by Laura Briggs
Her job was safe again. Her agency was pulled back from the brink of disaster. It hardly seemed possible after the day’s nightmarish start. She had already phoned Creative Coordination, putting her assistants at ease about their future employment. Then she had phoned the auditorium, confirming tomorrow’s auditions for the never-ending quest of locating a band for the couple’s wedding reception.
Six musical acts in all. She made a face at the thought, punching the schedule into her planner. That left a call to the caterer’s about menu changes, and a last-minute check with the florist on table centerpieces.
In between these tasks, her mind pondered her client’s mother-daughter dilemma. Poor Erica, and poor Clare. They were both struggling with the same feelings of pressure and insecurity. There must be some way to help them put aside those issues long enough to celebrate their newly-formed family.
And still help orchestrate a six figure wedding ceremony for next week? Who are you kidding? You’re not Wonder Woman, you know. The nagging voice of doubt echoed through her head, as Gwen tucked her supplies back into her bag. And it's not your business to find the answer to their problem, either.
Christmas carolers serenaded the busy shoppers as she ran a few of the smaller errands on her list. Pausing at the window display for Bridal Boutique, she studied the new dresses on display. But none resembled the gown that got away. A sad smile formed at the thought, Gwen recalling how perfect it had looked in the mirror. For once, she’d known exactly how her clients felt whenever they spotted the just-right dress for their joyous occasion.
Apparently, in this case, it wasn’t meant to be. Small consolation for Gwen, as she moved further down the sidewalk. Glancing back over her shoulder wistfully, as if she hoped the dress would somehow reappear. But that called for more holiday magic than Gwen could believe in, her mind turning back to business as she hailed a cab.
*****
The group called themselves The Last Chance Band.
Gwen managed not to laugh at the irony, her stiletto-heeled foot tapping impatiently as crew members did a sound check on stage. After all, this might be her last chance to find a band for the reception, with every other audition for today having canceled, or else failed to meet the requirements.
Now, she was wondering if the whole process really was cursed, as the speakers buzzed and crackled in response to the sound engineers’ efforts in sound check. Checking her watch, she saw it was Ryan’s lunchtime, and wished she could call him. But she knew he sometimes took clients to lunch at the company’s request, and anyway, she had too much to say for just a five minute checkup call.
“Testing one, two—”
A loud popping sound, followed by an equally loud expletive from the crew member checking the mic. Gwen glanced around for a distraction, seeing only rows of empty fold-down seats. At least no journalist lurked in the shadows of the auditorium this time. Mitzy may have gotten her story, but there were dozens more in her field anxious for an inside scoop on the Hilbourne-Dresden wedding saga, especially now that juicy details about Brock's pitiful social life and Erica's new color designs had emerged.
Mitzy's words still made her cringe. Not because they weren’t true—because actually, they were pretty accurate. No, it was her own part in the façade that made Gwen uncomfortable. Somehow, she’d failed her client by doing everything she was asked to, if that made any sense. Even if the ceremony went off without another hitch, Gwen believed she wouldn’t take much pride in it.
Ryan would tell her not to take it to heart so much. He would remind her that she was here to plan a wedding—and doing an excellent job of it. That she wasn’t expected to provide relationship counseling to members of the wedding party. And even though she knew this was true, she couldn’t help picturing Erica’s heartfelt regret over missing those special moments with her daughter, who would be lost in a sea of cosmetics executives and makeup models.
It’s not too late, though. Erica and Clare can still make a connection, if they’re both willing to try.
How she could help make such a thing possible, Gwen had no clue. And since the band was finally ready to began, she made herself focus on the four suit-clad figures positioned before the microphones.
Night club with class was the term she’d heard applied to their sound. It was true enough, their voices and instruments blending together in the smooth style of 1950’s crooners. Nothing groundbreaking, but definitely pleasant to the ear and well-suited for the romantic atmosphere of a wedding reception. Couples could dance to it, standards and modern covers would provide background for conversation at the dinner tables. Something was missing, though....
