by Laura Briggs
The Wedding Caper
by
Laura Briggs
The Wedding Caper
By Laura Briggs
Copyright 2012 Laura Briggs
Cover Image: “Ceremony of Confusion”. Original art, “Wedding Dresses, bridal gowns, vector” by Beata Kraus. Used with permission. https://www.dreamstime.com/
From the author of The Wedding Caper and Late to the Wedding comes a brand-new series with romance, comedy, and a magical setting ‘across the pond’ in Cornwall, England!
Find the first book in the series HERE
Find more about the sequel HERE
Dear Reader,
I’m really glad you’ve chosen to pick up a copy of The Wedding Caper. I can’t believe it’s been five years since I introduced the plucky heroine Gwendolen Lynch in a book that became my first ever best-seller. The encouragement of its fans would inspire me to create three more stories involving Gwen and her role in the wedding planning world. Maybe you’ll check those out as well, should you enjoy Gwen’s first appearance in this fun, feel-good romance. Happy reading!
—Laura Briggs, author of Boyfriend by the Book
Gwendolen Lynch burst from the florist's shop as if escaping a hostage crisis, her arms wrapped around a paper bundle. Pushing her way through the crowded sidewalk, she swerved and dodged to avoid slower-moving businessmen with briefcases, teenagers on cell phones.
Her one advantage over the crowd was her flat, sensible shoes. Hardly the mark of a polished and professional businesswoman. Shoes like that screamed "office errand girl"–which was the only position achieved by Gwen at the age of twenty-nine.
The bus doors were almost closed when she reached the corner of the sidewalk, waving her hand frantically at the oblivious driver. Swinging up on the step, she shoved herself through the folding doors, brushing aside strands of blond hair that escaped from a dowdy little knot at the back of her neck.
"West side and Sixth," she gasped, stuffing a handful of tokens into the change slot. She stumbled her way towards the back, clutching her bundle as she joined a group of businesswomen clinging to the rail. She checked her watch, then re-checked it, her body fidgeting impatiently.
Passengers shuffled slowly through the open door as the bus jerked to a stop a few streets away. Gwendolen fought her way through them with an energy bordering on panic, racing to the office building a few yards away, its glass door swinging open to admit her. She pushed the button to an elevator that didn't respond, then turned and sprinted to the stairwell.
Up one flight of stairs, then two, then three, until she arrived at a carpeted hallway with a single office door, the words "Perfect Vows" etched in the glass. It was through this door Gwendolen stumbled, clutching the package against her chest.
"Ah, there you are." The woman seated in the floral armchair gave Gwendolen a tolerant smile that promised daggers beneath the surface. "Mrs. Wilkins' flowers, I presume?"
"Yes, Ms. Taylor," she answered, trying to disguise her breathlessness as exuberance. With a broad smile, the young woman turned towards the client seated in a rosy wingback chair, her lap occupied by books of expensive fabric swatches. She unfurled the paper package, revealing a small bouquet of white lilies and lilacs.
"This is what you have in mind?" Mrs. Wilkins asked, her lips tightening as she stared at the arrangement. "I don't think this suits my daughter's personality at all. Too much like a commencement corsage for a bride."
"Oh, but this is all the rage this year," purred Ms. Taylor as she rose from her chair and glided towards the bouquet. "Lilacs are the new orchid. Fresh, pure, exotic– everything a bride is looking for. Lilies become the new roses, of course, with a smooth single petal creating a stunning architectural sequence." Her fingers delicately traced the surface of the lily, lifting the head of the lilac blossom as if it were a rare jewel.
Mrs. Wilkins looked persuaded. Even Gwendolen looked persuaded, although she'd been the one who negotiated with the florist who selected the flowers. But speeches like this were what made Grace Taylor so famous. She wouldn't be the premier wedding planner if she didn't know her clients' minds.
"Well, I'll broach the subject with Audrey," Mrs. Wilkins answered. "I'll call you later tonight with a decision." With one last glance lingering on the bouquet, she gathered her fur stole and handbag and made her way to the office door.
The moment the door closed, Grace Taylor's smile vanished. She turned towards Gwendolen with a snarl.
