by Mia Sosa
I stride across the room and bend to the caveman’s eye level, my hands clenched into fists as a preventive measure. “Sorry? That’s all you’ve got? There’s a bride out there who’s been dreaming about this day for months. She wants it to be perfect. She wants to remember it for years to come. Now she’ll remember it as the day she married a man with the skin of a newborn hamster above his eyes. And ‘sorry’ is all you have to say?”
Jaslene clutches a stretch of fabric on the back of my dress and pulls me upright. “Lina, this isn’t helping the situation.”
I bite the inside of my cheek as I compose my face into its usual cool-calm-and-collected expression. “You’re right. Okay. I’ll be back in a sec.”
Internally cursing the brotherhood of asinine groomsmen worldwide, I leave the room, dash down the stairs, and race to my car. Once inside my rusty-but-mostly-trusty Volvo, I rummage in the back seat until my hands land on the emergency kit. I pop it open, rooting around to confirm my makeup supplies are inside.
I return as quickly as my legs and sensible pumps allow, once again not daring to look at any of the wedding guests mingling in the foyer. When I reenter the room, I spy a woman who apparently joined the entourage while I was gone. I don’t bother to ask who she is or why she’s here. Chitchat won’t fix the groom’s brows, so I have no time for it.
After laying out the contents of my makeup kit on the dressing table, I drag a chair to the full-length mirror and pat the seat bottom. “Sit,” I tell Ian.
He regards me with a wary expression. “What are you going to do?”
“Do? I’m going to fix the mess your groomsmen created, of course.”
“Will it work?” he asks.
Probably not, but part of my job is to project confidence in challenging situations. I raise a small vial in the air. “This is fiber fill. It’s meant to enhance eyebrows, not create them out of whole cloth, but I’m hoping it’ll do the trick. Won’t be pretty. Still, you’ll have something up there when you say ‘I do.’”
Resembling a pack of hyenas with their tongues hanging out, the groomsmen huddle together and guffaw at Ian’s predicament. With friends like these, who needs jackasses? When I direct my death stare at them, they straighten and study the floor again.
Ian peers at the vial more closely, then gapes at me. “My hair’s brown. That’s blond.”
“Yes, well, grooms whose buddies shave off their eyebrows the night before their wedding don’t get to choose from an array of hair color options. It’s either this stuff or a Sharpie. I can cover the blond with brow powder closer to your natural hair color afterward. We don’t have much time, though. What’ll it be?”
He swipes a hand down his face. “All right. Let’s do this. But don’t make me look like Mr. Spock, okay?”
“Got it.” With a shake of my head, and a prayer to the wedding gods, I get to work, holding in my laughter as best I can. He should be so lucky.
Needless to say, my job’s ridiculously messy—and I love it.
* * *
Standing in a corner of the outdoor tent, I watch the guests mingle and dance, secure in the knowledge that I’ve averted another crisis. Yes, the groom appears to be sporting carpet scraps above his eyes. And okay, the flower girl did blurt out, “Hey, he looks like one of those Angry Birds.” Nevertheless, my clients are happy, and in the end that’s what matters. Considering I was literally working with nothing, I’m calling this Browtox procedure a win.
Now I can enjoy my favorite part of the reception: the phase after the couple honors their chosen traditions and there’s nothing left for me to do except watch for last-minute glitches. This is when I finally relax a bit. Not too much, though. Many a wedding has been destroyed by the effects of an open bar. My skin still crawls when I remember the groom who removed his new partner’s underwear instead of her garter. Gah.
“Nice save back there,” someone to my left says.
I turn my head and survey the person, instantly recognizing her. “Thanks. You were upstairs in the dressing suite, right?”
“That’s right,” the woman answers.
“Related to the groom?”
Nodding, she presses her lips together, then lets out a resigned breath. “Ian’s my first cousin.”
“He’s a nice guy,” I say.
The woman raises an exquisitely arched brow and snorts. “A nice guy who loses his appeal whenever he’s around his douchebag friends.”
