The Wedding Caper, no. 1

by Laura Briggs

  Gwendolen surveyed the scene from her station near the doorway until one of his friends dragged her into the midst of the party. In between bowling coconuts and agreeing to a few dances with strangers, she kept a watchful eye on the buffet as servers in Hawaiian dress replenished the food.

  With the party in full swing, she slipped outside into the cool evening air. The torches had burned low, the primary glow cast by the moon and the hotel's outdoor lamps. Hugging her arms, she strolled towards the potted twin palms casting shadows over the path.

  "Grace." A moment after Ryan spoke, a shiver passed through her. The sound of his voice saying her first name–even an assumed one–had a powerful effect on her heart.

  He moved closer to her, the scent of coconut oil and pineapple mixed with his familiar aftershave. Even in the dark, she could make out the curves of his face, the shape of his smile. All dangerous things to remember at this moment.

  "I can't thank you enough for this," he said. "Having all of them here. I never expected it."

  "You're welcome," she answered. "I didn't want you to miss a final opportunity to spend a night out with friends. After what Dave told me–I mean, post-wedding life isn't always friendly to separate groups of friends." The last part of that statement sounded lame to her.

  "Anyway,” she continued, “I just wanted to thank you for all you've done these past two weeks. Helping me when I needed someone." She played with the orchid tucked in her hair, trying to seem casual despite the rapid flutter in her chest.

  "You needed someone in your corner," he answered. "I saw how you've been working. The way you're on your feet for hours, following my future mother-in-law all over town." He laughed. "And in those pointy little shoes designed to destroy your feet, too."

  "Well, that's the job," she answered. "It's not so bad, really. In fact," she added, "these last two weeks might be the most rewarding of my career." She was thinking of the subterfuge as Grace Taylor; but her heart was thinking of something else. Something that made her cheeks burn with shame.

  "I can't imagine anybody being unhappy with your work," he said. "You remember everything anyone ever tells you. You remembered a dumb story I told you in a dry cleaners and turned it into all this." He gestured towards the party, where the roar of laughter rose above the music momentarily.

  She shook her head. "It was easy. And I thought it was the least you deserved after helping me save your wedding a time or two."

  His face clouded for a moment. Releasing a long breath, he turned his gaze towards the darkness."Have you ever regretted something you've done?" he asked. "Something you wish you could take back, but you feel you can't. Because if you did..." He stopped. "That's too personal. I'm sorry."

  His words stabbed her. There was no possible way he could know that she was playing pretend as Grace Taylor. But it was as if he read her mind.

  "I do regret some things," she answered, slowly. "If I could take back some of my stupid decisions, believe me I would."

  She met his eyes, feeling her gaze locked with his. He reached over and softly touched the orchid in her hair. "There are some things I wish I could say," he whispered. His fingers tucked the flower gently into place.

  Her eyes closed. She wished this moment could last for hours. It was wrong of her to want it, even if it was the last one she would enjoy with him. His breath brushed against her cheek, stirring the loose strands of her hair. Opening her eyes, she found his own searching her face intently. They were only a kiss apart, her hand already sliding its way up his arm.

  "No," she whispered suddenly. Removing her hand, she pulled a few steps away. "We should go. Back to the party, I mean." She forced her lips into a casual smile.

  "Of course." He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Can't leave my guests waiting, can I?" As she moved towards the pool house, he followed along. Keeping his distance from her, she couldn't help but notice.

  Tears began to blur her eyes as she passed through the lighted doorway. She heard the sound of some of Ryan's friends congratulating him on the upcoming wedding as they took their leave from the party.

  In a way, she couldn't help but envy them for doing so as she forced herself into the midst of the crowd of guests. At least somebody believes it's a happy occasion.

  *****

  Five days to go. That's what Gwendolen reminded herself as she slumped at one of the tables in the reception hall. Before her was a stack of R.S.V.P.s and a massive seating chart that Mrs. Harlett hovered over every few minutes.

