Luke’s jaw clenches. “A couple of weeks? How long were you planning on keeping it from me?”
I shake my head, remembering the panic I went through, all those nights I cried myself to sleep because I was so lost and confused. “It wasn’t like that. I spent those weeks in hell, trying to figure out what to say to you—what I wanted to do. Because I was just a kid,” I remind him, praying he’ll understand. “We weren’t just messing around anymore. Suddenly, it was the rest of my life I was looking at.”
“Our lives,” Luke corrects me. “I could have been there for you. We could have figured it out together. You didn’t have to keep it all bottled up to yourself.”
“I did,” I say slowly. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Looking back now, maybe I would have chosen differently. But you have to understand, when I first saw those little blue lines, it made me realize I wasn’t ready. Not for marriage, a baby, any of it. I needed to figure out my life before taking those steps, so I wouldn’t have all these regrets eating me up inside and tainting whatever we did share. That’s when I realized I had to go. And everything that came after… well, I made a mess of it, I know, but it felt like the only way at the time. I couldn’t bear to look you in the eye and tell you I was leaving. It was a weak, cowardly thing to do, but I knew, if you asked, I would find some way to stay, and then it would all have been for nothing.”
I stop, looking anxiously at Luke for his reaction. He stares out at the water, his body language tense.
“Say something,” I whisper, desperate. “Luke, you have to know I’m sorry. Tell me you understand, even just a little.”
Finally, he lets out a long breath and nods, turning back to me.
“I understand,” he says slowly, and relief crashes through me at the empathy on his face. “I guess I always wondered what made you go like that. If I’d known, I probably would have freaked out, too. But I wish you hadn’t gone through it alone.”
“I had my aunts,” I say softly, “They helped. But mainly, I just wanted to put the past behind me. After I made the decision to leave, I couldn’t stick around through a dozen painful goodbyes. I figured if you were going to hate me either way, it was better for the both of us to just be gone.”
“I hated you, all right,” Luke agrees, but his expression is softening now. “I spent a few too many nights down at the bar, sneaking drinks and cussing your name. Wes didn’t know what to do with me that summer. I wasn’t good for anything except starting fights and drinking.”
“I’m sorry.”
Luke gives me a quiet, sad smile. “I know you are. And I am, too. I should have listened to you back then, not railroaded you into a future you didn’t want. Talking you out of NYU, ignoring all the signs you needed more – it was selfish and stupid of me.” He looks down, kicking at the sand, and for a moment he’s transformed into a teenager again, nervous about being vulnerable and exposing his feelings. “I was just scared,” he admits, “That you’d leave for your fancy big city college and realize you wanted more than me, that I didn’t fit with your plans anymore. I held on so tight because I was scared of losing the best thing I’d ever had.” He gives a hollow chuckle. “How’s that for irony? I tried to make you stay, and it only pushed you further away in the end.”
“And I loved you so much, I only broke both our hearts in the process,” I add sadly.
“We messed things up, didn’t we?” Luke says. He pauses, his eyes full of questions. “Do you ever wonder…?”
“What?”
A beat. “Nothing.” He turns back to me with a rueful smile. “Thank you for telling me. I know it can’t be easy, digging up the past like this. But I’m glad I know. Helps put the past to rest.”
To rest? His words sound so final, like now I’ve come clean there’s nothing left between us anymore. My heart sinks. I’ve got the closure I was wanting, but instead of feeling free, a part of me is still aching for more.
I turn away. “We should get back to the restaurant,” I say brightly, trying to hide the emotions still whirling in my mind. “Evie is probably wondering where we’re off to.”
“Ginny, wait.” Luke catches my hand, stopping me.
I turn back. His hand on mine sparks a thousand memories. I stare at him, butterflies suddenly bursting to life in my stomach from the intensity in his eyes. I wait for him to speak, not even sure what I’m hoping to hear him say, just knowing that after all these years this is still the man that can make my pulse race from a single touch.
