Beach Wedding (2 page)

Theo whistles and takes her card from my hand. “Big-shot. This
could be the break you’ve been waiting for.”

“Or a total disaster,” I laugh, snatching it back. “I
don’t even want to be on TV.”

“Not you, the
brand
.” Theo explains. “Do you
realize the kind of free publicity you’d get doing something
like this? Franc-Giorgio designed the gown for the last
Bachelorette
.
There’s now a six-month waiting list just to get a
consultation. He’s like a millionaire!”

I pause, considering.

“Plus, you’d make Kara green with envy,” Theo adds.

Now that I think about. Kara deKline is my big rival on the wedding
planner scene. She’s been trying to poach my clients for years,
rips off all my wedding ideas, and generally tries to put me out of
business. If this Marcie could help put my business on the map, maybe
I shouldn’t dismiss her so quickly.

“Fine,” I agree. “One meeting.”

“There’s my girl,” Theo cheers. “How bad
could it be?”

I love coming back to my apartment after a wedding day. It’s
the opposite of the hustle and bustle of the city: my sanctuary from
all the demands of the rest of my life. My place may be tiny, but
it’s all mine, with mint-colored walls, and a mismatch of
thrift furniture and cute patterned fabrics. I’m on the fourth
floor, and when I open the windows, a rush of cool air breezes in,
along with the sounds of taxis beeping and sirens wailing. City life.
The gust of wind ruffles the sheer curtains and flits through the
rest of my place. It rustles flowers and paperwork that’s been
stacked on the dining table, reminding me that I need to clean up.
Later.

I check my calendar and breathe a sigh of relief when I see that I
left the rest of my weekend open. Next week is packed, but for now,
there’s nothing left for me to do but slip into some
sweatpants, grab a pair of bunny slippers from my closet, and snuggle
my feet into their warm rabbity embrace. It’s a relief after a
long day in high heels. I order some Chinese food from the place
around the corner, grab my wedding brainstorm file, and flip through
Netflix until I find what I’m looking for: all three seasons of
Park Avenue Princess
, lined up and waiting to roll.

Theo and Marcie clearly thought I was crazy for never having seen an
episode, but the truth is, most of my workdays are spent dealing with
high-strung socialites and fashion types. When it comes to guilty
pleasure TV, I prefer juicy cop shows or weepy hospital soaps. But if
I’m sitting down to pitch the wedding of the TV season, I need
to do my homework.

The credits roll on episode one: the sparkling skyscrapers of New
York City. A group of gorgeous young women are out shopping, talking
about a party from last night.

“I can’t believe he showed up with Tallulah,” one
of the women says. “You guys have barely broken up!”

“I’m fine,” another insists. “It’s
like midi skirts for fall: so over!”

A nametag flashes on-screen: Pixie Dalton-Ross. I perk up. That’s
the client Marcie mentioned, a wide-eyed blonde with her hair poofed
up like a beauty queen. She’s got a plaid dog carry-case tucked
under her arm, with a tiny bulldog poking his head out. I start to
take notes as the show continues, brainstorming ideas and themes.

By the time the food arrives, I’m already swept up in the world
of glamorous parties, friendship, and betrayal. I hit pause on the
second episode before finding my phone to text Theo.

'park avenue princesses = amazing! How did I not know??’

I wait only a few seconds before his reply:

‘YEP. TOLD YOU. HAVE YOU GOTTEN TO THE MAKE YOUR OWN
ARTISAN BUBBLE BATH EP, YET? IT’S INTENSE.’

‘
not yet. No spoilers!!’

I kick my feet up on the couch, grab my carton of noodles, and hit
play.

I stay up until three in the morning absorbing everything PAP, then
roll out of bed at ten to start on the next season. In the beginning,
the show focused on the whole group, but it’s clear that Pixie
is definitely the standout. She has a naïve sweetness that
shines through every scene, whether she’s donating a closet
full of designer shoes to the homeless, or organizing a doggie
fashion show. Her father made some fortune in real estate, and now
Pixie spends her days swanning around the Upper East Side, attending
parties, and hosting brunch.

I call Theo. “We have to do this wedding.”

“Yes! Have you seen Pixie’s spin-off yet, where she
meets Mr. Right? It’s called
The Princess and The Rock Star
.
It’s crazy. It’s excellent, but it’s crazy.”

