by Laura Briggs
She felt some of the performers were good—like the jazz trio whose sound was infused with a distinct Gypsy jazz flair, or the classical singer whose skill had earned them first place in a state music competition. Many others were simply decent, and as for a few of them—well, Gwen had heard better efforts at the karaoke machine she arranged for birthday parties.
Her notebook held a list of suggestions and qualifications from the bride and groom. An infuriatingly diverse list, she noticed. It was clear they had no idea what they wanted. Almost every major music genre was represented here, with no sense of theme to guide her.
By the half-way mark, she was aching for a break. A glance over her shoulder found the Exit sign beckoning in bright red. A few rows down from it, her backpack in the seat beside her, was Clare Hilbourne.
How long had she been there? Gwen hadn’t seen her when she arrived, the teen evidently slipping in after the auditions began. There was no one with her, the girl’s attention focused solely on the stage, where an indie rock group performed a Nine Inch Nails’ song.
She had a folder open on her lap, a homework assignment, Gwen imagined. Noticing that she worked on it between performers, the dim lighting just enough for her to read and write by, apparently.
When the lights turned up an hour later, Gwen felt slightly disoriented. She was also a little hungry, the lunch hour having come and gone while a stream of hopeful musicians took the stage. She noticed Mitzy was talking with the last performer, a lounge singer who seemed a little too cheesy for Gwen’s taste.
Collecting her stuff, she turned up the aisle. Waving to Clare, as she said, “A lot to take in, wasn’t it? I feel sort of musically confused after that.”
Clare thought about this for a moment. Finally answering, “It seemed like the jazz trio was the best. You could tell they really studied the art, but didn’t want to copy too much. It had a really different feel.”
Gwen nodded, feeling impressed. “I liked that one too. Although, the classical singer—”
“Was pretty awesome,” Clare agreed. “She must’ve had professional training. If she had an orchestra backing her up, it would sound really epic.”
They fell silent for a minute, Gwen debating her choices. The girl turned back to her folder, the front and back of it printed with the image of a folk rock band popular in the late nineties. There were notes scribbled on the inside, Gwen couldn't help but notice. Ones about the musical acts they had just watched.
“They had some good hits,” Gwen remembered. “The band on your folder. My older cousin had a CD of theirs. One of the few she kept in her car, so I heard it pretty much any time she picked me up from school.”
A tiny smile appeared on Clare's face in response to this. “My dad was their lead guitar player. Back when he first met my mom,” Clare explained. “Now he’s a music producer for a studio overseas.” The smile faded as quickly as it came. Sticking the folder in her backpack, she added, “He has an apartment in Germany, so that’s where he lives most of the year.”
“Will you see him for the holidays?” Gwen asked, thinking he probably wouldn’t be there for Erica’s wedding. No matter how amicable the divorce, few ex-spouses were included on the invite list for these occasions.
Clare shrugged. “I’ll probably stay with him for Christmas. Since Mom and Brock won’t be back from their honeymoon yet.” She stated this matter-of-factly, without a hint of how she might feel about it.
Would the three of them have a Christmas celebration before the couple left? Gwen wondered this, but didn’t ask, knowing it wasn’t the wedding planer’s place to pry into personal matters. Something she had to remind herself of again when she reported the progress on the band search to Erica Monday morning.
“It’s a difficult choice, but I really feel the jazz trio is the best option. Their sound would lend a unique but stylish energy to the dance floor. Clare had the same impression,” she added, thinking her client might appreciate this input from her usually-reserved daughter.
Instead, a frown appeared. “Clare was there? But I told her to meet with Tina from the design department! They need her measurements for a formal gown for the wedding.” The frown turned to a scowl, Erica brooding over this revelation as she slammed shut the lid to her laptop.
“Maybe she just forgot,” said Gwen, flinching inwardly. “She must have a full schedule, between school and the wedding—and I’m sure a burgeoning social life.”
