Diary of a Single Wedding Planner (Tales Behind the Veils Book 1)

by Howe, Violet

  “Well, I was worried you were going to tell me you had cancer. Or Maggie was sick. So I guess all things considered, things could be worse.”

  He groaned a bit, shaking his head. “I guess so.”

  “You wanna watch a movie or something?” I wanted to bring him out of the funk.

  “No, but thanks. I just wanted you. To hear your voice and see your sweet smile. To feel like someone loved me. Other than Mama, you know.”

  “I do love ya, sweetie. Always will. You know that.” My heart clenched a bit at feeling like he needed me after all.

  He kissed the back of my hand again and let it go, standing up to stretch his arms wide. It was a Cabe move I had seen a thousand times. It made me suddenly ache for the way things used to be between us. Then the selfish little bitch inside my head whispered that with Monica gone, it could be that way again. I’m so horrible.

  Wednesday, October 16th

  I slept in intermittent spurts last night. Kept thinking about Cabe and Monica. His situation and our situation. I couldn’t stop my whirring brain from obsessing over everything. If I hadn’t had a cake tasting today, I would have called in sick to sleep. But at least I got to eat cake.

  Our entire wedding industry is focused around the bride. But there are two people getting married, and one of them generally gets lost in the shuffle. Part of this is because men don’t typically care about flowers, dresses, and place cards. As long as the food is good and the bar is serving, most grooms are happy to let the bride figure out the rest of the details.

  I always encourage the bride to ask for her groom’s input, especially in areas like music or menus where he may actually care. I think it’s a good idea to remind her as she goes into marriage that she needs to consider his opinion and what he wants. The groom should have at least a tiny stake in his own wedding. It doesn’t always work, but I do make a point of trying.

  Other than menu tastings, cake tastings are often one of the only planning meetings a groom enjoys. Most men like sampling food for free, especially yummy cakes.

  My groom today, Jerry, was no exception. He particularly liked the chocolate cake with raspberry filling. But his bride, Joanna, wouldn’t even consider it. She wanted a white cake. I suggested perhaps she could do the larger layer in white with the smaller second layer in chocolate for Jerry. Nope. She didn’t want a dark cake. I could tell Jerry was a little peeved, but he said okay and she seemed determined, so I let it drop.

  Jerry pretty much checked out from that point, a little irritated but overall bored. Until Joanna told the pastry chef she wanted Gerber daisies on the cake.

  “No,” he said. “No daisies. I want roses on the cake. Red roses.”

  Joanna turned and looked at him like he had two heads.

  “Red? Nothing in this wedding is red,” she said.

  “I want red roses.” He issued the challenge.

  Joanna crossed her arms and slid one knee over the other, her left foot bopping up and down as it dangled. “First of all, you know I hate roses. There are no roses in this wedding. I am having Gerber daisies in purple, orange, pink, and yellow. No roses and no red!”

  “The last time I checked, this was my wedding, too. And she”—he pointed to me as I shrank from him—“said you need to consider my opinions. My opinion is I want red roses on this damned cake. And I want it to be chocolate.”

  “A wedding cake is not chocolate.” Joanna clenched her teethed and hissed the words. “That’s not what people expect when they see a wedding cake. Nor will they expect to see red roses on the cake when there’s no red anywhere else at all. And no roses!” I sensed perhaps there were other sources of tension that had nothing to do with cake.

  “Well, I didn’t expect to go into debt to marry you!” Jerry shouted. “I didn’t expect to be told to ask my brother to be my best man instead of Chuck, my best friend since third grade. I also didn’t expect half of my family to not be invited so your mother could invite anyone who’s ever been related to her. Or that I would be guilted into wearing a white tuxedo, which I think is ridiculous. So if I have to deal with all that shit I didn’t expect, then I think people will survive seeing red roses on a chocolate cake. If you want me to be standing there waiting for you at the altar, then this cake will be chocolate and have red roses.”

  Joanna’s mouth dropped open and then closed. A couple of times. She looked like she couldn’t decide whether to kill him or cry.

