When We Fall

by C. M. Lally

  “I know it is. You practically bathe in it with your special soap that I’m not allowed to use, then lotion yourself up in it afterward, and then you spritz it on your clothes and hair to top it all off,” I confirm. “It’s the best smell in the whole world.” She beams her heavenly smile at me, and my heart melts with tenderness for this woman.

  “Here,” she says, lifting up a long, sweeping branch of the flowers towards my nose, “Does it smell like me?”

  I lean in and take a long sniff of the honeysuckle blossoms. Then I lean into her neck, nuzzling deep into the hair on her nape, and inhale. I lick her warm skin right behind her ear, in that sensitive spot that usually makes her shiver, and hear her giggle. “You smell better. You’re sweeter, and you taste mighty fine too.” I press my lips to her cheek and wrap my arms around her tiny waist, as she stretches up to hug me.

  “I love you, Franklin Mark Rex,” she whispers to my chest. Her mouth is over my heart and the words sink right into it. There’s no other place I’d rather be than here with her in this moment.

  “I love you, too, Olivia Dawn Chase,” I say, squeezing her tight and swinging her around and around until we’re both dizzy and fall to the grass laughing.

  What the fuck? I wake up with a sudden jolt and see that I fell out of the hammock. It’s above me shaking in the wind from unloading my heavy ass. I try to wipe the sleep from my eyes, but shit. I landed on my damn elbow and now it’s tingling with sharp pains shooting through my arm down to my wrist. I better not have broken the motherfucker. I’m getting too old to fall. I stretch it out and shake it a bit, before attempting to put any weight on it. I place my hand flat on the ground and hoist myself up to my knees. It doesn’t buckle underneath me so it’s fine, but it’s probably going to be sore as shit for the next few days.

  I finish standing all the way up and dust myself off, removing the tiny pieces of gravel and twigs from the ass and knees of my jeans. I head inside and make myself a cup of coffee to wake myself up...again, since the first one apparently didn’t work this morning. I sit here in my quiet kitchen ruminating over my dream about Olivia.

  Damn, I miss her so fucking bad. Tears roll down my cheek and one drops into my coffee cup. I walk to the living room and stand at the threshold of the door, too tired, and frankly, too afraid to actually enter. I smile at our engagement photo sitting on the piano. The picture of me after my first win that she framed catches my eye as it hangs on the wall. She made me autograph it, saying our kids will have a great show and tell item one day. I turn to leave, overwhelmed and notice the dust on the bookcase and see the rose from her funeral bouquet laying in it, covered in filth and shriveled in its own death.

  Fuck. I’m a sorry excuse for a man.

  I return to the kitchen and grab the feather duster, ashamed I let it get to that state again.

  At least I still have good dreams that blot out the occasional nightmares that plague me. Speaking of nightmares...at least snobby bitch didn’t invade my thoughts.

  I wonder who she is. She’s got my feather’s all ruffled up, bringing memories forth that I don’t want to remember and making me second guess my music choices and cleaning habits for the bar. Just for kicks in case she ever comes in again, I should forbid the bartenders from ever making White Wine Spritzers again. The Beer and Brood is not a wine bar for fuck’s sake.

  I place my empty cup in the sink, and stroll back across the parking lot to work, feeling a little better knowing Olivia’s things are well-kept and clean as they should be.

  I’ve got to finish my month end, now that my brain is a little clearer. I push through the double doors, and everything is just like I left it. It’s a rarity that I take time off, mainly because I don’t have a manager on most nights. I’m afraid the place will go to hell in a handbasket if I’m gone for too long.

  Walking through the bar, I wave and greet most of the regulars who are here, stopping to chit-chat with a few. As I pass through, I catch a whiff of someone’s perfume and I’ll be damned if it doesn’t fucking smell like honeysuckle. Snobby bitch probably sprayed it in here the other day or she plugged in one of those air fresheners just to fuck with me. Great! I guess I really need to get to cleaning this place then, especially if it’s going to start smelling like that. Snobby bitch is going to be nothing but trouble and heartache for me.

