by Laura Briggs
As they were finishing up, the bride herself arrived, a tennis outfit showing where she had spent the morning so far. Despite this, she bore not a trace of sweat, her makeup and hair perfectly in place. Much like her bridesmaids, who took a final turn before the mirrors as she watched with evident delight.
“Cabot, you’re a genius,” Erica declared. Pulling the designer in for a hug, she snapped a picture of the two of them with her cell phone. “I’m putting that as my photo caption, by the way: ‘Cabot, genius designer does it again.’ Wouldn’t you agree?”
He looked as if he did, lips curving in a smile beneath the pair of dark shades obscuring his eyes from any real contact. Erica finished posting the picture, glancing up to notice Gwen’s presence for the first time.
“Oh, good,” she said. Her nose scrunched in that smile Gwen had learned always preceded a request. “I need a little favor from you,” Erica said, confirming her instinct. “Just a change to the wedding reception entertainment. Swapping that jazz trio for the classical singer.”
“Oh,” said Gwen, surprised. “There was a problem with the trio?” They had seemed perfect, the best choice from all the auditions, providing something lively and traditional, yet modern, perfect for dancing. Clare had thought so too, she remembered, the girl’s opinion factoring heavily into her decision.
“My fiancé’s the problem,” Erica replied, with an exasperated eye roll. “He just has the pickiest standards for music. And he says that jazz reminds him too much of his school days in band, or something like that. So just make the swap as soon as you can, all right?”
“Consider it done,” said Gwen, reaching for her planner. In a little while, she would step discreetly aside and arrange the transition. Canceling bands was familiar territory to any event planner, and nothing she couldn’t handle with a few minutes on the phone.
She was just about to make the entry, when Erica let out a squeal of excitement. She was looking at her phone again, a faint jingle indicating she had a message. Beaming, she held out the screen to show her bridesmaids and Cabot a picture of something. They crowded round it, making little noises of approval.
“It’s perfect,” said Erica. “I can just tell. But I need to be sure, of course.”
“Absolutely,” the designer urged. “It’s imperative you find out. Any difference at all would be disastrous.”
Despite her curiosity, Gwen had stayed where she was, waiting to be included. Unlike Mitzy, who strained on tip toe to see over the much taller bridesmaids and designer. And failed miserably, giving a little hop of desperation. By then, Erica had already pocketed her phone, breaking free of her friends to take her wedding planner aside.
“This is very important,” she whispered. “I need you to run an errand for me, first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll send a car to your address to pick you up.”
Gwen nodded, wondering at the secrecy. What could it be? Her mind raced for possibilities, coming up with none.
“It’s about the flowers.”
“The flowers?” Gwen forgot to whisper, her client holding up a warning finger in response. “Exactly. Now, here’s what I’ll need you to do...”
As she talked, Gwen made an effort to absorb the various instructions and warnings. All the while, glimpsing Mitzy from the corner of her eye. A figure waiting and watching in perfect stillness, like a hawk preparing to pounce on its prey.
*****
Gwen was surprised they didn’t make her travel incognito.
But then, the trip to the flower nursery was made in a car with tinted windows, her instructions to give them Ms. Hilbourne’s card at the gate. The nursery director, a middle-aged brunette in glasses, greeted her inside the grounds. “Right this way,” she said, waving Gwen through a series of gravel pathways to a locked greenhouse.
They glanced around before opening the padlock, ushering her inside. Here, a series of rose bushes spilled over their pots with lush, glorious blossoms.
“These are beautiful,” Gwen said, admiring the velvet-like petals. They were a rich, velvety shade of plum, almost smoky in appearance. In fact, almost a perfect match for the bridesmaid’s dresses she had viewed the day before. Coincidence? Not likely, she thought, amazed at the likeness the longer she studied them.
It was like no rose she had seen before, and Gwen had seen a lot in her years of event planning. She reached out to touch one, the nursery worker advising her, “Better not. These are a very special hybrid created specifically at Ms. Hilbourne’s request. She holds the patent for them.”
