Savour the Moment: Now the Big Day Has Finally Arrived, It's Time To... (40 page)

“I woke her before I woke you. She’s good with it. She said to tell you don’t be stupid. Our parents loved you.”

“Oh, damn it.”The tears simply flooded her face. “I don’t want to cry. I can’t help it.”

“You’re the only one I’ve ever thought about asking to wear this. The only one I want to wear it. I’ve just driven all the way to Greenwich and back to get it for you. To give it to you because you’re the only one. Marry me, Laurel.”

“I won’t be stupid. Kiss me again first, when I’m not wishing I didn’t love you.”

She felt the sea breeze on her skin, in her hair as their lips met, and the strong, steady beat of his heart against hers. And heard the whistles and cheers.

Turning her head so her cheek rested on his, she saw the group gathered on the deck of the house above. “Parker woke everyone up.

“Well, ours has always been a family affair.” He drew back. “Ready?”

“Yes. I’m absolutely and completely ready.”

The ring he slid on her finger sparkled in the first beams of the sun while the eastern sky blossomed like a rose. A moment, she thought, to savor, then sealed their moment with another kiss.

“This is the right time,” she told him. “This is a good place. Tell me one more time I’m the one.”

“You’re the one.” He cupped her face again. “The only one.”

The one, she thought, on this fresh new day. And the one through all the days after.

Hand in hand, they started back up the steps to share the next moments with family.

T
HE CRAZY BRIDE CALLED AT FIVE-TWENTY-EIGHT A.M.

“I had a dream,” she announced while Parker lay in the dark with her BlackBerry.

“A dream?”

“An amazing dream. So real, so urgent, so full of color and life! I’m sure it means something. I’m going to call my psychic but I wanted to talk it over with you first.”

“Okay.” With the grace of experience, Parker reached over, turned her bedside lamp on low. “What was the dream about, Sabina?” she asked as she picked up the pad and pen beside the lamp.

“Alice in Wonderland.”

“You dreamed about Alice in Wonderland?”

“Specifically the Mad Hatter’s tea party.”

“Disney or Tim Burton?”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Parker shook back her hair, noted down key words. “Go on.”

“Well, there was music and a banquet of food. I was Alice, but I wore my wedding dress, and Chase looked absolutely amazing in a morning coat. The flowers, oh, they were spectacular, and all of them singing and dancing. Everyone was so happy, toasting us, clapping. Angelica was dressed as the Red Queen and playing a flute.”

Parker noted down MOH for Angelica, the maid of honor, then continued to record other members of the wedding party. The best man as the White Rabbit, the mother of the groom as the Cheshire cat; father of the bride, the March Hare.

She wondered what Sabina had eaten, drunk, or smoked before going to bed.

“Isn’t it fascinating, Parker?”

“Absolutely.” As had been the pattern of tea leaves that had determined Sabine’s bridal colors, the tarot reading that had forecast her honeymoon destination, the numerology that had pointed to the only possible date for her wedding.

“I think maybe my subconscious and the fates are telling me I need to have an Alice theme for the wedding. With costumes.”

Parker closed her eyes. While she would have said that the Mad Hatter’s tea party suited Sabina to the ground, the event was less than two weeks away, and the decor, the flowers, the cake and desserts, the menu, the works—already chosen.

“Hmmm,” Parker said to give herself a moment to think. “That’s an interesting idea.”

“The dream—”

“Says to me,” Parker interjected, “the celebrational, magical, fairy-tale atmosphere you’ve already chosen . . . It tells me you were absolutely right.”

“Really?”

“Completely. It tells me you’re excited and happy, and can’t wait for your day. Remember, the Mad Hatter held his tea party every day. It’s telling you your life with Chase will be a daily celebration.”

“Oh! Of course!”

“And, Sabina, when you stand in front of the looking glass in the Bride’s Suite on your wedding day, you’ll be looking at yourself, with Alice’s young, adventurous, happy heart.”

Damn, I’m good, Parker thought as the crazy bride sighed. “You’re right, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. I’m so glad I called you. I knew you’d
know.”

“That’s what we’re here for. It’s going to be a beautiful wedding, Sabina.Your perfect day.”

After she hung up, Parker lay back a moment, but when she closed her eyes, the Mad Hatter’s tea party—Disney version—ran manically in her head.

Resigned, she rose, crossed over to the French doors to the terrace of the room that had once been her parents’. She opened them to the morning air, drew in a deep breath of dawn as the sun took its first peek over the horizon.

The last stars winked out in a world perfectly, wonderfully still—like a breath held.

The upside of crazy brides and those of that ilk was wakefulness just before dawn when it seemed nothing and no one but her stirred, nothing and no one but her had this moment when night passed its torch to day, and the silvery light sheened to pearl that would shimmer—when that breath released—to pale, lustrous gold.

She left the doors open when she walked back into the bedroom. Taking a band from the hammered silver box on her dresser, she pulled her hair back into a tail. She shed her nightshirt for cropped yoga pants and a support tank, chose a pair of running shoes off the shelf in the casual section of her ruthlessly organized closet.

She hooked her BlackBerry to her waistband, plugged in her headphones, then headed out of her room toward her home gym.

She hit the lights, flipped on the news on the flat screen, listening with half an ear as she took a few moments to stretch.

She set the elliptical for her usual three-mile program.

Halfway through the first mile, she smiled.

God, she loved her work. Loved the crazy brides, the sentimental brides, the persnickety brides, even the monster brides.

She loved the details and demands, the hopes and dreams, the constant affirmation of love and commitment she helped to personalize for every couple.

Nobody, she determined, did it better than Vows.

What she, Mac, Emma, and Laurel had taken hands on one late summer evening was now everything they’d imagined—and more.

