Planning for Love (23 page)

“But we just lost thirty thousand dollars.”

“Maybe. Worst case scenario. Daphne and I will need to discuss whether or not to keep the deposits on an individual basis. Damage control is still very possible. Bring people in, let them read a few more glowing testimonials, and reassure them we are the best company to be there on their big day.” Ivy heard the words come out of her mouth, but didn’t believe a single one. She stood, gave Julianna a one-armed hug. “Why don’t you go freshen up in the powder room before the guys get here?”

“Thanks for being such a rock, Ivy. I don’t know how you do it.” Julianna disappeared down the hall, sniffling.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Daphne echoed in a fierce whisper. “Shovel such an enormous load of bullshit, that is. We are screwed. Seven cancellations in an hour? It couldn’t be worse if we were carriers of the Ebola virus!”

“Well, that would be worse, because we’d be dead,” Ivy hissed back.

“Dead would be an improvement. We wouldn’t be around to watch the city of Chicago turn us into laughingstocks. We may never work in this town again.”

Ivy sat back down on the couch, resting the side of her head against Daphne’s. The initial shock and panic had receded, leaving her numb. “What happened to not worrying about what we can’t control?”

“The theory only works when it’s not personal. Do you really want to pack up everything, slink out of town under cover of darkness and relocate? Where do you go when you’re run out of town on a rail? Iowa? Indiana?” She twisted around to face Ivy, blue eyes wide with dread. “I’m telling you right now, I can’t live in a place where every morning radio broadcast starts with the farm report.”

“Are you planning to move to Iowa, or to the nineteenth century?” Ivy laughed. “Anyway, we’re not moving.”

“Riiiiight.” She drew out the word, clearly skeptical. “But if we do, how about Colorado? Or South Carolina. Think of all the beautiful flowers they have down there: Columbine, coreopsis, gardenias. Have you ever seen a pawpaw? Silly name, but the most beautiful purple flower. We could even incorporate it into our logo.”

“Cut it out. The logo stays, and we’re staying. Right now, we’ve got to focus on putting on brave faces and getting through this damn party. As soon as everyone leaves, we’ll figure out a game plan. Check in with every single client in the next twenty-four hours.”

“You think that’ll do it? A verbal pat on the back, and all their faith in us is restored?”

“No.” Ivy worried her lip. If only it could be that easy. “I think it’s a start. Ben’s making me do a live television interview. Hopefully I can turn that to our advantage.”

Daphne spread her arms wide, palms up. “Are you nuts? Doesn’t there come a point where not all exposure is good? Anything can happen on live television. Do you really want to open yourself up to making a bad problem potentially worse?”

“Thanks for assuming I’ll botch the interview, Daph. Just the ego boost I need right now.”

“Don’t get all pissy. I meant the reporter could blindside you, twist your words.”

As if that very thought hadn’t circled her mind in a Moebius loop ever since Ben first mentioned the interview. “I don’t have a choice. Apparently it’s in the contract with RealTV you were so hot for me to sign.”

“Oh.” Daphne’s hands dropped back into her lap. “We’re in a real shitstorm right now, aren’t we?”

Ivy pushed herself up with a deep breath. “Time will tell.”

The front door flew open, the knob banging into the wall. Gib, Sam and Ben piled through the doorway. They all wore loose shorts. Ben and Sam wore Cubs tee shirts, while Gib sported a Manchester United soccer jersey. “We come bearing gifts.” Ben held up a bottle by its foil-covered neck. “Champagne, to toast your amazing television debut.”

Gib raised a clear glass bottle. “Or tequila, to get you royally smashed in case you bomb.”

“And in either eventuality, you’ll need chocolate. Mom made you a chocolate rum cake. My contribution was decorating it.” Sam placed the box on the dining room table and lifted the lid. All six of them crowded around to get a look. The smooth white fondant glittered with gold dust. In the center, a large silver star contained Ivy’s name. Beneath it, piped in calligraphy, were the words
a star is born
.

Tears stung the corner of Ivy’s eyes. She had the best friends in the world. Any desire she’d harbored of riding this night out in solitude from beneath her comforter fled. Together, they’d all get through it.

