Stand-In Groom bob-1

by Kaye Dacus

  A moment’s pause grew into a long silence. Anne’s posture changed from relaxed to so stiff he could almost hear the bones in her spine protest. He wondered who could be on the other end of the connection and what that person was telling Anne to cause such a reaction.

  After several long moments, he heard her say, “Yes, Miss Graves, I understand. However—”

  He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the pew in front of him. Although her body language bespoke strain, her voice didn’t betray it. He listened, fascinated.

  “Yes, I have written it down…two hundred for the ceremony, four hundred for the reception…formal evening wear, black tie required… Yes, of course…. I will look into that for you…. Right now? Your wedding isn’t for nearly a year. I haven’t booked anything yet, but—” Anne paused. “I will let you know as soon as I do. Yes… I will call you first thing Monday morning.”

  Her shoulders raised and lowered as she took a few deep breaths. She listened to her client a little longer, then raised her left arm up to catch a beam of light on the face of her watch. “I will be finished here today around midnight. I won’t be able to get back to my office until then, but I have the information you requested. I can e-mail it to you tonight so that you have it first thing in the morning.”

  She was willing to do that for a client? Go back to her office at midnight after working all day on someone else’s wedding? He remembered his own complaints to God about his employer sending him here and felt lower than the belly of a duck.

  Anne pulled out her well-worn tan leather planner. “Yes, Miss Graves. I can meet you tomorrow after church—”

  Would she be willing to give up church for a client? How many Sundays had George had to leave services early or give them up entirely to attend to his employers’ wishes?

  “I’m sorry, Miss Graves, but I cannot meet you before twelve thirty…. Yes, that’s fine. I will meet you at Beignets S’il Vous Plait on Spring Street at twelve thirty tomorrow.” Anne closed her phone and remained still and quiet for a long time.

  What could be going through her mind right now? George longed to join her and ask her more about her job, about why she was willing to give up so much time for other people, about how she found the strength to keep giving of herself and receiving nothing in return.

  She jumped when her phone beeped and quickly looked at the display screen, and a noise escaped from her throat before she put the phone back to her ear. “I’m sorry to keep you on hold for so long, Manuel….”

  As quietly as he could, George exited the church and climbed back into the car. He’d left his PDA in the car to charge and the screen flashed, indicating he had voice mail. The display showed that Courtney had tried to ring him up three times while he’d been inside.

  He gripped the steering wheel hard. He was supposed to be back at the house filling out the paperwork for Anne, not spying on her as she set up someone else’s wedding. Over the past week, he’d indulged himself with his daily jaunts into town, putting off work he needed to do for his employer—hiring a few more house staff, creating the engagement party invitation for when Courtney sent the revised mailing list back to him….

  He could take lessons on professional demeanor from Anne Hawthorne. She worked harder to ensure her clients’ happiness than any butler, valet, or majordomo he’d seen in the entirety of Britain, including his father.

  Needing someone to talk with about the security concerns for when the party guests arrived, he called Forbes Guidry. He couldn’t remember when he’d had time to build a friendship with another man. The lawyer had come to mind each time George prayed God would bring new friendships into his life. He liked the Southern gentleman, who was his best resource in town. Aside from professional considerations, though, he had to find out all he could about Anne. Because once he no longer had to carry on this charade, George planned to get to know her better, too.

  Chapter 7

  Multicolored folders littered the top of Anne’s desk Monday morning, each containing pieces of someone’s dream. Dreams she shared but knew would never come true for her.

  With a sigh, she rummaged for the red folder containing the list of vendors for her friend Amanda’s wedding. She found it, stacked the rest, and pulled out a green ballpoint pen. Her gaze darted to the clock as she lifted the phone receiver and dialed. Fifteen more minutes and he would be here. Her heart beat a little faster as George Laurence’s image formed in her mind. She shook her head and turned her attention to the phone as someone answered.

  “Bonneterre Rentals.”

  “Hi, Joe, it’s Anne.”

  “Hey, gal. How’s it going?”

  She chatted with Joe Delacroix for a few minutes. “I’m just calling to confirm delivery time of the tent, tables, and chairs for the Boutte wedding on Saturday.”

  “Amanda Boutte who went to high school with us?”

  “Yep. She’s finally giving up on the single life.”

  “Good for her.”

  Papers rustled on the other end as he looked up the information for her. She glanced at the clock again. Thirteen more minutes until George Laurence arrived. His milk chocolate eyes burned in her memory, as did his baritone voice and the accent that sent shivers up her spine every time he spoke.

  What had he been doing at the church Saturday morning? She hadn’t noticed him until after the phone call from Brittney Graves. She’d stood and turned to run down to the fellowship hall to get a bottle of water out of the vending machine. The retreating figure exiting through the wide-open doors had startled her at first…until she recognized the sharp yet enticing profile of her newest client.

  Had he been checking up on her? Did he not trust her ability to handle a wedding as large as his? Dared she ask him? Her heart fluttered. Why did he have to be so handsome, so charming?

  “Saturday at 10:00 a.m.”

  What was happening Saturday at 10:00 a.m.? “What’s that?”

