Stand-In Groom (8 page)

“Sarah, can you let Samuel or Paul know that I’ll need to talk to them after we have lunch?”

“I’ll do it, Miss Anne.” The hostess’s blond hair bounced as she made her way to the kitchen.

By the time Anne and George placed their meal orders, four different people had come to the table to make sure they were being served. Anne could barely contain her laughter. She hated to think how many it would have been if they’d come in after the five-thirty dinner shift came on duty.

“Now that we have a few minutes,” she said, taking a fresh yeast roll from the basket George offered, “I’d like to go over a few of these forms I’ll need you to fill out.” It was all she could do to be polite and cut the roll open, spread butter slowly onto it, and leave it sitting on the bread plate rather than stuffing the whole thing in her mouth.

8

George anointed the steaming roll with cold butter. His stomach rumbled at the yeasty aroma as he tore off a bite-sized piece and brought it to his mouth. The saltiness of the butter mingled with the sweetness of the bread and melted on his tongue. He had to stop himself from sighing in contentment.

The shuffling of papers across the table drew his attention back to Anne.

“Now that the terms of the contract have been agreed upon, there are a few fact-finding forms I need filled out.” She handed him a packet of several pages stapled together. “This is the registration form.”

He glanced over the first page. Bride’s full name, groom’s full name, maid of honor’s name, best man’s name, number of bridesmaids, number of groomsmen…. Guilt robbed him of his appetite.
Lord, how am I going to keep up this charade?

“Some of the items on this list are going to be very important to
me as I work on the final budget next week. I would appreciate it if you could get the information back to me by Monday morning.”

Another server stopped at the table and asked if they needed refills of their mostly untouched beverages. George didn’t quite understand the smile on Anne’s face when she declined the offer. He found the constant interruptions somewhat annoying.

As they ate their meals, he unobtrusively but carefully watched the wedding planner. Her manners were impeccable—better than those of most of the aristocracy he’d served over the years. She took small bites, laid down her fork between them, kept her left hand in her lap, and maintained a straight posture without looking stiff. She might be able to help him give Courtney a few lessons before the formal parties, just to keep Courtney from being so nervous about her social skills.

The waitress was just clearing their plates when an older man with dark hair approached the table.

Anne stood and received a kiss on each cheek. George stood as well, laying his napkin beside the silverware.

“Sarah mentioned you were here.” The man’s decidedly Irish accent surprised George, though he didn’t show it. “You fell into a bit o’ luck, darlin’, as I didn’t know myself that I would be here today.”

“I have a new event I’m planning, and I hoped to check some dates with you.”

“Aye, I knew you were here for more than just our fine food.” The restaurateur turned his attention expectantly toward George.

“Samuel Maguire, this is my client George Laurence.”

George shook hands with the Irishman. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Pulling a chair over from another table, Maguire joined them. He put a black, leather-bound planner on the table, winked at Anne, and then turned to George. “Our little
cailín
here is the best businesswoman in town. If I’d known her ten years ago, I’d have retired from being a surgeon then and started my restaurant with her as my partner.”

George gave the man the smile he knew was expected but didn’t say anything. As he watched her interact with the restaurant owner, he was impressed by her ability to make the negotiation sound like casual, friendly conversation. From the obvious shorthand between them, they had a long-standing relationship, and George got the feeling the restaurateur would do anything within his power to accommodate whatever she requested.

The date Courtney wanted the restaurant for the rehearsal dinner had been booked for months. Anne showed no outward sign that this bothered her at all.

“If they happen to cancel, call me; but for now, let’s go ahead and reserve it for that Friday night instead, and I’ll discuss the date change with the bride.” Anne made a notation in her file. “When can you meet to discuss a menu?”

Maguire consulted his calendar. “How about…next Tuesday afternoon?”

Anne looked across the table at George. “Mr. Laurence, are you available next Tuesday afternoon?”