  I tried to think of something to say but struggled.

  “Um. Um. Maybe you could compromise and have red Gerbers. Then it would be the color Jerry wants and the flowers—”

  “No. Red roses and chocolate cake.” Jerry set his jaw as he spoke, glaring at Joanna with such venom that I seriously questioned if we would even make it to the wedding day. Much less how long they might make it afterward.

  Joanna stared back at him for a moment. Then, in an almost imperceptible surrender, she blinked back whatever moisture might have gathered and nodded.

  “Okay. Red roses. Chocolate cake.” Joanna turned to her rather uncomfortable pastry chef, and the cake was ordered.

  I doubt Jerry honestly gave two hoots what color the flowers were on the cake. But something obviously made him feel like he needed to take a stand and be heard.

  We get such a small glimpse into people’s relationships in my job. We see the big day. The plans that go into it. The emotions surrounding it. But we don’t see the behind the scenes. How they treat each other when no one is looking. How their relationship really ticks.

  I wonder what Cabe and Monica were like when it was just them. By themselves in Seattle. What was their behind-the-scenes like? What the hell happened to make her just take off? I mean, obviously she had some things going on with her sexual identity. I certainly didn’t see that coming from the time I spent with her.

  But why would she let him move to Seattle and marry him if she was wrestling with her own demons? It just doesn’t make sense.

  Cabe said in Seattle Monica was never home. When they were here, she couldn’t get enough of him. She seemed completely enamored. Always touching him. Holding his hand, stroking his back, hand on his thigh. She watched him intently and reacted to his every movement. She talked about him as though he were Adonis himself. From the first night they met, she pursued him relentlessly. It was her who made the first move. And the second and the third. I know. I was there. I saw it with my own eyes. So I don’t understand what happened once they moved.

  As much as I would never want to see Monica again, part of me would love to hear her side of the story. Why did she do this to Cabe? What was their underlying issue that brought things to a head? Was it really as simple as her discovering she liked girls?

  When I got home tonight, I sent Cabe a text.

  “How you doing?”

  He responded “fine” and nothing else. Not sure where we go from here. I guess I should sit back and see what he does. What he needs. Practice what I preach, I guess. Respect? Consideration? Putting someone else first? I guess it applies in friendship just like in marriage.

  Thursday, October 17th

  Laura hired a new assistant Monday. It’s hasn't even been a full week, and I already want to fire her. We’ve been short-handed ever since our assistant Carmen went into labor at Olive Garden last month. Her water broke between the salad and entrée. (The manager was kind enough to give her an entire order of breadsticks to take to the hospital with her.)

  Since no one has time to do interviews in crazy-busy October, Laura brought in her sister-in-law’s niece, Charlotte. I understand wanting to help out family—or in this case, family of family—but I don’t think this girl has ever even attended a wedding. All I can say after her first week is I hope she marries well. I don’t see running corporations or navigating upper management in her future.

  I gave her a wedding file yesterday with a letter paper-clipped to the front of it. I stuck a yellow Post-it note on the letter saying, “Mail this to the client. Addr
ess in file.” I thought it was pretty simple. Self-explanatory.

  This afternoon, I needed the file and went to ask her for it. She looked at me like I was stupid and told me with the slightest bit of attitude that she mailed it to the client like I asked.

  Yep. She mailed the entire freakin’ wedding file to the client. Folder and all.

  I explained I had only wanted the letter mailed to the client. That’s why I clipped it to the front with the note on it.

  She shrugged and continued to look at me as though I were daft as she calmly replied, “Your note said ‘Mail this to the client.’ It didn’t say mail the letter.”

  Are you kidding me?!

  Today, Melanie had her fold save-the-date letters and put them in envelopes. Charlotte threw away twelve envelopes and stamps because she addressed them and stamped them upside down. Now, I’m not a total hard-ass. I can understand it happening once or maybe twice. It’s mindless work. Easy to get distracted. But twelve times? Wouldn’t you start paying attention real close after two or three?

