Planning for Love

by Christi Barth

  “Women are weird,” said Sam.

  Ivy almost choked on a half-sob, half-laugh. “Thanks for the diagnosis. And thank your mother for the cake. I know it’ll be sinfully delicious.”

  “Figured we’d stick with the alcoholic trend of the gifts. Thought you might be in need of a little Dutch courage.”

  Waving a fistful of tissues, Julianna shuffled to the couch. “You don’t know the half of it.” She dabbed at visibly red eyes. Ivy had never seen such a huge chink—well, more of a chasm—in her assistant’s composure.

  “What’s wrong with her?” asked Sam, jerking his chin at Julianna.

  Ben grabbed Ivy’s chin, gave her a good, hard look. “Yeah, what’s going on? It looks more like a funeral in here than a party.” She turned her cheek into his palm, taking comfort from the small touch. It was all Ivy could allow herself. No hugs, no burrowing into his shoulder, or she’d fall apart. After a glance at the clock on the mantel, she picked up the remote. It was almost time for the show to start.

  “You hit the nail on the head. Depending on what happens in the next hour, this may end up as a wake for Aisle Bound.” Daphne carried a tray of champagne flutes into the living room. “So let’s drink a toast now, while we still have a company to toast.”

  The men burst into a chorus of questions. Ivy waved the remote to get their attention. “Two-minute warning. Everyone grab a seat, some food and a drink.”

  “Only if you explain Daphne’s cryptic comment.”

  “The news ran a promo for WWS, and within an hour we had seven clients cancel their contracts.” It physically hurt Ivy to say the words out loud.

  Gib let out a whistle. “You took quite a hit.”

  Julianna raised her hand. “Actually the number could be higher by now. Milo stayed at the office to man the phones, just in case talking to a person instead of voice mail helps dissuade anyone else who calls all worked up.”

  “Good thinking. Let’s remember to save him a piece of cake.” If Ivy concentrated on small mundane details like leftover cake, she might be able to ignore the professional disaster about to happen on television. She started a mental to-do list. Cake for Milo. Pick up dry cleaning before Friday. Remind her father to pick out something spectacular from Tiffany’s to present to Mom at their anniversary party. At least that event wouldn’t fall through, since Ivy was throwing it herself.

  “Shrug off the cancellations.” Ben handed Ivy a glass, and clinked his softly against it. “So a few people had a knee-jerk reaction. A momentary scheduling blip. It’ll blow over. Reality television doesn’t have a shelf life.”

  “Unless it goes viral,” Sam pointed out. “Did your couple do anything really out of the ordinary? YouTube videos get passed around like crazy on the web.”

  Ben threw him a dark look. “Even if it does, you’ll be old news within a week, I guarantee. Somebody will film their Doberman on a bicycle, and you’ll be forgotten.”

  “Great pep talk. Now my competitive spirit’s kicked in. I’m sort of motivated to outlast a trick dog,” joked Ivy.

  A cheesy, Muzak version of the wedding march played as various wedding photos splashed across the screen. The room broke into loud boos when a cardboard cutout of Tracy and Seth cramming cake in each other’s mouths slid into place on the set draped with flowing white curtains. A formal shot of another couple rolled to a stop beside them. The host, in a slinky silver cocktail dress, walked in and perched on a stool.

  “Welcome to Wild Wedding Smackdown, the show that’s a showdown for brides. I’m your host, Tricia Kane. Every week we compare who spends more dollars? Who has more disasters? Who’ll win our prize? This week we focus on Tracy and Seth from Chicago, and Karen and Rico in Los Angeles.” Tricia slipped off the stool and moved to stand between the life-size portraits of each couple. “No matter which bride blows out their budget the most, I’ve already chosen my winner. We’re doing things a little differently this week, turning our spotlight for the very first time on someone besides the bride and groom.”

  Trumpet fanfare replaced the wedding march. A screen lowered from the ceiling, a shot of Ivy in her pink gown, a smile on her face with Tracy’s shoes in one hand and her ever-present leather binder in the other. Julianna gasped. Ben let out a catcall, while Gib and Sam clapped maniacally. Ivy forgot to breathe.

  “I don’t know about your ass, but your boobs look terrific in that dress,” Daphne whispered.

