn’t left it in spite of the bullies’ every effort to oust me from my own home using spray paint and foul-smelling garbage. Not to mention the toilet paper. But even I had to admit that the crack in my armor they’d picked with their hate verbiage had turned into a full-fledged fissure. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold on without falling head first into the abyss.
The stately home I’d gotten out of the prenup with Thorn couldn’t hide me from the hate of his fans across the state. A woman just didn’t leave Thorn Edwards standing at the altar in a custom tuxedo looking like a Greek God without being labeled the modern-day version of Marie Antoinette cray-cray.
“Breathe,” I whispered. “Just breathe. You’re going to nail this.”
All I’d wanted my entire life was to bring joy to people on their special day. To make it so spectacular they’d never forget even one tiny detail. I’d never forget the day “wedding planner” had popped into my head.
My mom had married my step-father – he was basically my real father since the asshole supplying my DNA had run out on both of us right after my birth – and they’d hosted the best reception in St. Paul. It hadn’t been the biggest or the most expensive, but it’d been filled with joy and fun.
I was twelve at the time, and an idyllic perspective on weddings and romance had slipped into my mind and taken root even at such a young age. Visions of gowns, flowers, cakes, and decorations flitted through my head during school, during play and even during sleep. It helped that my parents had stayed married and madly in love. Until the car accident had taken them both, compliments of a drunk driver crossing the center line.
I focused on happier memories. We’d danced the night away. The hall had been beautifully decorated and everyone, even my grumpy uncle Rob, had smiled and laughed doing a spasmodic version of the chicken dance.
I recalled the memory of his gangly limbs flapping in the breeze every time I needed to calm my nerves. I was born to become a wedding planner and bring the fantasies of brides and their loving grooms to fruition. I wouldn’t stop just because the sports fans across the state told me I could go jump in Lake Minnetonka. Or Lake Superior during January, hoping I wouldn’t make it to shore alive. I could handle a little disdain and spite.
I could.
A Porsche rolled up in front of the iron fence encasing my rose beds and lush garden. A couple of blooms had turned as brown and withered as my shattered heart, and I made a mental note to dead head them later that evening. Pruning my bushes and flowers helped quiet my mind, so I made a point to work in the yard whenever possible.
They’d arrived.
I walked down my front stairs, kitten heels clicking on the stone pavers.
A guy in his thirties unfolded his lithe body out of the low sports car, then walked around to the other side and opened the door for his partner. She got out, and the world stopped moving. Or it might have if my door happened to swing that way.
One of the most stunning women I’d ever seen exited the vehicle, her manicured hand clasped tightly in his. Long, silken blonde hair and cat-shaped eyes stood out as her best features. Her makeup had been flawlessly applied, no doubt by a professional in a salon. Shoot, who was I kidding? She probably had a personal makeup artist and glam squad just like on The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Just like I’d indulged in on the day of my almost wedding. I clamped my eyes shut against the shameful memory along with the blinding beauty of the statuesque blonde. How on earth could I manage to work with this vision of perfection without throwing myself on my Tempur-Pedic each night in a burst of self-hatred?
I bet she’d never leave him standing at the altar like an orphaned calf.
She strode around the car and met me at the front gate, her platform stilettos grinding into the tar and sidewalk. “Miss Faye?”
“That’s me,” I said and opened the gate. I’d dropped Anderson as a last name months ago in a desperate attempt at living some semblance of a normal life. I stepped back and gestured for them to enter. My home office was all set up for meetings such as these. “Please, come in, Miss Lewis.”
Veronica clicked inside, wiggling her butt beneath the flowing sundress that showed off her every curve to its best advantage.
Her fiancé, Henry Cole, followed her inside, his hand settling into the curve of her back. I noticed and admired how he seemed to want to guide and protect her.
“This is a lovely home,” Henry said and spread his arms. His trim physique filled out the contours of his designer suit but nowhere near Miss Lewis’ league. They were at least three points apart on the ‘out of ten’ scale. He must have an exceptional personality along with a talented tongue. Or one hell of a bank balance. Either way, I intended to find out what
made them both tick so I could knock their wedding straight out of the park.
Damn it, Luna. No more baseball references or you might need a trip to the funny farm.