Erica was shaking her head, though. “This is so typical of her; I don’t know why I’m even surprised. Clare has managed to avoid all my attempts to set her up with a fashion expert over the years. She could have a free makeover, anything she wants! Career advice on how to be successful in a thriving industry! Other girls would be begging for this kind of opportunity—and she really does need some guidance in wardrobe matters, as I’m sure you’ve noticed," Erica added, bitterly.
Gwen hadn’t noticed, actually. The teen’s style was casual, but not so different from most girl’s her age. Erica expected something more along the lines of a debutante, perhaps, the sleek and sophisticated look of a finishing school student. Or a mini version of herself, even.
Hesitantly, Gwen suggested, “Clare strikes me as someone who values her privacy, and needs a little encouragement. Perhaps she would feel more comfortable if it were someone she already knew—a relative or friend, say—who dispensed this advice. Someone who understands her tastes and interests, too.”
“That’s probably true,” Erica mumbled. "Heaven knows it won't be me — she never listens to anything I say." Her eyes lit up a second later. “Of course!" she said. "I’ll get you to talk to her."
"Me?"
"She respects you, I can tell." Erica had seized this idea with fervor. “You're a smart career woman with connections to the fashion industry — albeit through me, but still....Yes, absolutely. I want you to spend time with her. And to be there when we pick the dress for her. That would be a perfect opportunity for you to convince her how much it means to me that she be in this wedding, not just watching it from the bride's side of the crowd.”
Not this again, Gwen thought, wanting to groan.
Erica paused in her speech as a knock sounded on the door. It opened tentatively to reveal a girl from her staff. They held a familiar-looking box, which they placed on Erica’s desk. Standing by nervously, they said, “Terri sent this over for your opinion, Ms. Hilbourne.”
Erica opened it, studying the plum-colored powder inside. Smearing a little on her fingers to study up close, storm clouds gathering on her brow again. “Still wrong,” she said, after a moment. “Honestly, how hard can this be? It’s not rocket science, blending colors together, is it?”
Irritated, she threw the box towards the trash. It bounced off the wall instead, spilling powder over the carpet. “Tell her to keep trying,” Erica snapped.
The assistant, nodded and scuttled back into the hall. Where she nearly bumped into Mitzy, the reporter glancing at Gwen, as she said, “Ready to show me those seating charts Ms. Lynch? You promised I would get the scoop on the guest list for the happy day first, remember?”
Her knowing little smile made Gwen wish the door hadn’t been open those last few minutes.
*****
“You’re not eating your pancakes.”
Gwen’s fiancé gave her a perceptive smile from across the table. They were eating breakfast at their favorite diner, stealing a few moments together before the work day began. Except Gwen was already thinking of business, while her stack of fluffy, buttery pancakes began to cool.
“I know,” she said, digging into the plate of breakfast food. “Sorry. There’s just so much on my mind. The wedding—Ms. Hilbourne’s, that is—and then our own big day is still in need of some planning.”
More than she wanted to admit, a fresh wave of guilt emerging with the thought. She hoped Ryan didn’t notice, his expression unreadable as he took a bite from his omelet.
The waitress refilled their coffee mugs,
Gwen sampling hers as she thought of ways to change the subject. Something Ryan took care of for her, as he said, “So I’ve been thinking. About our honeymoon,” he clarified. “I know Hawaii’s a little out of our budget range—”
“As in galaxies away from it,” Gwen teased, with a sympathetic smile. Hawaii was Ryan’s dream vacation, as he once confided to her. But that would have to wait, until one or both of their salaries was a little higher.
“Right,” he said. “And so we need an alternative. I thought maybe we should talk about it before the wedding gets any closer.”
He was right, of course. But Gwen’s mind was drawing a blank, her thoughts already crowded with wedding details. Both hers and Erica’s, that is, along with all the smaller assignments she oversaw at the agency. A Christmas work party, an anniversary celebration. It was enough to make her head spin.
“Well,” she began, “I guess I’m open to suggestions.”
A perfect time for a mouthful of pancake, she decided, cutting a forkful. Chewing it thoughtfully as a way to stall, her mind grappling for inspiration.
