by Tif Marcelo
Yep, this was so outside of what she envisioned for any home in this area.
“It’s pretty sweet, right? The architect did a magnificent job. If only he wasn’t such an asshole.”
His words popped Mari out of her thoughts. “Oh?”
“It’s Brad. Brad is the architect and designer. I brought my sister in to decorate; that’s how Brad and Hazel met. And no, he’s not really an asshole. As you put it, he took my sister from me, and I’m feeling a little sore about it. But now that I’m going to be an uncle, I’m going to have to accept Brad for better or for worse.” He gestured as he turned to walk. “Kitchen’s in the back.”
Out of habit in her own home and respect for this home’s impeccable, shiny floors, Mari stepped out of her shoes, and her stocking-clad feet were met with pure, utter comfort.
He nodded. “The heated floors are hands down my favorite feature of the place. It gets so damn cold here in DC. But the rest of the decor isn’t me.”
As they walked to the back, Mari absorbed all the details. The sparse furniture. The remodeled gray slate hearth encasing a gas fireplace. Bare white walls except for an occasional mirror.
They entered a miniature chef’s kitchen, which had a five-burner gas stove with an overhead vent and a stainless steel refrigerator. Only one six-foot countertop. Top-of-the-line finishes, but in proportion to the rest of the house, it all seemed small. “Brad must not be a cook.”
He set the box on the countertop and popped it open. He groaned at the sight of its contents. “Oh, Carolina hooked us up.” Grabbing two forks from the drawer, he handed one to Mari with a flourish. “How could you tell that Brad wasn’t a cook?”
“There’s barely any prep space, the sink won’t fit a tall stock pot, and the refrigerator is practically down the street.” She pointed to the lone appliance separate from the rest of the kitchen. Laughing, she turned back to the heat of Reid’s gaze. She cleared her throat and went on, brushing off her sudden shyness. “But all in all the renovation is pretty impressive. I’ve been in quite a few of these homes, since we know our neighbors well. Sometimes I pop into an open house.”
“Ah, you do that, too.” He nudged the cardboard box, a signal for her to take the first bite. She dug the fork into the chocolate cake. His fork took its turn immediately behind hers. “I do it for research; seeing who lives in a neighborhood gives me a connection to a place.”
“I respect that. You don’t want to take away from a neighborhood’s character.”
“Exactly. I would have kept this house as historic as possible. But Brad had other ideas.”
“I like to go to open houses because I’m curious. I love looking at people’s styles, at how people put together their homes. I think the worst-styled homes are the ones that come right out of a catalog. There’s no personality in it. I don’t mind clunky, mix and match, so long as it’s real.”
“Makes sense, especially with what you do.”
Finally, she brought the fork to her lips, the scent of the cake already giving her a head rush. She moaned as she lapped her tongue under the fork, then nodded. “I love the challenge of giving a client their truest dream within their budget. But isn’t that life? Taking what you have and running with it?” she said.
“What’s the hardest part of your job?”
She looked at him intently, mulled over his thoughtful question. “The hardest part would be encouraging my clients to listen to their own wants and not others’. It’s so easy to want to please everyone, but I’ve seen what happens when a person puts others first.”
“And that is?”
“They lose themselves.”
Reid ate his cake silently. Mari’s body flushed from her honesty, from his gaze. It started from the tips of her toes and traveled to the top of her head, and instead of her usual instinct to meet his expression, to challenge him, she looked away.
He liked what he heard and saw—it showed on his slackened jaw, at the pulse jumping at his neck. This Reid had something about him, equal parts prestige and care, like two sides of a coin, perfectly balanced.
She licked her lips, tasting the last bit of chocolate.
“Thirsty?” Reid’s voice was gravelly. “I’ve got . . . well . . .” He straightened and went to the refrigerator. He took out a Tupperware container, and peeked behind it. “Um, sparkling water, orange juice. Milk?”
Mari couldn’t quite grasp the sight she was seeing—a refrigerator of homemade food in plastic covered containers. No take-out boxes. No week-old pizza. “Are those leftovers?”