“Of course,” said Gwen, blushing as she tucked her hands behind her back, discreetly. Imagine growing your own one-of-a-kind rose for your wedding ceremony. She tried, but couldn’t.
Solemnly, the nursery director clipped one of the rose stems and placed it in a tissue lined box. “Take this back to Ms. Hilbourne right away,” they said, handing it to her. “We’re quite sure that she’ll be pleased with the finished product.”
Gwen nodded, tucking the box securely under her arm. This was the weirdest errand she had ever been on, and there had been some interesting requests over the years from various clients. Part of her felt like a spy as she ducked outside the greenhouse again, even though it was only a rose she transported, rather than dark government secrets.
Rounding a display of potted gladiolas, she collided with a tall, blond woman. Tall because of the four-inch heels on her boots, Gwen observed. The woman teetered slightly, knocking the box from Gwen’s arms. It popped open, landing at their feet.
“Oh, my,” the woman said, bending to study the flower. “How unique.” Her voice seemed oddly familiar, her face half-hidden by a pair of dark sunglasses. She was reaching for the rose, just as Gwen snatched it up again.
“So sorry,” Gwen apologized, tamping the lid back on the box. “I’m in quite a hurry, you see.”
She scurried towards the gate, where the car still waited for her. A funny feeling of being watched overtook her as she slid into the backseat. Peering out the window, she saw the blond woman stared after her from the nursery grounds.
Her cell rang as the car pulled away, Gwen balancing the box on her lap as she answered it.
“Ms. Lynch?” said the voice of Erica’s personal assistant, Sandra. “There’s been a change regarding the musical entertainment at the wedding reception.”
“Yes, I know,” said Gwen, adjusting her seatbelt. “I already booked the classical singer in place of the jazz trio.”
A slight pause. “That’s the change being made. The classical singer has been dismissed at Ms. Hilbourne’s request. She thinks a fresher sound would benefit the reception.”
“Ah, but—” Gwen could scarcely believe this, protest rising in her voice. “I was under the impression Ms. Hilbourne liked the change. That she felt it set the right mood.”
“Then, I’m afraid you were mistaken,” Sandra breezily replied. “Auditions for a replacement musical act began Friday at three o’clock.”
Gwen resisted the urge to grit her teeth. Stay professional, stay professional she reminded herself. Calmly, she said, “Friday at three o’ clock. I’ll be there.”
“Good, then. By the way, have you been to the nursery yet? Ms. Hilboune is anxious for confirmation on that project.”
“I’m bringing you the proof as we speak,” said Gwen, patting the box in her lap.
At Hilbourne Headquarters, she placed the box in Sandra’s capable hands, then made her way across town for a meeting with a client whose simple engagement party was worlds away from Erica’s extravagant taste. By four, she was dead on her feet, arriving at Creative Coordination to find Therese on the phone.
“You’ve got company in your office,” Therese said, covering the mouthpiece on the phone she held. Her smile gave nothing away, as she turned back to the conversation on the other end of the line.
Now what? Gwen wondered. Pushing open the door to her office, only to find a checkered cloth spread across the carpet. A wicker basket and two wine gl
asses, her fiancé preparing to uncork a bottle of wine, as she stepped inside the room. In the middle of the picnic cloth, the miniature Christmas tree from Gwen's desk presided as a centerpiece.
“Got time for some dinner?” Ryan asked, grinning up at her. “I know you’ve got a lot on your plate right now, but that should include some nourishment, too.”
She laughed at this cheesy joke, the kind Ryan fell back on when he was trying to persuade her of something. Collapsing beside him on the cloth, she said, “That’s a good idea. And very romantically presented, I might add.”
“That’s what I’m going for,” he teased, holding out a glass. “Even if a picnic is the last thing you’d expect at Christmas time.”
“Which makes it even more surprising,” she insisted.
They unpacked pieces of chicken and soft rolls, a potato salad from the nearby deli. There were crackers and cheese, and a tiny peppermint cake with mint green frosting. Taking a sip from her glass, Gwen said, “You know, this kind of reminds me of the night you proposed. That beautiful rooftop picnic under the stars.”
