Bride Quartet Collection (32 page)

J
ACK DIDN’T KNOW HOW THEY PULLED IT OFF, EVERY TIME, ALL the time. He’d been drafted to lend a hand now and again at an event. Hauling and lifting, bartending, even bussing tables in a pinch. As payment invariably included great food, drinks, and music, he never minded.

But he still didn’t know how they managed to pull it all together.

Parker consistently managed to be everywhere at once, and so subtly he suspected no one really noticed she might be prepping the best man on his toast one minute and passing out a pack of tissues to the mother of the bride the next while coordinating the service of the meal in the Grand Hall like a general coordinating troops during battle.

Mac popped up all over the place, too, and was just as cagey about it as she shot candids of the wedding party or the guests, or maneuvered the bride and groom into a quick posed photo.

Laurel streamed in and out, signaled, he supposed, through the headset they all wore, or by some sort of hand signal. Maybe mental telepathy. He wouldn’t discount that one.

And Emma, of course, on the spot when a guest spilled wine on the tablecloth, or when the bored ring bearer started to poke at one of the flower girls.

He doubted anyone noticed or understood there were four women literally holding everything together, juggling all the balls and passing them to each other with the grace and skill of NFL quarterbacks.

Just as he imagined no one knew the logistics and sheer timing involved in leading the guests from the Hall to the Ballroom. He lingered while Emma and her team along with Laurel swarmed on the head table to gather up the bouquets and holding vases.

“Need any help?” he asked her.

“Hmm? No, thanks, we’ve got it. Tink, six on either side, baskets on the end. Everything else stays in place for two hours here before undressing and loading. Beach, Tiff, snuff the candles, leave the overheads on half.”

“I can get that,” Tink said when Emma took the bride’s bouquet.

“One bruised rose and she’ll go on attack. Better she rips my throat out than yours. Let’s go, first dance is starting.”

While the flowers headed up the back stairs, Jack wandered to the main. He slipped into the Ballroom in the middle of the first official dance. The bride and groom chose what he considered the overused and overorchestrated “I Will Always Love You,” while people stood in the flower-drenched Ballroom or sat at one of the tables strategically arranged around the dance floor.

The terrace doors stood open, inviting guests to stroll outside. He thought he’d do just that once he got a glass of wine.

When he saw Emma ducking out again, he adjusted his plan. Carrying two glasses of wine, he went down the back stairs.

She sat on the second level, and popped up like a spring when she heard his footsteps. “Oh, it’s only you.” She sank back down on the steps.

“Only me is bearing wine.”

She sighed, circled her head on her neck. “We at Vows frown on drinking on the job. But . . . I’ll lecture myself tomorrow. Hand it over.”

He sat down beside her, gave her the glass. “How’s it going?”

“I should ask you. You’re a guest.”

“From the guest point of view, it’s a smash. Everything looks great, tastes great, smells great. People are having fun and have no idea the whole business is clicking along on a timetable that would make a Swiss train conductor weep in admiration.”

“Exactly what we’re after.” She sipped the wine, shut her eyes. “Oh God, that’s good.”

“How’s the MB behaving?”

“She’s actually not too bad. It’s hard to be bitchy when everyone’s telling you how beautiful you look, how happy they are for you. She actually did count the roses in her bouquet, so that made her happy. Parker’s smoothed over a couple of potential crises, and Mac actually got a nod of approval over the B and G shots. If Laurel’s cake and dessert table pass muster, I’d say we hit all the hot spots.”

“Did she do those little crème brûlées?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“You’re gold. Lot of buzz on the flowers.”

“Really?”

“I actually heard gasps a few times—the good kind.”

She rolled her shoulders. “Then it’s all worth it.”

“Here.”

He boosted himself up a stair, straddled her from behind, and dug his fingers into her shoulders.

“You don’t have to . . . Never mind.” She leaned back into his hands. “Carry on.”

“You’ve got some concrete in here, Em.”

“I’ve got about a sixty-hour week in there.”

“And three thousand roses.”

“Oh, adding the other events, we could double that. Easily.”

He worked his thumbs up the back of her neck, made her groan. And as his stomach knotted in response, realized he wasn’t doing himself any favors. “So . . . how’d the fiftieth go?”