  They really did. Ivy gulped in a breath, and clapped a hand over Daphne’s mouth. “Hush. I don’t want to miss anything.”

  With the flair of a game show hostess, Tricia pointed at Ivy’s picture. “Tonight we’re shining the spotlight on fabulous Chicago wedding planner Ivy Rhodes, who is nothing less than a miracle worker. We’ve shown you bridezillas, we’ve shown you toppled cakes, but we’ve never shown you anyone save a wedding. More than once! Settle in for a very special show, because Ms. Rhodes is about to wow all of you.” A commercial for Sandals began, and Ivy realized her fingernails were digging into Ben’s wrist almost hard enough to break the skin.

  “Did you know about this?” Ivy asked Ben.

  “Do you think I would’ve let you torture yourself if I had?”

  “Good point.” She turned to Daphne, almost unable to speak through the mile-wide smile stretching across her face. “I think there’s a very good chance our company isn’t going to fold tonight.”

  “I think there’s a very good chance our business is going to quadruple after tonight.” They fell, laughing, into each other’s arms. Ivy couldn’t believe the roller coaster of emotions she’d ridden in the last half hour. Tears of relief and happiness welled in her eyes.

  “Hey, I thought we agreed no more crying tonight,” said Daphne.

  “You’re right.” Ivy dashed them away with the back of her hand. Suddenly ravenous, she scooped two deviled eggs, chips and a huge scoop of dip onto a plate. Draining her glass in two long gulps, she held it out to Ben for a refill. Time to kick tonight’s celebration into overdrive. She intended to stuff herself, drink at least two glasses more than would be wise, and then get frisky with Ben.

  Ivy, Daphne and Julianna’s cell phones all began to ring. The house phone also blared. “Nobody answer,” warned Daphne. “Let it go to voice mail. We don’t want to miss a second of this show. Ben, do I need to set the DVR, or can you get me a copy?”

  “I might be able to snag one for you. But remember, I stroke your back, you stroke mine.”

  Daphne tossed him a wink. “I’ll leave the stroking to Ivy.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I have always considered marriage as the most interesting event of one’s life,

  the foundation of happiness or misery.

  —George Washington

  Ben braced himself against a pillar and surreptitiously stretched his left calf behind him, right leg bent deep. Luckily, the Chicago Historical Society was lousy with the ridged, two-story-high pillars, so he took the opportunity every half hour or so to duck behind one and try and relieve his aching muscles.

  Pale purple satin swished against his shoe. “What on earth are you doing?” asked Ivy.

  “Ultimately? Trying to make it through the night without crying like a little girl.” He switched to the other leg.

  “Because…” she prompted.

  “Gib made me run an extra two miles this morning. Claimed I needed to sweat out all the toxins from the ocean of champagne we put back the other night. The man’s a slave driver. I don’t understand why he’s appointed himself my freaking trainer.”

  “Can’t stand to see good muscles go to waste?” Ivy suggested, her tone saccharine sweet.

  He ignored her crack, and grabbed his ankle for a quad stretch. His leg muscles all felt like they’d shrunk by a good two inches. There would be revenge. Ben didn’t know what quite yet, but he’d cook up some form of torture. Milo lived with Gib. Maybe he could be bribed to spill about what drove the Englishman crazy. Skim milk instead of cream in his tea? St
art a rumor that his favorite tailor, a wizened little Polish man called Tassilo, was about to retire? That would probably devastate Gib. Because really, what kind of guy had enough tailors to even pick a favorite?

  “I told him to go to hell. That I had a wedding tonight and couldn’t be expected to stand for ten hours straight if I overdid it. But then he yelled in that starchy, British accent, and my legs just kept pumping.”

  Ivy ran a sympathetic hand down his arm. “Ollie’s got things under control. Once dinner starts, you can find a dark corner and take a load off.”

  “Or you could rustle up some oil from the catering staff and give me a good rubdown. I scouted out an empty conference room on the second floor, just to be prepared.” God, he loved saying outrageous things just to make Ivy’s eyes widen, the streaky green-gold of aspen leaves in September. Quick as a wink, her placid, everything-is-and-shall-always-be-perfect wedding mask slipped back into place.

