by Piper Lennox
Darling, All at Once
The Fairfields | Book One
Copyright © 2018 by Piper Lennox
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For my sisters
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
A Note from Piper
Also By Piper Lennox
Sneak Peak:
Stay in the Loop
About the Author
1
Weddings are hell when you’re single.
My brave face is about to crack. My forefinger spins the silver band on my thumb in a white-hot circle as the pastor drones, “And now, the rings.”
Viola turns to me. She’s smiling, achingly radiant. I smile back, slip her groom’s ring off my thumb, and palm it to her. She whispers a teary and thrilled thank you.
They kiss. The pastor introduces them.
The church applauds.
And now: the excruciating march down the aisle.
Through it all, I keep smiling, the picture of third-place sophistication as my baby sister and her new husband disappear through the double doors ahead, right into their happily ever after.
The best man is sweating whiskey and can’t keep my pace. The second we reach the end of the aisle, I free myself and bolt through the breezeway.
“Glad it’s over?” The photographer saunters from another door near the back of the chapel and follows me to the garden. “You look exhausted.”
I am exhausted. But this day is far from over.
It’s not that I’m not happy for Viola. I’m thrilled. Marco’s a good guy with a good job, miles above the cheaters and unemployed bums she used to bring home (and once, an actual arsonist).
They’re in love. Perfect for each other. Even the coldest cynic couldn’t help but wish them well.
But underneath the happiness, I’ve got about two layers of stress and four of self-pity. Between the pressure of being the bride’s right-hand woman for over a year now, mediating catty bridesmaids who aren’t even old enough to drink, and enduring endless refrains of “You’re next!” in all its forms...it’s impossible to not feel at least a little sorry for myself.
Get over it. Today is about Viola: I want to make her wedding as magical and stress-free as possible, no matter how hard it is to keep smiling. This morning in the hotel room, while the makeup artist swabbed mascara onto my lashes in amounts far exceeding my request of “natural-looking,” I vowed to push all that other shit aside, until only the happiness showed.
So now I force yet another smile and tell the photographer, “It’s not over until someone rides off into the sunset. Right?”
The reception hall is across town, a good twenty minutes in even the best of traffic. This fact does not deter the photographer from trying every possible pose and combination of people.
Viola and Marco seem oblivious to the time crunch. They fawn over each other endlessly, as though they haven’t lived together an entire year already.
“Hey, uh, Vi?” I gather my dress (an absurdly specific shade of aquamarine that took weeks to hunt down) and step over the creek, where the rest of the wedding party is teetering on some rocks while Viola and Marco look down at them from a little bridge. Where the hell is this photographer getting his inspiration?
“Vi,” I repeat, sharper.
Her face is flushed when she turns her smile on me. “Hmm?”
“Not to rush you, but the reception is starting soon.” I say it too gently. She’s been emotional all morning, bursting into tears over the slightest stressor. Even though she seems fine now, I’m not looking to poke the bear. Especially since that bear needs half an hour to retouch her makeup every time she cries it off.
She sighs. “I know, Jules. But the photographer....” Her voice is packed with fake sympathy, and she shrugs like everything’s out of her hands. Great.
I look behind her to Marco. “We need to wrap this up.”
He checks his watch, a sparkling new Rolex from my sister. His “groom gift.” Myself and the other bridesmaids received jewelry in the same wear-only-once shade as our dresses, monogrammed clutches—complete with “Viola and Marco: Forever After” underneath our names; oh, joy—and mini bottles of lotion. I know it’s wrong to look a gift horse in the mouth and all, but why are wedding party gifts always bottom priority?
“You’re going to be late,” I add.
He checks the watch again. “Shit.”
Here we go. Marco is king of punctuality: if anyone can get my sister back on schedule, it’s him.
Inside, I grab my purse from the custodial closet where I stashed it, head out to the parking lot, and gun my car out of there while the rest of them are still straggling out of that freaking creek. Guess none of them will be helping me help guests find their seats. Leave it to my sister to hire bartenders, a photographer, a makeup artist, two servers with one of the best caterers in town, and even a cotton candy guy—but no venue coordinator. It was an expense she deemed unnecessary.
Well, of course it is. She has you.
That’s the worst part: I’ve got no one but myself to blame for this personal wedding hell, because I just can’t tell Viola no. I never can.
Dad’s waiting at the back door of the reception hall when I pull up. He hides a smoldering cigarette behind his back when he sees me.
“Too busy to care.” I wave it off, but he snuffs it on the sidewalk, anyway. “Help me get these inside, please. The cocktail hour’s already running long.”