Except…another venomous what-if snaked into her brain. What if the fallout from the show spilled over, affected her friends? A big, international corporation like the Cavendish could survive a few cancellations. The family-run Lyons Bakery could not. Her numbness burned off under righteous anger at being suckered into this whole situation in the first place. Since Tracy and Seth weren’t handy, Ben would have to do. Ivy punched him in the arm. Hard.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded, rubbing his arm.

“Turns out I’m really, really mad.”

“Sorry. I thought you liked champagne. Not what I’d deem a punching offense, but I get that you’re nervous and off-kilter. I can go get something else. How about a bottle of Merlot?”

As quickly as it flared, her temper washed away under Ben’s easygoing charm. As he’d pointed out before, lashing out at the guy who manned the camera didn’t do any good. Her real beef was with Tracy and Seth, for not notifying her their wedding would be filmed until it was too late to back out. Blame the murderer, not the weapon. All Ben did that day was his job, just like she did. “Champagne is fine.”

“Women are weird,” said Sam.

Ivy almost choked on a half-sob, half-laugh. “Thanks for the diagnosis. And thank your mother for the cake. I know it’ll be sinfully delicious.”

“Figured we’d stick with the alcoholic trend of the gifts. Thought you might be in need of a little Dutch courage.”

Waving a fistful of tissues, Julianna shuffled to the couch. “You don’t know the half of it.” She dabbed at visibly red eyes. Ivy had never seen such a huge chink—well, more of a chasm—in her assistant’s composure.

“What’s wrong with her?” asked Sam, jerking his chin at Julianna.

Ben grabbed Ivy’s chin, gave her a good, hard look. “Yeah, what’s going on? It looks more like a funeral in here than a party.” She turned her cheek into his palm, taking comfort from the small touch. It was all Ivy could allow herself. No hugs, no burrowing into his shoulder, or she’d fall apart. After a glance at the clock on the mantel, she picked up the remote. It was almost time for the show to start.

“You hit the nail on the head. Depending on what happens in the next hour, this may end up as a wake for Aisle Bound.” Daphne carried a tray of champagne flutes into the living room. “So let’s drink a toast now, while we still have a company
to
toast.”

The men burst into a chorus of questions. Ivy waved the remote to get their attention. “Two-minute warning. Everyone grab a seat, some food and a drink.”

“Only if you explain Daphne’s cryptic comment.”

“The news ran a promo for
WWS
, and within an hour we had seven clients cancel their contracts.” It physically hurt Ivy to say the words out loud.

Gib let out a whistle. “You took quite a hit.”

Julianna raised her hand. “Actually the number could be higher by now. Milo stayed at the office to man the phones, just in case talking to a person instead of voice mail helps dissuade anyone else who calls all worked up.”

“Good thinking. Let’s remember to save him a piece of cake.” If Ivy concentrated on small mundane details like leftover cake, she might be able to ignore the professional disaster about to happen on television. She started a mental to-do list. Cake for Milo. Pick up dry cleaning before Friday. Remind her father to pick out something spectacular from Tiffany’s to present to Mom at their anniversary party. At least that event wouldn’t fall through, since Ivy was throwing it herself.

“Shrug off the cancellations.” Ben handed Ivy a glass, and clinked his softly against it. “So a few people had a knee-jerk reaction. A momentary scheduling blip. It’ll blow over. Reality television doesn’t have a shelf life.”

“Unless it goes viral,” Sam pointed out. “Did your couple do anything really out of the ordinary? YouTube videos get passed around like crazy on the web.”

Ben threw him a dark look. “Even if it does, you’ll be old news within a week, I guarantee. Somebody will film their Doberman on a bicycle, and you’ll be forgotten.”

“Great pep talk. Now my competitive spirit’s kicked in. I’m sort of motivated to outlast a trick dog,” joked Ivy.

A cheesy, Muzak version of the wedding march played as various wedding photos splashed across the screen. The room broke into loud boos when a cardboard cutout of Tracy and Seth cramming cake in each other’s mouths slid into place on the set draped with flowing white curtains. A formal shot of another couple rolled to a stop beside them. The host, in a slinky silver cocktail dress, walked in and perched on a stool.