George knew he would be, but pulled out his PDA just to put the appointment in his schedule. “What time?”

“Is three o’clock all right?” The Irishman looked from George to Anne and back.

“That should work well in my schedule.” George notated the appointment.

The waitress returned to the table with the check for the meal. Maguire whisked it from her hand before Anne could take it. He stood, leaned over, and kissed her on the cheek. “It’s on me, darlin’.”

“Thank you, Samuel.”

“My pleasure, Anne.” He extended his hand to George. “Mr. Laurence.”

George stood to shake hands. “Mr. Maguire. Thank you for your hospitality.”

The owner escorted them to the front door of the establishment. “We’ll be seein’ you next week, then.”

Outside the restaurant, Anne handed George the second file folder she had with her. “These are all of the forms I’ll need back by next Monday. Can we meet around ten?”

“Ten on Monday morning will be fine.”

“Very well.”

He thought he could sense a stiffness in her body language but couldn’t be sure. One thing about this woman that continued to impress him was that she could mask her feelings as well as or better than he could.

As she walked back toward her office, he couldn’t help but admire her shapely figure. That combined with his growing admiration for her could be dangerous. Very dangerous.

G
eorge stared at the form he’d been trying to fill out for two days, then tossed the pen on the desk and stood to pace the tiny antechamber. How had he gotten into this position? He had signed a contract agreeing to lie about his identity. Every scripture he’d ever read about the evils of lying jumbled in his head.

His gaze fell once again to the paperwork littering the desk. He couldn’t face it any longer. Besides, why was he sitting alone in the house wasting this beautiful Saturday morning by becoming more and more frustrated with his job?

Tucking his keys and cell phone in the pocket of his jeans, George grabbed his sunglasses on his way out the door. He hadn’t attended church last weekend and had a sudden need to find one to attend tomorrow morning. He consulted his city map and set out toward the shopping district, where he’d seen several churches.

After a quarter hour, he passed the large stone arch marking the entrance to the University of Louisiana. He could picture Anne Hawthorne as she must have been years ago as a student here— sitting on a stone bench in the shade, chatting with chums. …

The random thought surprised George. He couldn’t let his fancy get the better of him. He had a professional role to maintain.

How gutted would she be when she learned the truth? He hoped she would be happy for the opportunity rather than upset, but the more he got to know her, the more he worried about her reaction.

“Father, give me strength. I do not want to hurt Anne Hawthorne. Not when I’m coming to care for her—” He let his prayer stop when he spied a large structure on his right. The pictorial stained-glass windows reminded him of St. John’s Cathedral, and the architecture seemed to be based on Middle English design. How long had it been since he’d been home?

The name on the sign near the street was incongruous with the size of the building. Judging from the sprawling wings of the structure, Bonneterre Chapel was larger than any church he’d attended in California or New York.

He pulled up beside a few cars parked near a side entrance, hoping to slip in and take a quick look around. A florist truck pulled up halfway on the sidewalk near the door. George waited until the three men from April’s Flowers entered the church, then followed them.

Inside, he removed his sunglasses and discovered he’d entered a room that reminded him of the lobby of a small but expensive hotel; for all that the exterior of the building recalled a long-past era, the interior was anything but old.

The mossy green carpet of the foyer gave way to rich dark blue in the sanctuary. He drew a deep breath, and the muscles in his shoulders relaxed. The bright sunlight from outside filtered in through the multicolored glass windows and the Bible-story images glowed in rainbow hues.

He started when a female voice broke the reverent silence of the worship center.

“Let’s place the candelabra here…here…here…and here.”

His gaze snapped to the altar at the front of the room. Although distorted by echoing throughout the cavernous space, Anne Hawthorne’s voice was unmistakable.

As before, her blond hair was pulled away from her face into a clip at the back of her head. She had an open notebook cradled in her left arm, a pen or pencil in her right hand, and a roll of masking tape around her wrist.