  It would have been easier to seat the guests by astrological signs, Gwen decided, rather than use the social clues her client provided. Between the mother's subtle little hints and Julie's non-presence at most of their planning sessions, Gwendolen was left to second-guess most of the final details. Now that the big decisions were over, her clients were losing steam and prone to squabbles.

  Not that it mattered, since the brilliant Grace Taylor was on the job. The confidence Gwen had feigned the first few weeks was finally taking permanent hold, grafted over her formerly meek self. Not to mention the relative ease with which she finally maneuvered the wedding planning scene in less-than-sensible heels.

  “The hyacinth arrangements are for the wedding party and family tables,” Gwendolen explained. “The gladiolas are for the friends and social guests seated at the smaller tables.” Armed with a seating chart, she moved between tables, directing the staff on setting up the reception hall.

  Back in the world of Gwendolen Lynch, Tuesday was typically a half-off day to make up for all the Saturdays she spent working. But in the world of the pretend Grace Taylor, days off were a thing of the past. At two o’ clock, she had a final meeting scheduled to go over the details of the cake delivery, a towering four-layer version featuring candied roses. Then at four, a meeting with the minister.

  She could hear the sound of voices in the foyer. Her clients had apparently returned from a final photo session for the society column. Footsteps clattering on the tile floor drew near as they entered the reception hall. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs. Harlett appear around the corner, guiding another person behind her.

  “We’re so pleased with the grounds, since the landscaping scheme is in red. Plenty of room for the guests to gather with drinks and see the bride and groom off,” Mrs. Harlett was saying. “Plus, we have space for an outdoor orchestra at the opposite end.”

  “And there’s the woman who’s behind all the details–she replaced the agency I first told you about,” Mrs. Harlett continued, spotting Gwen amidst the busy staff. “Mrs. Lowitzer, this is the wedding planner, Ms. Grace Taylor.”

  Mrs. Lowitzer? It took only a split second for Gwen to recall where she’d encountered that name before. On a client file in the agency’s office. She froze, face to face with a heavyset woman in peacock blue who stared at her with dismay.

  “This isn’t Grace Taylor,” Mrs. Lowitzer announced. “I don’t know what you mean by introducing her as your wedding planner.”

  Mrs. Harlett let out a short laugh. “I beg your pardon? Are you accusing me of hiring a fake wedding planner?” She glanced at Gwendolen, who dropped her gaze to the floor, heat engulfing her face and neck.

  Obviously her client thought this was a joke. But Mrs. Lowitzer thought otherwise.

  “Grace Taylor planned my wedding and this definitely is not the same woman,” Mrs. Lowitzer snapped. “As a matter of fact–”

  Another pair of footsteps sounded in the foyer, the persistent click of stiletto heels. A figure in a salmon-colored business suit and mink stole appeared, slightly out of breath from her walk.

  “I’m sorry I’m late, Janine,” she said. “I can’t imagine why you insisted stopping by here before the restaurant, there’s absolutely no parking at this place before six.” Her heavily lipsticked mouth formed a smile for the benefit of Mrs. Harlett. Then her eyes fell on Gwendolen.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” she asked. Staring at her as if a wild animal was running loose in the
reception hall.

  “This is Grace Taylor,” said Mrs. Lowitzer. “I have no idea who your wedding planner really is, but she’s definitely not who you thought.”

  The color drained from Mrs. Harlett’s face. She turned towards Gwendolen, who stood clutching the seating chart with both hands.

  “It’s true,” Gwendolen answered. Her voice wobbling with the admission of guilt.

  “How dare you assume my name and try to steal my clients!” Taylor’s tone was sharp. “You realize what this means, don’t you? You’re fired.” She moved away from Gwen, giving her a look of disdain.

  Mrs. Harlett cleared her throat slightly. “The same here.” She reached over and pulled the seating chart from Gwendolen’s hands. With a final cold glance, she marched from the room.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I should go consult with my client,” Ms. Taylor added, pulling off her wrap. She took no notice as Gwendolen turned to go, hurrying towards the exit. Ryan and Julie were in the foyer, talking earnestly as Gwen brushed past them.