Then my cell phone rings, breaking through the moment.
I flinch. “I’ll turn it off,” I say, scrambling to find it in my purse.
“No, it’s fine.” Luke drops my hand. “It could be an emergency.”
I finally find it. Marcie’s calling. I silently curse her. Pixie and Clyde better have eloped to Mexico to justify her interrupting like this. “Really, it can wait.” I decline the call, and look back to Luke, desperately hoping we can pick up the moment where we left off. “What did you want to say?”
“It’s nothing.” He says, looking away. “You’re right, we should get back. And you should answer that,” he adds, as Marcie calls again.
He starts walking back towards the restaurant. Whatever we had between us in that moment is gone now. I sigh, and pick up the phone.
“This better be good.”
Chapter Sixteen
What Luke didn’t say to me on the beach haunts me for the next few days. We finished up the meal and he took me home, chatting about work, and the wedding, and where our old friends wound up in the end, but we never mentioned the talk on the beach again. I can’t help feeling like I lost some chance – a window of opportunity to tell him how I’m feeling – even when I’m not quite sure what those feelings are myself.
Still, I don’t get time to wallow. With just ten days until ‘I do’, this wedding is shaping up to be the event of my career. No sooner do I solve one crisis than another pops up in its place, until I come to dread the sight of Marcie’s name on my caller ID. But she turns out to be the least of my problems, because there’s a new sheriff in town: a slick Hollywood guy called Brent that the network have sent to make sure their big moneymaking series stays on track. If Marcie was cynical when it came to our moment of true love, this guy takes manipulative to a whole new level.
“We want to get them reaching for the Kleenex, baby, and I’m not talking late night Cinemax!”
It’s another staff meeting at the B&B, and Brent is in full swing. He looks like he just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad: all preppy popped collar and slicked back hair, pacing around the room. “I want to wring every last tear out of these people. This is the magic of true love we’re selling, and it don’t come cheap!”
Marcie looks at me from across the room and rolls her eyes.
“Do we have Pixie’s father lined up?” he demands, “Ready for a real heart to heart on camera about giving his precious baby girl away?”
“Like I told you in my daily status updates, everyone’s RSVPed.” Marcie says through gritted teeth. “Her mom’s just had a facelift, and we’ve already written the script for their toasts.”
“What about the conflict?” Brent asks the director, ignoring Marcie yet again. “I need backstabbing and bitching, baby, all the way to the altar.”
Marcie speaks up again. “We have a bridal party event today, all her old Park Avenue Princess co-stars have flown down to Miami. We’ll get plenty of material there, don’t worry. In fact, we should hit the road,” she says, already getting to her feet. “Ginny?”
“Right behind you!”
I follow Marcie out before she explodes. Once we’re in the car, she lets out a long hiss of tension. “I can’t believe that asshole,” she curses. “Three years at the network, my shows have some of the highest ratings on air, and he still treats me like a glorified assistant. You know he asked me for coffee before the meeting today? Like I was some kind of intern he could just boss around.”
“He seem
s a real treat,” I agree, sympathetic. Pixie and the crew have already driven up in the limo, so it’s just the two of us for the road-trip north. I hit the road out of town, hoping Marcie isn’t going to spend the whole journey wound tight like this. “But once you pull it off, he won’t be able to walk all over you anymore, right?”
“Don’t bet on it,” Marcie scowls, but she seems to be relaxing the further we get from town – and Brent. “He’ll probably wind up taking credit for the whole thing like usual, and get his name splashed all over the trades.”
“But everyone else knows that this is your project.” I try to reassure her like one of my highly strung brides. “It’ll be the event of the TV season, you said so yourself.”
She looks over, suspicious. “Are you handling me?”
I grin. “Why, is it working?”
Marcie finally laughs. “A little,” she admits. “It’s just my career on the line here. It’s all I have. I’ve spent years working to get here, and I can’t bear the thought of it going down in flames.”