“Here’s an idea,” said Ryan. “We pack up the car, fill up the tank, then drive ‘til we run out of gas. And that’s our honeymoon location.”
“You know,” she said, “I can’t tell if your kidding or serious.”
He shrugged. “I’m a little of both. It might be fun, letting Fate choose our destination. Like an adventure almost.”
This was followed by a boyish grin, the one that Gwen had a hard time resisting. She found herself considering the idea, admitting, “It would be pretty impulsive. Maybe in a good way, even. And involves no planning whatsoever, a tiny voice whispered inside.
“Guess what,” said Ryan, taking another sip from his coffee. “My folks called last night. They can definitely be here for the ceremony—in fact, they’ve already booked their flight tickets. So, unless there’s a freak snow storm, we can count on them and my brother’s family to fill at least one of the pews at the chapel.”
“That’s great,” said Gwen. Her own family would be there, along with some friends and work colleagues. Including Grace Taylor’s secretary, Joan, who still hoped Gwen would find a position for her at Creative Coordination, rescuing her from the tyranny of Gwen’s former boss.
“My college roommate—you’ve heard me mention Steve before—he’ll be coming too, along with his wife and kids,” Ryan added. “So hopefully there’s enough room for everyone, at the rate those R.S.V.P.s are getting accepted.”
Unless there’s no chapel to seat them in, Gwen thought, remembering she hadn’t rescheduled their tour yet. With the Hilbourne event demanding her attention 24/7, she didn’t have a guaranteed free moment on her schedule. What if she ended up missing all her appointments? A terrible but not completely inconceivable thought right now.
Realizing he was staring at her, Gwen mustered some enthusiasm for the news. “Good,” she said. “Really good.”
“So why do you look as if it’s not?” He was half-teasing, but his face turned serious when he registered the worry in her eyes.
“Ryan,” she said. Biting her lip, wondering how much to tell him about her current dilemma. Finally, she said, “I’m feeling a little overwhelmed, I guess. All the pressure of planning Erica’s wedding, plus ours—it’s a lot to handle.”
In a quieter tone, she added, “I don’t want to let anyone down.”
Especially you, she thought. The love of my life; the guy who deserves a perfect Christmas wedding if anyone ever did. But she couldn’t say that, her voice already threatening to break as she admitted the truth.
Ryan’s hand reached across the table, tenderly squeezing her fingers. “Hey,” he said, softly. “You’re not going to let anyone down, Gwen. Don’t be so hard on yourself. There’s only so much even the best event planner can expect from herself at times.”
She smiled, enjoying the feel of his hand holding hers. How warm and secure it was, the same as his smile. She could get lost in that smile for a long time, she realized.
“I just want our day to be perfect,” she told him. “And I don’t think it will be if I spend all my time planning someone else’s.” Even now, she was ignoring her cell phone, buzzing on 'vibrate' during this early morning breakfast date — her voicemail box was probably full of messages pertaining to the same details that had kept her up half of last night, from mushroom meringue tartlets to a minor change in the reception table centerpieces.
Not that she had a choice but to focus her energy on this. Make the Hilbourne-Dresden wedding a success or face a bleak professional future was more or less what she'd agreed to, she thought, grimly. If Ryan knew everything that hinged on this job assignment, then he would understand the reason for her mounting stress.
“It’ll be special no matter what,” Ryan promised. “Because it’s us, right? And we’re making all these feelings between us official. Letting everyone know we intend to make this last forever, since I can’t picture anything changing the way I feel right now.”
If there hadn’t been a table between them, she would have kissed him. But she had to settle for tracing his cheek with her hand, smiling as she told him, “That’s pretty romantic stuff. If your vows are half that good, I may not make it through the ceremony without crying.”
He blushed, grinning sheepishly at the words. “Let’s just plan on bringing some Kleenex, then. Because I’m pretty sure it’ll be an emotional event for both of us.”
How did she get so lucky? Gwen contemplated this, remembering how Ryan was engaged to someone else back when they first met. Someone who didn’t appreciate what they had, letting him go at the first sign of relationship differences. Gwen had never dreamed she would be the one to win his heart in the end.