“I thought so too,” said Ryan. “But that doesn’t mean I’m running out of ideas or anything. So don’t worry—you won’t be having surprise picnics for birthdays and anniversaries too.”
She shook her head. “I’m not worried. Not when it comes to you and romance.” Since I’m completely in love with you, she thought, letting her smile tell him what she was thinking. He grinned in response, a faint blush invading his features.
“Good,” he said. “Because I would hate to grow predictable before we’re even married. Not that I’m planning to afterward, either,” he assured her.
“Same here,” she said, softly. She raised her glass in a toast. “Here’s to staying unpredictable—”
“And romantic as possible,” Ryan finished, clinking their glasses together.
*****
“You look beautiful. Just like a princess.”
To her surprise, Gwen didn’t completely disagree with this statement. The sight of her reflection in the beautiful gown from Bridal Boutique’s window display almost took her breath away. Ivory satin, delicate beading, and a perfect fit as though it were made just for her.
“Just beautiful,” the manager, Kirsten, emphasized, studying the effect. “You really should think about it. Don’t you agree?”
Gwen nodded, still staring in the mirror. “It’s…it's ... oh, I can’t explain. I’ve never felt like…”
She was going to cry. Silly, but she couldn’t help it. And, anyway, it was a perfectly natural reaction, judging from the number of would-be brides she had seen moved to tears over the dress of their dreams. This one might be hers, she realized, smoothing the fabric in a gentle motion. Even if it was a ridiculous, extravagant thought.
How long had she dreamed of a moment like this one? In all the years of planning weddings behind-the-scenes for Grace Taylor, admiring gowns and flower arrangements, she had stored away details that she loved the most, hoping to someday enjoy them herself. Now that her moment had finally come, there was almost no time to stop and savor it.
“Excuse me, a moment,” said Kirsten, as the phone by the register rang. A few seconds later, Gwen’s own cell chirped from inside her shoulder bag. Digging it out, she flipped it open to hear Erica’s personal assistant already talking.
“You need to get to the theater. Pronto.”
“Now?” Gwen asked, checking the clock. “But the band auditions—”
“Got moved up,” Sandra interrupted. “You have ten minutes to get there.”
Gwen was already wiggling out of the dress, slipping it back to the fitting room attendant as she reached for her own skirt and blouse. “That may not be possible,” she said. “I’m across town—”
“Don’t ever say that,” Sandra interrupted. “There is no ‘not possible’ in Erica Hilbourne’s book. It’s do or die. So get to that theater, now. Understood?”
“I…yes, I suppose.” Panicking, Gwen stuffed her feet inside their stilettos, rushing from the dressing room as she spoke. Waving to Kirsten, she pushed against the exit door.
“Gwen? That dress—do you want it on reserve? Gwen wait—”
But Gwen was already gone, still talking on the phone as she motioned frantically for a cab.
*****
Indie rock, soft pop, a folk band established in the late 1970s. Gwen wished her clients had been more specific with their guidelines—or slightly less diverse in their music taste.
So far, there had been no gut instinct telling her which of them would make the perfect choice for her client’s wedding. If such a band even existed, she thought, remembering how the first two acts had been canceled on a whim. Maybe the couple simply couldn’t agree on what they wanted, a possibility that left Gwen feeling moody.
It didn’t help that she was still thinking about the wedding dress. Imagining Ryan’s face when he saw her in it, waiting for her at the end of the aisle. He would be handsome and stylish in a tuxedo, his crooked smile falling into place when he lifted her veil. A fantasy so real, she could almost see it in the darkness of the theater auditorium.
The final audition was taking their time setting up, lots of noise coming from backstage. Which gave Gwen plenty of time for considering her personal matters, especially the one she abandoned to get here in time.