“Welcome to
Wild Wedding Smackdown
, the show that’s a showdown for brides. I’m your host, Tricia Kane. Every week we compare who spends more dollars? Who has more disasters? Who’ll win our prize? This week we focus on Tracy and Seth from Chicago, and Karen and Rico in Los Angeles.” Tricia slipped off the stool and moved to stand between the life-size portraits of each couple. “No matter which bride blows out their budget the most, I’ve already chosen my winner. We’re doing things a little differently this week, turning our spotlight for the very first time on someone besides the bride and groom.”

Trumpet fanfare replaced the wedding march. A screen lowered from the ceiling, a shot of Ivy in her pink gown, a smile on her face with Tracy’s shoes in one hand and her ever-present leather binder in the other. Julianna gasped. Ben let out a catcall, while Gib and Sam clapped maniacally. Ivy forgot to breathe.

“I don’t know about your ass, but your boobs look terrific in that dress,” Daphne whispered.

They really did. Ivy gulped in a breath, and clapped a hand over Daphne’s mouth. “Hush. I don’t want to miss anything.”

With the flair of a game show hostess, Tricia pointed at Ivy’s picture. “Tonight we’re shining the spotlight on fabulous Chicago wedding planner Ivy Rhodes, who is nothing less than a miracle worker. We’ve shown you bridezillas, we’ve shown you toppled cakes, but we’ve never shown you anyone save a wedding. More than once! Settle in for a very special show, because Ms. Rhodes is about to wow all of you.” A commercial for Sandals began, and Ivy realized her fingernails were digging into Ben’s wrist almost hard enough to break the skin.

“Did you know about this?” Ivy asked Ben.

“Do you think I would’ve let you torture yourself if I had?”

“Good point.” She turned to Daphne, almost unable to speak through the mile-wide smile stretching across her face. “I think there’s a very good chance our company isn’t going to fold tonight.”

“I think there’s a very good chance our business is going to quadruple after tonight.” They fell, laughing, into each other’s arms. Ivy couldn’t believe the roller coaster of emotions she’d ridden in the last half hour. Tears of relief and happiness welled in her eyes.

“Hey, I thought we agreed no more crying tonight,” said Daphne.

“You’re right.” Ivy dashed them away with the back of her hand. Suddenly ravenous, she scooped two deviled eggs, chips and a huge scoop of dip onto a plate. Draining her glass in two long gulps, she held it out to Ben for a refill. Time to kick tonight’s celebration into overdrive. She intended to stuff herself, drink at least two glasses more than would be wise, and then get frisky with Ben.

Ivy, Daphne and Julianna’s cell phones all began to ring. The house phone also blared. “Nobody answer,” warned Daphne. “Let it go to voice mail. We don’t want to miss a second of this show. Ben, do I need to set the DVR, or can you get me a copy?”

“I might be able to snag one for you. But remember, I stroke your back, you stroke mine.”

Daphne tossed him a wink. “I’ll leave the stroking to Ivy.”

Chapter Sixteen

I have always considered marriage as the most interesting event of one’s life,
the foundation of happiness or misery.

—George Washington

Ben braced himself against a pillar and surreptitiously stretched his left calf behind him, right leg bent deep. Luckily, the Chicago Historical Society was lousy with the ridged, two-story-high pillars, so he took the opportunity every half hour or so to duck behind one and try and relieve his aching muscles.

Pale purple satin swished against his shoe. “What on earth are you doing?” asked Ivy.

“Ultimately? Trying to make it through the night without crying like a little girl.” He switched to the other leg.

“Because…” she prompted.

“Gib made me run an extra two miles this morning. Claimed I needed to sweat out all the toxins from the ocean of champagne we put back the other night. The man’s a slave driver. I don’t understand why he’s appointed himself my freaking trainer.”

“Can’t stand to see good muscles go to waste?” Ivy suggested, her tone saccharine sweet.

