Planning for Love

by Christi Barth

  He switched his focus to the open mouthed bride. Surprisingly, next to her Ivy still looked the picture of calm. Only her clenched fists gave any indication of alarm at the turn of events. Ben checked his watch and didn’t bother to stifle the belly laugh surging out of him. He poked her in the arm.

  “Gotta hand it to you. He’s right on time.”

  Chapter Three

  Marriage is popular because it combines the maximum of temptation with the maximum of opportunity.

  —George Bernard Shaw

  Ben thought about muting the sound, but then remembered it wasn’t his job to be sensitive. From day one, the directive had been crystal clear—keep rolling no matter what, especially if things get ugly. The weirder and more embarrassing, the better. His producers weren’t fans of simple, beautiful events. They craved tears, hair pulling, name calling and objects hurled across the room. Not the most caring mission statement to follow, but it paid the bills.

  So he stood by and recorded Tracy’s shrill squeals for posterity. The nearby zoo animals were probably going crazy from the noise. And it was a sure bet the guests, even all the way on the opposite side of the pond, could hear, too.

  “My wedding is ruined. Ruined! How are we supposed to get married without rings? I knew Alan would screw this up. He’s Seth’s most useless friend.” The serene bride had vanished, replaced by a foot-stomping, hand-shaking virago. “It took the idiot an extra year to finish college because he slept through four of his final exams, two semesters in a row. He’s failed the CPA exam twice, so he does the books for his father’s company. At the bachelor party in Vegas, he got everyone thrown out of the casino. But this—this is too much to believe, even for Alan.”

  Her face an implacable mask, Ben watched Ivy’s eyes slowly track the waterlogged man wade out of the pond, his sodden parachute dragging behind him. He gave a weak wave at the guests, indicating the landing left him in one piece. When Tracy finally paused for a breath, Ivy leapt into the breach.

  “Don’t say another word,” she ordered. It amused him the way she channeled the firmness of a school teacher. “Alan didn’t ruin your wedding. There’s no question that he made himself look like an idiot. But as long as you and Seth promise to love each other forever, this wedding is perfect.”

  Tracy sucked in a breath, then another. Ben could see the physical effort she put into smoothing out the crease between her eyebrows. The white knuckle grip on her bouquet eased up a little. But then her eyes narrowed. “I don’t see the ring pillow. Bad enough I’m going to have to follow his trail of water and pond scum down the aisle. Where is the ring pillow?”

  Ivy swung her gaze over to Alan, using both his hands to shrug out of the harness. Yards of yellow and red fabric puddled around his feet, but there was no sign of a puffy satin square sporting a set of rings. “In the pond, I imagine,” she said, matter-of-factly.

  Ben bit back a guffaw at the last second, turning it into a cough. She cracked him up. One minute acting like love solved all the problems of the universe, and the next blithely laying out the cold, hard reality of the situation. How could someone simultaneously be so practical and yet so mushy? Like a candy bar, her gooey center wore a hard outer shell of crunchy sensibility.

  All the color leeched from Tracy’s face. Ben braced himself, one foot ahead of the other. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to leap to catch a fainting bride. He had two cracked camera lenses and a faint scar on his left knee to prove it. In the mother of all mood swings, Tracy’s shock wore off in a second, replaced by anger. Heat raced up from her chest, turning everything above her lacy neckline the same bright crimson as her flowers.

  “Do you know how much those rings cost? More than shitheaded Alan makes in a year. Seth’s band is titanium, and mine is platinum with twenty-seven channel-set diamonds. All fucking flawless. How are we supposed to get married without rings?”

  Yup, he could see why the producers chose her for Wild Wedding Smackdown. When the price tag became more important than the priceless memories, then a couple was considered good fodder for the show. Their viewers favored lowbrow, impolite and downright uncouth antics. Nothing like playing to the lowest common denominator.