“Yep. Or did you want wine or beer? I have a drink cooler for the good stuff.” He gestured toward what Mari now noticed was the undercounter refrigerator.
She shook her head. “Oh no. I’m fine.”
“I was going to open up a bottle of wine before you came over. I usually have a glass with dinner. Unlike Brad, I am a cook, but all the recipes I follow are for servings for two; hence, the extras.”
“You cook?”
He nodded.
Dear heaven on earth. The man could cook. His house was clean. He had a good job. He was oh so fine. If he tried something right now, Mari would be hard-pressed to say no. She wouldn’t have the willpower.
Which was completely inappropriate.
Panic shot through her. She had to get out of there as soon as possible. “That reminds me, I should get home. I’m the cook in my family, and I have a feeling my sisters are already waiting in my living room. They’ll complain that they’ve starved half to death. Have you ever had little sisters just hang on you?” She was rambling now, so she put her fork in the sink. “Of course you have! Anyway, thank you, Reid, for the slice of cake.”
“I’m heading back to Atlanta in the morning, but I’m back next weekend. Hazel invited me for Easter.”
“Great! Have a good flight. I’ll show myself out.” Mari’s footfalls echoed as she backed from the kitchen, where she gave him a final nod. Her breath remained caught in her throat until she entered the hallway and the front door was in sight.
“Marisol.” After he called out her name, his footsteps followed. Mari turned.
A foot away, his gaze lazed upward to her face. “Thanks for bringing over dessert.”
She jammed her feet into her shoes, struggled with one. “Sure, um . . . safe travels.” And after almost tripping out onto the sidewalk, she shut the door behind her.
She inhaled the cool night air.
That was close.
ten
Mood: “Modern Love” by David Bowie
Pearl internally screamed.
Mari—not their intern, Carli, as previously planned—was assisting her at the Perfect Weddings Expo this morning in Bethesda, Maryland. And that sneaky oldest sister of hers hadn’t informed her that she had reassigned Carli to manage the shop until this morning at 6:00 a.m., when she showed up at Pearl’s apartment door freshly showered, clutching the rental van’s car keys.
And now, Pearl was slumped in the passenger seat headed to what was supposed to be her project, listening to the radio her sister had commandeered, cranked up to high.
Pearl texted the only other woman who could feel her pain: How am I going to survive this day?
Jane texted immediately. This was a bye week for her, and she’d promised Pio a day of whatever he wanted: Hang in there. She’ll chill out soon.
Pearl: Why couldn’t it be you here?
Jane: Now that we’re waiting to take pictures with the Easter Bunny, I wish it was. Parents are trying to cut this line! I’m about to throw down.
Pearl laughed to herself and looked out the window as the van exited the beltway in Bethesda. The convention center’s parking lot was packed. A line of chattering, enthusiastic attendees, some dressed in veils or matching outfits, snaked around the building. Pearl’s spirits rose a tad. There was a chance she could snag some of them as new clients.
After they unloaded the contents of the van and brought them to their booth, Pearl surveyed th
e other vendors setting up. Florists, bakers, DJs, entertainers, and caterers showcased their wares under white tents and arches. They decorated their spaces with flowers—both fake and real—and set out chocolate, treats, and samples in an attempt to lure expo-goers.
Pearl spied on the competition: other event planners.
“Check them out, Ate.” Pearl shifted her eyes to the right while pretending to look through their boxes. “Two o’clock. Heartfully Yours?”
Mari tipped her to-go cup of coffee to her lips. “Yeah?”
“They’re an up-and-coming shop, and a future rival.”
Located ten miles away from Rings & Roses, Heartfully Yours had blown up in the last couple of years because of their exceptional social media game. “Not that there aren’t enough clients to go around. But see that color scheme they have? The total business branding? We need to keep working on that. Our website’s not exactly the way I want it to be. It lacks feeling and personalization.”