“Thank you,” I said, shaking my head to eradicate my self-recrimination. Ever since Thorn and the fallout, it had been my go-to defense mechanism. “You’re very kind.”
“This is your office?” Veronica brushed a non-existent wrinkle off her pristine dress. “It’s a house.”
“On Summit Avenue,” Henry said and walked to his fiancée’s side. He slipped his arm around her waist.
“What does that even mean?” She had a New York accent. I relaxed a little – no sign of Minnesotan Twins prejudice yet. But I had to give it time. Unless they lived under a rock or had zero interest in sports of any kind, they’d have heard of me. Luna Anderson had become an urban legend. Infamous. Apparently, some of the lawn bowling pins at Brit’s Pub had my face glued to them.
I had to nail this meeting – I’d grown darn tired of hosting kid’s parties and minor events instead of weddings. None of my old clients trusted me. And I’d been unable to pick up new ones thanks to Thorn’s career-ending injury and trash-talking family.
I was to blame in the eyes of… well, everyone. World Series run thwarted.
“You’re kidding,” Henry said and nuzzled her neck. “Honey, Summit Avenue is up there with, uh–”
“With what?”
“It’s a historic street. And expensive,” he said, lowering his voice. “Only the who’s who of St. Paul can afford to live here.”
I heard him but didn’t glimmer with pride. I hadn’t bought the place myself, and it served as a sour reminder most days. Now, if I’d scrambled and scraped my way to the top on the back of my superior skills and work ethic, that would be an entirely different story.
No. Such. Luck.
“You seem to know a lot about St. Paul, Mr. Cole,” I said and led the way through the garden and up the front stairs. We halted in front of the grand entrance, beneath the eaves of my wraparound porch.
“Oh yeah. Born and raised.”
My heart sank. This couldn’t be happening. Why had they even called me to book this consultation? I mentally ticked off the contents of my checking account against my monthly bills. I didn’t know how much longer I could afford to live in this house slash office. The price of overhead on a dwelling of this size proved more than I could handle on my limited freelance and non-existent salary.
“Not raised, darling,” Veronica said and flicked back her thick mane of platinum hair. I didn’t see one root on her. Natural. I almost couldn’t believe it. The woman appeared to be some freak of nature. “You moved to New York years ago. We were high school sweethearts.” She fluttered her eyelids at me as if it were a bride-to-be rite of passage.
“That’s a lovely story,” I said. “Very romantic. The stuff of novels. Perhaps we can involve it in the ceremony? Or even in the reception.” Nice segue. I had to keep this focused on the wedding, rather than the city or state. And I couldn’t bring up sports under any damn circumstances.
I opened the front door and led them into the downstairs area of my home. The polished wooden staircase, accented by the Persian rug at its foot, led to the second floor where I lived. We wouldn’t go up there.
I took a sharp right and led them through the converted living room I’d designed for meetings just like these. An elegant backdrop usually made the visuals easier for the bride and groom to imagine in their mind, coupled with the massive leather bound books of examples strewn about the room. The French windows opened out to a single fountain tinkling in the back garden, and a matching set of doors led out onto the back porch.
“Please,” I said and gestured to the strategic two-seater in front of the coffee table. “Take a seat.”
I’d wanted the ambiance to scream romance, elegance, and high-end aesthetics in a delicate way. My home and manicured grounds acted as a portfolio themselves since I’d re-decorated it in a luxurious and classic style from the cream wall sconces to the vase of Arum lilies on the table.
“Gorgeous,” Veronica said and touched the underside of one of the lilies. She lowered herself to the sofa and crossed her ankles. “I love lilies.”
“You like Arum lilies, Miss Lewis?” I asked. I opened my portfolio and placed it face up on the table. Most of the pictures were from before my failed wedding. “This was the Hubert-Sherman wedding. We did Arum lilies for the tables and the bouquets. The bride had a fetish for them. Didn’t want any other flower present on her special day. Even as an accent.”
“I don’t blame her,” Veronica said and tittered a laugh. “Roses are trite and anything else, well, it’s simply less-than in my opinion. Except maybe Irises.”
Irises.
My stomach flipped over in a somersault of nostalgia. I felt the loss of my Irises almost as keenly as the loss of my pride.
Henry didn’t bother drooling over the pictures, content to serve as an accessory to this meeting – just another burly dude who didn’t care what happened as long as he horse collared the girl of his dreams at the end of it.