"Next time I say two o' clock, I mean it," she snapped. "Where were you the past half-hour?"
"I missed the bus," Gwendolen answered. "So I ran to–"
"Enough," Taylor interrupted. Storming to the door through which Mrs. Wilkins departed, she opened it to reveal Joan, her harried-looking secretary seated at the formal entrance desk.
"Where is the progress on the list of caterers for the Burkley-Harris wedding?" she demanded. "I gave it to you yesterday, along with the band's name."
The secretary lowered her pen in mid-stroke on the pages of an elaborate gilded appointment book. "I booked the band yesterday, Ms. Taylor. Gwendolen has already spoken to the caterers and set up sample buffets for the bride–"
"But didn't have time to pick up a simple bouquet request today?" Taylor said, shooting Gwendolen a cold glance.
"You didn't sign off on the design until last night, so I didn't phone it in until this morning," Joan said. "Gwen had an appointment to pick up the bridesmaid fabric swatches and your coffee–"
"Next time, I don't want excuses. I want things to happen when they're supposed to, so I'm not stuck with a bored client for twenty minutes." With that, Ms. Taylor slammed herself into her private office again. Gwendolen and Joan exchanged glances of mutual misery.
"Sorry I was late," Gwendolen answered. Meekly, she tucked the loose strands of hair into her bun. "The florist hadn't finished when I arrived–"
"No need to make excuses to me, hon," Joan answered. Now that Taylor was gone, she popped a piece of gum into her mouth from a wrapper in her pocket. "You'll notice she didn't bother to give you credit for finishing that caterer's list when she was done. Why would she compliment us on a good job done when she knows we must be at fault for something?"
Gwendolen sank down on her desk, slipping off one of her flats and rubbing a sore foot. In the nearby gilded mirror, she caught a glimpse of herself. Skinny figure, pale skin, features without makeup. Dishwater blond hair pinned up with an office pencil; the less-than-perfect complement to a plain buttoned sweater and floral dress.
Sighing, she shuffled through the massive to-do pile on her desk. Phone numbers of florists to call, a menu that needed planned with the Darby-O' Hannon family, a cake design that needed discussion with the Gillis-Perkins party. Scores of non-business errands from the boss, such as picking up a tailored dress and scheduling a manicure. She picked up the phone receiver and began dialing.
This wasn't how she pictured her life a few years ago. By now, she had always imagined herself a confident, relied-on "Perfect Vows" wedding planner dressed to the nines and flashing a confident smile at clients. Taking on a load of smaller weddings for the legendary Grace Taylor, whose mentorship would inspire her in the goal of running her own agency–in the distant future, of course.
True, she was a relied-on employee, but just for coffee runs and hours of haggling with bakeries and jewelry companies. Planning weddings in the background by handling all the business negotiations, nagging details and stressful tasks, while the imposing Grace Taylor strutted in pearls and business clothes before clients who marveled at how she found the time to schedule wedding cake tastings and critique flower bouquets by the dozens.
*****
It all seemed very
impressive, especially since so much maintenance time was required to make Grace Taylor the flawless package she appeared to be. Hours of trying on shoes and suits, hours spent in spas and salons to pamper her nails, skin, and hair. Various procedures scheduled to “tweak" problems like wrinkles and sagging jowls. And, of course, a yearly cosmetic maintenance, which her secretary surreptitiously referred to as "the works", requiring a two-week vacation to complete.
On Monday, Ms. Taylor's physician phoned and held her in deep discussion for fifteen minutes. She appeared in the lobby moments after hanging up the phone, a silk coat draped over her arm and a designer hat in hand.
"Cancel all my appointments for the next two weeks, Joan," she ordered. "Some idiot in Doctor Ryle's office moved my yearly conference up by three months. Three months! And without even consulting me first, he signs off on it, as if I have no reason why I can't drop everything today and fly to his clinic in Maryland." As she spoke, she stuffed her arms through the sleeves of the coat.
Joan flipped through the appointment book with dismay. "What about the clientele?" she asked. "There's the Johnson-Bruger wedding coming up in a week, and the Forham-Slotsberg is less than a month away."