I check Netflix and see a wide-eyed, smiling Pixie holding hands with
a guy in a leather jacket who must be at least three decades older
than she. “Downloading now. Who is that guy?”

“Clyde Kincaid. He’s the lead singer in that band, The
Revolution.”

I frown. “They’re ancient. My
aunts
liked them
when they were teenagers.”

“Yeah, he’s like fifty-something, but he’s a
British rock star with a Mick Jagger accent. Can’t really argue
with that.”

I hear my toaster announcing a freshly warmed bagel. “Gotta
run, Theo. Cream cheese and reality TV wait for no one.”

“I believe in you.”

Armed with coffee and a bagel, I settle in to observe the happy
couple whose wedding dreams I might just be able to make come true.
Call me a hopeless romantic, but after just one episode I get why
Marcie is chomping at the bit for a mega-wedding.
The Princess and
The Rock Star
follows Pixie and Clyde’s relationship from a
meeting backstage at one of his shows—Pixie tripped over a
cable and swooned right into his arms—all the way to Clyde’s
proposal, riding in on an actual white horse. They’re cute
together, and clearly crazy in love, even if the whole thing is
scripted for the cameras. I watch another episode where Pixie moves
into Kastle Kincaid, Clyde’s mansion in upstate New York. She
wants to re-decorate, but Clyde loves his hard rock themes. Pixie, in
the end, wins, and Clyde trades in skulls for pink upholstery and
velvet loveseats. It’s a very over-the-top show, but there’s
a real sweetness to it. If some of the moments feel forced, I’m
guessing it’s by Ms. Wedding Lurker herself, Marcie Miller. I
have to hand it to her, though: it’s good television. I find
myself rooting for the couple, even as they fight while Pixie insists
that Clyde become a vegan. (In the end, they both wind up eating BBQ
leftovers from the fridge at 3am.)

I finally surface from my TV stupor in the afternoon. It’s time
to start getting ideas together, so I go to the place that always
brings me the best inspiration: the bathtub. Other people have lucky
pens and favorite cafes, but whenever I need a flash of creative
genius, I just run myself a bubble bath and sink back among the suds.

I turn on the water and toss in a lavender bath ball. When the tub’s
full, I slide in and start to muse. All my wedding designs start with
the couple, so what would Pixie and Clyde want? Red for him and
pinks for her, maybe, with a splash of black satin. As for venues,
nothing beats the Plaza. If I could pull it off… I shiver with
excitement, thinking how much fun it could be. Plus the boost it
would give my company. Never mind the happily-ever-afters, wedding
planning in the city is a cutthroat business. I need to grab any
advantage I can get.

By the time the water cools, I’m bursting with ideas. I grab a
fluffy robe and call Theo again. Voicemail.

“Think roses and stars.” I tell him. “A
night-garden theme. We’re going to walk right up to the line of
tacky, stare it in the face, and then throw some glitter at it. This
thing is going to be a beautiful spectacle of lights and brightness,”
I continue, just picturing the scene. “We’ll get the
quartet to arrange some of Clyde’s hits. Chocolate and
strawberries. Black stallions and white mares. Unicorns, if we can
get them. This is it, Theo. This is absolutely it. It will be
beautiful, shiny, romantic, cheesefest perfection.”

My phone beeps with a call on the other line. “Talk tomorrow!”
I tell his voicemail, before switching over. “Hello?”

“Hi, pumpkin, it’s Bettina!”

“And Auntie Rae, too! Don’t hog the line, Betts!”
My aunts love to call me from two separate phones in the house. “How
was the wedding, the sporty-sports one?” Aunt Rae inquires.

“It went great. I’ll link you to the pictures when
they’re posted online so you can see.”

“I’m sure it was gorgeous. Your weddings always are.”

“How are things down in Pelican Key Cove?” I ask, taking
the phone out to the fire escape.

“Just fine.” Bettina answers.

“Any gossip?”

“Well…”

“Tell her about the big robbery,” Rae pipes up.

“What robbery?” I can’t believe it. My hometown is
about as sleepy as they come.

“It was the biggest scandal,” Rae continues. “Margo
Lendermere got caught shoplifting down at the Quick-n-Pick.”

“She did not!” Bettina argues over her. “She forgot
to pay for her verruca cream, and that new deputy, the Jennings boy,
chased her all the way down Main Street. You’d think she’d
looted the bank for all that carry on.”