  “Where are you going?” Julie called, irritated. Gwen didn’t answer, practically running as she pushed open the door and escaped from the building.

  The truth was finally out now. It was too late to stop it, but she didn’t have to be here when the news spread to the bride and groom. Especially the groom.

  *****

  Pajamas and chocolate were supposed to be comforting. Probably true if you were recovering from a standard heartache, but Gwen’s was no ordinary case. Her job for the biggest wedding planner in the city was gone; and she knew that Taylor would make it impossible for her to land one at another firm.

  Her pride had vanished, along with the stiletto shoes she kicked into the closet when she arrived home. The blazer lay crumpled on the bed, beside the frumpy skirt-and-sweater combo that defined Gwen the assistant and her sad little life.

  And in three days, Ryan would be gone, too. Married to perfect Julie and celebrating their union somewhere in Madagascar. He would come home to culture, society, and life as part of the upper crust. No need for him to ever give a lowly wedding planner’s assistant a second thought.

  Climbing to her feet, she reached into the cabinet and pulled out a black trash bag. Gathering up the tear-stained tissues and empty potato chip bags, she began stuffing the debris of the past two days into its depths.

  She reached for the blazer and dress piled with the rest of her faux-Grace Taylor fashions. Maybe a charity shop could get some mileage out of them; all she could see in them was the massive credit card bill that awaited at the end of the month.

  Her fingers closed around the slinky shoes, feeling the smooth patent leather beneath them. Her lips pulled into a sad smile at the thought of strolling through the Pointe Hotel suite in them. They represented a whole different world from the sensible flats she had worn as an office assistant.

  Wasn’t that the dream she had wanted? When she was a starry-eyed new employee at Taylor’s firm, she had always assumed that someday a promotion would be hers. Someday she would handle big events for small clients and receive praise for her work. Gwen Lynch is a fantastic planner–absolutely hire her for your wedding!

  She hesitated, turning the shoe over in her hand. She glanced towards the pile of brochures and wedding notes on her living room floor. There was no reason why all those years of experience should go to waste. Not when it was her hard work that pulled together so many weddings in the name of Grace Taylor.

  Crossing the room, she opened her laptop and swiftly clicked a few keys. “Build your own website for a flat fee!” proclaimed one site near the top of the search listings. Clicking on it, she scrolled through the backdrops and templates until she found a wedding bells and pink roses motif.

  Why not try it? Why couldn’t she accomplish the same thing her boss did–taking a one-person agency from the bottom of the pile to the top in a few years time? She already knew half the city’s wedding-themed businesses. Now if she could just convince them to give her a chance on a few special events.

  She picked up the phone and dialed. “Mario’s Bakery?” she said. “Hi, it’s Gwendolen Lynch–formerly of Perfect Vows, remember? I’m working on my own as a special events planner and was wondering if I could add a business card to your roster...”

  *****

  Gwendolen had a meeting at ten o’ clock with a businessman to arrange a company anniversary party. She had an hour to spare in between picking up her business card order and posting an ad in the local paper. Perfect time to do something she had been putting off for the last two days: picking up her things from Perfect Vows.

  She had managed to avoid thinking about the wedding or glancing through the paper’s society section when it arrived on the doorstep. The thought of seeing Ryan’s smile in their engagement photo would be too much to bear.

  Tomorrow it would all be over. He would be long gone and the photos of the country club dining room and balloon departure she had helped plan would disappear from the public eye.

  Taking a deep breath, she climbed the stairs to the Perfect Vows office. Her high heels sank into the soft carpeting in a way her sensible flats never did. Tucking her empty cardboard box under her arm, she pushed open the agency’s door.

  The sound of voices shouting was audible despite the closed doors to Grace Taylor’s private office. Joan was seated at her desk, sorting through piles of receipts with a giant calculator in front of her.