He ignored her crack, and grabbed his ankle for a quad stretch. His leg muscles all felt like they’d shrunk by a good two inches. There would be revenge. Ben didn’t know what quite yet, but he’d cook up some form of torture. Milo lived with Gib. Maybe he could be bribed to spill about what drove the Englishman crazy. Skim milk instead of cream in his tea? Start a rumor that his favorite tailor, a wizened little Polish man called Tassilo, was about to retire? That would probably devastate Gib. Because really, what kind of guy had enough tailors to even pick a favorite?

“I told him to go to hell. That I had a wedding tonight and couldn’t be expected to stand for ten hours straight if I overdid it. But then he yelled in that starchy, British accent, and my legs just kept pumping.”

Ivy ran a sympathetic hand down his arm. “Ollie’s got things under control. Once dinner starts, you can find a dark corner and take a load off.”

“Or you could rustle up some oil from the catering staff and give me a good rubdown. I scouted out an empty conference room on the second floor, just to be prepared.” God, he loved saying outrageous things just to make Ivy’s eyes widen, the streaky green-gold of aspen leaves in September. Quick as a wink, her placid, everything-is-and-shall-always-be-perfect wedding mask slipped back into place.

“As intriguing as your suggestion may be, I have to remind you I’m a television star now.”

“No reminder necessary. Not since you reminded me of that particular fact at least four times already today.” Probably his own fault. He’d snuck back into her apartment at dawn to tape a large gold star to her bedroom door. Thought she’d get a kick out of it.

“When I do cover you in oil and run my hands all over you,” she paused, placing her first finger at the corner of her mouth, “and notice I say when, not if…”

“Oh, I noticed,” Ben interjected.

“…I don’t want an audience of three million watching. I want you all to myself.”

Well. Ben tried to work up some saliva in his suddenly bone-dry mouth. Progress, indeed. Maybe his forced patience and endless blue-balled nights were paying off. At this rate, he’d finally get back into her panties before the Fourth of July. And he’d make damn sure she saw fireworks.

“How did you escape Ollie, anyway? I thought he was stuck to you like a tick. He’s been worked up all week about this wedding. Doesn’t want you to so much as re-tie the flower girl’s sash without getting it on camera.” Anthony, the groom, happened to be a senator. Just a state senator, so no big deal to Ben. But it was Ollie’s first brush up against a politician, and the kid could barely contain himself, sure he’d hit the big time.

“Even famous TV stars get bathroom breaks. I ditched him so I could do this.” Ivy stood on tiptoe to brush her lips against his. Feather soft, her kiss made him instantly ramrod hard.

“Good thing I’ve got a pillar to hide behind.” Ben adjusted his tux pants to ease the tightness around his balls. He loved kissing Ivy. Could do it for hours at a time and not get bored. But a few more of her kisses and he’d be bluer than the hair on the bride’s grandmother.

A warning hailstorm of high heels tapped across the marble floor. Ben re-shouldered his camera, flicked it on and aimed it at Ivy. As long as nobody stared directly at his crotch, he looked ready for action.

Julianna poked her head around the column. “I’m so glad I found you. We have an urgent situation. Everybody’s breathing and nobody’s bleeding, but it is serious.”

“Bride or groom?” asked Ivy.

“It’s Sarah. Her dress, to be precise.”

Moving at a fast clip, Ivy and Ben followed her across the black-and-white-checkerboard floor and down a hallway. “What happened? Five minutes ago she was making the rounds at the cocktail hour. Dirty martini with four olives in one hand, and Anthony in the other. Perfectly happy.”

“One of the groomsmen wanted to recreate the game-winning pass he made in high school that earned him a full-ride scholarship to Notre Dame.”

“During cocktails? In a room full of two hundred people in formalwear?” Ivy shook her head.

Sarcasm rolled off Julianna like fog at dawn in San Francisco. “You say that as if there’s a better time for acting out football?”

“I would’ve saved it for the dance floor,” Ben suggested.

Julianna narrowed her eyes and scowled at the camera. “And that’s why you won’t be on the invite list when I get married.”