There were two kinds of men, in my experience. The bachelor party lovers and the wife lovers. They rarely overlapped. I’d been hit on too many times to count by the first group, making my blood boil.
“Please, feel free to page through,” I said. “Would you like some coffee or tea? A mimosa, perhaps?”
“I’ll take a mimosa,” Henry said.
Veronica pursed her lips and gave him a censuring look. “Two coffees will be fine, thanks.”
“I have some red velvet cake that will go great with it,” I said.
The bride-to-be looked down at her amazing figure. “Not for me. I’m officially on a diet for the wedding.”
“You don’t need to diet,” I replied and rose from my armchair, admiring her svelte shape as I did so. The woman looked like she’d been carb free since birth. My curvaceous figure seemed to gain some booty at the mere sight of cake. “But I understand the precaution. Most brides take it.”
She colored at the compliment. Oh yeah, I could read her like an open book. She wanted to be special but not out of the ordinary. Gorgeous and unique, but in keeping with the style of every other high society wedding out there.
I could foresee the wedding already. Arum lilies, of course, and salmon. Why did everyone want salmon these days when the guests secretly yearned for the filet?
I hurried through to the office kitchen and put on the pot of coffee I reserved for special guests. La Perla Nera – imported from Mexico. There wasn’t a chance I’d bring out a mimosa for Henry.
Rule number one: always follow the bride’s instructions. I knew from which hand my bread was buttered.
I brought out the red velvet cake and cut a single slice, then placed it on a china plate.
My phone buzzed on the counter where I’d left it. I snatched it up and glared at the caller ID. Blocked, just as I suspected. I still got at least one prank call a day, most of them ended with hatred-inflamed diatribes about the Twins. Others called me a whore. Some of them were from women. In the beginning, I’d taken all the calls and listened to every mean, abusive and hateful missive, ingesting it like a badge of honor. Then one day, I’d simply had enough and changed my number. They still found me. I could probably be living in an igloo in Nome, Alaska and they’d hurl their vicious insults while riding by on a dog sled.
I hung up on the caller, then brought out a silver tray, arranging the items before sliding back through the door. Before the hard times hit, I would’ve had a staff member to do this for me while I chatted with the bride, learning more and more about her. Now, I was a staff of one.
Because I was a klutz by nature, I very carefully placed the tray on the coffee table, then resumed my seat.
“I love this,” Veronica said, tapping a picture in the center of my portfolio. “This cathedral is just gorgeous.”
“Yes, that’s the most popular cathedral in St.
Paul.” I didn’t utter the name. “It books out years in advance for weddings.”
Henry leaned in and frowned at it. “It’s kinda flashy, don’t you think? I mean, with the cupola and the stained-glass window and all.”
“Don’t mind him,” Veronica said. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” She flashed her fiancé a sweet smile laced with enough poison to stop a man’s heart mid-beat.
Henry focused on the cake instead, diving in with a healthy appetite.
It was time for the pitch. The easiest way to sell someone on a service was to ask questions. I didn’t sell myself or my skills. I focused on the client.
I buried my nerves, hoping she couldn’t sniff out that my very livelihood depended on a positive outcome to this consult. “Tell me, Miss Lewis, what made you decide to host your wedding in St. Paul? You look like a Manhattan girl.”
“You’ve got a good eye,” she said and flashed me a smile minus the poison. “Oh, I didn’t want to originally, but Henry insisted. He was born here, and he wants to finish what he started, whatever that means.”
I glanced at the cake-shoveling groom-to-be. This guy had a say in the wedding venue? Perhaps I’d underestimated him.
“So, you’ve chosen our lovely city. That’s great. It has such historic charm. We’ve got a number of gorgeous venues which would suit you perfectly. What kind of wedding are you–?”
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” Henry asked around a mouthful of cake. His chews slowed, and he swallowed. “You look really familiar? Have you planned weddings for the rich and famous?”
I am the wedding gone wrong of the rich and famous. My heart started pounding double time as I waited for the imaginary light bulb to flash on above his head. Then, he’d point at me, scream an insult, and usher his perfect fiancée out of my perfect home.
“Henry,” Miss Lewis said. “That’s rude.”
Wasted Vows Page 2