“Nobody seems to mind, if that helps. The fruit and cheese platters are tiding people over.”
“The alcohol probably doesn’t hurt.” I pop the trunk. Inside are ten more signs for the reception décor, a last-minute request from Viola. Nothing like painting a bunch of love song lyrics on recycled barn wood to make you ruminate on why you’re still single.
“Wow, Julie,” Dad whistles, taking “Living on a Prayer” from my arms. “These look great!”
“Thanks.” I split the pile between us and fumble my trunk closed before facing the back of the hall. My bottom lip stings from biting it all day, and the sight of that giant brick building stokes the urge again.
Dad tilts his head at me as we walk. “This about Marco?”
“Jesus, Dad.” My eyes ache, I roll them so hard. “No.”
This isn’t the first time I’ve gotten a question like this. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised: M
arco was originally intended for me, when our middle sister, Abigail (who, I now notice, is not doing jack shit to help me), set us up on a blind date. At the end of the night, instead of a kiss, I’d given him Viola’s number.
“Marco and Vi make way more sense,” I tell Dad.
“I know. I’m just saying, if that’s what was bothering you, it’s not like you have to hide it from me.”
“Honestly, Dad: it isn’t about Marco at all. It’s....”
My eyes shut, like I can’t stand to see his reaction when I admit this. My shame, my weakness. The ugly, shriveled layers masking my happiness.
“It’s just, you know, kind of hard to watch my baby sister get married before me. It was hard with Abby, but now it’s like...like I’m the only one left.”
When I dare to open my eyes, Dad gives me a half-smile.
“You’re talking like you’re some ancient cat lady,” he laughs. “You’re twenty-six—you have plenty of time left. I was thirty when I married your mom. In fact, I’d say your sisters are the outliers. Most don’t get married as young as they did.” He pauses. A breeze hits us; I smell the cigarette smoke still trapped in his suit jacket. “And they had a lot more time and freedom to date around than you did. Remember that.”
The breath I draw into my chest makes my heart shudder, like a pane of glass in a loose frame.
“Besides, who cares about birth order? You’ll meet the right guy when it’s meant to happen.”
This is such a dad answer: platitudes galore, but no actual advice. It still helps a little, though, just having said it out loud.
He helps me set up the signs around the reception hall. There’s a strange stillness to it, the air swelling and charged with expectation. Maybe it’s seeing all these perfect place settings and centerpieces finally put together. Maybe it’s the dance floor, shining in spinning lights while the deejay tests his equipment one last time.
Or maybe it’s the crowd I can hear through the doors, milling around and laughing in the adjacent room, ready to flood inside and wave my baby sister into domestic bliss.
Whatever’s causing it, the moment feels like being backstage before a performance. Or finding a blank page in a book, placed by accident: that ignored buffer between the build-up, and the big ending.
And it’s in this honest, still place that I realize something important. I’m not sad Viola’s getting married because I’m not.
“I’m sad to lose her.” The epiphany hits me like the blackbird that careened into the hotel window this morning, causing the makeup girl to nearly stab me in the eye with the mascara wand. Sudden, stark, and more surprising than it should be.
“You’re not.” He says it so firmly, I almost believe him. It’s odd, this role-reversal: shouldn’t I be comforting him? Telling him Vi will always need him or something?
“Sure,” I breathe, shoulders setting themselves, spine straightening. I’m not going to cry today. I can get teary, I can get annoyed, and I can lament the single life with enough booze to stock Oktoberfest. But I will not cry.
Abigail finds me as soon as I open the doors and the crowd begins to pour inside. I hand people their place cards and smile, liaison of my sister’s fairytale.
“One of the vendors is late,” Abby drawls, in a weird singsong way like she’s waiting to see me explode.
“If it isn’t the caterer, I don’t care.”
“Liar.” She stabs a cheese cube on her plate. “You love schedules.”
“I don’t love schedules. I hate lateness.” Finally, the guests are all inside, save for a few stragglers smoking on the sidewalk. I spin to face her. “Who is it?”
“Cotton candy guy.”
My eyes feel strained as I sweep the room. “Okay. I’ll...figure it out. I just have to check that the bartender got the champagne flutes here in one piece.”
She grabs my arm. “Jules,” she laughs, almost incredulous, “you’ve done enough. Clock out.”
If you’re so concerned, why aren’t you helping me? It makes me feel bad just to think it, even if it’s true. Not only is Abigail pregnant and in heels, but she’s not obligated to do anything for this wedding. It’s not her fault I yessed my way into this shit and can’t handle it.
“Lionel needs you,” I say instead, nodding behind her. Her husband and daughter are waiting at the entrance to the reception. As soon as she turns to look, I slip away. Champagne flutes and cotton candy guys won’t find themselves.