  Ivy dug into the bag she’d propped against the far side of their sheltering tree. A moment later she produced a white pillow, complete with rings. Spring sunlight glinted off the band of diamonds? No, they couldn’t be real. No way did she carry around a spare set of actual rings. But if they were Seth and Tracy’s, why weren’t they at the bottom of the pond? Ivy hitched up her skirt with one hand, and presented the pillow to Tracy with the other.

  “Breathe and count to ten.” Using her elbow, she bumped up Tracy’s bouquet so the flowers surrounded the bride’s nose. Not missing a step, she hurried forward to stop Alan from coming any closer. Too bad. Ben would’ve paid good money to watch Alan try to blunder his way through an apology. The bride looked like a scratcher.

  Ivy handed over the pillow and with a shove in the small of his back, sent Alan on his way toward the Great Hall. As predicted, each squishy step left a wet mark on the cement and a few globs of mud and greenish muck, souvenirs from the bottom of the pond. A few more of those flashy arm signals at her assistant, and the piper switched to the wedding march.

  “Time to start your new life with Seth.” With a beaming smile, she pulled Tracy out from behind the tree. After a quick assessment, she then moved her over a few steps to the right so the spotlessly white dress wouldn’t drag through Alan’s slime trail. She gave a final floofing of the long train as Tracy began the walk down the path.

  Once she was out of earshot, Ben couldn’t hold in his question another second. He swung the camera to face Ivy. “What was that bait and switch you pulled on her? Are those rings a couple of great fakes you dug out of a Cracker Jack box?”

  “Of course not. Those are the real rings, and the real ring pillow, for that matter. Didn’t you notice the red and yellow tartan ribbon tied around the bands?”

  “Then what did Alan risk his life carrying down thousands of feet through the ozone layer?”

  Ivy’s lips upturned in a slow, sly smile. “A cheap imitation.”

  Ben almost bobbled the camera. “Did the bride and groom know?”

  She shook her head from side to side. “They only needed to know that when it was time, the rings would be there. Why worry them with logistics? Wedding rings are an integral part of a sacred ritual.” Her stern, all-business expression settled like a mask onto her face. “I don’t trust them to a four-year-old, no matter how cute his first tuxedo is. I don’t trust them to a dog wearing an adorable bow tie. There wasn’t a chance in the world I’d risk them on a skydive. Last night at the rehearsal I gave Alan the stunt pillow.”

  “You may talk a good game about romance and true love, but behind it all you’ve got a ruthless core of practicality.”

  And then she sniffed. By the third sniff, Ben figured it out.

  “You’re crying, aren’t you?”

  A quivering finger pointed at Tracy, entering the building. “Every bride, every time. I can’t help it. The shiny promise of a lifetime of love always tears me up.”

  Ben lowered the camera to the ground and shook the pins and needles out of his arm. He used his other to dig in his back pocket for a handkerchief. “Here. Blot away.”

  “You’re quite the well-prepared gentleman. Thank you.” Ivy dabbed below each eye. They must teach that to girls the same time they learn how to put on makeup. How to whisk away tears smudge free, in three easy steps. “I don’t know how anyone can stay dry eyed at a wedding.”

  “Easy. Know the divorce stats.”

  “What a horrible thing to say.” She froze in the act of refolding his handkerchief, her eyes round circles of wounded naiveté. “You can’t really be that cynical.”

  “Wanna bet?” Ben picked up the camera and took off for the Great Hall. No reason to stick around and listen to her attempt to defend the mythical sanctity of marriage.
Too many women had already tried to flog that dead horse in front of him. Didn’t work. He was immune.

  Not to say he didn’t like women. All it took was a single, sassy glance—kind of like the one Ivy leveled at him a few hours ago—and he’d be in pursuit. Chasing women was fun. Flirting even more fun, and a sweaty round between the sheets ranked right up there with an island vacation home. Great while you were there, but just a financial and emotional drain once out of sight.

  “The divorce rate is actually in decline in the United States. Some studies put it as low as 41 percent. And 81 percent of college graduates stay married. It’s all how you mix and sift the numbers.” Ivy popped up at his elbow-spewing statistics like a twisted version of a jack-in-the-box. He’d heard it all before. Seen the same sleight of hand employed by guys running street games on hapless tourists in Battery Park.

