My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

by Lauren Landish

  If I stay here, I will get to work with Esmar, Gilberto, Henri, and more.

  If I stay here, I will live in paradise, steps from the sea.

  If I stay here, I will have a whole world of new foods and flavors to learn and incorporate into my portfolio and palate.

  If I stay here, I will never see Abigail again.

  She will go home, this I know for certain. Back to her family, her business, and her future. She is not a flower arrangement to be pulled from the dirt for transport anywhere I wish. No, she is an oak tree with roots spread deep and wide, meant to live out her life in one place.

  Would Aruba be the same without her here? I don’t know.

  But will returning ruin things between Abigail and me? I don’t know that, either. Perhaps this is nothing more than one of her schemes that has gotten out of hand, and when we hit the mainland, it will vanish into thin air.

  Esmar senses my uncertainty. He pats my shoulder, much like a father would a son. “No rush, Lorenzo. The offer has no expiration date. I simply want you to know . . . you are always welcome here. I do not share often or well, but with you, I would share my kitchen anytime. Or if you’d rather run your own pass, there are two other restaurants on the resort grounds that would be lucky bastards to have you.”

  Emotion makes my throat tight. “Thank you, Chef. Working with you has been a true honor.” I shake his hand, both our hands squeezing respectfully.

  But never one to play too fast and loose, Esmar adds, “By the way, I put you on the schedule for dinner service on Monday night.”

  I laugh. “My flight leaves on Sunday.”

  “Aah, we shall see, Chef Toscani.”

  “Chef!”

  I do not have time for this. Though everything is running smoothly—I touch the wooden spoon again—I don’t have time to pause for Meredith’s meddling.

  But such is life.

  “Yes, Meredith,” I say, not stopping my movements as I add the final touches to the tray of hors d’oeuvres.

  She oversees my work for a moment, and internally, I dare her to say one word. She doesn’t know a thing about fine cuisine, probably eats a microwaved Lean Cuisine each night or nibbles on celery stalks to maintain her harsh, angular shape.

  “I received the menu . . . this time.”

  Ah, come to rub my nose in the fact that in the end, I did acquiesce to her request. She seems to feel some victory in my choice to send on the list of courses this evening, but it’s reasonable for an event like this one. I will not be going out to make course announcements as tonight is all about the bride and groom, so it’s common courtesy to let the guests know what they’re eating.

  “Yes.” I don’t have time to play her games or invite further conversation.

  Still, she lingers. “What is that?” she asks sharply as I begin adding small yellow blooms to each plate.

  “Marigold.”

  She balks, her voice reaching high into the screech zone. “Flowers? On the tuna?” She makes it sound like the most ridiculous idea she’s ever heard.

  I pause and turn to face her fully, standing to my full height. “Ms. Wildeman, Claire hired me to provide her guests with a wedding feast and I am doing so with the full skill and scope of my years of experience.” I let my judgement of her lack of pallete shine through. “If you, as the wedding planner, would’ve liked ingredient by ingredient approvals, then you should’ve requested it long ago. Right now, as the chef, I have two hundred more plates to prepare. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Cold fury freezes her face with her lips pressed into a thin line and her penciled-on brows drawn up . . . well, as high as they can be, considering her forehead doesn’t move.

  “Chef Toscani, you would do well to remember that I might be a wedding planner” —she mimics my obvious distaste, mistaking it for her profession when it’s entirely personal— “but I work with a long list of clients on a multitude of events. And I find your lack of professionalism alarming. I’m not sure I would be comfortable recommending your services to my clients in the future.”

  “Okay.”

  She thought her threat would hold water with me, but I don’t give a fuck about her snooty list of clients. I want to cook, to create, and will happily do so for people who can appreciate that.

  Hell, I don’t even know where I’m going to be next week! Why would I bend to this imaginary list of clients in one town that she’s holding over me?

  But Meredith Wildeman is a cunning woman. She might not have anything to lord over my head, but she does have an ace up her sleeve.