Bridal Boutique would be closed by the time she left here, she realized. Maybe she could squeeze in a visit tomorrow on her lunch break. She could call them, of course, but was she absolutely certain about this dress? It was more than she planned to spend, but still…
Make the decision, Gwen, a voice whispered inside. Take a chance on that dress before someone else snatches it away. You'll only have this moment of happiness once, you know.
The gowns of the last few weddings she had planned flashed briefly through her mind. Ones that resembled monstrous prom dresses, overstuffed and covered in sequins. She pictured herself getting swallowed in a similar fabric, vanishing inside a billowy sea of satin. Or making a practical choice, one that could be worn to parties — or, more likely, business engagements as she pushed Creative Coordination's future.
Erica Hilbourne’s gown was probably ten times more gorgeous than the one she loved. But not everyone was on a first name basis with their favorite designer, or had thousands of extra dollars to commission their perfect gown.
Something stirred from above, catching Gwen’s eye. Three figures, a man and two women, descended slowly from the rafters above the stage. Instruments were cradled in their arms: a violin, flute, and guitar. A trio of musicians, suspended above the stage in the air by wires, like actors in a Peter Pan production.
What was going on? Gwen glanced around, but no one else was there to share her surprise.
As she watched, the floating figures struck up a tune, the first notes of Pachelbel’s Cannon in D echoing from the mics wired to their clothing.
It was too weird, she thought. Too offbeat and circus-like. And yet…
Maybe this was just the solution she needed. Something different, yet timeless. Something hip but recognizable. Even their choice of song, a popular substitute for the wedding march, seemed like a sign of sorts.
She was beginning to feel hopeful. Their references showed jobs with the local symphony and appearances at popular night clubs after that. Accomplished musicians, all three had won awards in talent contests. They were known for staging unique performances, involving costumes, special effects, or unusual stunts.
In the middle of the performance, a cell phone rang. Not Gwen’s, as she discovered when she hastily reached for it, but one belonging to one of the musicians above — its ring tone was magnified by the mic rigged to their shirt. To Gwen’s amazement, all three musicians stopped playing, the guitar player answering the phone as he dangled overhead.
“Hello?” he said. “Really? You’re kidding—” He broke off, telling his band mates, “Guys, we got the job—the one in Vegas! We’re totally the o
pening act!” He strained to do a high-five with the violinist, the flute player doing a fist pump from his other side. They swayed back and forth like puppets.
Vegas? Gwen's heart sank.
“Can you get us down from here?” the violinist called. “We have to start packing. Our flight’s in three hours!”
What were the odds? Gwen crossed their name off the list, barely believing the turn of events. It was as if Fate was against her booking entertainment for the wedding. Thwarting her at every turn, a curse hovering over the audition process.
She trudged towards the exit, where another figure stood, watching the commotion below. It was Clare, her eyes wide, as she clutched a book against her chest, her backpack slung low on her shoulder.
“That was pretty strange,” she observed. “But really good news for them, I guess.”
“True,” Gwen answered. “But, not so good for me and your mom. Still, something is bound to work out, right?” She gave the girl a reassuring smile, falling in step beside her as they moved towards the lobby.
Clare adjusted her backpack, her graphic tee depicting the cover from the Beatles’ Abbey Road album. She brushed her bangs aside, a no-frills style compared to her mother’s perfectly curled tresses.
Clare was definitely a casual girl, Gwen noticed. Comfortable shoes, graphic tees, jeans with holes. Not exactly the dream style choices in the eyes of her cosmetics mogul mother. But Clare didn't have the body of a model, and everything about her body language suggested she didn't have the confident, demanding persona of Erica Hilbourne. By choice? Gwen wondered. Or was it by default?
“I liked the first two bands you picked,” said Clare. “It’s just that Mom and Brock have such different taste. They can never agree on satellite stations in the car."
Gwen smiled. “Thank goodness for CD players and iPods, right? My fiancé has a pretty open mind when it comes to music, but there’s a few sounds he won’t tolerate.” Thinking of Ryan’s dislike for all-things Disco, and the face he made whenever she cued up her ABBA mix.