  “As intriguing as your suggestion may be, I have to remind you I’m a television star now.”

  “No reminder necessary. Not since you reminded me of that particular fact at least four times already today.” Probably his own fault. He’d snuck back into her apartment at dawn to tape a large gold star to her bedroom door. Thought she’d get a kick out of it.

  “When I do cover you in oil and run my hands all over you,” she paused, placing her first finger at the corner of her mouth, “and notice I say when, not if…”

  “Oh, I noticed,” Ben interjected.

  “…I don’t want an audience of three million watching. I want you all to myself.”

  Well. Ben tried to work up some saliva in his suddenly bone-dry mouth. Progress, indeed. Maybe his forced patience and endless blue-balled nights were paying off. At this rate, he’d finally get back into her panties before the Fourth of July. And he’d make damn sure she saw fireworks.

  “How did you escape Ollie, anyway? I thought he was stuck to you like a tick. He’s been worked up all week about this wedding. Doesn’t want you to so much as re-tie the flower girl’s sash without getting it on camera.” Anthony, the groom, happened to be a senator. Just a state senator, so no big deal to Ben. But it was Ollie’s first brush up against a politician, and the kid could barely contain himself, sure he’d hit the big time.

  “Even famous TV stars get bathroom breaks. I ditched him so I could do this.” Ivy stood on tiptoe to brush her lips against his. Feather soft, her kiss made him instantly ramrod hard.

  “Good thing I’ve got a pillar to hide behind.” Ben adjusted his tux pants to ease the tightness around his balls. He loved kissing Ivy. Could do it for hours at a time and not get bored. But a few more of her kisses and he’d be bluer than the hair on the bride’s grandmother.

  A warning hailstorm of high heels tapped across the marble floor. Ben re-shouldered his camera, flicked it on and aimed it at Ivy. As long as nobody stared directly at his crotch, he looked ready for action.

  Julianna poked her head around the column. “I’m so glad I found you. We have an urgent situation. Everybody’s breathing and nobody’s bleeding, but it is serious.”

  “Bride or groom?” asked Ivy.

  “It’s Sarah. Her dress, to be precise.”

  Moving at a fast clip, Ivy and Ben followed her across the black-and-white-checkerboard floor and down a hallway. “What happened? Five minutes ago she was making the rounds at the cocktail hour. Dirty martini with four olives in one hand, and Anthony in the other. Perfectly happy.”

  “One of the groomsmen wanted to recreate the game-winning pass he made in high school that earned him a full-ride scholarship to Notre Dame.”

  “During cocktails? In a room full of two hundred people in formalwear?” Ivy shook her head.

  Sarcasm rolled off Julianna like fog at dawn in San Francisco. “You say that as if there’s a better time for acting out football?”

  “I would’ve saved it for the dance floor,” Ben suggested.

  Julianna narrowed her eyes and scowled at the camera. “And that’s why you won’t be on the invite list when I get married.”

  No sense of humor whatsoever. Even though Ivy thought her indispensible, Ben would be thrilled if Julianna quit tomorrow. Or better yet, tonight. She still treated him with the barest of civility. At least her obvious near-loathing made it easy to yank her chain. “Here I thought it was because the sight of me in a tux brings out your inner horny cheerleader, and you wouldn’t be able to deny yourself before walking down the aisle.”

  The redhead barked out a dry laugh. “You’ve got a rich fantasy life there, Ben.”

  Ben nudged Ivy with his elbow. “Notice how she doesn’t deny it?”

  “What I notice is that I’m still waiting to hear the exploits of the Fighting Irish groomsman.”

  Julianna spun around, and kept walking backward so she could face Ivy. “Long story short, he got meningitis and missed the entire season his senior year.”

  “How about the long version? You know, the one that includes what happened to Sarah’s dress?”

  “Oh. He stepped on the back and ripped the bustle out.” She stopped in front of a door surrounded by the fancy lintels and carvings of the Georgian architecture. After a tug on the bottom of her deep purple jacket, she rapped sharply on the door. Ivy slid in first while Ben waited outside. They’d implemented the safety precaution after he’d walked in on—camera rolling—a delightful old woman, with her dress peeled down to her waist. Agnes had explained, through peals of laughter, that she’d always wanted to try on a push-up bra, but didn’t feel it was proper.