  “I do wonder,” she muses as she taps her red lips with an equally red-tipped finger, “where you got these marigolds? Is it from the flower girl? I hope she hasn’t let her work suffer from providing the kitchen staff with flowers. I guess I’ll have to see, won’t I?”

  Flower girl. Kitchen staff. Every word she speaks makes it quite clear that she feels we are all beneath her, puppets for her play.

  And her threat is thinly veiled. If she can’t get at me, she’ll go after someone else I care about.

  “You mean Abigail?” I correct, feeling my blood heat. How dare this bitch!

  Meredith smiles serenely. “Ah, yes, Miss Andrews, the flower girl who gets by on her name. Or her father’s, I guess I should say,” she clarifies snidely. “If her work isn’t up to snuff, I guess I shan’t be recommending her either. Such. A. Pity.”

  Who the fuck says ‘shan’t’ in regular conversation when they’re not quoting Elizabethan literature? Or wanting to sound like a fucking Disney villain?

  “I’m sure the arrangements are exactly as Claire ordered,” I reply coldly, gritting my teeth. I want to smash things. I want to go out there and tell Abigail that this bitch is threatening her business. I want to tell Claire exactly where she can shove her wedding planner, and it’s nowhere as nice as an island paradise.

  No, I’d leave Meredith in the desolate cold of Siberia where she belongs. I bet her blood wouldn’t even freeze, cold bitch that she is.

  But this a battle of words, of leverage. And she does have some power over Abigail, working in the city she does and with a similar clientele. Meredith Wildeman could sabotage Abigail’s plans.

  “I suppose you would know. You’re rather close with Miss Andrews, are you not?” Meredith tilts her head, looking down her nose at me smugly. And that’s saying something considering I’m a good six inches taller than she is in her black heels.

  “We have people in common, as you’re aware.” I’m hedging, not mentioning this week but playing on Violet as our common denominator the way Abigail and I decided to early on. It’s not the best look for the staff to be fraternizing, even if it hasn’t affected our work in the slightest.

  “Hmm, it is good to have close friends and family on a trip like this,” she declares. “I’m glad you’ve gotten on so well with the other staff.”

  I can see it now. The picture she’s painting . . .

  One of a grand opportunity to work the wedding of the year in paradise. One where Abigail and I spend the week fucking off, taking yoga and sunset cruises, and neglecting our work. One where, regardless of the food or the flowers, Meredith can deem them inadequate and sell the storyline that if we had only focused on what we were supposed to, things could’ve been so much better.

  How does she even know that Abigail and I have been spending time together? Does that even matter?

  Before I can respond to our verbal warfare, Esmar comes up. “Chef, you are needed at the pasta station. Urgente!”

  Fuck! What has Gilberto gotten up to now?

  I don’t bother excusing myself from Meredith. I simply walk away to handle my work, exactly as I’m supposed to do. That’s what a chef does—no matter what’s happening, service must go on.

  “Ugh, this is why I need you here!” Esmar rants loudly as we walk down the line, though now I can see that he is smiling so it can’t be that bad. “I can’t wait for you to help me corral this madness!”


  He slaps me on the back, and I help Gilberto, having forgotten all about Meredith and her threats.

  Chapter 19

  Abi

  Bouquet? Check, and looking gorgeous, if I do say so myself.

  Row cappers? Check. Janey’s a boss and already has them installed on the final white chair lining the aisle.

  Petals for the flower girls to toss, boutonnieres, and bridesmaid’s bouquets? Check, check, and checkity-check.

  “I think,” I say before unleashing a bone-cracking yawn that leaves me wondering just where I could have built up that much tension in my jaw, “that we’re looking good.”

  “Good?” Janey snaps. “I’m pretty sure you mean things are looking Modern Wedding cover ready,” she declares, holding her hands up in a square like a photographer framing her shot.

  I can’t help but smile as I look around the beach setup. The archway that will frame Claire and Cole as they say their vows is probably the most beautiful thing I’ve ever created. Claire requested a wooden frame and white curtains to blow in the sea breeze but then left the details to me. “Just make it dreamy.”

  I feel like there are degrees of dreams.

