Wedding Belles: A Novel in Four Parts

by Melanie Jacobson

  “But it’s our family who’s coming to celebrate you, and there are certain expectations for this reception. You’ve gotten your way with the dress. But the food is about more than just you. You have to compromise.” Mrs. Ravenel’s reminder had the weary sound of words that had been spoken so many times they’d lost their tread.

  Dahlia’s face tightened. “You got your way with the venue and music and just about everything else.”

  “Because Tibetan singing bowls are for California hippie weddings, not walking down the aisle at the William Aiken House.”

  “They’re better than that sleepy quartet you booked. It’s supposed to be my dream day, not yours. I should not have to compromise, not one single thing.”

  It wasn’t even close to the first time Harper had heard the same Bridezilla statement, but she’d never understand it. If you were with the right person, then playing pool at Old Bill’s would beat a weekend in the Wentworth Mansion with the wrong person.

  Her eyes shot to Zak. Wait . . .

  But she had no time to process that because Zak, his warm smile never faltering, was addressing the tense mother and daughter.

  “I think you’ll both get exactly what you want without any compromise if you’re willing to try an experiment. I’ve tailored a tasting menu for each of you. Harper has told me a lot about your event and your individual preferences. She’s the most gifted event planner I’ve ever worked with, and she understands your priorities well. To let each of you form your own opinion, I’d like to have you try the food separately. Would y’all be willing to do that?”

  Harper was proud of his ease with the word y’all. He must have been practicing.

  Dahlia and her mother didn’t look at each other, but Dahlia shrugged, and Mrs. Ravenel murmured a stiff, “Why not?”

  “Thank you for your flexibility. But there’s one more thing. I’ve worked in some of the finest restaurants in New York, and I think turning this into a pure taste experience will be the best way for you to determine what you really want.” He held up the blindfolds. “I challenge you to a blind taste test.”

  Harper kept a straight face, but his wording was a stroke of genius. If he asked or cajoled, Mrs. Ravenel would have turned him down flat, but no Charleston woman would back down from a challenge by a northern boy.

  “Fine,” Mrs. Ravenel said.

  Dahlia liked anything that broke with protocol, Harper was coming to recognize, and she nodded before Zak even finished speaking.

  “Excellent,” he said. “Dahlia, if you’ll follow Harper, and Mrs. Ravenel, why don’t you have a seat right here?”

  Harper was dying to know what he’d whipped up, but Zak hadn’t wanted to risk deregulating any of the food temperatures by removing the covers. When she’d asked to see the menu, he had only tapped his forehead and said, “It’s here. And honestly, if you don’t think they can both be convinced anyway, does it even matter?”

  She guessed not, so now she led Dahlia to her seat and helped her with her blindfold and hoped for the best.

  “Let’s begin,” Zak said. “For your first taste, Mrs. Ravenel will have saffron grits with harbor spices. Dahlia, your dish is called the Spanish Madame, a paella with sensual notes of Berberi spices.”

  Mrs. Ravenel sputtered at the “Spanish Madame,” but when Zak served her bite, she quieted immediately. Dahlia accepted her bite and a slow smile spread across her mouth. “Incredible,” she said.

  “Not as good as this, I’ll bet,” her mother said.

  Zak smiled. Harper wished she had a better view of the food he was serving Mrs. Ravenel. How was having them fall in love with two different menus going to solve anything? Maybe the goal was to earn Mrs. Ravenel’s trust in his cooking.

  He worked through each course, naming what each woman was sampling. With each bite, Mrs. Ravenel sounded as pleased as Dahlia looked. When they’d each tasted their last course, he began lifting the covers back into place. “Harper, do you mind doing the same?”

  It made no sense, but she did it.

  “All right, ladies. Let’s have you remove your blindfolds. Then we can sit and see which dishes you’re willing to compromise on.”

  A glance at Mrs. Ravenel’s face tempered Harper’s mood again. Her expression plainly said she doubted she could like any food that Dahlia loved that much. Dahlia took the empty seat by her mother and Harper moved to stand beside Zak on the other side of the desk.