“It was lovely, really lovely. Four generations. Mac got some wonderful pictures. When the anniversary couple had their first dance, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. It goes down as one of my all-time favorite events.”

She sighed again. “You have to stop that. Between the wine and your magic hands I’m going to end up taking a nap right here on the steps.”

“Aren’t you done?”

“Not even close. I have to get the tossing bouquet, help out with the cake service. Then there’s the bubbles, which we hope to do outside. In an hour, we’ll start breaking down the Grand Hall, boxing centerpieces and arrangements.”

Her voice went a little thick, a little sleepy when he kneaded her neck. “Um . . . Loading up those, and the gifts. Loading up the outdoor arrangements. We have an afternoon event tomorrow, so we’ll break down the Ballroom, too.”

He tortured himself, running his hands down her biceps, back up to her shoulders. “Then you should relax while you can.”

“And you should be upstairs enjoying the party.”

“I like it here.”

“So do I, which makes you a bad influence with your wine and staircase massages. I have to get back up, relieve Laurel on patrol.” She reached back, patted his hand before she rose. “Cake cutting in thirty.”

He got to his feet as she started up. “What kind of cake?”

She stopped, turned, and ended up on level with him. Her eyes, those deep velvet eyes, looked sleepy to match her voice. “She’s calling it her Parisian Spring. It’s this gorgeous pale lavender blue covered with white roses, sprigs of lilac, with this soft milk chocolate ribboning and—”

“I was more about what’s inside.”

“Oh, it’s her genoise with Italian meringue buttercream. You don’t want to miss it.”

“It may beat out the crème brûlée.” She smelled like flowers. He couldn’t say which ones. She was a mysterious and lush bouquet. Her eyes were dark and soft and deep, and her mouth . . . Wouldn’t it taste every bit as rich as Laurel’s cake?

The hell with it.

“Okay, this is probably out of line, so apologies in advance.”

He took her shoulders again, eased her to him. Those dark, soft, deep eyes widened in surprise an instant before his lips took hers.

She didn’t jerk away, or laugh it off as a joke. Instead she made the same sort of sound she had when he’d rubbed her neck—just a little breathier.

Her hands clamped on his hips, and those luscious lips of hers parted.

Like her scent, her flavor was mysterious and essentially female. Dark and warm and sensual. When her hands moved up his back, he took more. Just a little more.

Then he changed angles, took more still, and pleasure hummed in her throat.

He thought of just snatching her up, carrying her off to whatever dark room he could find to finish what a moment of impulse had begun.

The beeper at her waist sounded, and both of them jolted. She made a strangled sound, then managed, “Oh. Well.” In a jerky move she unclipped the beeper, stared at it. “Parker. Um. I have to go. I have to . . . go,” she said, then turned and bolted up the stairs.

Alone, he lowered to the stairs again and finished off his neglected wine in two long gulps. He decided he’d skip the rest of the reception, and take a long walk outside instead.

E
MMA COULD ONLY BE GRATEFUL WORK KEPT HER TOO BUSY TO actually think. She helped clean up an incident involving the ring bearer and chocolate éclairs, delivered the tossing bouquet, rearranged the decor on the cake table to ease the serving, then began the stripping down of the Grand Hall.

She readied centerpieces and other arrangements for transport and supervised the loading of them for the proper recipients.

When the bubbles were blown and the last dance finished, she began the same process on the patios and terraces.

She didn’t see a trace of Jack.

“Everything okay?” Laurel asked her.

“What? Yes. Sure. Everything went great. I’m just tired.”

“Right there with you. At least tomorrow’s event will be a breeze after today. Have you seen Jack?”

“What?” She jumped like a thief at the shrill of an alarm. “Why?”

“I lost track of him. I planned to bribe him with pastries to help with the breakdown. I guess he skipped.”

“I guess. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Liar, liar
. Why was she lying to her friend? It couldn’t be a good sign.

“Parker and Mac are seeing off the stragglers,” Laurel commented. “They’ll do the security check. Do you want me to help you cart these to your place?”

“No, I’ve got it.” Emma loaded the last of the leftovers she’d put back in the cooler. She’d donate the bulk to the local hospital, take the rest apart and make smaller arrangements to put around her place, and her friends’.