Unlike their previous encounters, when she’d been dressed in
conservative business suits, she wore khaki shorts and a sleeveless denim shirt. Even though she was slightly larger than what most men would consider to be beautiful, George admired her athletic hourglass figure.

Only the lights over the altar were on; George stayed concealed in the shadows under the overhanging balcony. He slipped into the end of the rear pew nearest him and sat, wanting nothing more than to watch her.

As she directed the three men from the florist shop on the exact placement of the arrangements on the stage and around the chancel, she also instructed two others on the placement of tall candlesticks at the ends of the pews that flanked the central aisle.

“I’ll need you to start lighting those at two fifteen,” she said. The two young men, probably university students, followed her like trained Labradors. “All of the candles should be burning with the hurricane glass in place by the time we start seating guests at two thirty.” Her gentle voice resonated with authority. “I’ll let y’all get started on those. I need to make a few phone calls.”

“No prob, Anne,” one of the men said with a mock salute.

Not wanting to be seen, George was about to stand and slip out of the room, but Anne headed toward him, making flight impossible.

Before he could prepare an explanation for his presence, she moved into a pew in the middle of the room and sat down. With her back turned to him, he could barely hear her, but from what he could make out, she called the bride, the groom, the maid of honor, and the best man to ensure everyone was on schedule. She then called the caterer, the bakery, and someone at the venue where the reception was to be held to check that everything would be ready at the right time.

Her voice was pleasant, and her laugh melodious. He could tell just by the number of calls she made that her workload today was stressful, although she didn’t let stress manifest itself in her interactions with clients and vendors. He was impressed.

She was on the phone with what sounded like the limousine company when George heard her say, “Manuel, I hate to interrupt you, but I have another call coming in. Do you mind holding? Thank you.” She took the phone away from her ear for a moment, pressed a button, and then put it to her ear again. “Happy Endings, Inc., this is Anne Hawthorne.”

A moment’s pause grew into a long silence. Anne’s posture changed from relaxed to so stiff he could almost hear the bones in her spine protest. He wondered who could be on the other end of the connection and what that person was telling Anne to cause such a reaction.

After several long moments, he heard her say, “Yes, Miss Graves, I understand. However—”

He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the pew in front of him. Although her body language bespoke strain, her voice didn’t betray it. He listened, fascinated.

“Yes, I have written it down…two hundred for the ceremony, four hundred for the reception…formal evening wear, black tie required… Yes, of course…. I will look into that for you…. Right now? Your wedding isn’t for nearly a year. I haven’t booked anything yet, but—” Anne paused. “I will let you know as soon as I do. Yes… I will call you first thing Monday morning.”

Her shoulders raised and lowered as she took a few deep breaths. She listened to her client a little longer, then raised her left arm up to catch a beam of light on the face of her watch. “I will be finished here today around midnight. I won’t be able to get back to my office until then, but I have the information you requested. I can e-mail it to you tonight so that you have it first thing in the morning.”

She was willing to do that for a client? Go back to her office at midnight after working all day on someone else’s wedding? He remembered his own complaints to God about his employer sending him here and felt lower than the belly of a duck.

Anne pulled out her well-worn tan leather planner. “Yes, Miss Graves. I can meet you tomorrow after church—”

Would she be willing to give up church for a client? How many Sundays had George had to leave services early or give them up entirely to attend to his employers’ wishes?

“I’m sorry, Miss Graves, but I cannot meet you before twelve thirty…. Yes, that’s fine. I will meet you at Beignets S’il Vous Plait on Spring Street at twelve thirty tomorrow.” Anne closed her phone and remained still and quiet for a long time.

What could be going through her mind right now? George longed to join her and ask her more about her job, about why she was willing to give up so much time for other people, about how she found the strength to keep giving of herself and receiving nothing in return.

She jumped when her phone beeped and quickly looked at the display screen, and a noise escaped from her throat before she put the phone back to her ear. “I’m sorry to keep you on hold for so long, Manuel….”