The Key to Happily Ever After

by Tif Marcelo

  The “Glynn” nuptials were turning into the classic “Monday morning fiancé” situation. Brad Gill, always unavailable because of work, micromanaged Hazel from afar, and usually, after the decision had been made.

  Mari pulled a speech from her internal catalog of wise sayings. She softened her tone to put Hazel at ease. “I promise none of the decisions you’ll make are wrong. The most important part is you and Brad. We can change things as necessary.”

  Luckily, changes were especially easy with Hazel’s unlimited budget. Besides having family money, Hazel was an entrepreneur and an interior designer. Brad was from old money himself and a highly sought-after residential architect. He’d managed projects in the tristate area, though he was expanding into Seattle, which was where he was until the third week of March.

  “You’re right.” Relief settled over Hazel’s expression. “I just wish he was here.”

  “More fun for us.” Mari winked.

  A knock at the door pulled their attention. It swung open, and Carli walked in. “Mr. Quaid is here.”

  Quaid. Mari racked her brain as she rose—the name was familiar—and faced the suited man. He was tall, over six feet, in a slim gray coat and slacks, with an open-collar shirt. His hair was cropped close on the sides, though wild and curly up top. His green eyes canvassed her face. The next second, recognition flashed in them.

  Mari’s brain fired awake. Stunned, she could only stick a hand out.

  “Reid Quaid, Hazel’s stepbrother.” He returned the handshake.

  Mari choked out a haphazard hello.

  Reid. The owner of 2402 Duchess Street. The guy she’d told off was the stepbrother of her most important client.

  four

  Mood: “Don’t Stop Believin’ ” by Journey

  When it rained, it poured, and right now, Pearl was in the middle of a category 2 hurricane. With the shop a mess, customers were especially rambunctious—they’d assumed open boxes on the showroom floor was carte blanche permission to rifle through them. This morning she’d acted as referee and bouncer, keeping track of the foot traffic in the shop, preventing runaway children from pulling on the lace of the dresses, and answering questions as they were rocketed at her, all with a smile on her face.

  Her pocket buzzed with texts from the Ortega-Robinson, or “Orbinson,” couple. Their wedding was tomorrow, St. Patrick’s Day, and the bride and her groom were having a potentially wedding-breaking argument. Will Ortega had staunchly insisted on wearing one of his own suits instead of the barong tagalog, a sheer, embroidered Filipino formal shirt, which he and his future bride had agreed upon, citing that “it wasn’t comfortable.” A first-world problem, true, but a problem nonetheless, because Chrissy Robinson had planned on wearing a vintage 1940s traditional Filipino Maria Clara gown, complete with butterfly sleeves, but with added sequins to the bodice and refitted into a mermaid profile. The bride herself was not Filipina but had Irish roots, and it was her idea to incorporate each of their families’ customs into the celebration. For him to wear a suit to his own black-tie event was unacceptable.

  But Pearl pushed that current crisis to the side. More pressing news had come down the wire. When Carli descended from the second floor, Pearl rushed at her. “Can you cover for me down here? I need to talk to Ate Mari.”

  “No prob.” Carli held the serving tray tightly in her hand as a customer brushed past. “But Mari’s in a fitting right now with her top.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Thanks.”

  “Also, your fortieth wedding anniversary event in May? Mrs. Gonzalez called again—another argument, another crisis with her husband.”

  Pearl internally sighed—since starting to coordinate the details of their event, she’d received at least two phone calls a week from someone in the Gonzalez family. But she smiled. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Pearl bit her lip as she climbed the stairs and the bustle of the shop fell behind. She could wait to approach Mari with the news. She should wait. Then again, her eldest sister was the first to advocate for drive and communication.

  And if Pearl didn’t do it now, she might lose her nerve.

  Pearl was both blessed and cursed to have two mothers in her life; the second was the woman on the third floor who’d never let her get away with a thing. Mari didn’t pick her battles. Pearl always had the overwhelming urge to push her buttons, to challenge her theories and her strict processes. But today, she would render herself immune to Mari’s words so she could get her message across.

  Today was the day.

