by Tif Marcelo
Praise for The Key to Happily Ever After
“The Key to Happily Ever After gave me so many emotions: I loved and cheered for all three sisters and wanted to shake each of them in turn, I swooned for all of the romance, and I got choked up about their struggles and their victories. But mostly, I loved the de la Rosa sisters so much, and I can’t wait for the whole world to love them.”
—Jasmine Guillory, New York Times bestselling author of The Proposal
“A charming, fun read. I love these sisters! Clear your calendar—once you start, you won’t be able to put down this wonderful story.”
—Susan Mallery, # 1 New York Times bestselling author of California Girls
“This sweet family story/romance will appeal to fans of Susan Mallery and RaeAnne Thayne. Especially suitable for public libraries looking for more #ownvoices authors.”
—Library Journal
“A beautiful story about the bonds of family and the challenges of love—I was cheering for all the de la Rosa sisters!”
—Jennifer Probst, New York Times bestselling author of All or Nothing at All
“This is the most aptly titled romance. A true gem filled with heart, laughs, and a cast of delightful characters. I read (and adored) The Key to Happily Ever After in one sitting!”
—Nina Bocci, USA Today bestselling author of Meet Me on Love Lane
“Marcelo movingly portrays sisters who love each other to death but also drive each other crazy. Give this to readers who like Susan Mallery’s portrayal of complicated sisters or Jasmine Guillory’s sweet, food-focused city settings.”
—Booklist
“The de la Rosa sisters are much like the flower in their name: delicate and poised but also fiercely strong. As the trio takes over the family wedding planning business, they will need all those traits and more to transform their careers for a new generation. As they forge their paths, both together and separately, these three sisters discover that love—like a wedding—is all about timing. Full of wisdom, wit, and, of course, wedding gowns, Tif Marcelo’s latest charmer proves that, sometimes, the key to happily ever after comes along when you least expect it. This endearing, deeply poignant trip down the aisle(s) is full of romance, unexpected twists, and the perfect helping of family drama.”
—Kristy Woodson Harvey, author of The Secret to Southern Charm
“[A] witty and charming saga … This fun rom-com celebrates the profound power of sisterhood.”
—Woman’s World
“Devoted sisters, swoony new loves, and wedding drama—what more could you ask for in a perfect summer read? The Key to Happily Ever After delivers it all with Tif Marcelo’s enchanting prose. By the end, you’ll want to be a de la Rosa sister, too!”
—Amy E. Reichert, author of The Coincidence of Coconut Cake
“Marcelo charms in this feel-good story.… The layered plot, which includes a dark period in Mari’s past that places [a] roadblock to finding love in the present, and the cast of colorful supporting characters, particularly sassy shop seamstress Amelia, are a treat. Fans of Jill Shalvis and Jane Green will particularly enjoy this.”
—Publishers Weekly
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For my grandfather, Lolo Naldo: Adventurer, attorney, US Army soldier, father, grandfather, and my first pen pal
part one Day
Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.
—Matsuo Basho
Chapter One
Once upon a time, there was a doctor who loved to run. Up at her version of dawn, she sought solace on the road before her brain was fully awake. She found rest in the movement of her legs as they kept time to the music in her playlist; she escaped into the beats of the song and away from the minutia of the everyday hum of DC life and traffic.
One could find it odd—that running gave her rest—but Diana Gallagher-Cary couldn’t explain it any other way. When her feet hit the pavement, the will to move, the direction to take, the speed at which she accomplished each step was of her own volition. She could choose to stop at Starbucks and order that delicious Frappuccino for comfort whenever things—not running—got her down. She could sprint her entire route or walk it without guilt, because running was, solely, for her.
Running also served Diana well when every step meant the difference between witnessing her job’s daily miracles or missing them entirely.
Especially today, Valentine’s Day.
The labor and delivery ward at Alexandria Specialty Hospital, a generous size at ten labor beds, was almost at capacity. Eight patients were in active labor; of the eight, two were pushing. Another patient was on her way up from the ER, hoping to usher her baby into the world on this auspicious day, or the hour that’s left of it. About ten months ago, a summer storm had knocked out power for almost twenty-four hours to most of the DC area, and tonight was the proof.
Diana’s job, as the on-call house OB, was to get babies delivered and mothers recovered in a cost-effective and timely manner.
Correction: That was Diana’s mission for all patients except for those VIPs who occupied two very exclusive combined labor, delivery, recovery, and postpartum suites, where neither expense nor effort was spared.
With her hands stuffed in gloves where her sleeves ended, her curly hair in a tight bun, and wearing decorative eyeglasses that did nothing for her except protect her eyeballs, Diana approached the woman in VIP suite #1 with practiced measure and natural confidence despite her exhaustion. The back of her neck was damp. She’d sprinted there from the emergency room a floor down, cutting through the nurses’ break room to snag a couple of lumpia from the Valentine’s potluck the night nurses had planned, changing out of a soiled scrub top, and blowing by the elevator to take the stairs in twos, which would have impressed even an Ironman. Her gaze jumped from the silver cart parked near the infant warmer that held all her sterile supplies and equipment for the delivery to the moaning patient on the bed, then to the nurse and husband standing nearby. In the background, beeping machines and the baby’s heart rate amplified through a machine’s speakers mimicked the beat of one of the dubstep songs on her running playlist.