No sense of humor whatsoever. Even though Ivy thought her indispensible, Ben would be thrilled if Julianna quit tomorrow. Or better yet, tonight. She still treated him with the barest of civility. At least her obvious near-loathing made it easy to yank her chain. “Here I thought it was because the sight of me in a tux brings out your inner horny cheerleader, and you wouldn’t be able to deny yourself before walking down the aisle.”

The redhead barked out a dry laugh. “You’ve got a rich fantasy life there, Ben.”

Ben nudged Ivy with his elbow. “Notice how she doesn’t deny it?”

“What I notice is that I’m still waiting to hear the exploits of the Fighting Irish groomsman.”

Julianna spun around, and kept walking backward so she could face Ivy. “Long story short, he got meningitis and missed the entire season his senior year.”

“How about the long version? You know, the one that includes what happened to Sarah’s dress?”

“Oh. He stepped on the back and ripped the bustle out.” She stopped in front of a door surrounded by the fancy lintels and carvings of the Georgian architecture. After a tug on the bottom of her deep purple jacket, she rapped sharply on the door. Ivy slid in first while Ben waited outside. They’d implemented the safety precaution after he’d walked in on—camera rolling—a delightful old woman, with her dress peeled down to her waist. Agnes had explained, through peals of laughter, that she’d always wanted to try on a push-up bra, but didn’t feel it was proper.

That is, until her granddaughter the bride shared half a bottle of champagne with her in the limo, and then offered up her own miracle bra. Ben thought the sight of the two women, sixty years apart, topless and laughing hysterically, showed their close bond. It was a wedding day memory neither would ever forget. Nevertheless, it scared the hell out of Ivy. Now she wouldn’t let him past any closed doors until she gave the all clear.

Julianna opened the door a crack and beckoned him into the makeshift bride’s room. Garment bags, clothes and assorted tote bags littered the floor. So many curling irons, steamers and flat irons sagged from outlets it surprised Ben they hadn’t shorted out the entire building. Tackle boxes full of makeup balanced on folding chairs. In the middle of the chaos stood Sarah, head craned around like a dog chasing its tail. When she opened her mouth, Ben braced for anything from sobs to screams.

“The bustle’s gone. Stupid Mike. He trots out that pass every time there’s a party. We’ve all seen it a hundred times. Now he’s ruined my dress. I’ve got a four-foot train. How am I supposed to have any fun dragging four feet of satin and lace behind me?”

“Your dress isn’t ruined. It is still beautiful, and you are breathtaking.” While she spoke, Ivy ran her hands all around Sarah’s train, lifting and gathering. As her arms rose and fell, so did her words, soothing and distracting. “Did you see Anthony’s face as you came down the aisle? We could’ve lit up the Hancock Building with his smile. You and this dress blew him away.”

The memory stopped the tears welling in Sarah’s big, brown eyes. Ben caught the moment of transformation. He knew that split second where she flipped from the edge of full blown panic into dreamy remembrance would be the shot of the night.

“I’m so lucky. Anthony’s the best man in the world.”

“You can tell him to his face in five minutes.” Ivy rummaged through her emergency bag. “Julianna, please let the caterers and the band know we’re pushing everything back by ten. While you’re at it, reassure the groom his bride has not gone AWOL on him.”

“What are you going to do?” Ben asked.

Ivy rolled her eyes. “Kind of a stupid question. The girl needs a bustle, so I’m sewing her one. Actually, I could use your help. Hold this.” She stuffed an acre of heavy fabric into his free hand.

“It weighs a ton.” Ben panned across the length of the train slowly. “What held that up before?”

“A complicated system of buttons and loops. None of which can be fixed at this moment, since two of the buttons are missing and the loops tore away.”

Sarah gasped. “Our signature dance is the samba. We’ve been taking classes for months. I can’t do it if we’re both tripping over my stupid train.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got something better and faster than buttons. A secret weapon.” She threaded her needle and dove into the bunched material.

Ben knew absolutely nothing about sewing. He did, however, know a little bit about fishing. The most important fact being that he hated it. But he did recognize the assorted bits and pieces of the sport. “That looks like fishing line.”