  . . . a wish, which is a quick shorthand of a thought and grows into . . .

  . . . a fantasy, which is layered with textures and details that make you want to live inside it, and if you’re fortunate, it can become . . .

  . . . a reality.

  That’s what I’ve done here, brought Claire’s vague description of romance and magic to life with lush blooms and greenery. The Andean Lupine flowers are the cherry on the sundae.

  I laugh as Janey continues her faux-photographer act and I pose as though I’m a model on a gorgeous set. “You’re right. We’re the best.”

  “I sincerely doubt that,” a voice says behind me. Meredith was probably trying to frighten me, knowing her, but I’m so exhausted that I honestly wouldn’t jump if Jason Voorhees came wading out of the Caribbean right now.

  “The ceremony site’s good to go,” I assure Meredith, who sniffs in that way she has that sounds like she’s got a dry congestion but really means We’ll see. I wait for a few tense minutes as she looks around and comes over, nodding curtly.

  “I suppose the ceremony site looks up to standard,” she concedes with an icy eye roll. Oh, not a full one—that’s way too low-brow for someone like Meredith Wildeman—but rather a side-eye roll that throws more shade than a hundred-year-old redwood tree. “Now, how does the reception space look?”

  “We’re on it and running to schedule. It’ll be ready in time.”

  “It had better be.” Meredith is giving it her all to be her usual snooty, bitchy self, but when she turns to walk back inside, I can’t help but see that she’s barefoot.

  Guess those red-soled heels don’t work in the sand? Honestly, I’m surprised she has feet and not hooves like the demon she is. She stomps nevertheless, aiming for intimidating but looking more like a wobbly-legged drunk who can’t hold a straight line.

  Janey and I hold off on our giggles until she enters the back doors of the resort, but when our eyes meet, we’re done for and the laughter erupts out of us like champagne. “Oh, my God, she’s the worst,” Janey declares.

  “Shh,” I chastise her, not wanting to tempt fate that Meredith might overhear. Even though Janey is absolutely correct.

  Meredith is the worst.

  But she’s gone off to make someone else’s life hell for now, so we move on to the ballroom, taking advantage of her absence to work without her harsh oversight.

  We’re putting the last zhuzhing touches on the tables when a bridesmaid comes in wearing a pink satin robe and fuzzy slippers, her makeup done but her hair in curlers.

  “Abi?” she hisses.

  “Yes?” Seeing the panic in her eyes, I amend my response. “What’s wrong?”

  “The bouquet! Claire’s dog got ahold of it,” she says in near-hysterics. “Claire doesn’t know . . . yet.”

  “Her what? I didn’t even know she had a dog!” My voice is too loud, drawing the attention of the other workers, and the bridesmaid shushes me with a hand.

  Looking at me in confusion, she asks, “Do you not follow her? Of course, she has a dog. Adopted from a rescue that she supports and volunteers for.”

  Of course. That actually sounds like something Claire would do.

  “Janey, you got this?” I gesture to the tables around us.

  “Yep, you handle that before the bride finds out and has a mental breakdown,” she responds, and I’m off, running for the elevator with a bucket of loose flowers, matching pace with the bridesmaid.

  In the bridal suite, I find a party atmosphere with several other bridesmaids surrounding Claire. They hold up champagne flutes and smile as they ooh and ahh over how beautiful Claire is. But I see several pairs of eyes cut to me with a silent plea for HELP!

  I give them a nod. I’ve got this.

  And I’m quite sure of that until I see what has become of the gorgeous bouquet I designed. “Oh, no,” I cry, slapping my hands over my mouth so Claire doesn’t hear me.

  The bridesmaid who came for me says, “You can fix it, right?”

  I look at her with wide eyes, incredulous. “Fix this?” The flowers are destroyed, more petals than actual blooms, and the ones that are still held together at the stem have bite marks on them. “No, but I can replace it. Give me a few minutes to work my magic.”

  “Please!” she begs.

  A cheer goes up in the other room and Claire shouts happily, “Madison! What are you doing? Come toast with us.” The bridesmaid flushes, and I guess she’s the missing Madison.