  “Delivery of your rentals, goose. Isn’t that why you called?”

  Anne banged her forehead with the heel of her right hand. “Of course. Sorry, hon’. I just got distracted.” She wrote the time on her list. “I’ll see you then.”

  “All right. Look, don’t work too hard, okay?”

  She let out a rueful laugh. “I’ll try, but that’s the best I can promise. Talk to you later.”

  “Bye, Anne-girl.”

  She grinned at the nickname Amanda had started everyone using for her when they were teenagers. “Bye, Joey.”

  Hanging up the phone, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Pull yourself together, woman!”

  She shook her head and returned her attention to the file in front of her. Four vendors left to call and only ten—no, nine minutes in which to do it.

  Aunt Maggie, catering Amanda’s reception at cost, was filling Anne in on the latest family news when the bell above the front door chimed and George Laurence entered.

  “I’ll have to call you back later about Amanda’s cake. B’bye.” Anne hung up, stood, and extended her right hand across the desk, proud it didn’t tremble. “Mr. Laurence, thank you for coming in today.”

  “My pleasure, Miss Hawthorne.” He nodded, returned her firm grip, and then sat in the chair she indicated. “At this juncture of our work relationship, I see no need for us to be so formal as to use titles and surnames. I’d be pleased if you’d consider calling me George.”

  Tingles climbed up the back of her neck to her scalp at the sound of his voice. “Thank you, George. I agree.” She closed the red folder and swapped it for a blue one. “Why don’t we begin with the registration form?”

  Why now, Lord? Did You bring him into my life just to taunt me? Why do I feel so attracted to someone I can never have? She swallowed hard as the prayer she’d repeated fifty times in the last two days ran through her mind.

  She took the six-page questionnaire from him, surprised by how little he’d filled in.

  “I know you were hoping for more informatio
n,” George said, “but my…there are reasons I cannot discuss for withholding some data. I have included a preliminary head count for the ceremony and the reception. I have detailed Courtney’s desires.”

  Anne flipped to the third page. “A formal, late-afternoon wedding with one hundred fifty guests, and a black-tie, invitation-only reception for seven hundred.” She removed her reading glasses as she looked at him. “Are these solid numbers that I can use in my budget?”

  He nodded—a quick, crisp movement, almost as if he were saluting her. “Yes, with a margin of error of no more than ten for the wedding and fifty for the reception.”

  Anne made a notation on the form. “I notice there are two names written down for Miss Landry’s honor attendant. Does she plan on having two maids of honor?”

  A slow smile spread over his face, bringing an indulgent twinkle into the Englishman’s light brown eyes. “She…decided she couldn’t do without both ladies in her bridal party. Is that problematic?”

  “No, I’ve planned a few weddings with two honor attendants.” She looked down at the form and turned to the fourth page. Indulgent…again, more like a father than a fiancé.

  She choked when she saw the dollar amount written on the estimated budget line. Her eyes teared up as she wheezed and reached for her bottle of water. Surely he’d scrawled at least one too many zeros. He’d doubled her original estimate, and she hadn’t counted on that number being true.

  She cleared her throat and took another sip of water. She could work around her attraction to the Englishman. With what he was willing to pay for his wedding, her business’s future was assured. And her business was the only future she could count on.

  * * *

  George leaned forward in concern as Anne took another sip of water. “Are you all right?” Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes watered from the vehemence of her coughing.

  She held up her hand in front of her and nodded. After another sip of bottled water, she took a deep breath and cleared her throat. “Just got a tickle,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

  Her azure eyes glittered as she returned her gaze to the paperwork in front of her. He felt like a schoolboy who had failed an examination, dissatisfied he couldn’t give her complete information. He’d spent hours on the phone with Courtney yesterday trying to get her to make up her mind about the major details.

  “Ten attendants each. Does that number include the honor attendants?” She looked at him, her fine brows arched high.

  George’s heart thumped. Her gaze could pierce a man’s heart with its intensity. “Yes, that number includes the honorables.”

  She looked down, but not fast enough to keep him from seeing the corners of her mouth turn up in an amused smile. His face burned at the realization he’d gotten the terminology wrong.

  “What’s this list?” she asked when she got to the back page—his addendum.

  “Those are restaurants in New York and Los Angeles my—we would like for you to contact regarding specific food items for both the engagement party and the reception. I have not yet had time to research them to find the phone numbers and contact names for you, but listed under each is the item my—we would like shipped in.”

  She looked down the page. “Oh. I see.”

  Uneasiness settled in George’s mind. He had to get over this attraction to the beautiful woman sitting opposite him. Twice he’d nearly slipped up and said “my employer.” If he wasn’t careful, his employer’s name could pop out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Fear of losing his job if he slipped up and revealed too much made him sit straighter and try to reconstruct the barrier around his heart to keep Anne Hawthorne’s big blue eyes from getting under his defenses.

  He watched Anne carefully as she read through the details Courtney had given him over the phone. Most of the outlandish requests—such as having caviar flown in from an importer in San Francisco for the engagement party—were from his employer, not Courtney. Over the years, George had heard all about the extravagances other wealthy American couples had included in their weddings.