  With every step, Pearl imagined a protective brick sliding into place. By the time she reached the third floor, she was encased by a full imaginary barrier. Hazel Flynn’s fitting was in progress, so despite Pearl’s heart pounding in her ears, she lightened her steps, almost tiptoeing. The scent of fabric filled her nostrils and bolstered her.

  Hazel stood on a wide platform, two stair steps above the floor. Her back was to the entrance; she was facing the mirror. In a stunning mermaid wedding dress covered in Victorian lace with a dramatic flair at the bottom, she turned slowly to the left, and then to the right as Amelia, barefoot and wearing black in stark contrast, fiddled, inspected, and pinned fabric to its future shape. Finally, she stepped back.

  Hazel beamed. Her hair was up in a haphazard clip, exposing the Sabrina neckline and deep scoop of her dress back. Pearl recognized this dress. It was a Galia Lahav design, ivory and long-sleeved and utterly romantic and sexy all at the same time. The lace peeked into the bodice, showing off Hazel’s hourglass figure. No sign of her baby bump yet, but it wouldn’t have mattered—the dress was forgiving in the midsection because of its corset back. Besides that, Hazel glowed.

  “And let’s not forget.” Mari appeared from the right side of the mirror with a sample veil in her hand. With Amelia’s assistance, Hazel bent at the waist as Mari clipped the veil to her hair. With a sweep of her hand, the fabric cascaded down Hazel’s back, completing the dream.

  Hazel choked back a sob. “It’s perfect.”

  “Of course it is. You are magnificent.” A man’s voice echoed from the couch. His profile was visible though fuzzy from the door. Pearl approached her sister, who stood silently with her hands clasped at her front, now on the left side of the mirror.

  It amazed Pearl that Mari appeared so collected among her clients and knew when to give them space. With her sisters, Mari often charged in like a bull and demanded what she thought was right.

  After a closer inspection of Mari’s expression, Pearl detected that something was off. Her sister’s face reflected something apart from the usual joy for her bride and calm competence. Pearl sidled up next to her and gazed upon her point of interest: the groom.

  Or was it the father of the bride? The man was a few years older than Hazel and looked nothing like her, but his expression was of pure affection.

  Pearl’s brain slowed as she recognized the cheekbones, the unruly hair. And then . . . “Oh, isn’t that—” she whispered.

  “The very.”

  “Awkward.”

  “Yep. He’s her stepbrother.” Mari’s cheek caved in as she bit it.

  “Dear God. Did he . . . bring it up?”

  “No, which makes this a little complicated. Do I?”

  As if the man had heard them, his gaze swung their direction. Drama was written all over it.

  Pearl spoke up before she lost her focus. She could feel her resolve slipping. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I found our next client.”

  “Oh?” Mari’s phone flashed with a message, and her attention went to it. She scrolled up with a thumb.

  “If I snag this bride for the shop, I want her as my client.” She forced Mari’s attention by addressing her formally. “Ate Mari.”

  Her big sister inhaled and exhaled, then turned her body slightly to give Pearl her full attention. “Sorry. Repeat, please.”

  “I found a top.” At the sound of the T word, Mari stood straighter. Pearl continued, emboldened. �
��And I want her as my client. As a full-service planner. I’m ready. The last of my day-of clients is done in November. The rumor mill is betting on the wedding happening next fall. I can make myself free. Carli is ready to take on more than the regular shop duties. She can handle our social media accounts.”

  The words plopped out in succession, leaving Pearl out of breath. Mari’s face was deadpan—indicating that she was thinking, hard. She had a poker face down to a science. “Who is it?”

  “Daphne Brown.”

  “The Daphne Brown?”

  “The one and only.” Daphne was DC’s it girl. The diamond in a roomful of pearls. She was a senator’s daughter, a Harvard Law grad turned lifestyle guru, and had a mega media empire built on her love for the DC area. “Her rumored three-month whirlwind romance with Carter Ling, the British investment banker? It’s for real, and he proposed earlier this week.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Her now fiancé is a yogi.” Pearl smiled triumphantly. “Haven’t I told you that hot flow is magic?”