  “You know how to avoid losing at a shell game? Don’t play.”

  “Marriage isn’t a con. It’s a miracle.”

  “Right up there with walking on water, huh? Too bad we didn’t see any of that today.”

  “In a world filled with billions of people, it is a miracle,” Ivy repeated stubbornly, “when two people find their soul mate. Once paired up, they take a leap and pledge themselves to each other for the rest of their lives.”

  Ben lowered his voice as they entered the building, stopping at the steps where they met. “You’re right. It’s a miracle anyone is that gullible. Or stupid. Take your pick.”

  Cocking her head, she tapped a single, slim finger against her chin. Gave him a thoughtful look, which he assumed could only mean trouble. “Oh, I see. You’re messing with me. Trying to get my goat, as it were. All so you can run a promo with a thirty-second hook to reel viewers into the next episode. Something like watch the crazy wedding planner lose her cool.”

  He refrained from pointing out that the camera currently hung from his hand at knee height. Lens cap on, power off. If her misconception meant her saccharine tirade might wind down, he’d keep his mouth shut. Why stir the pot? Although she did look even prettier with the glint of battle in her hazel eyes and a pink flush in her cheeks. The kiss he’d grabbed earlier put the taste of her on his mouth. Not long enough to qualify as an appetizer, the peck had been barely an amuse bouche. Now he wanted to go back for a full, seven-course meal of her lips and the tight little package that went with them.

  Ivy barreled on. “Well, it won’t work. The key to being a successful wedding consultant is to remain calm, no matter what problems an irate mother or drunken groomsmen may toss at you. Not to toot my own horn, but I’m quite successful. My serene disposition is a thing of wonder.”

  Oh yeah, she gave him lots to wonder about. How long her hair would be once he pulled the pins out of its tight twist on the back of her head. If her underwear—and her nipples—were the same pale pink as her dress and shoes. How many licks it would take to turn her serenity into breathless pants of pleasure.

  Then Ben remembered there were over one hundred people on the other side of the door, and he had a job to do. “We should catch the end of the ceremony, your serene highness.”

  Ivy surprised him with a giggle. “Wait and see. You may mock me now, but by the end of the night, it’ll ring true when you call me the Queen of Calm. The Princess of Peace.”

  “The Dispassionate Duchess?”

  “Don’t use that one.” She tossed him a saucy wink over her shoulder as she ran up the stairs to watch from the balcony. “I’m plenty passionate.”

  Ben hefted his camera back up, using her well-shaped calves to check the focus. This could turn out to be the best last-day-on-the-job ever.

  * * *

  Ivy toed off one shoe, then the other. The cool stone of the portico soothed her aching feet. Eight hours of countless trips up and down the stairs, tromping around part of the zoo for pictures and basically running herself ragged to always stay one step ahead of the bride and groom took its toll, even in flats.

  The four-tiered cake (red velvet and lemon, once more mirroring the wedding colors) was cut. She’d convinced a few of the burlier groomsmen to help her move the presents to the parents’ cars. A white stretch limo idled, ready to whisk the happy couple to a swanky hotel with a view of Lake Michigan. Although why a couple embarking on their honeymoon needed a view escaped her. If it was her wedding night, she sure wouldn’t spend it gazing out the window.

  The persistent bass throb from the dance floor below pulsed in time to the low throb at the base of her skull. A few more songs and she could call it a night. Sighing, Ivy rested her elbows on the wide, rough-hewn stone window ledge.

  “Care for a drink?” asked a low, male voice.

  The stock answer popped out before she slipped back into her shoes and turned around. “Thank you for the offer, but I don’t drink on the job.”

  “Scared you’ll get wasted and flash all the overweight spinsters doing the Electric Slide?”

  That spun her around fast. “Bennett Westcott. Why am I not surprised? You don’t have even a modicum of respect for this wedding, do you?”

