by Kaye Dacus
“Stage show?”
“A concert by the local philharmonic while the fireworks are being shot.”
“Oh, they have that up at the amphitheater. But it’s always so crowded on that end of the park, so we crank it up on the radio—the public station broadcasts it.”
“How big is this park?”
“It’s triangular—about two miles long and about a mile wide down here at the base. The north end is only about two hundred yards wide. That’s where the stage area is. They shoot off the fireworks from about halfway between.” She rested her chin on her hand. “How many Fourth of July celebrations have you been to?”
“I witnessed the Washington, DC, celebration last year because my employer was in town—for work. I’ve seen it in New York, too.”
“Is it strange for you to watch us celebrate our independence from England? After all, what we’re celebrating today is basically the declaration of war between our two countries.”
The twinkle in his eyes was as addictive as hazelnut crème lattes. “We Brits have taken on a very pragmatic attitude toward the countries that were once a part of the British Empire. As long as no one is currently declaring war on us, we don’t mind people celebrating wars that happened centuries ago.”
Around them, everyone headed for the field. George took her plate to throw away, and she took his cup to refill with Diet Sprite, no ice. They joined Jenn, Meredith, Jason, and Rafe, who’d overlapped the ends of two quilts on the ground.
Forbes flopped down beside Anne as she got settled. “Miss anything?”
She returned his kiss on the cheek. “Just dinner.”
“George came?” he whispered.
Odd question. “Of course. Why wouldn’t he?”
“Oh, I thought—never mind.” Forbes leaned forward and greeted his sisters by pulling their hair.
After he finished reading the Declaration of Independence, Papere led young and old alike in singing, “America, the Beautiful.” Anne added her alto to Forbes’s tenor, Jason and Rafe’s bass, and Jenn and Mere’s soprano. The dumbfounded expression on George’s face ended their harmony with laughter.
Forbes held up his hand. “We know, we’ve heard it all our lives: ‘You’re just like the Von Trapps from The Sound of Music.’ ”
George recovered himself. “Not exactly what I was thinking, but it did sound nice. Pray, continue.”
When they segued into “My Country, ’Tis of Thee,” Anne made the mistake of looking at George to see what he thought of the coopted British national anthem. He leaned over and sang low in her ear, “God save the Queen!”
“You’re bad,” she whispered.
“I’m bad? Your ancestors stole our song, and I’m bad?” He shifted position, turning his torso toward her, their noses almost touching. A few inches, and they would be kissing. His grin faded. Emotion flooded his gaze. “Anne, there’s something—” With a whoosh of breath, his forehead banged hers.
“Ow!” She rubbed her head and leaned away. “Hello, Christian, Cooper.”
The two boys hung from George’s neck, one in his lap, the other on his back.
The boys’ mothers rushed over. “Oh, George, Anne, we’re so sorry. Boys, come on with us.”
He waved them away. “It’s quite all right, Andrea, Keeley. Let them stay. We’ve been bonding today.”
The second time he was with her family, and he’d remembered everyone’s name so far. Each moment she was near him, he revealed even more how he fit the image of her perfect mate.
Forgiving ol’ what’s-his-name didn’t seem so hard all of a sudden.
Chapter 18
“It had to be you,” Anne sang with the music flooding her office. She smiled, recalling the warmth in George’s cinnamon-hazelnut eyes as he’d talked at length with her grandfather Friday evening at the picnic. He’d been such a good sport to put up with the ribbing Papere and the uncles had given him. But he still had to prove himself. She couldn’t just fall head over heels for him because he got along with her family.
She wound pink tulle onto a heavy cardboard bolt, pulling the fabric yard by yard out of the white trash bags that nearly filled the floor of her storage room. Her bride Saturday afternoon had taken the wedding from Steel Magnolias as her model, with pink bunting draped over anything that would stand still. Anne’s own wedding would be much more sophisticated—
Whoa. Thinking in terms like that could only bring disappointment. Sure, she liked George now, and he seemed to like her, but what if the glow wore off? What if she discovered him lying to her about something important again?
The future without George Laurence in it looked dim and dismal. But it was a possible reality she needed to face. At thirty-five, she was too old to indulge in a crush. She couldn’t pin her hopes on him. She could, however, have fun exploring the possibility of something permanent.
The room filled with Frank Sinatra’s voice crooning “I Get a Kick Out of You.” Anne sang along, swirling around in the tulle. She wished more brides would choose standards for their receptions. Easier to dance to, the words and music also spoke to a larger audience than the inane pop music of the moment her clients tended to choose.
George listened to the same kind of music, and oh, how he could croon it! But could he dance—more than just the waltz they’d already shared? If not, they could always take ballroom dancing together. She knew a few—the waltz, the fox-trot, and the cha-cha. She spun around, her feet tangled in the tulle, and she fell, landing on the soft pile of bags of fabric.
The bell on the front door echoed throughout the town house. Oh no, her ten o’clock consultation! She struggled to her feet and managed to reach the door. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” she called. Her own laughter didn’t make extrication from the pink cloud easy. Once out, she had to dive back in to find her left shoe and hair clip. She slipped into the eggplant-colored pump, then crossed to check her reflection in the mirror on the back of the storage room door. She ran her fingers through her hair, tossed the clip on the nearest shelf, opened the door, and rushed down the stairs.
