Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
This is my happy place, my sweet spot. I’m good at coordinating weddings, and even when little things go awry (the furniture company delivered one less table than was listed on the invoice, we don’t have the right light bulbs for the chandeliers, one of the speakers keeps tripping the circuit breaker), I take care of it. I thrive in the chaos, and when Saturday morning rolls around and I stand in front of Amber in her beautiful haute couture dress, she beams at me.
“You’re an angel. I can’t believe you’ve managed to pull this off!”
You and me both, sister.
She doesn’t know about all the little hiccups. The fact that last night I drove two-plus hours trying to find the right warm-hued chandelier bulbs or that when her maid of honor missed her flight, Queenie and I were on the phone with every major airline trying to help her rebook as quickly as possible.
“Queenie handled most everything. The rest just fell into place,” I assure her with a confident smile. “Now let’s go through a few last-minute details so you know what to expect once we get started.”
The wedding night is not without incidents, but Queenie and I are able to smooth things over so well that Amber and Michael are none the wiser. I’ve watched the couple twirl their way through their first dance, I’ve listened to poignant toasts, and Queenie and I have sneaked a few bites of wedding cake in the catering kitchen.
Seeing my mom in action tonight has reassured me that while she might be failing miserably at the day-to-day management of Wildflower Weddings, her passion and love is evident in her work. She’s meant to be with brides on their wedding days. Which is all fine and well until the IRS comes banging on her door or we’re evicted from our office for not paying rent. I’m aware that things could go from bad to worse at any minute, and it’s hard to not dwell on our mounting problems, especially considering I’m the only one who’s worried about trying to fix them. If Queenie and Marge had it their way, we’d bury our heads in the sand and continue on as if everything were hunky-dory.
Annoyed by the situation, I sneak another slice of cake and try to focus on the happy nuptials taking place around me. Toward the end of the night, I’m standing in the shadows, scanning the room for anything amiss. There’s no line at the bar and the music isn’t too loud. The DJ hasn’t tried to get creative and deviate from the approved playlist and Amber is still on the right side of tipsy, singing loudly with her friends near the stage while Michael and his groomsmen dance close by.
Queenie comes over and bumps my shoulder. “There’s someone outside waiting for you.”
I frown. “Who?” I’m already taking a step toward the door. “Is the cleaning crew here already?”
Queenie’s smile turns sly and secretive. “No, hun. It’s someone better.”
Realization dawns with a zing of excitement. Still, I can’t get carried away. “Don’t you need me in here?”
“It’s all good. I can handle things for a bit.”
She’s right; our job is pretty much done. We’re thirty minutes out from Amber and Michael hopping onto a party bus with their close friends to continue the festivities at their home. Thank goodness that’s not within our jurisdiction. I’ve confirmed the bus is already parked out front with a full gas tank. Once the bride and groom wind through the grapevines and leave Starlight Vineyards, we’re officially off the hook.
I suppress a giddy smile as I tug my earpiece off and slip it into the small fanny pack I’ve kept around my waist all evening. It’s my emergency kit for Amber and the bridal party, and it’s filled with all the essentials: bandages, bobby pins, a miniature deodorant, a sewing kit, powder, and lip gloss. On my way out, I unclip the fanny pack and set it on a small cocktail table near the side entrance of the vineyard’s tasting room.
I’m expecting Sawyer and yet I’m still struck by the sight of him waiting for me. He’s in the dark shadows on the side of the building, tucked away from where the party bus is parked, waiting for our bride and groom. He clearly didn’t linger at the vineyard after work. He’s freshly showered, his hair still damp and wavy. He’s wearing dark jeans and a black t-shirt. His face looks tan, his cheeks a little pink. I imagine him working a long day outside then hauling his butt back here now just to see me.
He stands with his hands in his pockets, a tentative smile in place as he watches me approach. He’s been so thoughtful this week, ensuring I’m well fed, expressing proper concern about any dietary restrictions (“There wasn’t deli meat on that salad I brought you on Tuesday, was there?”), and helping me take care of myself. Every meal, treat, and piece of pregnancy gear has been shared with Queenie and Marge, of course. They’re in hog heaven.