  “The food was excellent,” Mrs. Ravenel admitted. “But I’ve chaired enough galas to know that it’s going to be far too complicated to serve two different menus at a sit-down dinner for three hundred.”

  “That’s why we won’t,” Zak said. “Did you each like the first dish?’

  “It was my favorite one,” Dahlia said.

  Her mother nodded. “Mine too.”

  He removed the first lid. “Your saffron grits and your Spanish Madame were the same dish,” he said, nodding to each woman in turn. “I gave you both the same dishes, but I named them something different and emphasized different elements for each of you. I think I can tell when a woman is enjoying her food. And you both did.”

  Mrs. Ravenel snorted. Then she chuckled. And soon she was laughing until she had tears in her eyes. Even Dahlia had the giggles before her mother calmed down enough to talk again. “Well, Mr. New York, that’s the best Charleston wedding food I’ve had in my life. If this is what you want, you’ve got it, Dahlia.”

  Harper’s hand flashed out to grip Zak’s. She couldn’t believe it. This might work.

  “This is what I want,” Dahlia confirmed.

  “All right, then. We’ll check in with you on the decorations next week, Harper. You picked a winner with this chef right here.” Her eyes fell to their clasped hands with a knowing smile, but Harper didn’t let go. She didn’t care if it made her look unprofessional. “Let’s go check on your alterations, Dahlia. Should be easy after solving the food crisis. Although we are not calling anything at that wedding the Spanish Madame,” she said, and they swept out on the sound of Dahlia’s protests.

  “It worked,” Harper said, turning to Zak, stunned. He leaned down to kiss her, but she pressed her hand against his mouth, trying not to notice how smooth his lips felt against her fingertips. “I’m so thankful I still have that booking, but you had to compromise who you are. I hate that.”

  He straightened. “I want you to try something.”

  He held out a tasting spoon with a piece of scallop in a light yellow sauce. She accepted the bite, and she could see from the glint in his eyes that the reversal of their roles from last night wasn’t lost on him.

  It was such a uniquely Zak flavor, she realized as her taste buds explored it. Delicate and bold, a layer of citrus and then spice but with savory undertones.

  “It’s perfection.”

  “I made exactly the food I wanted to, the way I wanted to. I didn’t have to compromise anything about the way I cook, and you loved it anyway. Didn’t you?”

  The hint of uncertainty in that final question undid her. She looked him in the eyes and smiled. “I did. I loved it.”

  “I adapt, Harper. That’s different from compromising. It took me a couple of failed months in Charleston to realize that adapting isn’t a failure of creative vision. It’s how great chefs survive, as long as they always keep that slight edge and stay hungry for the next new idea. New York doesn’t need me, but I’ve got to save Charleston from itself.”

  That made her laugh. “I know it’s not glamorous like Manhattan, but we’ve got a pretty good thing going here.”

  Zak’s teasing smiled faded, and her breath grew shallow as his eyes darkened. “We do. You and me. And it doesn’t take compromise. It just takes some adapting. If you could—”

  But Harper was done listening. She wound her hands around his neck, and he bent to meet her kiss. It was even better than the feast he’d poured his heart into that lay plated so beautifully beside them.

  The kiss burned deeper and ho
tter than his devilbird until she finally leaned back just enough to breathe.

  “Have I told you how much I admire your attention to detail?” she asked as he trailed kisses down her neck toward her collarbone.

  He paused to rest his forehead against hers, his breath ragged. “Harper . . . I don’t want to be just friends anymore. How do you feel about that?”

  “Zak,” she said, guiding his mouth back to hers, “I’m still not letting you win at pool.”

  Then he was kissing her again, and she had just enough conscious thought left to be thankful the curtains didn’t hang open anymore.

  Part 2: Janie and Emmett

  BY JENNY PROCTOR

  Chapter One

  Janie Middleton paced the length of her living room, her emotions a tangled mess. She forced her breathing to slow. In through her nose, out through her mouth just like her therapist had taught her. She was fine. In control. She glanced at her phone, sitting face up on the coffee table. It was still on, the email pulled up on the screen, but she resisted the urge to pick it up and read the message again. She’d already read the stupid thing seventeen times and that was sixteen times too many.