  “I heard about what happened.” Joan offered her a sympathetic glance. “Can’t say I blame you, if it helps.”

  Gwen smiled faintly. “Hi, Joan,” she said. She patted the side of the box. “I’m here for my things.” She motioned towards her desk, which was still piled with work despite days of her being absent.

  “Just be glad you missed the last few days,” said Joan. “It’s been a real nightmare around here, trust me. She’s practically shoved clients out the window for making stupid suggestions. And as for–” she cut off abruptly. “Let’s just say I think she’ll regret firing you when she did.”

  “Forget it,” Gwen answered. “Believe it or not, I’m actually glad it happened. Now I can do something other than run errands and micromanage projects for someone else’s career.” She placed a coffee mug into her box beside a ratty paperback book and a tissue holder.

  “I’m glad,” said Joan. The sound of the voices growing louder interrupted their conversation, as two shadows loomed on the other side of Taylor’s frosted glass pane.

  “I’d get out of here now, if I were you,” Joan whispered. “She had a meeting this morning with Mrs. Harlett–that’s who’s in the office right now.”

  “Thanks,” Gwen whispered back, grabbing her box and making tracks for the door. Not fast enough, however; the knob turned and Mrs. Harlett marched out.

  “You would have thanked me later for firing them!” Ms. Taylor snapped. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed defiantly.

  Mrs. Harlett whirled around. “I never dreamed you would go behind my back and make a decision like that without consulting me first!” she accused. “My daughter had her heart set on that band and now they’re booked for six months.”

  “The whole event was destined to be a disaster,” Taylor replied. “I have instructed my clients time and again to avoid using dumps like the Wester Country Club–”

  “How dare you insult my husband’s club!” Mrs. Harlett’s face was flushed with anger. She turned towards the door again, pausing only for a moment to face Gwendolen.

  “Clearly, I should have left you in charge of this whole event,” she said. “Maybe then my daughter would still be getting married tomorrow.” With that, she exited and slammed the door.

  The color in Taylor’s face darkened to a dangerous shade of red as she clutched the door frame.

  “Get out,” she hissed at Gwendolen, before retreating into her office with an equally-loud door slam.

  “I suppose I’ll be going, then,” said Gwen, glancing at Joan with sympathy. The secre
tary reached out and grabbed her arm.

  “When you have an opening for an employee,” she said, “let me know, will you?”

  *****

  There was no column for the Harlett-Miller wedding in the society pages the following day. That’s how Gwen confirmed that Mrs. Harlett was telling the truth. The wedding was off–and Grace Taylor’s firm had received their first-ever dismissal from a society wedding.

  Gwen had little time to think about her former boss as she arranged a quinceanera for a prominent businessman’s family and a bridal shower for her friend’s sister. Money was small and hours were long, but for once it didn’t matter. As she tallied up the cost of her latest purchases and checked off reservations on her schedule, she smiled with the satisfaction of knowing that, for once, her name would be the one receiving credit.

  Friday night she slipped into a not-too-expensive evening gown she had recently purchased for social events. A good event planner needed something to wear on an evening out–especially if she planned to accept every social invitation received in hopes of drumming up future business.

  Tonight was a charity dinner for cancer patients, arranged by a florist whom Gwen met through her work at Perfect Vows. As she rolled a curling iron through her hair, she tried not to think about the last dinner she attended. Particularly the part she spent with her rescuer for the evening, even in the unromantic atmosphere of the dry cleaners lobby.

  She kept her day planner handy in her bag as she mingled among guests, sampling a shrimp and rice appetizer from one of the circulating waiters. With a deep breath, she summoned the courage of the new Gwendolen Lynch and made her way into a circle of charity volunteers and businesspeople in conversation.

  She felt the hand on her shoulder, a soft touch brushing against the strap of her dress. Turning around, she expected to see a former client from Perfect Vows, shocked to see the mousey little assistant at a dinner party.