"Call and have them change agencies," Taylor said. "Phone up Wedding Co-op and send them over there with my recommendation."
"What about the ones on the waiting list? Should I phone them, too?" Joan asked.
"Of course. What a stupid question, I'm obviously not meeting with them now," her boss answered, a look of irritation twisting her features. "Wait–there's already a meeting for two o' clock. With Mrs. Harlett and her daughter." She checked her watch. "They'll already be waiting at the Pointe Hotel."
She whirled towards Gwendolen, who snapped to attention. "Run over to the hotel's business suite and cancel the meeting. Tell them they'll have to find another planner somewhere. We'll return the retainer, of course."
"What should I tell them happened?" Gwen asked. Assuming that mentioning the cosmetic procedures was out of the question. It was only rumored that Grace Taylor's appearance was anything less than good genes and a healthy lifestyle.
"Just give them a reasonable excuse," Taylor answered. "An unexpected family emergency, a speaking engagement rescheduled, whatever. Now hurry up and get rid of them." She scribbled the address onto a file portfolio labeled with the client's name and shoved it in her hands.
Grabbing her sweater and oversized purse, Gwen skirted past her boss and out the office. Racing down the stairs, past the out-of-order elevator doors, and into the street.
Pointe Hotel was several blocks away and without an expense account from the business, Gwendolen took off on foot. Making sure to check her appearance quickly in the glass doors of the lobby before making her way inside. A few strands of loose hair, her sweater a trifle dowdy for this place, but she didn't have a choice. With a tiny smile, she approached the desk manager.
"The Harlett's suite, please," she said.
*****
The room was bathed in bold flowers in contrast to the delicate pattern woven into the antique carpets. A woman in a blue mother-of-the-bride pants suit occupied the sofa, with a delicate brunette in jeans and a tank top occupying the chair.
Gwendolen approached timidly, clutching the portfolio. "Mrs. and Miss Harlett, I presume?" She forced a new smile to her lips.
"We're so glad to finally meet you!" Mrs. Harlett rose from the sofa and clasped Gwen's hands. "After all I've heard about your work, I really can't tell you what an honor it is that you've agreed to plan my daughter's special day."
"Well, I'm–" Gwendolen began. But Mrs. Harlett was not the silent type.
"We can't believe how lucky we were to make your client roster. After Timberson's agency cancelled on us overnight! Our original caterer and florist are down the drain, of course, and the wedding is less than three weeks away!" Her hands fluttered as she talked, displaying shiny red nails. "We're not taking your agency's decision for granted, trust me."
Already, she had pulled the young woman in the armchair to her feet, gesturing towards her proudly as if she were an Honors student on display. "This is my daughter Julie," she continued, as Julie took Gwendolen's hand in a frank, friendly grip.
"The bride to be," said Gwendolen.
Julie laughed. "Are you sure about that? My mother is so enthusiastic about this wedding, it seems as if it's the other way around. But it's such an honor to have you, Ms. Taylor." She gripped Gwendolen's hand as if holding onto a celebrity.
"Oh, but I'm–" Gwen spoke again.
Julie leaned closer to her and lowered her voice."Between you and me, we need all the help we can get. My mother tends to take things too far. Way too far. And this day means a lot to me, so I would give anything to make it perfect. Please, Ms. Taylor, promise you'll work your magic."
She gazed pleadingly into Gwendolen's eyes, as if they were sisters sharing a secret. Despite her better judgment, Gwendolen's heart melted slightly.
"Of course you want it to be special," she answered. "But I'm afraid there's been a mistake."
"I saw your work at the Larson wedding," said Mrs. Harlett. "There's no mistake, Ms. Taylor. The two-tiered wedding cake with golden raspberries? The cinnamon and vanilla blossom table arrangements? It was positively inspired." Her voice dropped to an awed whisper.
That cake was inspired. Gwendolen had seen one similar in an out-of-print cookbook and sketched a quick design for the client's portfolio. Not that they knew the truth when they selected it from the agency's recommendations. Or that anyone knew that she was responsible for any part of that wedding.