Gwen shifted forward in her chair, wondering if this could be the answer despite her slight hesitation. The band would probably have some local fans in attendance at the wedding, since they were supposedly being courted by more than one record company at the moment. She cast an eye over their list of achievements, noting a few local awards and top-billing at one of the ritziest night clubs in town. Lifting her pen, she started to place a check beside the first box on her client’s list of music performer qualifications.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!
Gwen jumped as static burst from the speakers again. Louder than before, and not unlike a hoard of angry wasps descending on the auditorium. A high-pitched whining sound followed, almost more overbearing in tone.
She plugged her ears—just in time, it seemed— as the lead singer flew into a sudden fit of rage over the faulty equipment. Kicking over the mic, shouting something indiscernible to the sound engineer. The rest of the musicians sounded angry, too. Another argument was erupting between a band, for the second time since Gwen had started this process.
Gwen decided to take a break, gathering up her clipboard as she made for the aisle. Someone had thoughtfully killed the mics now, the lead singer’s angry tone the only noise besides the crew member’s shouts. The curse lives on, she thought. A band with a temper — that was the last thing she needed.
So she was back at square one in the music department. This came to her with a heavy sense of defeat as she arrived at the event hall for tomorrow’s rehearsal dinner. Crews were already hard at work inside, Gwen spotting several delivery vans among the rows of vehicles. She dodged a cart of decoration supplies on her way inside, accidentally jostling another person as she passed through the hall.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she began, turning to see the other person had continued on. A dark-haired girl in faded jeans and a hoodie with a book bag slung over her shoulder, worn-out sneakers carrying her swiftly towards the lobby.
It took her a second to realize it was Clare, a keychain shaped like a music note swinging from the backpack she wore. Her earbuds were in, explaining why she didn’t seem to hear Gwen’s apology. Her steps moved fast, Gwen trying to match their pace as an idea came into her head.
“Clare!” she called out. “Wait up, Clare!”
Not for the first time, her stiletto heels proved a disadvantage in navigating crowded spaces. She was already too far behind, when a member of Erica’s personal crew nabbed her with a complaint about the napkin rings.
“They only sent eight hundred and forty-five, and twenty of those were the wrong pattern.” She was fuming, on the verge of tears, adding, “There’s a problem with the napkins, as well. Cream was Erica’s choice and I really feel the ones they sent are more of a white—”
“I’ll take care of it,” Gwen assured her, making a mental note of both items, as she skittered towards the lobby. But Clare was already gone, one of Erica's cars pulling out of the parking lot with a passenger in the back seat.
“Rats, rats,” Gwen mumbled, digging around for her phone. Did she have Clare’s cell number? Probably not, she realized. And anyway, this wasn’t something she wanted to talk about on the phone, really. Spotting Erica’s personal assistant, she flagged her down, asking, “Do you know where Clare is going? I need to speak with her, face to face, if possible.”
“Clare?” The
woman looked completely mystified, then remembered, “Oh, yes. Ms. Hilbourne’s daughter. Let me see…I probably have a schedule for her somewhere on here…”
After a minute of paging through her tablet, Sandra said, “Yes, of course. According to this, Clare has a school choral rehearsal this afternoon.”
“I see,” Gwen said. “Thank you.”
Pulling out her phone, she scrolled through her contact database. The number for Brillstone Private School was still there from the time last May she had helped to arrange a twenty year class reunion. About to select it, her attention was demanded by another member of Erica’s staff. “Ms. Lynch, I need to check with you about this message from the caterer for tomorrow’s rehearsal dinner—”
“Of course,” said Gwen. “I just need to place a phone call first.”
The assistant looked peeved at being put off, but moved reluctantly down the hall. Menu issues, napkins—these could wait for a moment, she thought, listening as the school’s phone rang on the other end. “Brillstone School Offices,” a voice chirped in friendly tones.