  What we do is not brain surgery, but it does help to have a brain and know how to use it. I hope I wasn’t this clueless on my first day.

  No word from Cabe today. I texted “Hey.” He didn’t text back.

  Friday, October 18th

  Lillian’s heart made a covert, undercover appearance today. It doesn’t happen often, but it restores my faith in her every time.

  She popped in my office this morning and asked for my car keys. I immediately dug into my purse for my keys and handed them over to her, even though I had no earthly idea what she was going to do with my car. Funny how when she asks for something, people do it without question.

  After she’d been gone about ten minutes, curiosity got the best of me. I got to my car just as she closed the trunk.

  “What did you put in there?” I asked.

  Lillian looked startled, uncharacteristically nervous, and slightly out of breath.

  “Oh. I need you to take something to Carmen today.”

  One would think she would’ve asked me before putting it in my car, but that’s not Lillian’s style. She pretty much expects we’ll do whatever she needs. Granted, we usually do, even if we have to rearrange the heavens to do so.

  “Sure,” I answered.

  “You mustn’t look in the trunk until you get to her house, and you absolutely must not tell her who it is from. Do you understand?” She asked the question in the form of a statement. I knew my only option was yes.

  She handed me back my keys before getting into her Cadillac and driving away. It took every bit of honor in my heart to keep from immediately whipping the trunk open to look. Okay, so it had nothing to do with honor. I was actually scared she was secretly watching me from some vantage point. Like it was a test.

  I went back inside to keep from being tempted and called Carmen to see if she was available. I started to say I needed to drop off something for Lillian but then remembered I wasn’t allowed. What was it, and why on earth could I not tell Carmen who it came from? Why couldn’t Lillian just drop it off herself?

  The questions ate away at my productivity until I finally packed up my desk and told Laura I was heading out early. I was a bundle of nervous energy the whole way to Carmen’s house. As excited as I was to see her and hold sweet baby Lila, I was also chomping at the bit to know what the back of my car held.

  I brought Carmen out and opened the trunk with breathless anticipation. It was filled to the brim. Enough diapers and wipes to stock a daycare. A plethora of adorable dresses with all the matching accessories. Rattles, pacifiers, and teething rings. A playpen and a bouncy chair. It looked like Lillian bought out several aisles of a Babies “R” Us. Everything you could ever need for a baby crammed into the trunk of my car. I stood there with my mouth open in amazement as Carmen burst into hysterical tears and laughter.

  She handed me Lila and started rummaging through all the stuff like it was Christmas morning and she couldn’t decide what to open first. She turned to me with teary eyes and thanked me profusely.

  “It wasn’t me!” I said. I couldn’t take credit for the bounty, but I couldn’t reveal the source either. Luckily, Carmen has worked for Lillian for quite a while. She immediately guessed.

  “Doña Lillian. She comes across all tough, like she don’t wanna be bothered. But she gotta bigger heart than anyone I ever met.” Carmen smiled through her tears. Then she raised her finger and wagged it at me. “Now don’t you dare tell her I guessed. You let her have her secret.”

  We talked about the office and about her new life as a mommy. I told her about Cabe coming back, of course. I stayed until time for Lila’s bath and then came home.

  I kept thinking about Lillian tonight. What causes someone to hide behind such a strong facade? Is it fear? Is it not wanting to be hurt? Maybe it was what happened with her husband, but Chaz says she’s been a tough old bird as long as he’s known her. Long before the divorce. Maybe Laura’s right and it was her position at the resorts. Always needing to be in charge. Not wanting people to question her authority.

  I don’t know. I know she grew up with modest means in England, but I’ve never heard how to she came to be in the United States or what she was like when she was younger. I can’t picture her as a carefree girl in pigtails or a frisky teenager in a short skirt.

  How sad to work side by side with someone yet not really know them at all. Probably because I avoid her most of the time. She’s been on my mind so much lately. I wish I could see this caring side of her more often. I think starting tomorrow I’m going to make an effort to get to know Lillian better.