She closed the cargo doors. “See you in the morning.”

She drove the van home, reversed the process and carried flowers and garlands into her cooler.

No matter how firmly she ordered her mind to stay calm and blank, it just kept opening up to one single thought.

Jack kissed her.

What did it mean?

Why should it
mean
anything?

A kiss was just that. It had just been a product of the moment. Nothing more.

She readied for bed, trying to convince herself it was nothing more.

But when a kiss blew right off the spark-o-meter, blasted through the scale, it was hard to describe it as “nothing more.”

Something else was what it was, she admitted. And she didn’t know what to do about it. That was frustrating because she
always
knew what to do when it came to men and kisses and sparks. She just knew.

She climbed into bed telling herself since she’d never be able to sleep, she’d just lie there in the dark until she came up with a solution.

And she dropped away in seconds, pushed off the edge by sheer exhaustion.

CHAPTER FIVE

E
MMA GOT THROUGH THE SUNDAY EVENT AND HER MONDAY consults and adjusted the arrangements for some upcoming events due to changes of bridal minds.

She canceled two dates with two perfectly nice men she now had no desire to spend evenings with. She filled those evenings by doing inventory and ordering ribbons, pins, containers, forms.

And wondering if she should call Jack and make some light, breezy comment about the kiss—or pretend it never happened.

She alternated between the top options and a third, which involved going over to his house and jumping him. So she ended up doing nothing but tying herself into knots over it.

Annoyed with herself, she arrived early for a scheduled afternoon staff meeting. She cut through Laurel’s kitchen, where her friend was arranging a plate of cookies beside a small fruit and cheese platter.

“I’m out of Diet Coke,” Emma announced and opened the fridge to take one. “I’m out of almost everything because I keep forgetting my car battery is dead as disco.”

“Did you call the garage?”

“That, at least, I remembered to do about ten minutes ago. When I confessed—under expert interrogation by the guy—that I’ve owned the car for four years, have never taken it in for a tune-up, couldn’t remember exactly the last time, if ever, I’ve had the oil changed or some computer chip check job thing and other car business I don’t remember now, he said he’d have it picked up, taken in.”

Pouting a little, she popped the top and drank straight from the can. “I sort of felt as if I’d been holding my car hostage and he’s releasing it. He made me feel like even more of an idiot than Jack did. I want a cookie.”

“Help yourself.”

Emma picked one up.

“Now I’m going to be without a car until he decides to give it back. If he does, and I’m not entirely sure he intends to.”

“You’ve been without a car for over a week because your battery’s dead.”

“True, but I had the illusion of a car because it was sitting there. I guess I need to take the van and go to the grocery store, and the zillion other places I’ve put off going. I’m actually afraid to, as it occurred to me I’ve had the van for a year more than the car. It may rebel next.”

Laurel tossed some pretty pastel mints on the cookie tray. “I know it’s a crazy idea, but maybe once you get your car back, you can have the garage service the van.”

Emma nibbled at the cookie. “The car guy tossed that idea in the hat. I need consolation. How about dinner and movie night?”

“Don’t you have a date?”

“I canceled. I’m not in the mood.”

Laurel blew hair out of her eyes, the better to stare in shock. “
You’re
not in the mood for a date?”

“I have to get an early start tomorrow. Six hand-tied bouquets, and the bride’s makes seven. That’s a good six, seven hours of work. I have Tink coming in for half a day, so it cuts it back, but there’s all the rest to put together for the Friday night event. And I spent most of the morning processing the flowers.”

“That’s never stopped you before. Are you sure you’re feeling all right? You’ve been just a shade off.”

“No, I’m fine. I’m good. I’m just not . . . in the mood for men.”

“That couldn’t include me.” Delaney Brown walked in, lifted Emma off her feet to give her a resounding kiss. “Mmm. Sugar cookie.”

Emma laughed. “Get your own.”

He plucked one from the tray, grinned at Laurel. “Consider it part of my fee.”

Going from experience, Laurel got out a Ziploc bag and began to fill it with cookies. “Are you in on the meeting?”

“No. I just had some legal business to go over with Parks.”

Since it was there and so was he, Del went to the coffeepot.