  Mari frowned, not understanding. Pearl sighed, pulling the threads of her meandering thoughts into one. “Kayla goes to seven p.m. hot flow on Friday nights at Ohm, you know? She’s invited me more than once, but it’s not my speed to go that late. Might as well give me a shot of espresso; it would keep me up all night”—Mari shook her head, never one for free-flow convo, especially about yoga, so Pearl sped up—“Anyway, Carter has family in Old Town and pops in to get his yoga on. He’s been chatting it up with Kayla, they became yogi friends, and voila.” She jazz-handed for effect. “It’s truly insider scoop.”

  “So you want to convince her to come to us?” Her eyebrows furrowed.

  “Yeah. You don’t think I can snag her?”

  “It’s not that. We’re not in the business of solicitation. That’s not our style. That’s not what we do here.”

  “I know what we do here. And it’s not solicitation. It’s marketing. Anyway, if and when she asks us to plan her wedding, with my slight encouragement, I’d like for her to be my client.” She stuttered, remembering to throw in a nicety to ease the skids. “I . . . mean, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Ready to get undressed?” Mari said too loudly, her words now directed toward Hazel, who was looking at them expectantly.

  At the sight of the full beauty of the woman in front of her, Pearl dropped the subject with Mari. Part of their service was to make clients feel like stars, but there was no question Hazel truly was one. Hands out, Pearl emerged from the shadows behind Mari, took Hazel’s hands into hers, and squeezed. “You are going to wow your groom.”

  Pearl bent down and gathered the dress’s train while Amelia took Hazel’s right hand. As Hazel stepped down the platform stairs on her three-inch heels, Reid Quaid rose from the couch and took his sister’s left hand. His expression was like a father’s: choked up with a slight bit of fright on his face. “Might as well practice now, I guess.”

  Minutes later, after Reid had departed down to the main floor, his duty complete, Pearl tapped her foot as she waited for Mari and Amelia to help Hazel out of the dress. When Mari finally popped through the curtain, Pearl rushed her for her verdict. “So?”

  “So, what?” Mari’s tone was distant, as if Pearl hadn’t asked her the most important question in her career.

  “Top bride. Me. Next.”

  “I don’t know.” Mari sighed. “Look, I don’t want you soliciting brides.”

  “First of all, you know that other planners are already up her butt. Secondly, I won’t, but it doesn’t mean I can’t gently lead her to us. Kayla can make the introductions—”

  “And.” Her gaze was pointed. “Your focus should be on your current clients. Like the Orbinson wedding tomorrow. Are you all set?”

  Pearl shut out the burning texts in her pocket. “Of course I am.”

  Mari crossed her arms. “So you’re using the Day-Of Event Checklist we all agreed to use?”

  “As if I don’t know how to pull off a day-of event, but yeah . . . okay? I used the checklist.” Pearl fibbed, because Mari and her checklists were ridiculous. Her checklists were the kind of bureaucracy that hindered progress. It took longer to fill out her checklists than it took to actually do the tasks. And truth be told, the sisters did not agree to use them—Mari simply mandated it.

  Someone cleared their throat. Amelia was giving the two of them the eyes, eyebrows raised. Quit fighting, those eyebrows said.

  Mari made to turn, but Pearl reached for her forearm.

  “Ate Mari.”

  Mari waved her away with irritation in her voice. “Yes, okay. If she comes to us, then she’s yours. But only if. And then we’d have to talk about the details.”

  “Okay, whatever. Cool,” she said to her sister’s back. Inside, Pearl pumped her fist. Yes.

  Pearl discovered in childhood that the key to thriving under the shadow of her two older sisters was to celebrate their strengths. She’d used Jane’s notes to help her through school; she’d asked Mari for backup when she begged her parents for a later curfew.

  It was never about who was better among them in the family, but who was better at what.

  Pearl applied the same theory to marketing. One had to have contacts, connectors, resources, and sometimes, spies, and Pearl didn’t have a shortage of any of them. It helped that Rings & Roses had been around forever. Their reputation preceded itself. Vendors wanted to work with them and their high-profile clients. The de la Rosas were known as discerning; they partnered with businesses that wouldn’t disappear overnight.