  Chapter 4 – Isabella

  Knightsen, California is a podunk town. So much so that I couldn’t even get a hotel room here. I’m a few more miles down the road in Brentwood. I drove through it last night, scouting out the area and seeing what my options are for resources. Not fucking much, let me tell you that. It only took me ten minutes to drive through the actual town with one stop sign. I was done and already in the next town before I even blinked.

  I guess I should be looking on the bright side of things: it’s a great location to hide a celebrity wedding, but shit. How the hell do you put a celebrity wedding together in a town that’s more suited for a shoestring budget? Well, I pride myself on Cinderella weddings and making dreams come true, so this one will be my greatest wedding yet. Mark my words.

  I’m outside waiting in the parking lot of The Beer and Brood Tavern for Aran to arrive. She’s dropping her kids off at her sister-in-law’s parents’ house (God that sounds so hillbilly), but Aran is mostly a city girl with a little bit of country in her so I don’t mind.

  Fuck, I’ve put up with all kinds of crazy shit from rich, little bitches or older, eccentric, and spoiled brides-to-be. Doesn’t matter the age, it’s the money that makes them crazy. They know how to blow through it like water from a fountain— it’s a never-ending flow. I try my best to make it at least beautiful. After all, that’s why they sign with me. That, and I get shit done. I’m a drill sergeant, but in this business, you have to be to protect your brand.

  But Aran is my friend. I usually bend over backward for my clients, but I only cut planning schedules short for great friends. We have a little less than two months to make this happen, and I’m the one getting antsy. Here’s Aran now. She pulls in racing like a bat-out-of-hell and her tires squeal as she parks next to me.

  “Fuck, I’m sorry Isabella,” she fusses. “Sophia begged me not to leave and threw herself down on the floor in a monumental tantrum, and Levi and Liam refused to take a nap with all of Sophia’s noise. God, I long for single days again sometimes...oh wait, I am still single.” She laughs, but her eyes are wild and crinkling from the huge, stressed-out smile she’s wearing.

  “Well, let’s get on inside then and remedy that right now,” I insist.

  “I thought you would have been inside waiting,” she states.

  “Nah,” I explain, “when we enter a resource for business purposes, we enter as a united front together. It gives us more negotiating power.”

  She laughs out loud hysterically at my comment. “I don’t think that’s going to work with Uncle Frank,” she says, “but I’d still like to see it attempted in theory.” She winks at me, pulling the front doors open for me to enter first. Well, my brief conversation with that one patron the other night gave me an inkling of what I’m in for with ‘Uncle Frank’. He sounds like a cheap, old bastard that needs to retire.

  Aran leads us over to a corner booth by the dance floor, and we both slide in. Holly, the waitress, comes over and takes our drink order and places a basket of pretzels down on the table.

  “Hey, Aran. Damn, girl. You still look gorgeous,” Holly says, reaching across the table and giving Aran a hug. They must have grown up together. “Three babies in less than three years would have sucked the life out of me. “

  “Well, on bad days it does. Trust me,” she tells the waitress. “But the boys are twins, so it isn’t as bad as it sounds. They entertain each other mostly. I only need to come running when I hear the scream of pain being inflicted.”

  Huh? Who is this calm woman sitting next to me when she just lost it outside in the parking lot over the kids? Maybe I shouldn’t have an opinion because I don�
�t have kids but I don’t know how women do it. I guess the right man would have to come along and change my mind. They’re just like kids, aren’t they? Needy and clingy. I can’t even find one of those, so no practice man-child for me.

  “Holly, could you please let Uncle Frank know we’re here?” Aran asks politely. Holly smiles and nods her head.

  “Sure, no problem,” she replies. “He’s in the back doing inventory. I’ll send him right out.”

  All I can think of right now is the picture of ‘Uncle Frank’ that I’ve got in my head. I bet he comes out here limping on one bad knee, wearing an old flannel shirt that’s seen its better days, and his Wrangler jeans are cinched too tight with this belt making the ass of his pants sag. He’s probably got long gray hair pulled into a ‘party in the back’ ponytail and a scraggly looking beard with both needing a major trim at the barbershop. I bet he smells like twenty packs of nicotine too. Either that or he chews tobacco and spits. Yuck!