“You and me both. But just ten more days, and it’ll all be over.” I don’t know whether to be happy about that fact or not.
“I can’t wait to get back to LA. I miss Jack so much.”
“Your boyfriend?” I ask, surprised.
She snorts. “My dog. A little maltese snickerdoodle. You think I have time to date, handling this circus?”
“Me neither,” I agree. “I’m run off my feet in New York. Most evenings and weekends, I’m working with clients. And the only men I ever meet are drunk groomsmen or creepy uncles looking to score for the wedding.”
And hot ex-boyfriends, I silently add.
“It’s the choice you make, having a successful career.” Marcie sounds determined, but I wonder if that has to be true.
“I don’t know, I’d like to think there’s more,” I say, wistful. “I’d like a partner, maybe even a family of my own.”
“Good luck with that.” Marcie doesn’t sound convinced. “Anyway, you’re going to have more than enough work to deal with once this thing airs. People will be signing up a waitlist a mile long to book a wedding from the planner who threw the famous Dalton-Ross-Kincaid festivities—and at ten times your usual rates to boot.”
I laugh. “Fingers crossed.”
“No hoping about it.” Marcie looks over, serious. “I’m telling you, I know a hit when I see one, and this has winner written all over it. You’re good,” she says, matter-of-fact. “And the sky’s the limit if you want it to be. Book deal, branded line of wedding favors, even a TV show of your own.” Her expression changes, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “Now, that’s an idea. You’re pretty photogenic, once we get hair and makeup sorted out—”
“Gee, thanks.”
“So all we’d need is a killer show concept, and you could write your own ticket. Maybe you swoop in to save couples in crisis fighting over their big day.” She starts brainstorming aloud. “Or you could team up with the groom-to-be to plan a wedding that’s a total surprise to the bride. Yes, I like that one. Plenty of drama, potential for fights and meltdowns—“
“Whoa there!” I cut her off. “I’m not interested in being on TV. I haven’t even gotten through this wedding.”
“You’re right,” Marcie says, way too agreeable. “It’s just a thought.”
Something tells me Marcie’s thoughts could end in me with a three-year contract and Nick and Neil stalking my every move. But luckily, she drops the subject for the rest of the trip. Soon, we arrive in the city for bridal party boot camp.
“Ginny!” Pixie’s squeal greets me the minute I step through the doors of the exclusive bridal store. “Did I tell you you’re, like, my favorite wedding planner of all time, ever?”
I laugh, detaching myself from her enthusiastic hug before she can spill her champagne glass all over me. What’s left of it, at least. I’m guessing from her flushed cheeks and giggling that this isn’t her first drink of the day.
“I’m excited to see you, too,” I smile. “I can’t wait to see you in your dress.”
“Me either.” Pixie’s eyes are wide. “Can you believe I’m getting married?”
I steer her into the back, where the production has set up the ultimate bridal salon. Six of Pixie’s closest friends-slash-co-stars are lounging on white settees, sipping champagne and ignoring finger sandwiches as the staff fuss around, making sure the VIPs have everything they need. Cameras and mics are posted at every angle, spotlights shining on our happy bride and her not-so-happy friends.
“You better not make us wear peach,” one of them pouts. A blond girl with over-puffed lips, she glares at Pixie, clearly jealous. “It totally washes me out.”
“Or pink!” another pipes up. “My color consultant says I’m a spring, not summer.”
“And you know if cut-price fabric even touches my skin, I’m going to break out in hives.”
Marcie is already grinning ear to ear. If Brent wants a cat-fight, he’s definitely going to get one.
I step up. “Pixie has picked out some dresses I’m sure you’re all going to love.” I smile. “And the important thing is, you’re all here to support her for her big day!”
The smirks tell me that may not be the truth.
“How about we get started?” I say quickly. I beckon to the store manager, a woman I’ve been talking with all week. “The first bridesmaids’ dresses?”