  “Go, just keep Claire in there. And where’s the dog?” The last thing I need to do is recreate a masterpiece and then have Cujo eat it again. The bridesmaid points to a kennel where a fluffy white mop of a dog is sleeping soundly.

  Madison leaves me alone and I raise a brow at the dog. “Why you gotta destroy my hard work?” The dog doesn’t answer, but even in sleep, it growls unhappily.

  I sort through the bouquet bits one by one to see if anything is salvageable and discover there are a few usable pieces. Very few. Using the loose blooms I brought with me, I’m able to create another bouquet. It’s not as large as the original, but it’s the perfectly round poof of multi-colored blooms that Claire requested. I even add a cascade of pearls that I swiped from the tablescape downstairs to tie it together with the whole design.

  Looking at the snoring dog, I’m struck with an idea of brilliance. I grab a few more flowers and a length of ribbon to fashion a collar of sorts for Cujo, or whatever Fluffy McFlowerEater’s real name is.

  “Flower girl, I thought you had already delivered the bouquet. What are you doing here?” Meredith’s voice sends a chill down my spine. How does she do that? I swear she needs a bell tied around her neck so she can’t sneak up on people.

  I spin, the dog collar going behind my back. I’m sure I look as busted as I feel, though I’m not doing anything suspicious. Or at least not now that the bouquet crisis is handled.

  “Oh, hi, Abi!” Claire calls from beside Meredith. “The bouquets look so gorge!” She swooshes into the room in a white satin robe, her hair and makeup perfect. She comes over to the desk to pick up the new bouquet, looking at it through glossy eyes. “I can’t believe it’s all happening today,” she says earnestly, not even noticing that the bouquet is different than it was before.

  I swear, this woman is too damn perfect. She’s beautiful, kind, big-hearted, saves dogs, thinks of her guests and followers, and appreciates the work everyone’s doing to make her dream come true.

  If she wasn’t so nice, I’d hate her. But she is . . . So. Nice.

  I’m still worried about that phone call I overheard, and I even consider telling Claire about it so she could do what she wants with the information. But I don’t know anything. Not really. It could’ve been nothing. God, I hope it’s nothing. Because I don’t want to be a gossiper. I’ve seen how quickly
a rumor can run amok and cause all sorts of problems. And in the end, it doesn’t even matter what’s true and what’s exaggerated.

  So I swallow my questions and let Claire’s watery-eyed smile bloom. I won’t take that away from her. I won’t mar this day with unfounded concerns. That’s the right thing to do . . . right?

  Claire looks to her circle of friends, who all seem truly relaxed now that the bouquet crisis has been handled.

  “I couldn’t have done any of this without you guys. You were there to talk me into going out with Cole, celebrated with me when he proposed, and will be there to support me when I say ‘I do’ to forever with him.” She sniffles and fans her face, trying to stop the tears from spilling over.

  “And stash tissues,” Madison offers as she pulls one from her cleavage. Claire takes it without hesitation. That’s a real friendship there, boob sweat and all. The group of women all hug in one big pile as they talk, laugh, and cry about how they’ll always be there for one another, no matter what.

  Claire continues to look around the room, “And Holly, thank you for my hair. It’s perfect. And Dominique, my makeup makes me feel so beautiful. You two have made me your canvas. And Meredith . . .” Her voice catches.

  Ugh. Meredith has done a good job, I’ll begrudgingly admit that. But I can’t help that it’ll make my stomach turn to hear Claire waxing poetic about what an amazing wedding planner Meredith is.

  “I was so excited to work with Beth and had done so much to plan everything with her. That poor thing had to deal with all my Pinterest boards and whittle all that craziness down to specifics.” Claire shakes her head like she can hardly believe what she put Beth through. “And I was so sad when she couldn’t come . . . I mean, happy for her! Of course, happy for her. But it felt like this thing we’d planned wasn’t going to be the same without her. But then you stepped in, filled Beth’s big shoes, and you’ve done everything to make those dreams come true. I know it hasn’t been an easy job. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.”