  But while his employer wanted to best them all, he’d left the task of hiring a wedding planner in Courtney’s hands. As much as George respected Anne Hawthorne’s abilities, she might not be the correct person to pull it off. Although the article Courtney had shown him boasted of the number of weddings Anne Hawthorne had planned in her career, was she capable of organizing and executing an event of this magnitude?

  She reached for her Rolodex and flipped through several of the sections before she stopped and pulled out a card. “I’ve worked with Delmonico’s in New York before.” She flipped through a few more sections. “And I know someone at Pskow Caviar Importers, too.” She clipped both cards to the page.

  His skepticism decreased a notch. “At the bottom are several local restaurants. Courtney wants some regional dishes included as well.”

  She continued to read, then opened her top drawer and withdrew a red pen, which she used to cross through one of the names on the list. “Pellatier’s closed down six months ago.”

  “I will inform my…Courtney next time I speak with her.”

  “Thank you.” She set the questionnaire aside. “This will allow me to work on a revised budget in the next few days. I may need to call you if I have questions on some of the items we did not discuss today, however.” Her expression asked his permission.

  “Please, call me anytime you need to.”

  Her responding smile was beautiful, but tight and forced.

  She didn’t trust him. The truth stung, but he didn’t really blame her. He was being dishonest with her, after all. More than anything, he wanted to earn this woman’s trust and respect to ensure she wouldn’t hate him when the truth was made known.

  Father God, after all this is over, how will I ever deserve forgiveness from either You or Anne?

  He kept his tone light, positive, and helpful as they reviewed the remaining paperwork he’d labored over all weekend. To his relief, she had only a few questions, which he was able to answer.

  The clock on the credenza behind Anne chimed ten thirty, and she set the paperwork aside. “Are you ready to go see some possible sites for the engagement party?”

  He stood. “At your service, ma’am.”

  She smiled and crossed to the front door, yet did not exit. Instead, she locked it and turned over the sign hanging in the window to let passersby know the office was closed. She led him through the arched doorway at the rear of the office down a hall lined with boxes spilling their contents onto the hardwood floor. Silk flowers, fabrics, glassware, candelabra, and other decorative items glinted in the soft incandescent light.

  “Most of this is for the wedding I have this coming weekend.” Anne folded back a tablecloth dangling over the edge of a box.

  He nodded, distracted by the lock of golden hair that had escaped her conservative French twist and skimmed the curve of her neck. He wanted to reach out and remove the Spanish-style comb holding her hair back. She was beautiful with it up, but he was sure when she had it down—

  No. He clasped his hands behind his back as he followed her through a small kitchen and out the back door to the alley where her car was parked. He had to stay professional, at least as long as she thought he was the groom.

  She used a remote to unlock the doors of a midsize Americanmade convertible.

  Without thinking, he crossed to the car and opened the driver’s door. She paused a moment, surprise flickering across her face. Although the expression disappeared in a split second, her cheeks remained a bit more pink than normal.

  His own face flared with heat. “I beg your indulgence, ma’am, but in England, one always holds open a door for a lady.”

  She smiled. “No need to apologize. It’s still a common practice here in the South, too. Thank you.” She climbed in, and he secured the door.

  As he went around to the other side, she started the engine and closed the roof. After he was situated inside, she handed him se
veral packets of collated pages.

  “Here is information on each of the sites we’ll be visiting today. I thought you might like to know a little about each place before we arrive.”

  He regarded her from the corner of his eye as she reached behind her to put her case on the backseat, fastened her seat belt, slid on a pair of stylish sunglasses, and shifted the car into reverse.

  Glancing through the brochures, he looked for the best aspects of each locale. He didn’t want Anne to think he was focusing only on the negatives, but with the list of requirements Courtney had passed along to him this morning, he wondered if they’d be able to find a place.

  By the time they left the third site, Anne was annoyed with him. He tried to be positive, but none of the three would be suitable.

  The first, a privately owned park, was too close to the motorway and the airport. While they looked at the beautiful open pavilion, the owner’s description of the amenities was drowned out by a jet coming in for a landing.

  The second site, a converted nineteenth-century sugar refinery, had an impressive view of downtown Bonneterre, but the narrow, winding carriageway wasn’t paved and wasn’t conducive to the limousines or luxury cars the guests would be arriving in.

  The third site, the courtyard of the university’s horticultural gardens, was fine until the groundskeeper mentioned the building would be undergoing internal restoration beginning next week and would be inaccessible to the guests, necessitating portaloos—not acceptable.

  Anne drove across the campus toward the fourth property, and George’s hopes rose. The driveway was wide and well paved. The crepe myrtles that lined the drive were covered in bright pink blossoms—Courtney’s favorite color.

  “How long do the trees bloom?”

  “All summer. Since it stays so warm here, they don’t usually lose their color until October.”

  The building they approached resembled his employer’s antebellum mansion, except on a grander scale, and sat on a bluff overlooking a small lake to the west and the college campus to the east, which should appeal to his employer’s sense of the dramatic.