The couple seated on the love seat under the front window stood. He was in his late thirties, slender, just over six feet tall, well dressed, wearing expensive shoes, and would look good in a single-or double-button coat, charcoal or black.
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting.” She extended her right hand to the bride first. “I’m Anne Hawthorne.”
“Kristin Smith. I’m so glad you were able to fit us into your busy schedule. This is my fiancé, Greg Witt.” Kristin looked several years younger than her fiancé. She stood about five and a half feet, with shoulder-length blond hair that would look good in an updo and a crown headpiece, and a pink skin tone that would look best with pure white.
Anne shook hands with the groom, then motioned for them to sit. She grabbed her planner off her desk before taking her place in the armchair across the coffee table from them. The purple tulips were starting to wilt a little. She’d have to call April’s Flowers to see if they’d gotten in another shipment.
“Let me start by saying congratulations. I know this is an exciting time for you as you start planning the biggest event of your life. My job as a wedding planner is to take the stress off of you on the administrative end so that you can relax and enjoy your day.” As she did with all potential clients, Anne reviewed her business credentials, association memberships, and certifications. Almost every potential client came in with a list of questions from the Internet to ask. Every list started with questions about the planner’s professional qualifications. She found most clients relaxed more if she got that information out before they had to ask.
“We saw the article about you in Southern Bride. That was one of the reasons I wanted to come to you.” Kristin tapped a black Waterford pen against her pink notepad. “How many weddings do you coordinate in an average month?”
“During the summer, I typically handle three to five weddings per month—about one a week. Some of those are just c
onsultations—I help the bride plan ahead of time, and she handles everything the day of the wedding—while with others, I handle everything for the bride, allowing her to sit back and not have to worry about coordinating anything. Of course, during the fall, winter, and early spring, I don’t have as many clients. Did you have a wedding date in mind?”
“We’re looking at a couple of dates in the fall—October maybe?” The young woman pulled out a well-worn, checkbooksized calendar.
Anne flipped to October in her planner, nodding. “October’s a good month, especially if you’re thinking about an outdoor wedding. I have a couple of events already on the books for the first and third weekends but would be able to assist you either as a consultant if you choose one of those weeks or as your on-site planner any other week.”
Both bride and groom made notations in their calendars. “Do you have an assistant or someone who can fill in for you if something happens and you’re unavailable on our wedding day?” Kristin asked.
“Yes, if something happens and I am unavailable, I will line up a substitute to work with you at a discounted cost, although I have never missed a client’s wedding, so that shouldn’t be an issue.”
Kristin made another note and continued down the list of standard questions, becoming more open and chattier as Anne answered each concern. With the interview list complete, Anne guided the couple into talking about their ideas for what they wanted. She took copious notes, including the fact that neither seemed locked into any firm decisions. That could be good if they would be open to her suggestions. Bad if it meant they were indecisive.
When their half hour was almost up, Anne set her planner on the coffee table. Time to close out the consultation with chatty conversation. “So are both of you from Bonneterre?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Anne blinked and glanced from bride to groom.
“What Greg means is that he’s not from Bonneterre but I am.” Kristin’s explanation was rushed, her tone embarrassed. “What about you?”
“Bonneterre born and raised. Where’d you go to high school, Kristin?”
“Governor’s Academy.” The boarding school that cost more per year than an Ivy League university. “What about you?”
“Acadiana High.”
Kristin exchanged a glance with her fiancé. “Really? Were you there when Cliff Ballantine went to school there?”
Of course. Everyone always asked that when they heard what school she’d attended. “He was a year ahead of me. But it’s a really big school.” Her standard reply.
“I read somewhere that he’s getting married here.” Kristin gave her a sly grin. “You wouldn’t be planning his wedding, would you?”
Anne forced a smile. “I hadn’t heard he was getting married.”
“I just think it would be awesome to know what his wedding’s going to be like. It’s going to be the social event of the year, no matter where he gets married. But could you imagine planning his wedding? Whoever that wedding planner is, she’s set for life.” Kristin tucked her notepad and calendar into her pink gingham purse and stood.
Anne shook hands with the couple and walked them to the door. “Please let me know if you’d like me to write up a contract.”
“Oh, we’ll be in touch soon.”
Anne stood at the front door and watched as the couple crossed the square toward the restaurants on the other side. For a newly engaged couple, they weren’t very affectionate with each other. Oh well. Everyone showed their love in different ways. Odd that they didn’t even hold hands, though.
Where had they heard that Cliff was getting married—and in Bonneterre of all places? She prayed that wasn’t the case, although if it was true, it would have been on the front page of the Reserve. Planning his wedding, indeed. Besides the fact that he would never hire her personally, he would never stoop to hiring a local to plan what Kristin had aptly called the social event of the year. He probably had some overpriced Beverly Hills event planner on retainer—someone like the character Martin Short played in the remake of Father of the Bride: pretentious, foreign, and way overpriced.