“Gwendolen Lynch here, from Creative Coordination. Is the music instructor, Mr. Lars, available to speak with? Yes, I’m happy to wait.”
Smiling, she signaled ‘one moment’ to the next staffer who came towards her wielding a clipboard. This deserved her full attention if it was going to work—and Gwen very much intended that it would.
*****
“Package for you, Gwen. I left it on your desk.”
Therese lowered the phone she was dialing to deliver this message as Gwen walked into the office at Creative Coordination. “Oh, and by the way, Ryan called. He said he tried your cell but it was busy, so he’ll call you back in a little while.”
Gwen’s heart skipped at the mention of her fiancé, even though a new flood of problems entered her brain. Probably he wanted to talk about their wedding plans — or, rather lack thereof. It was only a week or so from now and all she had booked so far were the flowers. They had agreed on a simple ceremony, but this was a little too simple, and she knew Ryan would think so too. She only hoped he would understand how things had gotten so out of control these past few weeks. At this point, they were looking at a quick ceremony at city hall, and a reception lunch at Gwen's tiny apartment, where they would somehow have to pack in a few dozen people.
The package Therese had mentioned was a small, padded envelope. Gwen slit it open to find an old school Nintendo game waiting inside. Ryan’s Christmas present.
A grin stretched across her face as she pictured his reaction when he opened it. Computer nerd that he was, this had been his absolute favorite game as a teenager, or so he told her in a conversation about childhood obsessions. The fact his old one had long ago worn out came to her when she started hunting for the perfect gift to tug his heart strings.
When he saw it, that crooked smile she loved would fall into place, as he wondered how she ever remembered such a random detail from his past. But then, she would remind him that as a professional event planner, she had a head made for details. And they would kiss, Ryan’s hand cupping her face in that warm, tender caress that never failed to make her melt.
At least she had done one thing right in their relationship this December. Just not the big, important thing which would unite them the rest of their lives.
Her fantasy crumbling, she fumbled for her phone in her bag when it began ringing. She flipped it open, catching site of the familiar number on the screen as she answered. “Hey you. I was just looking at your Christmas present.”
“I’m on my way over,” Ryan joked. “As soon as you tell me where you are, that is.”
“Nothing doing. I’m keeping this present a secret, thank you very much.” She giggled, sliding the package inside her shoulder bag. It would be safe enough in there until she could wrap it with some of the shiny Christmas paper from her closet at home.
“So why did you call earlier?” she asked, swiveling her chair around to reach the rest of her mail. Company bills, thank you notes from previous clients.
Ryan chuckled. “To ask you to dinner. And then I remembered there was a company meeting tonight about the new software upgrade.”
“Hmmm. Too bad. I really miss you.” She had scarcely seen him these past few days — she was too tired to even dream about it when she tumbled into bed after double-checking her seating charts for the reception.
“I know the feeling.” His voice grew softer with these words. “What about tomorrow night? We can meet at my place for cocoa and a movie. I’ll even watch White Christmas, if you want.”
Ryan had an aversion to musicals, his exceptions being Oklahoma! and The Music Man. Whereas Gwen loved them all and knew the words to most of the famous songs. “I appreciate the sacrifice,” Gwen teased him, “but tomorrow night is the Hilbourne-Dresden rehearsal dinner. It could run as late as ten.” Later even, she knew, given the magnitude of the celebration.
“Ten sounds perfect. Or whenever you can. Just come by, okay?”
His tone was hopeful, making her realize just how little they’d seen each other lately. “I’ll try to be there,” she promised. “Because I’m not sure I can go much longer without another kiss from you.” Or from telling you just how badly I bungled our wedding ceremony, she thought, a pang of guilt marring the sentiment. Let's just hope it's not a symbol of our marriage that we can't coordinate our own nuptials.
“I love you, Gwen.”
“Love you too,” she murmured. Hanging up, she found Therese watching her with a knowing smile. Suppressing a blush, she told her assistant, “I wonder if you could run an errand for me. To pick up a dress from Fontaine’s Fashion.”