  Instead, she flipped the phone over so it lay face down on the table and crossed the room to her cello. Mallory wouldn’t be off work for another half hour which meant she couldn’t rely on her sister to help her sort out her emotions. After Mallory, music was the next best thing. She pulled her cello out of its case, adjusted the endpin and tuned up before pulling it close to her body. Even just holding it soothed her nerves. She took one more intentional breath and closed her eyes. Mahler. She needed to play Mahler.

  Forty-five minutes later, Janie looked up and saw her twin sister standing in the living room entry, her arms folded, her head resting against the door jamb.

  Janie lifted her bow off the strings. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough,” Mallory said. “You’re playing Mahler.”

  It was a statement, not a question. Back in high school, Mallory had referred to Gustav Mahler’s compositions as funeral music, which always made Janie roll her eyes. It wasn’t funeral music; it just had a darker, more broody sound. Which is exactly why Janie always played it when she was emotional. It was music that really made her feel something. Still, even with her amateur understanding of classical music, it hadn’t taken long for Mallory to learn that Mahler usually meant Janie would need to talk before too long. Janie watched her sister move to the couch and sit down, her feet propped up on the coffee table. “Okay. Lay it on me.”

  Janie cracked her neck and shifted, leaning her cello against the wall behind her. For all their physical similarities as identical twins—long straight brown hair, light blue eyes, freckles from head to toe—the sisters were polar opposites in personality. Mallory was outgoing and funny, personable, and friends with everyone. Janie was more reserved and introverted, and lacked Mallory’s natural self-confidence. It had taken Janie years, including one of intentional therapy, to feel happy as her own self and not like a shadow of her sister’s more sparkly presence. She’d worked hard to accept that different wasn’t necessarily better or worse. Sometimes it was just different. Their relationship had weathered a lot over the years, but through it all, one thing never changed. Mallory, more than anyone, was keenly dialed into Janie’s emotions and vice versa. They may have had moments of raging jealousy and arguments that rivaled the worst of reality television. But at the core, they were there for each other. No questions asked.

  Janie moved to the couch and sat down next to her sister. “I got an email from Emmett Calhoun today.”

  Mallory’s jaw fell open. “Your Emmett Calhoun? I mean, not your Emmett. I know he was never yours—”

  Janie cut her off. “I know what you mean. And yes. Him. High school Emmett Calhoun.”

  “What for?” Mallory asked.

  “My quartet is booked to play his brother’s wedding. I guess he wants me to accompany him on some song he wrote for the bride and groom.”

  “Deacon’s getting married?” Mallory propped her elbow up against the back of the couch, her head leaning on her hand. “That’s so great.”

  Janie swallowed her irritation. Mallory had been friends with Emmett. She had a right to be happy that his older brother was getting married. Even if it meant momentarily ignoring her sister’s discomfort.

  “Right but we’re not talking about Deacon right now,” Mallory said, likely reading Janie’s feelings on her always transparent face. “We’re talking about you. And Emmett.”

  Janie pulled a pillow off the couch and pressed it against her face. “I can’t see him again, Mal. You know I can’t.”

  Mallory reached over and smoothed her sister’s hair. “Wouldn’t you have seen him anyway? At the wedding?”

  Janie paused, pulling the pillow away long enough to answer. “Well, yes, I guess. But, that’s different. I’ll be with my quartet at the wedding, playing the entire time with no expectation of mingling or talking to the wedding party. If I do this, I’ll have to see him, practice with him. Spend time with him alone.” She jammed the pillow back into place.

  High school was a long time ago, Janie,” Mallory said, her voice endlessly patient. “Almost a decade.”

  “Seven years is not almost a decade,” Janie said into the pillow, her words almost too muffled to hear.

  “Sure, it is. Think of all that’s happened since then. You graduated from college. You landed your dream job with the symphony. You rented your very own condo with the best roommate ever.” Mallory tugged the pillow away. “Emmett Calhoun has nothing on you. You shouldn’t feel intimidated.”