“Don’t get too excited. We don’t have the money right now.”
She handed her sister a box of swag to spread over their tables. “I know, but it shouldn’t be the last thing on our checklist. The Rings and Roses logo, the way the shop’s decorated, the website—it’s all a hodgepodge. All I’ve done is put a Band-Aid on it. I’m proud we now have at least an online base, but we could do more. I mean, look at that video playing in their booth. It’s even got other vendors to mill around their space.”
“What’s wrong with the shop? There’s nothing wrong with the way Mommy and I decorated it.” Mari hugged the box to her chest.
Pearl clucked under her breath. Of course that was what Mari focused on out of everything she’d said. “We have to ask ourselves: How will a passing bride remember us? There are over three hundred vendors here. How are we going to get people to stop? Just because we’re wearing matching shirts? As it is, our booth swag isn’t enough.”
Mari spread out their brochures, pens, stickers, magnets, and chocolates on a long table. Pearl unrolled an inexpensive bright turquoise rug to its twelve-foot-by-ten-foot size and set up their tall bistro-style round tables for potential customers to congregate around. They hung a vinyl banner behind their table.
Pearl sighed. Their booth felt empty. It needed something with oomph. Lights, or a blinged-out backdrop, maybe.
“I heard that,” Mari said.
“Heard what?”
She mimicked Pearl’s sigh, except she threw in a pathetic, downtrodden expression.
“Nice. That’s nice.” Pearl half laughed despite feeling the complete opposite of pleased.
“I just think you should focus on what we do have instead of what we don’t. You keep shooting for more, wanting more, when the priority should be maximizing what you’ve got.”
“That makes no sense, Ate Mari.” She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them. They were in public. She lowered her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with raising the bar.”
“Sure, if you can navigate the one at the current level.”
The insult hit Pearl square in the eyes. Stunned, she opened her mouth, then closed it. It was a fair statement, right? Her weddings weren’t always executed smoothly. This week’s slipup could have broken Mari and Hazel’s professional relationship. But when was enough enough?
A tidal pool of emotions swirled in Pearl’s chest, and she hurriedly tidied up the rest of the display to take down her heart rate. Thank God, an announcement blared that the doors would open in five minutes.
An idea formed in her head, chasing away her current anger. She’d only posted photos on Facebook to date. Heartfully Yours might’ve had video playing in their booth, but Rings & Roses could stream their attendance. “I’m going to do a live feed.”
“What? Why?”
“Why not?” She grabbed her purse from under the table and touched up her lipstick, feeling her sister’s gaze on her face. When Pearl met Mari’s eyes, she caught a hint of regret in them. Mari’s way had always been the tough-love, no-holds-barred sort of criticism that acted as a double-edged sword. There were no games with this woman, no minced words, no passive-aggressive actions, but damn did she say the most hurtful and truthful things. “If you could move a little to the right, you’re blocking the banner.”
Mari did as she was asked, silently.
Pearl pressed the Record button. “Welcome, Northern Virginia and DC brides and grooms! It’s Pearl from Rings and Roses. Today, we’re at the Perfect Weddings Expo with hundreds of other vendors. I know that some of you are out here today, and if you are, please stop by and say hi. We can do a free quick consult about your current plans and see where we can get involved. We’re in booth one seventy-five, at the northeast corner of the building.” Pearl flipped the camera view and scanned the area in front of her. “We’re right next to Chocolatiers and Company, and Party Limos R Us.” When she flipped it back, viewers had logged into the stream. She called them out by name. “Molly, hello! Reagan, hi! Are you all here? Hi, Lacy, I know, it is overwhelming, but we’re here and we’re going to take care of you. If nothing else, we have candy and lots of it.”
She ended the livestream just as the doors opened and the line of customers entered. Pearl stepped out in front of their display, a candy bar in hand, along with their promotional flyers. Throughout the day, she lured would-be clients into their booth to flip through photo albums. She wrote up sample proposals, and with some, she discussed the investment of having a wedding planner on retainer.