As if on cue, one of the groomsmen bares his overbite and begins to gyrate his hips as he passes us. Another one drops to the ground and inches his body along the parquet dance floor like a worm. Yet another does the Robot.
I watch them impassively even though her assessment is spot-on. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”
“No need to say anything, really. They douche for themselves.” She pivots to face me and extends a manicured hand. The move causes the ends of her razor-sharp blond hair, simply but expertly styled in a chin-length bob, to sweep across her cheeks. “Rebecca Cartwright.”
“Lina Santos.”
As we shake hands, I marvel at Rebecca’s sleek hair, something I’ve never possessed. Even now, my naturally curly hair is fighting against the millions of bobby pins holding my bun in place. I love the versatility of my own locks, so I’m not envious in the least, but I am fascinated by the symmetry of this woman’s appearance. I don’t doubt that if I split her in half and brought both sides of her body together, they’d match perfectly.
“I was impressed with what you did up there,” Rebecca says. She leans in a fraction and gives me a conspiratorial smile. “That’s got to be something you don’t see every day, right? A groom with shaved eyebrows?”
I can’t help smiling as I speak. “Believe me, dealing with wacky stuff like that is a perk of the job.”
Rebecca edges closer. “The wedding dress, though. There’s a story there, I’m sure.”
“This time, I plead the Fifth.”
Her blue eyes dance, then she nods sharply, as though she’s made a decision. “Discreet, too. Do you ever lose your cool?”
Rebecca’s studying my face with such laser focus that I wouldn’t be surprised if the red dot from a sniper’s automatic weapon were trained on my forehead. But she isn’t being creepy, exactly—just intense—so I ignore the weird vibe and concentrate on her question. Lose my cool? Rarely. Still, the moment when I wanted to throttle that groomsman immediately comes to mind. “Sometimes I slip, unfortunately, but most times I’m the one to hold things together, because if I lose it, my clients will lose it, too.”
“How long have you been planning weddings?” she asks.
Ah, is that where this conversation is headed? She’s looking for her own wedding planner, maybe? I chance a glance at her hands.
“I’m not engaged,” she says, flashing her ringless fingers. “Just curious.”
The tips of my ears warm. “Sorry, it’s an occupational hazard. I’ve been in the business a little over four years. Dotting the I Do’s, that’s me.”
“Clever,” she says, nodding and smiling. “Do you enjoy it?”
I stare at her, taken aback by the question. No one’s bothered to ask me that before. But I know what I tell prospective clients, and the pitch comes to me easily. “I enjoy the challenge of helping a couple settle on a meaningful wedding theme. Relish the opportunity to organize a couple’s special day down to the tiniest detail. If something goes wrong, and something always goes wrong, I take pride in coming up with a workable solution and keeping everyone happy. Challenging venues, scheduling snafus, catering flubs—that stuff’s a rush rather than a burden.”
Rebecca tilts her head and studies me, a crease appearing between her brows. “There must be a downside, though. Or something that frustrates you to no end. No vocation, not even one you’re passionate about, is without its challenges.”
I would never tell Rebecca this, but planning weddings is my second shot. A valiant effort to reinvent myself after my first car
eer as a paralegal failed spectacularly. I’m the daughter of Brazilian immigrants, both from humble origins. And after my father left us, I was raised by a single parent who worked tirelessly to ensure a better future for my brother and me. I owe it to my mother and tias to rise above my shortcomings and succeed in my chosen profession. After all, their hard-earned savings helped get my business off the ground. Now there’s no more room for error. And that knowledge weighs on me. So heavily that I fear I’ll botch this chance as badly as the first. That’s the downside: The pressure to succeed can be stifling at times. But I’m not sharing my personal baggage with a stranger. Never let them see you weak is my mantra, and it’s served me well for years.
I mentally tick through the minor complaints I’m comfortable sharing with Rebecca and settle on an innocuous one. “Indecisive clients occasionally test my patience, but all in all, it’s a great gig.”