  Except Janie totally did. No way she could spend three years of high school crushing on the same guy and then be all relaxed and happy when he strolled back into her life. Crushing wasn’t even an adequate word for what she had felt. Emmett was a musician. A singer/songwriter type who always had his guitar and was constantly playing. In the high school cafeteria. After football games. At prom, at parties, at the beach, literally anywhere he could find an audience. Through it all? Janie had been his most devoted groupie. Had she not been so good at fading into the background, someone probably would have noticed and called her on it. Because if he’d been singing, she’d been listening.

  “What are you worried about?” Mallory prompted, when Janie failed to respond. “It’s not like he even knew how you felt. You have zero reason to feel uncomfortable around him.”

  “I’m not worried about him knowing anything,” Janie finally said. “It’s more like I’m worried that nothing has really changed. That everything I felt back then will resurface and I’ll embarrass myself all over again.”

  “But that’s what I’m saying. You didn’t embarrass yourself. Emmett never figured out you wrote that note.”

  Janie cringed. Seven years or not, she could hardly think about the note she’d written senior year, admitting all her feelings for Emmett without wanting to die. She hadn’t signed it, but she’d left it in his locker, sure that the clue she’d given him about their shared biology lab sophomore year would be enough to identify her.

  It hadn’t been. Or at least, if it was, Emmett never sought her out and said anything. After a summer of tears, Janie had left for Vanderbilt University and managed to forget about Emmett altogether. Mostly, anyway.

  But now he was back. And somehow, Janie felt like she was in high school all over again, the same queasy feeling she’d had whenever she thought of him then, overtaking her now.

  “It doesn’t matter that he never figured it out,” Janie said. “I worked so hard to get over him. What if he strolls in with his guitar and I just . . .” She couldn’t even finish her sentence.

  Mallory nudged Janie’s thigh with her foot. “Come on. You’ll be fine. Besides, he might be married for all you know.”

  She had a point. They did have a few friends that were already married.

  “At the very least, he could have a girlfriend.”r />
  Janie leaned back into the couch. A wife or a girlfriend? If he still looked anything like he did in high school—all lean and tan with those intense brown eyes—the odds were pretty good. The thought gave her a small measure of comfort. Unavailable was good. Unavailable was safe. But nothing felt safer than not seeing him at all. “I could tell him no,” Janie said. “Tell him I’m too busy to rehearse anything outside of our normal repertoire.”

  Mallory narrowed her gaze like she always did when she thought she knew better than her sister. “Is he willing to pay you?”

  Janie chewed her bottom lip. “He didn’t name an amount, but his email did say he’d like to hire me to accompany him, so yeah. I’m sure he’d pay me something.”

  “How much is something?”

  “I don’t know, really. It’s probably up to me what I charge him.”

  Mallory kept pushing. “Fifty bucks? Five hundred bucks? I’m just trying to figure out how worth it this whole thing might be. Fifty bucks probably isn’t worth all the stressing you’ll do if you go through with this. But five hundred? I can deal with stressed out Janie if the payout is that much.”

  Five hundred was too generous. If Janie had to guess, it would be more like one fifty, or two hundred, depending on whether or not she had to transcribe the music. Emmett was obviously talented, but cello music was written on an entirely different clef. She’d be surprised if he showed up with it already transcribed.

  “I wouldn’t do it for fifty bucks,” Janie said. “I’d probably ask one fifty.”

  “That’s a month’s worth of groceries.” Mallory patted the couch between them for emphasis. “I think you have to go for it.”

  As a musician, Janie wasn’t exactly rolling in extra cash. Her dad had offered more than once to help her out with her bills, but as a point of pride, she’d never taken him up on the offer. He’d been surprised enough when she decided to make music her career. She didn’t need to fuel his doubts with her inability to make ends meet. She’d come close a time or two, but somehow another gig always lined up and she’d been able to make it work. Which was the biggest reason why she had to tell Emmett yes.