I laugh. The white sand beaches and quaint streets of the Keys feel a
million miles away from the noise and hustle of New York.

“What about you?” Rae asks. “What’s happening
up there?”

“Well, maybe something big. Have you guys ever seen
The
Princess and The
Rock Star
?“

“Ooh yes!” Rae cries. “We love it. Don't we,
Betts?”

“Oh my goodness. Clyde Kincaid is a dreamboat. The things I
would do to that piece of British toffee—” I have to cut
her off because I know she will tell me exactly what she would do to.
My aunts are many things, but discreet isn’t one of them.
Growing up, they loved to sunbathe nude in our backyard. More than
once, the mailman got more than he bargained for coming to deliver a
package.

“So, guess what?” I say, excited. “I might be
planning Clyde and Pixie’s wedding here in New York!”

There's a gasp, then squeals of excitement.

“Oh my gosh, you have to include Pixie’s little dog
Buster in the wedding. He could be a tiny little itty bitty furry
groomsman.”

“Well, it’s not a done deal yet,” I caution. “Theo
and I have a meeting this week with a producer. Did I tell you the
wedding is going to be on TV?”

I hear more screeches. I can picture the two of them in the kitchen,
and suddenly have a rush of homesickness.

“That’s just wonderful, darling. You know what else would
be wonderful?” Rae adds, hopeful. “If you came home for a
little visit. Maybe for Thanksgiving?”

I tense. I haven’t been back to Pelican Key Cove, not since I
high-tailed out of town in my old pink convertible the night before
graduation, leaving everything—and everyone—behind.

“Why don’t you two come here?” I say instead. “New
York is lovely in the fall. Or we could take another road trip. We
had so much fun last year, driving cross-country.”

“But we’re always traveling,” Bettina says gently.
“In case you didn’t notice, we’re getting old.”

“You guys? Never.”

She laughs. “Honey, you know we’d come see you whenever
you want, but it’s been ten years now. Don’t you think
it’s time you came home, even just for a short visit?”

I feel guilty. “Maybe.” I make a fast excuse. “I’ll
see how this next wedding works out. Pixie and Clyde might want to
elope abroad. You could come meet me in Europe, maybe. I’ll
know more after the meeting.”

“All right, love,” Bettina sighs. “Good luck.”

“Call us the moment you’re done and let us know how it
goes!”

I hang up, but I can’t shake that feeling of guilt and regret
that comes whenever my aunts press me to come home. Ten years is a
long time, but it’s flown by: first college, then scrambling
away at entry-level assistant jobs with no time off for a real trip
home, then getting my own business off the ground and hustling for
clients. But soon, it was too easy to make excuses. Better to plan
amazing visits for them here, or arrange to take a trip someplace new
and exciting together. I’ve danced around the subject so long
it’s like second nature to me.

The truth is, there’s just one thing keeping me away from
Pelican Key Cove: Luke Porter, my high-school boyfriend.

My couldn’t-be-more-ex ex-boyfriend.

I sigh. The way I left things, I can’t imagine going back. I
thought I’d grow out of it, but here I am. Twenty-eight years
old, and still too chicken to face up to the past. Especially when
that past has the face of an angel, with a devil of a sense of humor.

At least, he did a long time ago. But who knows what’s
happened to him since?

People change. I know I have.

I shake off the memories, and reach for my remote. There’s no
use dwelling on ancient history, and I’ve got another twelve
episodes to watch before I call Marcie on Monday morning. I want to
be totally ready for this pitch.

Marcie sounds delighted to hear from me. Or maybe that’s just
her regular voice. “Can you come in at noon?” she
demands. “We have a free slot before Clyde’s oxygen
treatment.”

“Today?” I blink, looking down at my PJs and bunny
slippers. I’ve spent all weekend in a junk food and TV coma,
and I was planning on using the day to get back to work. “I
usually have more time to prepare—”

“Noon’s all we have. Take it or leave it.”

I regroup quickly. “We’ll be there.”

I hang up and text Theo an SOS, then manage the quickest
hair-wash/shower/cleanup/manicure known to womankind. By the time he
swings by in a cab to pick me up, I’m ready for action.

“I got your voicemails,” he says, amused, as I slide in
the backseat. I give the driver Marcie’s office address, and
take the coffee from Theo’s outstretched hand. “All fifty
million of them.”