Rebecca points her chin in the direction of the dance floor. “You’ve done a wonderful job here, I must say. Other than the fact that the bride looks like a celery stalk, this truly is a lovely wedding.”
“Tsk, tsk,” I say with a shake of my head. “That’s no way to talk about someone celebrating her special day. Bliss is lovely in every way that matters.”
A flush spreads across Rebecca’s cheeks. “You’re right. She is.” Then she shrugs. “But as of today, she’s family, which means we’re going to talk about her behind her back whenever the situation calls for it. That’s just our thing.”
Honestly, I can relate. Over the years, my cousins and I have developed a set of hand signals and eye cues to talk shit about our relatives or unsuspecting dates. Because we often use them during family get-togethers, music is usually playing in the background. At this point, my mother and aunts believe our inside communication system is an updated version of the Chicken Dance.
“So let me ask you this,” Rebecca continues. “Have you ever thought about expanding your business? Taking on a partner, perhaps?”
Nope, nope, nope. Despite the many challenges of being self-employed, my business is growing at a decent pace, and I don’t want anything to muck up the careful equilibrium I’m maintaining. I’d only alter the status quo for an opportunity that would take my company to the next level, and I’m hard-pressed to imagine any individual fitting that description. Knowing this, I deflect her question. “Well, tell me a little about you, Rebecca. Have you ever planned a wedding?”
Rebecca draws back, her mouth falling open as she considers me. “Never had the pleasure. Looks fun, though.”
Oh, now I see. I get this reaction at least once during every wedding. People get bowled over by the product—the breathtaking floral arrangements, the perfectly timed music, the stunning place settings, the heady scent of romance in the air—and convince themselves that they, too, can do what I do. “It is fun. But it also takes top-notch organizational skills and an exhausting attention to detail to pull off an event like this one. Thankfully, my assistant and I have a good system going. I’m hoping she’ll eventually agree to work with me full-time.” With perfect timing as usual, Jaslene glides across the dance floor, making a beeline for the DJ booth, the clipboard she stole from me tucked under her arm. And I know why: “Baby Got Back” is definitely on the couple’s do-not-play list. “But listen, if you’re interested in pursuing wedding planning as a career, an online course is a great place to start.”
Rebecca presses her lips together, plainly holding back a smile. “To be frank, you’re upending the plans I’ve already set in motion, but I think we were meant to meet today.”
What’s this woman’s deal? She’s not making any sense. “I don’t understand.”
She sighs and shakes her head, as if she’s frustrated with herself. “Sorry. I’m being cryptic, and you’re probably looking for the nearest exit. Basically, I have a proposition for you, but I don’t think this is the time or place to discuss it.” After removing an item from her clutch, she presents it to me. “Here’s my number. I can explain over lunch in the next few days if you’d like.”
Rebecca then slips away, disappearing into the circle of guests at the other end of the dance floor. I look down at the embossed business card on textured card stock as luxe as any wedding invitation I’ve ever seen. Along with her direct line in the 202 area code, it reads:
Rebecca Cartwright
Chief Executive Officer
The Cartwright Hotel Group
**A Forbes-Rated Hotel**
That moment when you realize you’ve just made an ass of yourself? Yeah. That.
Chapter Two
Max
From the seat of her throne—granted, it’s only a humongous desk-and-chair combo strategically placed above the average person’s eye level—my mother swings her gaze between Andrew and me. “To my surprise, the Cartwright Hotel Group is shaking things up. Rebecca Cartwright, the original owner’s granddaughter, has just been promoted and is at the helm now. She’s trying to cater to a different clientele. Wants to focus on expanding its upscale restaurant, booking more weddings, and becoming the place in the District for weekend spa retreats. She has lots of ideas and would like our expertise on how to promote them. Immediately. I need my best people on this, and you two, together, will bring the right combination of charm and know-how to this collaboration.”