He and Parker shared the dark brown hair, the dark blue eyes. What Laurel would have called their refined features were just a little more roughly carved on him. In the smoke gray pin-striped suit, Italian shoes, and Hermès tie, he looked every bit the successful Connecticut lawyer. The scion of the Connecticut Browns.

With the food prep complete, Laurel untied her baker’s apron and hung it on a peg.

Del leaned on the counter. “I hear you kicked some ass with the Folk wedding last weekend.”

“Do you know them?” Emma asked.

“Her parents are clients. I haven’t had the pleasure—though from what Jack says that may be overstating—of meeting the new Mrs. Harrigan.”

“You will when they file for divorce,” Laurel said.

“Always the optimist.”

“She’s a nightmare. She sent Parker a critique list this morning. E-mailed from Paris. From her honeymoon.”

“You’re kidding!” Stunned, Emma gaped at Laurel. “It was perfect. Everything was perfect.”

“The champagne could’ve been colder, the wait service faster, the sky bluer, and the grass greener.”

“Well, she’s just a bitch. After I gave her ten more roses. Not one, but
ten
.” Emma shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Everyone who was there, and who was an actual human, knows it was perfect. She can’t spoil it.”

“That’s my girl.” Del toasted her with his coffee.

“Anyway, speaking of Jack, have you seen him? I mean, will you be seeing him?”

“Tomorrow, actually. We’re heading into the city to catch the Yankees.”

“Maybe you could take him his jacket. He left his jacket. Or I forgot to give it back. Anyway, I have his jacket, and he probably wants it. I can go get it. It’s in my office. I can just go get it.”

“I’ll go by and get it on my way out.”

“Good. That’d be great. Since you’re seeing him anyway.”

“No problem. I’d better get going.” He picked up the bag, shook it lightly at Laurel. “Thanks for the cookies.”

“A baker’s dozen, including the one you ate, will be deducted from your fee.”

He shot Laurel a grin, and sauntered out.

Laurel waited a few beats then pointed at Emma. “Jack.”

“What?”

“Jack.”

“No,” Emma said slowly, laying her hand between her breasts. “Emma. Em-ma.”

“Don’t be funny, I can see right through you. You said ‘any way’ three times in under a minute.”

“No, I didn’t.” Maybe she had. “And so what?”

“So, what’s going on with you and Jack?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Don’t be ridiculous.” She felt the lie burning her tongue. “You can’t say anything to anyone.”

“If I can’t say anything, it’s not nothing.”

“It is nothing. It’s probably nothing. I’m overreacting. Damn it.” Emma popped the half a cookie she had left in her mouth all at once.

“You’re eating like a normal person. Something is wrong in the Emma-verse. Spill.”

“Swear first. You won’t say anything to Parker or Mac.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” Laurel swiped a fingertip diagonally across her breasts, then pointed it to the ceiling. “Sworn.”

“He kissed me. Or we kissed each other. But he started it, and I don’t know what would’ve happened next because Parker beeped me. I had to go, then he left. So, that’s it.”

“Wait, I lost the sense of hearing right after you said Jack kissed you.”

“Cut it out. This is serious.” She bit her lip. “Or it’s not. Is it?”

“This isn’t like you, Em. You are the goddess of handling men and romantic or sexual situations.”

“I
know
. It’s just this is Jack. It’s not supposed to be . . .” She waved her arms in the air. “Something to handle. I’m making too much of it. It was just a moment, just the circumstances. Just a thing. Now it’s done, so it’s not a thing.”

“Emma, you tend to romanticize men, potential relationships, but you never get flustered over them. You’re flustered.”

“Because it’s Jack! What if you were standing around, minding your own business, baking, and Jack came in and kissed you stupid. Or Del did. You’d be flustered.”

“The only reason either of them come in here is to mooch baked goods. As Del just demonstrated. When did this happen? The night you broke down?”

“No. It almost did. There was a second there . . . I think because there was a second there, it just led into it happening. During the reception Saturday.”

“Right, right, you said Parker beeped you. Well, how was it? How did it rank on the patented Emmaline Grant spark-o-meter?”

Emma let out a breath, pointed her thumb up, then swiped a hand through an imaginary line. “Slapped the top of the red zone before it broke the meter.”