  “Sure I do.” He brought out a bottle from behind his back and slowly waggled it back and forth. “They served Veuve Clicquot champagne. I very much respect the good taste of whoever paid for a dozen cases of the stuff.”

  Ivy kicked her shoes off again, relieved she didn’t have to put her game face back on quite yet. “Tracy’s father bought the bubbly to celebrate his daughter’s happiness. If you don’t share his sentiment, you’d better have a darn good excuse for drinking it.”

  “Au contraire, thou sweet champion of love. You’ve got me all wrong.” Ben sidled closer, leaning his hip next to hers on the wall. The sweating bottle he sat on the ledge, using it for leverage while he pulled out the cork. It slid free of the neck with a muted pop, followed by a quiet hiss of bubbles pushing for freedom. He hefted the bottle in the air as if lifting a glass for a toast.

  “I, Ben Westcott, do solemnly vow that I believe today is the happiest day of Tracy’s life.” He took a quick swig, straight from the bottle.

  “Aha!” She knew he’d see the light. No one could resist the magic of a wedding. Love became tangible, frothing the air as effervescent as the bubbles he’d just swallowed.

  “So far,” he slowly intoned. “To be specific, she’s happy today. No guarantees about tomorrow, or a month from now, or even a year.”

  No camera in sight, and yet still he baited her? Didn’t he get that she was quite simply classier, not to mention far more tactful, than the wedding coordinators usually profiled on WWS? He could keep trying to push her buttons, but she refused to give him any more fodder for the show. There’d be no getting a rise out of her tonight.

  “How about we meet in the middle, and agree the bride and groom had a wonderful day?”

  “I can stipulate to that condition.” Ben took another drink, then set the bottle down right next to her hand. “Thanks to you. It’s really impressive, the knack you have for being in three places at once. Ollie and I could barely frame you in a shot before you’d dart off again. Never broke a sweat, and your smile never wavered. I know, because I watched for it.”

  “You smile stalked me?” Ivy didn’t know how to feel about that. She tugged at the idea from all sides, like trying on a new dress in front of the mirror. A few reactions popped right up; a little intrigued, a little embarrassed—and a lot flirty.

  “Catalogued you,” Ben corrected. With one blunt-tipped finger, he traced slowly from her ear to her chin, electrifying every pore he passed over.

  “The beaming, full-of-pride smile you shared with all the parents. The joyful smile you used with Tracy and Seth. The indulgent yet chastising smile you bestowed on the groomsmen when you took tequila shots away from a couple of teenagers. Oh, and the worn out but satisfied smile you gave Julianna when you told her to go home.”

  Now his finger moved along her lower lip. Ivy couldn’t resist when he pushed the corners up into a smile. It took all
her energy not to let her mouth fall open and her tongue roll out.

  “Why did you send Julianna home? Wedding’s not over. You’re still here, the DJ’s still rocking out the crowd. You’ve got to be just as worn out as her.”

  So true. No matter how many hundreds of weddings Ivy did, the exhaustion never lessened. Hardened planners simply learned how to ignore it and work through it. And sleep in the next day. No client darkened their doors the day after an event before eleven. “There isn’t much left to do. At this point in a wedding, I’m just killing time until the bride and groom leave. Present in body, in case there’s a crisis, but in all honesty, not doing anything. No reason for two of us to stand around doing nothing.”

  Ben lifted his finger to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. The resulting goose bumps had absolutely nothing to do with the lake breeze rustling the nearby branches. “Which is exactly why most planners shove the end of the night close out onto their assistants.”

  “Aisle Bound is my company. I won’t make my employees do a task solely because I don’t want to.” Hmm. Sounded very holier than thou. Nobody likes to hang out with a martyr. “We do trade off who gets stuck with it. Might I point out I don’t see Ollie dogging your footsteps. You cut him loose too, didn’t you?”

  “About two songs ago. Kid’s never been to Chicago before. He wanted to hit a few bars, and one of the groomsmen steered him toward Rush Street.”

  “Nice of you to give him a chance to live it up a little. He’ll have a blast. And probably a killer hangover tomorrow morning. Will you be joining him later?”