“What kind of dress?”
“A pink pastel from Rigby’s junior line. I already phoned in the order, so the clerk should have it for you at the desk.”
"What's it for?" Therese asked.
"For the Hilbourne-Dresden wedding," she answered.
"Someone in the wedding party is wearing retail?" Therese quirked one eyebrow upwards with shock. "Are you sure about that? Didn't you mean across town to pick up a Vera Wang — or maybe a vintage Valentino?"
"I'm sure," said Gwen. "I think our client is willing to bend her rules a little for this one."
After Therese left, Gwen phoned the numbers to sort out the various napkin-related debacles. She checked on the catering issue, making sure the menu was correct down to the last bite. Then she arranged for a sound crew to set up equipment at the event hall’s dining room for the new musical act.
Reaching for the notepad on her desk, she scribbled the words, ‘Send car for musicians@4:30!’
Later on, the dress lay on the passenger seat of her car, along with the box containing the custom-designed bridesmaids' gifts Erica had requested for her pre-ceremony champagne breakfast on the wedding morning. Gwen had one last stop to make, to ask the caterers to bring three additional plates for the last-minute R.S.V.P.'s from overseas.
A few quick words with the chef, and she emerged from the kitchen once again. Passing through the chic restaurant's dining room, she caught sight of a familiar figure dining at one of the best tables. Even from behind, she recognized her former employer's costly mink coat and expensive diamond-sapphire earrings.
She approached. Smiling as Grace and her dining companion, a rude friend who used to drop by Perfect Vows and order the staff around like her own, looked up from their antipasto.
"Hello, Grace," said Gwen. "Enjoying your meal? I've heard this is one of the best restaurants in town — not that I would know personally, of course."
Grace's expression was suspicious. "What are you doing here?" she asked.
"Just conducting a little business for my client," said Gwen. "You remember her. Erica Hilbourne? The skin cream queen?"
On Grace's face, she saw a look of disbelief form, one quickly swept aside for a flustered, irritated expression. "How nice," said the wedding planner, sarcastically. "I'm sure it's going swimmingly."
Clearly, she had believed the newspaper article had spelled the end for Gwen, and learning it hadn't had left the planner speechless.
"Oh, it is," Gwen assured her. "I think she'll be very pleased with her big day. And, frankly, so will I." She leaned closer, lowering her voice a little. "I trust you remember our deal. I think we can safely call this a truce, don't you?"
Two days, and the wedding would take place — at this point, it would take nothing short of a nuclear disaster for the Hilbourne-Dresden party to fire her, and Grace would know it. The terms of their deal to leave Gwen alone and refrain from trashing her to clients couldn't be clearer, even if this was the moment Grace Taylor was regretting ever approaching Gwen and taunting her with that offer.
"Fine." Grace's voice was cold when it snapped to life again. "You want me to say you won, I suppose. So I'll say it. Happy now?" Her eyes narrowed like dagger points, boring through Gwen with contempt. "Now, if you don't mind, I would prefer to finish my dinner without interruption."
Even as she turned away and busied herself with a glass of wine, Gwen could see the telltale red flush of fury on her employer's neckline — one neatly tucked and pinned by the expert plastic surgeons at a Swiss clinic. Losing was never something Grace Taylor dealt with gracefully. In fact, to Gwen's knowledge, she had never dealt with it at all.
Until now, that is.
"Of course," answered Gwen, sweetly. "Have a nice evening." As she walked away, she reflected that the rest of the antipasto would probably be as enjoyable to Grace and her friend as Gwen's ruined staff luncheon the day of their wager.
*****
The rehearsal dinner for the Hilbourne-Dresden wedding was slightly less grand then the ceremony itself. A mere four hundred guests were seated at the round dining tables in the great event hall. A stage had been provided for entertainment, its curtains still drawn as a playlist of romantic favorites streamed softly from the stereo system.