“I’m only going to say this one more time: no. Tip. Jar.”
I hold the phone away from my ear. Levi’s voice seems to get even louder. “No tip jar,” I repeat. “Got it.”
He starts on another spiel, but I hang up and drop my phone into the cupholder, where I intend to leave it for the rest of the evening.
Then I grab my tip jar, climb into the back of the van, and open the doors.
“You’re late.”
A bridesmaid (at least, I assume: no one would wear a dress like hers unless they were forced into it) stalks right up to my bumper, clipboard in hand.
“Machine broke. Had to go back for another,” I explain, as I unstrap the cart. I stand and reach into my pocket. “Here—for the trouble. Pass it on to the bride for me.”
The girl’s face softens as she looks over the partial refund check Levi authorized. Now that she’s not raging pissed, I notice how beautiful she is. Ugly dress aside.
“Oh...thanks.” She helps me lift the cotton candy cart out of the van, then watches while I stock the bottom with sugar and paper cones. “I guess it’s not a big deal,” she adds, after a minute. “No one’s done with the meal yet.”
I look at her again. This time, on top of noticing her green eyes or that sexy, worried little purse of her lips, I catch something else—how completely run-down she looks.
“You,” I say, “must be the maid of honor.”
She falls into step beside me. “How’d you know?”
“Well, the clipboard, for one. The snapping at vendors. And the general look of exhaustion and contempt for humanity on your face.”
Even her smile seems tired. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
“You’re fine—I’m used to it.” We wind through the small galley kitchen, bustling with catering staff. In the reception hall, she shows me where to park my cart: right next to a giant, hand-lettered sign that reads, “Love is sweet, so have a treat.” If I were a betting man, which I am, I’d stake my entire night’s wages on the chance she made it, per request of the bride.
“I’m not usually like this.”
Her confession surprises me, as does the fact she’s still standing here. “Really, it’s okay.” I unfurl the extension cord. “I’ve had much, much worse. And I get it: it’s hard being a maid of honor.” While I plug in the machine and feel inside for the airflow, I add, slowly, “Or...matron of honor?”
She blushes—my goal—but also draws in a long, annoyed breath. Not my goal. “You were right the first time.”
“Good news for me, then.” I load up a paper cone and hand it to her.
“No offense,” she says, hiding her smile, “but I don’t see myself dating a cotton candy boy.”
“Great offense taken. I’m much more than a cotton candy boy.”
“Oh, yeah?” She tears off a piece and eats it. When she licks the last bit off her thumb, I have to pretend I’m adjusting my keys in my pocket. I can’t help but wonder what she’d look like out of that God-awful dress. “What else is on your résumé?”
“I’m a party supply professional.”
“Mm-hmm. So, what—you also run bounce houses? Snow cone machines?”
“And,” I add firmly, “light-up beer pong tables.”
She laughs, caught off-guard.
“So.” I brace my hands against the cart and lean closer. She’s flirting back, lingering near me, giving me the once-over whenever she thinks I can’t see: forget Levi’s rule about not hooking up with guests. I’m going for it. “We’re two single peo
ple at a wedding. What do we do about that?”
Her smile fades. She finishes the cotton candy and drops the cone into the trash can a few yards away; it’s got ribbon tied in a bow around it, the same color as her dress. Some brides really commit to the color scheme.
“I should go.” She brandishes the clipboard. “Lots left to do.”
“You could hang out with me, for a little while.” I nod at the sweetheart table across the room, where the bride and groom are making eyes and feeding each other. Gag. “Doesn’t look like anyone will notice your absence.”
This time, her smile’s polite, kind of strained. “Thanks for the cotton candy. I’ll get the check to my sister, before she leaves tonight.”
I shrug, like I don’t really care where she goes or what she does. In reality, I’m still imagining all the curves I can’t see under that dress. How her face must look first thing in the morning, wedding makeup smudged away.
“Whoa.” She pivots back on her heel as soon as I set out my tip jar. “You can’t put that out.”
“Why not?”
“Are you serious? It’s tacky.”
“Weddings are all about tacky. Embrace it.”
Her hand reaches for the jar, but my hand reaches for hers. Just as I clasp her fingers in mine, a woman in a neon dress barrels towards us. Guess my bridesmaid-only terrible dress theory was wrong.
“Juliet, there you are! Listen, I’m so glad I found you—there’s a problem with the gift table, and apparently two of the bridesmaids are having a tiff....”
The girl gives me another look, takes her hand off the jar, and slowly slips her fingers out of my grasp.