  On a more depressing note, I’ve texted Cabe the last two days with no response. None. Nada. I keep trying to remember how I felt when I didn’t want to talk to anyone. He could at least acknowledge me with a text back, though. I hope he’s okay. Maybe I should call. But then again, if he’s not returning my texts, why would he want me to pick up the phone and call? After all, he’s been here two months without any contact. It’s not like he’s dying to talk to me now. I guess I’ll leave him alone and go by what he asks for. If he reaches out, I’m here. Otherwise, it’s like he’s still in Seattle. Except I know he’s not.

  Saturday, October 19th

  We should offer a class on what it means to be a maid of honor. Some of these girls seem to think their sole purpose is to wear the dress and look pretty in the pictures. Tonight’s bride, Amber, left her white sneakers in the dressing room. They had obviously only been worn a couple of times, if that. No dirt, no smudges, no funk at all. I asked Amber’s maid of honor to take them to her at the reception.

  She refused.

  “No!” she shrieked. “I’m not carrying shoes that have been on someone’s feet.”

  The other bridesmaids kept walking to the bus as though they hadn’t heard the exchange. I knew they had.

  I was flabbergasted. Were these not Amber’s closest friends? The ladies chosen to stand beside her on this most important day? And her maid of honor? The one chosen above all the others as her closest?

  I wasn’t willing to drop it. “They’re not someone’s shoes. They’re Amber’s shoes. You’re her maid of honor.”

  “So? That doesn’t mean I have to carry her shoes. That’s disgusting. You do it.”

  “You’re already going to the reception. I’m not,” I told her. “You’ll see Amber and put your stuff wherever she has her stuff. It only makes sense for you to take her shoes.”

  She groaned as she spun back to face me. “Fine. I’ll take the damned shoes if it means that much to you.” She snatched the shoes from my hand and stomped onto the bus.

  Maybe it’s not even a bridesmaid etiquette class that’s needed. Maybe it’s a few guidelines for what it means to be a friend. To help carry a burden, make the load lighter. To have someone’s back.

  If a pair of shoes was too much for her, how on earth would she stand by Amber in the nastier and more painful aspects of life?

&nb
sp; I didn’t hear from Cabe today. I hope he knows I’m here. Willing to help in whatever way I can, although I’m not at all sure what I could possibly do. Too bad it’s not as simple as carrying his sneakers.

  Sunday, October 20th

  Today’s parents of the groom provided another example of the tried-and-true rule I’ve learned while doing weddings. When a man remarries, he chooses one of two things. Either the second wife is as far removed from the first wife as possible in looks and personality, or she is a younger, thinner, spitting image of wife number one.

  In this case, young trophy wife Beth could have passed for a younger sister to the groom’s mom, Ellen. Same frame, same build, same hair color and eye color. They even laughed in a similar way. I had to hand it to Ellen. She was as nice and gracious as can be. Such an attractive lady despite her years. Still, it must be hard as a woman to not only lose your marriage but then to see yourself replaced with what you used to look like.

  I think I’d be resentful as all hell. Pissed for an awfully long time. Like pretty much anytime I saw my younger-me. Of course, I’d be mad the other way as well. My ex, Dwayne, married somebody that looked nothing at all like me and I still felt resentful.

  Being replaced bites either way, I think.

  I checked my phone after the wedding to see if Cabe had called or texted. He hadn’t, but Mr. Hotel Man had left a message. He said he had a guest in the hotel who wanted to order flowers. He thought I might know a good florist. Okay, dude. I know the hotel front desk would easily be able to recommend a florist to a guest. Why’s he calling? If he’s going to ask me out, why doesn’t he just do it already?

  Monday, October 21st

  Lillian’s generosity rubbed off on me this morning. I stopped to buy bagels for everyone. I got Lillian’s favorite chive cream cheese, and I even remembered to buy her Lay’s chips. I crunched them up on the bagel with the cream cheese, just the way she does it, and then I poured her a cup of her special hot tea. I gallantly swept into her office, picturing a huge smile spreading across her face and her inviting me to sit and chat for a while. Instead, she peered over her red glasses like I had approached the queen without a summons.