“Right away.”
She goes to collect the clothing, and the production kicks into action. Of course, it’s not as simple as just having the girls try on the dresses. Every shot has to be set up and filmed, from Pixie revealing the color scheme (a gorgeous dusky pink), to every bridesmaid’s individual reaction.
They replay the same conversations over and over, under Enrique and Marcie’s direction. These guys are pros. I guess spending years in front of the camera has taught them how to repeat lines like it’s the first time they’ve ever said the words.
“I don’t see why you pick the color that suits Bex, but leave me looking like a freaking spinster,” one of them glares, squaring off with Pixie. “Is this because Clyde saw my boobs that one time?”
“He couldn’t help it,” Pixie shoots back. “You’re the one who walks around butt naked all day long. And FYI, underwear is not optional at my wedding.”
“Cut!” Enrique interrupts. “Can we try that again? You had a clerk walk through the background.”
Right away, their face off drops. “Sure,” Pixie says, agreeable.
“And maybe you don’t say spinster,” Marcie adds.
“Like, what about saying it makes you look like Lulu’s mom after she’s had a skin peel?” another of the girls pipes up, smug.
“I like that!” Marcie exclaims. “OK, reset for take two.”
The girls get back into position.
“And, action!”
Just like before, the friend squares off with Pixie. “Why did you have to pick pink?” she whines.
I watch as they finish the scene. It’s so weird that they’re recreating their lives on camera, complete with bitchy comments and ‘spontaneous’ moments. Poor Pixie must feel like she’s living her life in a fishbowl. Except she seems to deal just fine. Maybe this is just her version of work. After all, it’s like acting in a way.
Finally, it’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for. Pixie disappears into the dressing room to try on her dress. Usually, I would have helped her pick it out, but it turns out the show did some kind of sponsorship deal with a famous designer, so I haven’t even seen it yet: we just sent her measurements for them to work from. Now, it’s time for the final fitting adjustments before the big day.
“Pixie?” Marcie calls. “Honey, are you ready to come out and show us all?”
There’s a muffled sound. “No.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Is it terrible?” one of the girls asks eagerly. “Does it make you look fat?”
“I told you to drop ten pounds,�
�� Marcie says.
I roll my eyes and head in back to the dressing room. “Pixie?” I pause by the curtain. “It’s me, Ginny. Is everything OK?”
The curtain opens, and Pixie yanks me inside. I get a glimpse of a gorgeous fitted bodice with delicate embroidered pearls before she collapses back on the floor in a heap of silk and taffeta.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Don’t you like it?”
“I don’t know.” Pixie’s voice wavers, and when she looks up at me, her eyes are filling with tears. “I don’t know anything anymore. I wish those bitches would just shut up.”
“Forget about them.” I carefully sit beside her on the dressing room floor. “Do you like the dress? That’s the only thing that matters.”
Pixie looks down. “I love it,” she says, still on the verge of tears. “It’s like my dream come true.”
“Then that’s great.” I try to cheer her, totally confused. “Don’t worry about the other girls. They’re just jealous.”
“I know,” she whimpers. “Lulu gets this vein popping in her forehead when she’s pissed. It’s going crazy right now.”
“That’s because you look so pretty. Clyde will love it,” I add. “I can just see his face when you come walking down the aisle. And everyone watching at home too, you’ll be the center of attention. The star.”
I hope I’m saying the right thing, but Pixie doesn’t look any happier.
“We can take a break, if you like?” I offer. “I’ll get Marcie and the team to clear out for five minutes, or we can go get a soda, just you and me.”
“Like this?” Pixie plucks at her skirts.
I smile. “Maybe not. But you tell me what you need, and I’ll make it happen. I’m on your side, remember?”
Pixie blinks back her tears, and nods. “You are, aren’t you?” She brightens. “You can be my maid-of-honor!”
Beach Wedding Page 13