  “I brought some visuals of the ideas I’ve been kicking around since we changed the venue,” Aran chatters excitedly. “Denver was upscale, and Knightsen will be more...laid back.” Funny how she had to pause to choose her wording. I’m not sure ‘laid back’ is what she meant. Maybe she’s still talking herself into the idea.

  She pulls out her portfolio of wedding ideas that she’s gathered over the last few weeks and starts laying them out on the table. She wants to completely change the theme now that we’ve moved the wedding from Colorado to California.

  Hmmm. More laid back. We’ll see what that equates to in dollars. Laid back can be more expensive when you have to cart everything in from a distance. Speaking of which, I’m so glad we only lost a few deposits and nothing more major than that. With the downscale in theme, facility, and catering we may still end up just on the inside of this massive budget.

  “Hey, Ladies,” I hear the deep, sexy timbre of a middle-aged man and not the crotchety, weak voice of an elderly man. “Mind if I join you?”

  I look up to place a face with that voice and my eyes round out. It’s the bar patron from the other night. The sexy one that I had to get close to and see if he’d offer to buy me a drink. Sadly, he did not. The pheromones he was putting off the other night had my panties soaked clean through. “I’m sorry, Sir, but we’re waiting for someone to join us,” I inform him and go back to looking at Aran’s color swatches for ribbons.

  Aran pinches my thigh under the table. “Isabella, this is Uncle Frank or Frank Rex to you,” she says and hops up from her seat to give him a big hug. He lifts her high off the ground, and she’s tall for a woman. He’s definitely got to be close to 6’3”, maybe 6’4”, but he’s nowhere near her husband’s height. Uncle Frank is the perfect height. I love a tall man, but not too tall that they’re awkward.

  Correction, I love a tall, burly man. He’s thick with wide shoulders and a massive chest that’s covered up with a plain, black, cotton T-shirt pulled tight across his chest. I can see his pec muscles and I want to run my hands up his chest, over his shoulders, and maybe, just maybe, scratch the back of his neck with my long nails. Stop it, Bella.

  A small sheen of sweat forms at my temples just looking at the man. I half stand and stretch my arm out over the table, offering him my hand to shake. “Hi, I’m Isabella Asante— the wedding planner,” I croak out my words. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

  “You sure about that?” he asks, raising an eyebrow in doubt of my words. Is he trying to catch me in a lie? “When you were in here the other night, you didn’t like my choice of music playing or the state of my bar. You said I wasn’t catering to all of my clientele with the heavy metal music, and you hinted that it stunk in here— that it smelled like a bar with the alcohol and cigarette smoke stench.”

  I look over at Aran and see the smile she’s hiding behind her hand. She’s enjoying this immensely. Now I see what she meant about my united front comment not working on him.

  “Well, I see you’re calling me out on my sugar-coated bullshit,” I smile, praying my attempt at light-hearted humor will work. “It is nice to meet you. We’ll talk about the music and the smells here at some point in this process— just not today.” I wink and beam my smile at him, but the corners of his lips turn down slightly. He’s holding back the words on the tip of his tongue. I know it.

  I hope he’s not normally this hard to please, and that he’s just a tad pissed off about my comments the other night. I’ve got plenty of time to win him over with my Brazilian charm. He slides into the booth next to Aran and sets down his drink. Damn, he didn’t look this good the other night. I’ve got butterflies in my belly.

  “Alright, let’s hash this out,” he says. “What’s on the agenda, and how much is it going to cost me?”

  I pull out my planner and notebook from my purse since it looks like this will not be the loose and casual meeting I was prepared for. He’s all business, going full throttle on the gas pedal.

  “Uncle Frank, first I’d like to thank you for letting Kyle and I use the bar for our wedding,” Aran chimes. He flashes her a warm smile that sends a low burning heat to my panties, while I get a simple and emotionless eye dart in my direction. What the fuck? He’s going to be a hard-ass I guess.