With her lips pursed, Laurel nodded. “I always suspected that about Jack. He has that red zone vibe about him. What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t decided. It’s thrown me off. I need to get my balance back, then figure out what to do. Or not do.”

“Then you have to tell me, and also let me know when the gag order is lifted.”

“All right, but meanwhile, not a word.” Emma picked up the cheese tray. “Let’s go be businesswomen.”

Vows housed its conference room in what had been the library. The books remained, framing the room and giving way in spaces for photos and mementos. The room maintained its warmth, its elegance, even as it served for business.

Parker sat at the big inlaid table, laptop and BlackBerry at the ready. As the morning client meetings and tours were complete for the day, she’d hung her suit jacket on the back of the chair. Mac sat across from her, long legs stretched out, wearing the jeans and sweater that served her for her workday.

When Emma set the tray on the table, Mac levered herself up to snag a cluster of grapes. “You guys are late.”

“Del stopped by the kitchen. Before we start business, who’s up for dinner and a movie night?”

“Me, me!” Mac shot up a hand. “Carter has a teacher thing, and that saves me from working until he gets back. I put in a full one today.”

“As it happens, my calendar is clear.” Laurel laid the cookie plate beside the platter.

Parker merely picked up the house phone, pressed a button. “Hey, Mrs. G, can you handle the four of us for dinner? That’d be great. Thanks.” She hung up. “We’ll have chicken and like it.”

“Works for me.” Mac bit into a grape.

“All right then, the first order of business is Whitney Folk Harrigan, aka Monster Bride. As Laurel knows, I received an e-mail from her wherein she lists several bullet points addressing what she feels we could improve.”

“Bitch.” Mac leaned up this time to spread some goat cheese on a rosemary cracker. “We kicked severe ass on that event.”

“We should’ve kicked her severe ass,” Laurel commented.

“Whitney feels, in no particular order of importance, that . . .” Parker opened a file to read from the e-mail she’d printed out. “The champagne was inadequately chilled, the service during dinner was slow, the gardens lacked enough color and bloom, the photographer spent more time than she deems necessary on the wedding party when the bride deserved more attention, and the offerings on the dessert table weren’t as varied or as well presented as she’d hoped. She adds that she felt rushed and/or neglected by the wedding planner during some parts of the event. She hopes we’ll take these criticisms in the spirit with which they’re offered.”

“To which I respond . . .” Mac shot up a middle finger.

“Succinct.” Parker nodded. “However, I responded with our thanks for her comments, and our hopes that she and Justin enjoy Paris.”

“Panderer,” Laurel muttered.

“You bet. I could’ve responded with: Dear Whitney, you’re full of shit. Which was my first thought. I restrained it. I have, however, upgraded her to Monster Bitch Bride.”

“She must be a genuinely unhappy person. Seriously,” Emma said when her friends just looked at her. “Anyone who could take a wedding day like we provided for her and pick it apart is just innately unhappy. I’d feel sorry for her if I wasn’t so mad. I will feel sorry for her when I stop being mad.”

“Well, mad, sorry, or fuck you, the upside is we’ve had four new tours booked through that event. And I expect more.”

“Parks said fuck.” Mac grinned and ate another grape. “She’s very mad.”

“I’ll get over it, especially if we book four more events as a result of the stupendous job we did on Saturday. For now, I’m putting Whitney in my newly designed Closet of Doom, where everything makes her look fat, all the patterns are polka dots, and the color choices are puce or dead-flesh beige.”

“That’s really mean,” Laurel commented. “I like it.”

“Moving on,” Parker continued. “Del and I met about some of the legal and financial issues of the business. The partnership agreement is coming up for renewal, which includes the percentage funneled back into Vows from the individual arms for outside events. If anyone wants to discuss changes to the agreement, including the percentages, the floor’s open.”

“It’s working, isn’t it?” Emma glanced around at her partners. “I don’t think any of us really imagined we’d build what we’ve built when we started Vows. Not just financially, which is certainly more than I’d have made by now if I’d been able to open my own shop. But, Monster Bitch Bride aside, the reputation we’ve earned, together and individually. The percentage is fair, and the fact is, the cut Del takes for his part of the estate is way below what he could’ve asked. We’re all doing what we love with people we love. And we’re making a good living at it.”