“Hello, Senator Preston.” Diana halted at the head of the bed, where Senator Madeline Preston of Virginia rocked on her hands and knees. “I’m Dr. Cary, the OB on call. I’m covering for Dr. Bahar until he arrives; he had a bit of car trouble.”
Madeline’s hair draped over her face, and the back of her neck was exposed, shiny with sweat. Her husband, the graying lead singer of the rock band SMAK, stood to his full height at the opposite side of the bed, though his expression was like a child’s, vulnerable and disheveled despite his rugged good looks. In his hand was a cup of ice chips.
Madeline moaned. In between breaths, she said, “I don’t … want you. I … want … Dr. Bahar.”
I want him, too. Believe me. Dr. Bahar was going to owe her one. Diana plastered on a smile and through gritted teeth said, “I understand your concerns, but I promise I will do my very best to fill his shoes.” Diana kept her voice light and reassuring to mask her impatience. She hated covering for these VIP doctors; the hospital staff shouldn’t have to, with the daily census they carried on L & D. She should’ve been out there with the rest of her patients.
“They told me that since this is my fi
rst baby, I would be in labor forever. They lied.” Madeline growled and lifted her damp face. Her eyes glistened with tears. The next second, a guttural sound emerged from her throat, and her gaze seemed to focus elsewhere—inward. Another contraction.
Her husband sprung to his duties; the palm of his hand made contact with Madeline’s lower back. He dug in like a Swedish masseur, and his face contorted with effort. His sleeve tattoos wiggled as his muscles contracted and relaxed.
“Good. Breathe, Mama. And great job, Dad. That’s the way,” Diana said reflexively. She scanned the amount of fluids in the IV bag and the pattern of the baby’s heartbeat on the monitor. Nice and steady. She surveyed the suite. Unlike the rest of the rooms on the labor and delivery ward, which only accommodated mothers in labor and during their short recovery after birth, these suites were used for the entirety of a mother’s stay, from labor, to delivery, to recovery, and then postpartum. The VIP suite was also three times larger. Champagne sat in a chilled bucket on the windowsill. Off to the side was a real bed—not a pullout chair—with 1,200-count Egyptian cotton sheets for Madeline’s husband for the two nights they would stay if mom and baby progressed without complications. Currently, untouched room service with fine tableware sat on a cart in front of a love seat across from a fifty-four-inch television, which now piped soothing classical music through its speakers, a specific request outlined on Madeline’s birth plan. Through the open door to their private bathroom peeked a Jacuzzi tub and a separate stand-up shower.
Diana considered all of these amenities “wants,” but Senator Preston and her husband could afford the reservation fee for one of these astronomically expensive suites where the rich and the privileged could have their birth plans followed to a T. In the lap of luxury and comfort, this was deeply unlike the way the rest of the world’s mothers delivered their babies.
Diana tore her eyes away from the room’s details, pushing her lower-middle-class values down, and planted them back on the person—the people—who mattered: the patient and the baby she was minutes from bringing into this posh environment. Diana had joined Alexandria Specialty Hospital’s staff knowing she would be caring for patients across the spectrum of privilege; that, during call, she might have to admit and care for VIP suite patients before their exclusive, personal OB doctors arrived. It wasn’t her job to judge the excess. Outwardly judge, anyway.
“How’s it going, Lettie?” Diana approached the nurse as she readied extra sheets and towels at the corner of the room, away from the senator.
Lettie Vasquez, too, was part of the normal staff of the ward, especially assigned to this patient because of her caring demeanor (which this clientele soaked up like a sponge) and her ability to put privilege in its place (like the time when a president’s son had insisted she answer his phone calls while his wife was in labor). She was a veteran on the staff, with two decades of experience and wisdom that had helped Diana in more than one sticky situation.
Great nurses were worth their weight in gold and then some.
“Ms. Preston’s contractions are coming about a minute apart now,” Lettie said while Madeline groaned in the background. “And pretty regularly. I just checked her, and she’s ten centimeters and ready to push. Did you eat?”
“Yes, ma’am. I snuck in some of your lumpia a few minutes ago.”
A smile graced Lettie’s lips. “Good. You have to take the opportunity when you can. Especially tonight, when the patients are nonstop.”
“You don’t have to convince me. Your food is really the best,” Diana declared.
“Ay, I’m sure your mom makes better lumpia than I do.” She brought the sheets to the baby warmer and turned on the oxygen and suction machine, just in case.
“She tries.” Diana snorted as she pulled a face mask from the wall. “She likes to create ‘versions.’ ” Her mother was a wonderful woman, but she spiced up many of the traditional recipes much like she accessorized her wardrobe: randomly. Diana found that her best Filipino meals were during call, when her favorite nurses got together to share food, sometimes even at her request. And though it was uncommon to do so, she’d sometimes join them in the nurses’ break room to soak in a bit of her culture—if but one-quarter of it—even for a few minutes at a time.