  The cross tattooed near the corner of his eye draws my attention. As I try not to stare at it or him, I wonder who it’s for. A little piece of my heart breaks for him. It must be someone very special to emblazon your body with a small representation of that lost soul. Is that why he’s such a hardass? Is he that way with everyone or just women...or just me?

  “It’s my pleasure, Aran,” he assures her. “You’re family, and I’d do anything for family. I’m donating the use of it as my wedding gift to you both.”

  “Oh, please,” she blurts out, “You don’t need to do that.” I pat her on her hand trying to stop her words, but she ignores me.

  “I’m doing it, and we’re not going to argue about it,” he states sternly, and that’s the end of that argument, loud and clear. “You can decorate however you want, as long as it doesn’t involve any type of construction on my part or removing any current decorations. And I’m sure there’s other shit I’ll think of as this process moves along— I will advise of any issues as they come up.”

  Damn, I’ve heard of Bridezilla, but I’ve never experienced Resourcezilla. My mouth falls open in shock. He’s going to control this to the bitter end. I can see it coming at me and falling apart in my hands as I try to bobble the many moving pieces that it takes to put on a successful wedding.

  Chapter 5 – Frank

  Now that I know who the snobby bitch is, there is no way in hell I’m letting her control what goes on in my bar. What the fuck was she doing the other night...casing the joint?

  “Frank, are you opposed to temporary art and decorations being hung as enhancements to the theme of the wedding?” she asks, raising her one eyebrow at me, and turning her nose down to me. She’s looking directly at me waiting for my response, but she’s tapping her pen against the spiral ridges of her notebook impatiently. That irritating noise is pissing me off.

  “What is the theme of the wedding?” I ask, looking directly back at her, boring a hole into the center of her beautiful face. She won’t win a staring contest with me. I’m not backing down.

  “It’s a cross between a California Ranch and a Rustic Barn theme,” Aran chimes in to ease the tension mounting between us.

  “Well, that’s a good thing then,” I chuckle and smile at Aran, “seeing as how The Beer and Brood used to be the ol’ Silas horse barn. I’m not sure what you mean by enhancements though. I guess I’d have to see what you had in mind before I say yay or nay.” I shift around in my seat and fuck if I don’t bang my sore elbow on the table causing me to wince in pain. My eyes are immediately drawn to Isabella and she throws me a smug smile and a chin nod for my pain.

  Aran continues to sort through some of her photos and picks out a few of her ideas she was throwing around.

 
“We’re going to set up a large tent outside for the reception to accommodate eating and dancing. The majority of the reception will take place outside in the tent after the ceremony. It’ll be decorated in a barn theme to match the inside here,” she explains, handing me some of the magazine cut-outs and Internet images of what she likes for the tent. “But here on the inside, I’d like to clear out all the tables and chairs, possibly set up old rustic wooden chairs for seating in rows,and the rest of the enhancement decorations would be country things like string lights, bundles of flowers, and long white drapery that would create a walk-way for the bridal party to the stage.” She hands me some photos of the white drapery idea.

  “Aran, I’m sorry, but I can’t picture it. My brain isn’t a visionary for creative ideas like yours is,” I inform her. “I’m a technical and functional person, I mean, I see the picture and all the long curtains, but this barn looks nothing like my bar. I would...”

  “Maybe I can help with this matter,” she interrupts me. “The Banks wedding is in a few weeks at the Ryer Island Ranch up in Walnut Grove. It’s a barn theme with many similar decorations like Aran wants. Come to the wedding as my guest, and see it in person with what we’re planning for here. It should be very similar; a true transformation. Come with Aran to see it in practice, or bring someone else...a trusted business partner to help you make decisions.”

  She sounds so eager in her negotiation skills like she thinks I will instantly cave into her control once I see her decorative planning skills on display. “Alright,” I advise. “I’ll do anything to help my family.” And make sure the wedding planner doesn’t fuck this up with some crazy ideas for my bar.