As for the flowers, they were a last-minute substitute she worked out with a harried florist disgusted with the wedding's coffee theme. So Gwendolen couldn't help the surge of pride that rippled through her heart with those words.
“Thank you,” she answered. “I thought the arrangement was beautiful myself.” There was a slight catch in her voice–what on earth must they think, the supposed Ms. Taylor about to cry?
"Nothing less than the best could have planned that wedding," said Mrs. Harlett. "We're in your hands, Ms. Taylor. We've blocked out this whole afternoon for you and brought every idea we have." She motioned towards a pile of brochures and drawings.
Gwendolen hesitated. She had to tell them the truth, she had to. Didn't she? After all, she wasn't the famous Grace Taylor and their wedding wasn't part of the firm's client list. She was supposed to crush their dreams here, not play along with a fantasy.
But gone was the mousy assistant from "Perfect Vows." Tossing her head, she drew her shoulders into an elegant posture beneath her plain sweater.
"Absolutely," she replied. She tapped her fingers against the portfolio clutched against her chest like a schoolgirl's books. "So, let's talk about the theme, shall we?"
*****
You are crazy. You are crazy, crazy, Gwendolen Lynch. If you even think you can get away with this...These were the words pounding through Gwen's brain as she exited the Pointe Hotel.
Her heart hammered wildly as she clutched the portfolio between sweaty fingers. For the last half-hour, she managed to pull it off. She managed to be the amazing Grace Taylor in the eyes of innocent clients who never dreamed she was an imposter.
Now was the time to send them an email from the safety of the office, telling them it was all a mistake. That they were bumped from the client list, that Grace Taylor would be nonexistent in this city for the next two weeks.
Practically nonexistent. Gwendolen's footsteps slowed as she imagined the possibility. No one would know, would they? After all, the clients had never seen Ms. Taylor–and her presence at most wedding planning sessions was largely ceremonious, to present the clients with ideas dredged up by her staff.
She paused in front of a window display for Made Modern's chain of women's business apparel. Where patent shoes and tailored wool suits fitted themselves to sleek mannequin figures. She closed her eyes for a moment, imagini
ng herself in one of those outfits.
When she opened them again, she smiled. The picture had been perfect. Pushing open the shop door, she made her way towards the grey A-line skirt and silk blouse.
"They fit perfectly," the clerk declared, snapping her tape measure into its reel. Gwendolen turned right and left before the mirror, admiring the subtle shades of fabric against her skin, the way the suit fitted itself to her curves.
"Shall we ring it up for you?" asked the clerk.
She shouldn't. She should put it back on the rack and go home. But the memory of this afternoon in the suite, of the positive glow in Julie's eyes when she flipped through samples of Gwendolen's work–masquerading as Grace Taylor's–on previous weddings.
She slipped the jacket from her shoulders. "Please do.”
By the end of the afternoon, the charges on Gwendolen's credit card exceeded the usual salad and shake for weekday lunch. The chair and sofa in her apartment were draped with blazers and skirts, tailored slacks and fitted blouses. Two pairs of leather pumps with stiletto heels peeked from tissue paper wrapping and cardboard boxes. These were not the kind of clothes that Gwendolen Lynch was accustomed to, with her sensible dresses flat shoes, and plain button-up sweaters.
But they were the kind of clothes the new Gwendolen wore. The Gwendolen turned Grace Taylor, that is.
Ransacking her jewelry box, she unearthed a strand of plain imitation pearls given as a graduation gift. She had seen her boss's wardrobe often enough to know that pearls were the perfect choice for any outfit. The reputation of Grace Taylor demanded at least some kind of jewelry.
She pulled the pins from her hair and let it tumble to her shoulders. Strands of dark blond, soft and shoulder-length; the untidy little knot wouldn't do for her sophisticated makeover.
Practicing with a handful of pins, she wound her hair into a French twist she'd seen in magazines, then into a chignon from a fashion book. The low sweep against her forehead accented her face's angles, transforming her thin features and high cheekbones into the elegant corners of an Audrey Hepburn.