  That is, until her granddaughter the bride shared half a bottle of champagne with her in the limo, and then offered up her own miracle bra. Ben thought the sight of the two women, sixty years apart, topless and laughing hysterically, showed their close bond. It was a wedding day memory neither would ever forget. Nevertheless, it scared the hell out of Ivy. Now she wouldn’t let him past any closed doors until she gave the all clear.

  Julianna opened the door a crack and beckoned him into the makeshift bride’s room. Garment bags, clothes and assorted tote bags littered the floor. So many curling irons, steamers and flat irons sagged from outlets it surprised Ben they hadn’t shorted out the entire building. Tackle boxes full of makeup balanced on folding chairs. In the middle of the chaos stood Sarah, head craned around like a dog chasing its tail. When she opened her mouth, Ben braced for anything from sobs to screams.

  “The bustle’s gone. Stupid Mike. He trots out that pass every time there’s a party. We’ve all seen it a hundred times. Now he’s ruined my dress. I’ve got a four-foot train. How am I supposed to have any fun dragging four feet of satin and lace behind me?”

  “Your dress isn’t ruined. It is still beautiful, and you are breathtaking.” While she spoke, Ivy ran her hands all around Sarah’s train, lifting and gathering. As her arms rose and fell, so did her words, soothing and distracting. “Did you see Anthony’s face as you came down the aisle? We could’ve lit up the Hancock Building with his smile. You and this dress blew him away.”

  The memory stopped the tears welling in Sarah’s big, brown eyes. Ben caught the moment of transformation. He knew that split second where she flipped from the edge of full blown panic into dreamy remembrance would be the shot of the night.

  “I’m so lucky. Anthony’s the best man in the world.”

  “You can tell him to his face in five minutes.” Ivy rummaged through her emergency bag. “Julianna, please let the caterers and the band know we’re pushing everything back by ten. While you’re at it, reassure the groom his bride has not gone AWOL on him.”

  “What are you going to do?” Ben asked.

  Ivy rolled her eyes. “Kind of a stupid question. The girl needs a bustle, so I’m sewing her one. Actually, I could use your help. Hold this.” She stuffed an acre of heavy fabric into his free hand.

  “It weighs a ton.” Ben panned across the length of the train slowly. “What held that up before?”

>   “A complicated system of buttons and loops. None of which can be fixed at this moment, since two of the buttons are missing and the loops tore away.”

  Sarah gasped. “Our signature dance is the samba. We’ve been taking classes for months. I can’t do it if we’re both tripping over my stupid train.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got something better and faster than buttons. A secret weapon.” She threaded her needle and dove into the bunched material.

  Ben knew absolutely nothing about sewing. He did, however, know a little bit about fishing. The most important fact being that he hated it. But he did recognize the assorted bits and pieces of the sport. “That looks like fishing line.”

  “It is. Super duper strong. Stronger than steel, in fact. This particular one is spiderwire fused line. They use it in deep sea fishing.” Ivy sat on the floor and tunneled up through the copious layers of the dress.

  “Very impressive, Captain Rhodes. Are you going to follow this up by using a cutlass on the cake?” Ben razzed her, since talking was the only way to keep his jaw from hitting the floor. The most ruffled, pink-pouf-loving woman he’d ever met knew about the tensile strength of fishing line? She amazed him. His girl could take any random nugget of information and find a way to apply it to weddings.

  Wait. His girl? Where the hell did that come from? Did his very own, mutinous brain cells spit out that thought? Ivy was…a challenge. A colleague. A great way to make the weeks fly by while stuck in Chicago. The most exciting woman he’d ever chased. But only for right now. She might be a lot of things, but the single, overarching thing she wasn’t—was his girl.

  “I watched you on television this week,” Sarah blurted out.

  Right along with the rest of America. The phones at Aisle Bound had rung off the hook for the past two days. All the vendors apologized, calling Ivy a credit to their craft. They even wanted her to speak about her experience on Wild Wedding Smackdown at the next Association meeting. Ben thought she should do it. Take the opportunity to make ’em all feel bad for cold-shouldering her in the first place. Ivy, being far less petty and vindictive than him, was still on the fence.