I’m the charm. Andrew’s the know-how. Or so everyone thinks.
Fact is, my mother’s a bona fide hustler who can talk her way out of anything. This time, though, her explanation is pure unadulterated non–genetically modified crap. I wish she would just come out and say it: She doesn’t trust me to handle an important client account on my own.
I can’t say that I’m surprised. Unfortunately, this is familiar territory, a by-product of another truism I’ve come to accept: When my brother and I compete—and frankly, we don’t know how to do anything else—he always comes out ahead. Through no actual fucking effort on his part. What’s worse, even when we’re not knowingly competing, Andrew excels. My ex-girlfriend Emily certainly thought so. After spending a day in my older brother’s presence, she decided she was settling for mediocrity by being with me. She came to meet my mother. She left with a new dating manifesto. That was a fun Thanksgiving.
Andrew taps his pen on the legal pad resting in his lap. “We’ve worked with Rebecca before. Sounds great.”
I want to mimic his chipper demeanor, but that would be childish. Also, I’m trying to be a professional here; I gave Mom my word that I would.
A year ago, our mother brought us on as employees of her firm, Atlas Communications, a one-stop shop for marketing, publicity, and branding services located in Alexandria, Virginia. She did so only after we’d mastered the basics elsewhere—me in New York and Andrew in DC and Atlanta. Before then, she’d had no time for entry-level marketing and publicity associates, not even if they were her children. When she approached us about joining the firm, she made the offer on two conditions: First, we had to agree to come as a package deal, on the theory that we’d bring out the best in each other and one day take over the business together. Second, we had to promise that once we stepped through the company’s doors, we would forget that she’d given birth to us.
I get why she’s worried about perceived favoritism, and if I screw up at work, I fully agree that I deserve to suffer the consequences just like anyone else. But no amount of pretending can change the immutable fact that she’s our mother. Plus, the way she treats us here isn’t all that different from the way she treated us as kids. Case in point: She thought nothing of summoning us to the office on a Sunday for a non-emergency. I’m annoyed for this reason alone, and her insistence that my brother and I once again work as a pair stretches my patience beyond its normally abundant limits. “We’re not a set, you know,” I’ve told her. “Or conjoined twins. We can conceivably function on our own if you let us.”
Because here’s the thing: Andrew’s not as perfect as he pretends to be. Most of our great ideas originate with me. I’
m not boasting, just stating facts. And if our mother ever untethered me from the robot claiming to be my brother, she’d realize it, too. If the past is any guide, though, that epiphany won’t be happening anytime soon. In her eyes, older necessarily means wiser, and regardless of what I do, Andrew will always have me beat on that score by two years.
“Don’t make that face, Max,” she says as she stares at me over the rims of her hawkish red-framed eyeglasses. “The client has a special task in mind that requires two people to work on separate projects, so I’m sending you both. There’s no need to take any more meaning from my decision than that. I’m catering to the client’s wishes and nothing more.”
Well, this is excellent news. My mind’s already whirring, brainstorming ways I can convince the client that what she wants is me—as her account manager. If I can step out of Andrew’s shadow and impress Rebecca, taking the lead on the Cartwright account would be the next logical step. And if that happens, maybe my mother will finally recognize the value I bring to the firm in my own right.
“If you’re both free,” my mother continues, “she’d love to meet with you next week to explain her plans. And given the volume of work her company sends our way, I suspect I don’t need to stress that you should make yourselves available at her convenience.”
Andrew nods like an obedient puppy. “Of course. We’ll make it happen. Right, Max?”
My mother surveys my face, her eyes narrowing to slits as though she’s expecting me to be difficult. Whyever would she think that?
I adopt an agreeable tone. “Of course.”
She rises from her chair and brings her hands together in a loud clap, essentially dismissing us. “Well, gentlemen, I really appreciate that you came in over the weekend. The client is eager to move forward on this as quickly as possible, so I didn’t want to waste any time.”