“It is. Super duper strong. Stronger than steel, in fact. This particular one is spiderwire fused line. They use it in deep sea fishing.” Ivy sat on the floor and tunneled up through the copious layers of the dress.

“Very impressive, Captain Rhodes. Are you going to follow this up by using a cutlass on the cake?” Ben razzed her, since talking was the only way to keep his jaw from hitting the floor. The most ruffled, pink-pouf-loving woman he’d ever met knew about the tensile strength of fishing line? She amazed him. His girl could take any random nugget of information and find a way to apply it to weddings.

Wait.
His girl?
Where the hell did that come from? Did his very own, mutinous brain cells spit out that thought? Ivy was…a challenge. A colleague. A great way to make the weeks fly by while stuck in Chicago. The most exciting woman he’d ever chased. But only for right now. She might be a lot of things, but the single, overarching thing she wasn’t—was
his girl
.

“I watched you on television this week,” Sarah blurted out.

Right along with the rest of America. The phones at Aisle Bound had rung off the hook for the past two days. All the vendors apologized, calling Ivy a credit to their craft. They even wanted her to speak about her experience on
Wild Wedding Smackdown
at the next Association meeting. Ben thought she should do it. Take the opportunity to make ’em all feel bad for cold-shouldering her in the first place. Ivy, being far less petty and vindictive than him, was still on the fence.

Wannabe clients called in droves; the more aggressive lining up around the block, hoping to snag the hottest planner in Chicagoland for their wedding. Milo even fielded calls from out-of-state; brides who offered to fly her to Miami, Dallas and Los Angeles, respectively to work her magic on their big day. Ben and Ollie captured it all on film. The network was ecstatic.

“It’s sweet you took the time to watch,” said Ivy, right arm flying up and down with each long stitch. “You had such a busy week with so many of your family flying in from New Mexico.”

“It kicked off my bachelorette party. We all had chocolate martinis and watched my awesome wedding planner in action.” Sarah lowered her voice to a near-whisper. “I hate to admit it, but I laughed. The girls and I all laughed when that skydiver landed in the pond.”

Hell, who could blame her? It had taken all of Ben’s years of experience not to lose it himself when that guy cannonballed into the water. If he hadn’t been holding a camera, no, getting
paid
to hold a camera still, he’d have laughed his ass off.

Sarah double checked the bobby pins holding her elaborate up-do, pressing each one a millimeter deeper into the mound of sausage curls. “We thought the wedding was ruined. But you saved it.”

“All it takes for a perfect wedding is the bride and groom declaring their love. Everything else is icing on the cake.” Ivy recited her mantra fervently. Ben had heard her use it at every wedding, many rehearsals, and every single potential client appointment. Yet each time, she managed to infuse the words with an almost worshipful ring of truth. Ben couldn’t say the same words with a straight face if offered a million dollars.

After a deep breath, Sarah rolled on in a rush. “Still, I laughed at that poor girl, and smugly thought how lucky I was that nothing like that would possibly happen at my wedding. I hired you to plan my wedding two days after I got engaged because I didn’t want to risk anything going wrong. Didn’t want to be stressed out by a year of decision making. Didn’t want to call fourteen different bakeries to set up tastings, or spend my weekends putting favors together. And you’ve been terrific. While watching
Wild Wedding Smackdown
, I never imagined I’d have a disaster at my own wedding. Yet here you are, coming to my rescue. Nobody will ever know what a near miss I had.”

Ben wiggled his fingers in the soft folds of her dress. With his arm outstretched so he could still film, the ache in his bicep was almost as painful as his overworked calves. He’d take Ivy up on her sexy massage talk—except tonight, he actually wanted the massage more than the sex. Not that it mattered. He’d pulled out every well-honed trick in the book, and still couldn’t get back into Ivy’s bed. Every date ended the same way—him going back to the Cavendish. He either swam off his frustration or headed straight for a cold shower. Had the messy end to their April weekend caused her to re-virginize? Take a vow of celibacy? Because that’s the kind of information that really ought to be shared, upfront. Of course, Julianna would leap at the chance to point out he had no one to blame but himself, if that were the case.