“That’s what food is: versions. But maybe one day I’ll share my recipe with you.” She glanced askance at Diana with a sly grin. “Maybe.”
“Are you both just going to stand there? This baby is going to fall out!” Madeline demanded.
No, the baby was not falling out, but Diana heard the telltale tones of panic and determination in Madeline’s voice.
So Diana settled herself on a rolling stool and affixed a mask to her face as Lettie pushed the cart of instruments and a portable overhead light to within arm’s reach. Diana aimed the light just so. This was the time when the rubber met the road, Senator Preston’s moment of truth. This was the moment when the senator would show strength rivaling that of any world-class athlete, when education, economics, and privilege took a back seat. “All right, then. Let’s have a baby.”
* * *
Diana pulled the mask down as she exited the room, face cooling as the hallway AC hit her warm skin. The sounds of success—a crying baby, Madeline cooing, and her husband chatting gregariously on the phone—muted as the suite door closed behind her. Diana’s heart rate, which had been at a sprinter’s pace, had begun to ebb from the satisfaction of a job well done. Her body didn’t know the difference between a runner’s high and a doctor’s high, and right now, she was on top of the world.
The hallway was quiet until the double doors opened to the nurses’ station. Four wings jutted out like spokes from this one central area, the hub of activity, despite the hour: almost two in the morning. Nurses milled about with clipboards in their hands; others were on their work-assigned phones discussing patients with their respective providers. Nursing assistants pushed vital signs equipment from one room to the other. Diana passed the wide windows of the soundproof nursery behind its own security doors, where two nurses each fed a baby, while a dozen in their respective bassinets waited their turn.
Hospitals were not meant for sleep.
“Dr. Cary.” The night’s charge nurse, Millie Grant, approached her. All business despite her dangling teddy bear earrings—the unit’s staff was required to wear hospital-provided teal scrubs for additional security, and individuality was expressed in myriad ways. Two hospital Spectralink phones hung precariously on her lanyard. “I need you.”
“What’s up?” Diana, accustomed to multitasking, sat in front of a computer and logged in. She clicked on Madeline Preston’s name, then on the notes section, where she typed her standard delivery note, one ear cocked toward the nurse.
15 February
Normal vaginal birth. Infant female born at 0105, 7 lbs. 14 oz.
“Dr. Mendez called for you in the ER.” Millie eyed Diana knowingly.
Apgar score 9/10.
Patient’s estimated blood loss within normal limits. Current vitals within normal limits.
Assume standard recovery and postpartum procedures.
Diana grumbled at being summoned downstairs, by her ex no less. “Anything else?”
“Ms. Storm just called, and she’s on her way. She feels like she’s in labor.”
“Feels like labor? Signs and symptoms?”
“She thinks she had a contraction a few minutes ago.” Millie shrugged, resigned. “And she wants to come in.”
“Have you called her provider?” It was, yes, the Winter Storm, pop star and social media maven who’d humbly started on the YouTube scene five years ago as a fresh-faced singer with a guitar and was best known for throwing her exes and frenemies into her love—or hate—songs. The bottom line was, besides being a VIP, Winter Storm was high-maintenance as a human.
“Dr. Thompson is on his way. But there’s a bigger problem. That last patient who came up from the ER brought our official census to capacity, which never happens.�
�
Diana nodded. The VIP rooms were not counted as part of room availability, since they were opened only when a VIP was actually going to be admitted, and at that point would be allotted on a first-come, first-served basis. And just as there was the risk for VIPs to be admitted to the general population if both VIP rooms were filled, once opened, the VIP rooms could be occupied by non-VIP patients.
“All right, so we transfer out and redirect patients, and open VIP two for Winter Storm,” Diana said. “We do what we have to do per the protocol. After we’re done here, let the ER know so they can divert potential labor patients. Oh, and inform our hospital supervisor so he’s aware of the closure.”
Millie did not move, something else clearly on her mind. Diana sighed. Never once had she closed the labor ward to patients, and her body was feeling the work she’d put in tonight. As soon as she got home from call, she was going to treat herself to a bath and a glass of wine. Even if it was going to be at eight in the morning.
“What is it, Millie?”
“Your mother called. Several times on the ward, since she couldn’t reach you on your cell.” Millie held out a stack of Post-its with what Diana recognized as the scribbled handwriting of the ward’s secretary.
She took the Post-its and flipped through them. Call mother at home or a version of it was on each one. Diana groaned.
“That good, huh?” Millie surmised. The look of concern was unmistakable on the nurse’s face. Nothing would get past her, not in this environment, where most caregivers had an eagle eye for family drama.
It was sometimes a little too close for comfort. Diana stuffed the Post-its into her front pocket.
“How is Ms. Margo, anyway? And how are you?”
Diana slowed her movements and took care with her next words. Millie had called her mother by her Instagram handle, Ms. Margo. Margaret Gallagher-Cary was a celebrity in her own right, if one called going viral because of her wacky fashion sense and keen photographic eye being a celebrity. But what came along with it was everyone knowing—or presuming to know—everything about Diana’s and her mother’s life. “She’s all right. And I’m fine, too, thank you.”