  Pearl’s list of partners was short but reliable. Ohm Studios was on this list. Like spa gift certificates or a wine-tasting tour, bridal and couple yoga sessions sold like hotcakes. While Pearl didn’t subscribe to the “shedding for the wedding” ethos, a peaceful mind she could get behind.

  Coincidentally, Ruby Dunford, one of Ohm’s co-owners, was Pearl’s dearest friend. And she’d confirmed that a certain couple had indeed signed up for tonight’s hot flow class. Since tomorrow was the Orbinson wedding and she had already planned a night of last-minute prep, Pearl had nothing to lose. Bring it, insomnia.

  She checked her watch: ten minutes till seven and she was running late. The Orbinson rehearsal at St. Mary’s Catholic Church went off without a hitch, with the groom promising to think about switching back to the barong, but what took longer was Pearl’s research on Daphne and Carter. As usual, she went down a rabbit hole with Daphne’s engaging blog. If the woman wasn’t going to be her client, Pearl would have to beg her to be her friend. Her posts were funny and self-deprecating but fabulous.

  Pearl speed-walked down Duchess Street in her yoga outfit, hair up in a high ponytail, mat bouncing against her back with each step. Kayla, who’d agreed to let Pearl tag along so she could make introductions, was surely pissed; she was as anal about time as Mari was.

  She startled as she came around the corner of Burg Street. Trenton was standing at her and Kayla’s meeting spot, under the glow of a streetlight. In shorts and a long-sleeve tee. With a rolled yoga mat under his arm.

  Her legs slowed. The bones in her body softened. The question of why he was looking at her expectantly was superseded by her raging hormones. Trenton had become a man, all right. Goodbye late-teen lanky body, hello muscle.

  “Hey, Pearly-Pearl.”

  “Hey.” She was out of breath. “What’s up?”

  “I’ve been sent in my sister’s place.”

  “Oh.” She frowned. “Why?”

  “Someone didn’t show up for call, and Kayla was next on the roster. She felt bad about bailing last minute.”

  Disappointment rocketed through Pearl. She was counting on Kayla’s connection and familiarity with Carter. But resolve replaced it the next second. She had this—her promotion depended on it. She led the way to Ohm. It wasn’t far—a short five blocks. “No, it’s fine. Um, have you practiced yoga before?”

  “Nope.” He rested his hand o
n the back of his head. “But it shouldn’t be too hard, right? I thought, hey, I need to go for a run anyway. Might as well stretch beforehand.”

  A cackle escaped her lips. “A nonbeliever. Well, yoga challenges and relaxes your mind and body, all at the same time. And believe me when I say that hot flow will surprise you.”

  “I hear there’s some sweating to be had.”

  “An itty-bit.” She squeezed her thumb and pointer finger together for emphasis, then gave him the side-eye, gauging his real interest. “Did Kayla tell you the real reason why I’m going to this class, since it’s not my usual?”

  “Yep. Luring a client. I’m down with it. I don’t start work for another couple of weeks. Apparently, I owe Kayla my life for crashing with her and backing you up will help cover it. Besides, I want to see you work your magic and get this couple to sign on the dotted line while in that cat-dog position.” He nudged her with an elbow.

  “That’s cat cow and down dog.” She rolled her eyes at his teasing.

  His laugh trailed off as they arrived at Ohm. Tiny bells jingled when Pearl opened the door to a lobby lined with benches. Instrumental music filled the room, and the water feature in the corner added to the ambience that kept everyone in hushed tones.

  She approached the front desk. Ruby was propped straight on her stool, fingers on her laptop’s keyboard. As usual, her friend was stunning. Red hair piled on the top of her head, body strong and lean, muscles formed without flexing. Behind her, her husband, Levi, was folding T-shirts.

  Ruby’s gaze darted from Pearl, to Trenton, and back, blue eyes swimming in pleasure. “Well, hello, Pearl. So glad you could join us for couples’ yoga.”

  Pearl frowned. “Couples?”

  “Yep.” She lowered her voice. “Oh my God, didn’t I mention it? We switched schedules around this week. We received numerous requests and this was the only time Levi was available, so, you know, we could demonstrate together.”