The phone rang and interrupted her ponderings.
“Happy Endings, Inc. This is Anne Hawthorne.”
“Good morning, Anne.” George’s silky accent brought her fully to the present.
She sank into her chair and leaned her elbows on the desk. “Good morning, yourself. I guess you got my message?”
“I did. I would love to have dinner with you tonight. Shall I meet you or pick you up at the office?”
Her heart did a happy dance. “Actually, I’m coming to you.”
A warm chuckle melted through the phone. “I’d love to cook for you some night, but with no advance notice and Mama Ketty’s not being here…”
“The chef will be there at four o’clock to start cooking.”
“The chef?”
She laughed. “Major O’Hara, the executive chef for Boudreaux-Guidry. Tonight is the only time he has available to do a tasting menu for the rehearsal dinner. Since you didn’t have a chance to taste his food before agreeing to his catering the engagement party, I hope to set your mind at ease tonight.”
“Ah. And here I was thinking you were trying to surprise me with a romantic, home-cooked dinner.”
Were he standing in front of her, he would wink and give her that enchanting crooked grin of his. She bit her bottom lip and took a calming breath. Have fun but don’t indulge. “I’ll see you at six o’clock.”
* * *
The caterer arrived at four. After a brief interview, George turned him loose in the kitchen and returned to his quarters. Less than two hours before Anne arrived. Plenty of time to get ready.
He rummaged through shopping bags until he found the table linens. He hadn’t expected the enormous discount store to have quality linens, but the ivory fabric with an embossed pinstripe was at least as nice as what he could find at the local department stores. He ironed the creases out of the tablecloth and napkins and carried them into the small room off the kitchen that would serve as the employees’ dining and break room, once he hired a full house staff.
Covering the large round table with the cloth, he placed a glass vase of lavender tulips in the center. He’d gone to nearly every florist in town trying to find Anne’s favorite flowers, eventually securing the last two dozen at April’s Flowers—finalizing the purchase just as someone else called in looking for some.
He opened the french doors onto the promenade that ran the length of the back of the house. The small iron café table with a glass top and two matching chairs, which he’d found at a locally owned hardware store, made for a perfect alfresco dinner for two. He whistled as he arranged the table, finishing with the second vase of tulips and two taper candles.
Distance, remember. Don’t let’s get in too deep, aye, old boy?
His watch beeped. Five thirty. He’d taken too long with the decorations. He left a book of matches on the table and closed the doors to keep the cool air inside a little longer.
He moved the rest of the spoils of his quick shopping trip into the walk-in closet. He made up the bed with sheets freshly laundered by Mama Ketty, a new duvet, and pillows. In the extra bathroom, he put out the towels Mama Ketty had insisted on laundering before being used. The navy and gold colors were the same he’d used in his quarters in Cliff’s two other homes. His brother Henry would laugh and call him set in his ways. He liked to think of himself as consistent.
He showered, then dressed in gray pants, a blue button-down, and a colorful tie. His short hair dried quickly. He leaned close to the bathroom mirror. The dark brown around his temples seemed to sprout new grays every day, and it needed trimming.
He heard a sound and realized it was his phone playing “I Can’t Give You Anything but Love.” Anne. His heart leaped, then stalled. She couldn’t be calling to cancel. “George Laurence here.”
“Anne Hawthorne here.” Her voice sounded amused. “I’m pulling u
p to the house now, but I thought I should ask—should I come to the front door or…?”
Only someone else who worked in a service industry would even think about that. “Since my employer is not in residence, the front entrance is fine.”
“Okay, I’ll see you in a sec.”
George switched the phone to silent mode, then snapped it into the holster on his belt. He needed to know if Cliff or Courtney called but didn’t want dinner disturbed. He straightened his tie, then headed to the front of the house. Through the etched glass in the door, he could see Anne, hand raised to knock. He opened the door and ushered her inside.
Her tremulous smile betrayed a surprising nervousness, given this had been her idea. “This is for you—a kind of housewarming/host gift.”
He took the white gift bag from her, surprised by its weight. “Thank you.” He kissed her cheek, then turned and made a sweeping gesture with his free hand. “Welcome to my employer’s home. Would you care for a tour?”
She smiled. “Maybe the upstairs part. I’m pretty familiar with the ground floor. Aunt Maggie used to cater events for the Thibodeauxes here a few times a year. Once I was old enough, I came out to help with setup, service, and cleanup.”
“Ah. That’s why you asked about the service entrance.”
She stuck her head in to glance around the formal front parlor. “This is the first time I’ve ever come in through the front door.”
He took her by the hand and led her upstairs. “Obviously, it’s not fully furnished yet. I expect a shipment later in the week, and once Courtney returns”—he winked at Anne—“she will address decorating the guest bedrooms.”
“And the thought of that frightens you?” She glanced in each room as they wandered through both upper levels.
“Not so much as the thought of her mother doing it.” He should have known she’d see through him. He opened the door at the top of the service stairs at the back of the house to take her down to the kitchen. “The one time Mrs. Landry came into the house, she suggested a pink faux-fur rug for one of the upstairs rooms.”