At day’s end, Pearl had three solid clients to follow up with. Each had verbalized that they wanted her. Not Rings & Roses, but her: Pearl’s ideas, Pearl’s enthusiasm.
Yes, she did know what the hell she was talking about. In fact, she’d established the bar with marketing and publicity. Today, she’d give Mari a pass for her insult, but never again would she allow her big sister to undermine her talent.
Pearl probably should’ve cancelled her dinner plans after her long day at the expo, but being in the same building with Mari had seemed far more irritating than trying to beat the dating game. But she had been wrong, because Winston Katz—her date, courtesy of the Love Unlimited gift certificate she’d received on her birthday—was truly a dud.
“I’m almost done here.” Winston didn’t bother to look up as he texted. The glow of his phone cast a dim spotlight on his face, accentuating his high and round cheekbones.
Pearl pushed the food around her plate with a fork as he answered yet another email. Winston—preppy, perfect on the page—picked from a twenty-five-point compatibility list, was supposedly a good match. An arrow right in the middle of the target, the email from Love Unlimited had said.
More like an arrow to my eye. The guy must have lied on the survey where it asked him about the importance of face-to-face conversation versus social media and text, because he’d broken her big first-date rule: no phones at the dinner table unless it was urgent. And his current Cheshire grin did not indicate this email was urgent.
Despite the nature of her work, Pearl did not leash herself to her phone, especially on dates. Okay, once, she took a call in the middle of lunch tapas while on a blind date a couple of months ago because Jane rang in. Resourceful Jane never asked for help, didn’t call just because. Sure enough, that day, Pio had gotten himself stuck on the highest branch on one of the fifty-year-old oak trees at the elementary school. No one could climb a tree as well as Pearl, and she’d spider-monkeyed up that tree to coax him down.
Barring that, though, the first date was sacred. Winston, who’d started with a rating of seven—he was well dressed, had a firm but not overbearing handshake, and pulled her chair out for her—plummeted to a four.
Still, Pearl would power through. Maybe he was on the phone ordering her flowers and they were going to show up any minute. Maybe his sister had gone into labor, and he had to make sure both mom and babe were safe. Maybe a client—he was a litigator on Capitol Hill—had emailed regarding some crisis. She’d give him the benefit of
the doubt.
He’d, after all, taken her to Küche, the best German restaurant in Northern Virginia.
Point, Winston.
But as the seconds passed with him still thumbing through his phone, the moment became rife with boredom.
“My sauerbraten was delicious.” Pearl rambled on purpose. “The marinade had a tang to it, but the meat was perfectly tender. My spätzle was perfect. Did you like it, too? Did it pair well with your Jägerschnitzel? I don’t know about you, but I’m craving a Black Forest cake. With a cappuccino. In Munich. I wonder how much a direct flight from Reagan would cost me.”
Winston mumbled an answer.
Pearl sighed and rolled her eyes. Winston’s rating tumbled another rung to a three. Well, two could play at this game. Pearl took out her phone, which was—by etiquette—on silent and scrolled through her notifications. It could get hairy at times with her professional and personal accounts all mixed up in one tiny phone. She had caught herself more than once a tweet away from responding to a Rings & Roses tag using her personal account.
She swiped up to the family group text that had run amok. Their parents had gotten an international iPhone, and her mother still didn’t press Return for a new paragraph of text. Instead, she sent messages by the sentence. There were at least ten from her, all with the explanation that she and her husband were heading to an island called Mindoro to vacation and would have limited internet access for three weeks.
Next. Mrs. Gonzalez, the bride of a fortieth wedding anniversary event and a close friend of her mother, thereby “family” in title: Is it too late for us to change from buffet to sit down service? I hate buffet! I only agreed because your Tito David insists on his way.
Pearl groaned aloud. Tita Imelda, I will call you tomorrow to discuss this with you.
Onward. Pearl scrolled down to Kayla’s last text, to where she wrote: I miss you! Not fair my bro sees you more than I do.