And now, she thought as her smile widened, they were planning weddings for Mac in December, Emma in April, Laurel in June.

Her friends were the brides now, and she couldn’t wait to dig deeper into those fine details.

Mac and Carter—traditional with artistic twists. Emma and Jack—romance, romance, romance. Laurel and Del (God, her brother was marrying her best friend!)—elegant yet streamlined.

Oh, she had ideas.

She’d hit mile two when Laurel came in.

“Fairy lights. Acres and miles and rivers of tiny white fairy lights, all through the gardens, in the willows, on the arbors, the pergola.”

Laurel blinked, yawned. “Huh?”

“Your wedding. Romantic, elegant, abundance without fuss.”

“Huh.” Laurel, her swing of blond hair clipped up, stepped on the machine next to Parker’s. “I’m just getting used to being engaged.”

“I know what you like. I’ve worked up a basic overview.”

“Of course you have.” But Laurel smiled. “Where are you?” She craned her head, scanned the read-out on Parker’s machine. “Shit! Who called and when?”

“Crazy Bride. Just shy of five-thirty She had a dream.”

“If you tell me she dreamed a new design for the cake, I’m going to—”

“Not to worry. I fixed it.”

“How could I have doubted you?” Laurel eased through her warm-up, then kicked in. “Del’s going to put his house on the market.”

“What? When?”

“Well, after he talks to you about it, but I’m here, you’re here, so I’m talking to you first. We talked about it last night. He’ll be back from Chicago tonight, by the way. So ... he’d move back in here, if that’s okay with you.”

“First, it’s his house as much as mine. Second, you’re staying.” Her eyes stung, shined. “You’re staying,” Parker repeated. “I didn’t want to push, and I know Del’s got a great house, but—Oh God, Laurel, I didn’t want you to move out. Now you won’t.”

“I love him so much I may be the next crazy bride, but I didn’t want to move out either. My wing’s more than big enough, it practically is a house. And he loves this place as much as you, as much as all of us.”

“Del’s coming home,” Parker murmured.

Her family, she thought, everyone she loved and cherished would soon be together. And that, she realized, was what made a home.

B
Y EIGHT-FIFTY-NINE, PARKER WAS DRESSED IN A SHARPLY TAILORED suit the color of ripe eggplants with a hint of frill on her crisp white shirt. She spent precisely fifty-five minutes answering e-mails, texts, and phone calls, refreshing notes in various client files, confirming deliveries, and checking with subcontractors on upcoming events.

At the stroke of ten she walked down from her third-floor office for her first on-site appointment of the day.

She’d already researched the potential client. Bride, Deeanne Hagar, local artist whose dreamy fantasy work had been reproduced in posters and greeting cards. Groom, Wyatt Culpepper, landscape designer. Both came from old money—banking and real estate respectively—and both were the youngest child of twice-divorced parents.

Minimal digging had netted her the data that the newly engaged couple had met at a greenfest, shared a fondness for bluegrass music, and loved to travel.

She had other nuggets mined from websites, Facebook, magazine and newspaper interviews, and friends of friends of friends, and had already decided on the overall approach for the initial tour, which would include mothers of both.

She scanned areas as she did a quick pass-through on the main level, pleased with Emma’s romantic flower displays.

She popped into the family kitchen, where, as expected, Mrs. Grady put the finishing touches on the coffee tray, the iced sun tea Parker had requested, and a platter of fresh fruit highlighted with Laurel’s tissue-thin butter cookies.

“Looks perfect, Mrs. G.”

“It’s ready when you are.”

“Let’s go ahead and set it up in the main parlor. If they want the tour straight off, maybe we’ll move it outside. It’s beautiful out.”

Parker moved in to help, but Mrs. Grady waved her off. “I’ve got it. I just put it together that I know the bride’s first stepmother.”

“Really?”

“Didn’t last long, did she?” Movements brisk, Mrs. Grady transferred the trays to a tea cart. “Never made the second wedding anniversary, if I remember right. Pretty woman, and sweet enough. Dim as a five-watt bulb, but good-hearted.” Mrs. Grady flicked her fingertips over the skirt of her bib apron. “She married again—some Spaniard—and moved to Barcelona.”

“I don’t know why I spend any time on the Internet when I can just plug into you.”

“If you had, I’d’ve told you Mac’s mother had a flirt with the bride’s daddy between wives two and three.”

“Linda? Not a surprise.”

“Well, we can all be grateful it didn’t take. I like the girl’s pictures,” she added as they rolled the cart toward the parlor.

“You’ve seen them?”

Mrs. Grady winked. “You’re not the only one who knows how to use the Internet. There’s the bell. Go on. Snag us another client.”

“That’s the plan.”

Parker’s first thought was the bride looked like the Hollywood version of a fantasy artist, with her waist-length tumble of gilded red hair and almond-shaped green eyes. Her second thought was what a beautiful bride Deeanne would make, and on the heels of it, just how much she wanted a part of that.

“Good morning.Welcome to Vows. I’m Parker.”

“Brown, right?” Wyatt shot out a hand. “I just want to say, I don’t know who designed your landscape, but they’re a genius. And I wish it had been me.”

“Thank you so much. Please, come in.”

“My mother, Patricia Ferrell. Deeanne’s mom, Karen Bliss.”

“It’s lovely to meet all of you.” Parker took stock quickly. Wyatt took charge, but genially—and all three women let him. “Why don’t we have a seat in the parlor for a few minutes and get acquainted.”

But Deeanne was already wandering the spacious foyer, scanning the elegant staircase. “I thought it would be stuffy. I thought it would
feel
stuffy.” She turned back, her pretty summer skirt swaying. “I studied your website. Everything looked perfect, looked beautiful. But I thought, no, too perfect. I’m still not convinced it’s not too perfect, but it’s not stuffy. Not in the least.”