“Now, then,” Ryan said, “let’s talk about something completely unrelated to work—or weddings, for that matter. Like what you’re getting me for Christmas.”
Gwen laughed, rolling her eyes at the subject change. “You really don’t give up on that do you? I think maybe we should talk about my gift, instead. Since it wasn’t under the tree we decorated last week. ”
“Only because Saint Nick hasn’t brought it, yet,” he teased. “But you’re gonna love it, trust me.”
Outside, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders as they moved down the sidewalk. Gwen’s eye wandered toward the window to Bridal Boutique. Her steps slowing automatically at the sight of the dress she’d seen before. It seemed to glow in the morning light, tiny sequins winking at her through the glass. Beckoning her, not just as a professional, but as a bride-to-be. Ignore it, she thought, as she made herself glance away from it.
Ryan didn’t say anything this time, merely grinning at her as he opened the passenger door to his car. A teasing look that Gwen ignored as she slid inside, buckling her seat belt firmly in place.
****
Ryan dropped her off at the fashion studio on Wesley Avenue. Erica’s bridesmaid’s were having their dress fittings this morning, and Gwen was meant to ensure the process went smoothly. The designer was finicky about his work, she knew, and any alterations to the dresses might be met with criticism.
After a long goodbye kiss from Ryan, she climbed from the passenger seat, waving as he pulled back onto the road. Time for business, she thought, squaring her shoulders as she faced the brick building. Only to hear the squeal of brakes, as a taxi cab pulled alongside the curb.
Mitzy climbed from inside, expression wild as her untamed curls. “Forget to call me, Ms. Lynch?” she asked. “How convenient—for you, that is.”
This was true enough that Gwen blushed. Feigning ignorance, she said, “I guess it did slip my mind. There’s quite a lot for me to keep track of, as you can imagine. ” Notably on her list of worries was Erica's pressure for her to talk Clare into being part of the bridal party against the shy girl's wishes.
“I’ll bet.” Mitzy’s lip curled in a sardonic smile. One that bared her teeth, Gwen noticed, like a feral animal.
; It was tempting to match her scornful tone, but Gwen refrained. Keeping her voice polite, she told her, “This is a complicated process, Ms. Rogers. I have to prioritize assignments, based on what’s best for my client. I’m sure you can understand that, as an accomplished professional yourself.”
“Whatever,” Mitzy answered. “Shall we get on with it, then? I have as much right to be here as you.”
Did she? Gwen wasn’t sure this qualified as one of Erica’s “pertinent” details her mind calculating for a way to reason with the journalist. But there was no chance of doing that. Mitzy had already marched inside the lobby, showing her press pass to the girl at the reception desk.
The bridesmaids were already in their dressers, a seamstress checking each one before a wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Cabot, the designer, stood to the side, observing their progress. A tall figure in sunglasses and a beret, skinny jeans paired with a neckerchief, and something that resembled a 1950’s smoking jacket.
Gwen had worked with him before, back when she still ran errands for the imminent Ms. Taylor. If he recognized her as the mousy little assistant from Perfect Vows, though, he gave no sign of it. He was too busy admiring his finished design to notice a mere event planner’s arrival.
Mitzy was another matter. The designer was eager to talk about his work, describing in detail the inspiration behind the bridesmaids’ gowns. A stunning style, Gwen had to admit, taking in the flattering, modern cut of the gowns, and rich shade of plum which almost seemed velvety black in certain lighting conditions.
“I created this from a very unique—and very secret—blend of colors,” he explained, adjusting his neckerchief. “It’s a shade I like to call ‘Medieval Rain’, because it evokes a very romantic, epic feel. Nothing but the best for Erica, you understand.”
“But of course,” said the journalist. "Doesn't she deserve it?" A little smirk flitted over her lips so quickly Gwen couldn’t be sure it was really there. But she detected sarcasm in the journalist’s features whenever he mentioned Erica’s role in the design.
