Savour the Moment: Now the Big Day Has Finally Arrived, It's Time To... (8 page)

S
HE TRIED NOT TO DWELL ON IT. A PUNISHING SCHEDULE OF summer weddings helped keep her from thinking about what she’d done, at least for four out of every five minutes. Then again, so much of her work was solitary, and gave her entirely too much time to think and to ask herself how she could have done something so incredibly stupid.

He’d deserved it, of course. And it had been a long time coming. But when she came right down to the nitty, just who had she punished with that kiss except herself?

Because now it wasn’t merely theory or speculation. Now she knew how it would feel, how she would feel, if she let herself go—just for a minute—with Del. She’d never be able to convince herself again that kissing him in reality would fall far short of kissing him in her imagination.

She’d bought the ticket, and she’d rung the bell. No way to ask for a refund.

If he hadn’t made her so mad, she thought as she scurried to help with the turnover in the brief window between the two Saturday events. Del being infuriatingly Del with his “Why don’t you do it this way,” “Why aren’t you eating a real meal”—then,
then
reaching for his big, fat wallet as if ...

And that wasn’t fair; she had to admit it. She’d poked, pushed, prodded. She’d been primed for a fight.

She assembled the centerpiece on the graceful top tier of the white and gold cake she called Gilded Dreams. She considered it one of her more fanciful cakes with its silklike layered overskirt and coiled rosettes.

Not her particular taste either, she mused, and arranged some of the extra rosettes around the base, scattered over the sparkling gold tablecloth. Probably because she wasn’t a dreamer or especially fanciful.

A pragmatist was what she was, she thought. Reality-steeped. She wasn’t a romantic like Emma, or as free-flowing as Mac, or as optimistic as Parker.

At the bottom of it, she dealt in formulas, didn’t she? She could experiment with amounts and ingredients, but at the end of it she had to accept that certain components simply didn’t mix. Insisting on stirring the incompatible together ended up making an unpalatable mess. When that happened, the only thing to do was chalk it up to a mistake and move on.

“Gorgeous.” Taking a quick and approving survey of the cake, Emma set her hamper down. “I’ve got the candles and the table flowers.” She tipped her wrist to angle her watch before letting out a brief
whew.
“We’re right on schedule. Everything’s dressed, in and out, and Mac’s about done with the preceremony shots.”

Laurel turned to look at the Ballroom, surprised so much had been done while she’d brooded. More flowers, more candles yet to be lit, a scattering of tables draped in the shimmery gold and summer blue the bride had chosen.

“How about the Great Hall?”

“The caterers are finishing up, but my team’s done.” Emma arranged the tapers, tea lights, blossoms with her clever florist’s hands. “Jack’s keeping the groomsmen entertained. It’s nice, having him pitch in.”

“Yeah. Does it ever strike you as weird?”

“What?”

“You and Jack. Does it ever sneak up and strike you as weird, the way you knew each other for years, and hung out as friends, then took that one-eighty?”

Emma stepped back, then forward again to slide a rose over a quarter of an inch. “It strikes me as surprising sometimes, but more, scary when I think what wouldn’t have happened if we’d kept going straight ahead instead of taking that turn.” She shoved at one of the pins trying to keep her mass of curls restrained. “It’s not weird to you, is it?”

“No. I sort of wonder if it’s weird that it’s not weird.” Laurel stopped, shook her head. “Ignore me. My head’s in a strange place.” With some relief, she heard Parker’s signal in her earbud. “Two-minute warning. If you’re good here, I’ll go down and help with the lineup.”

“I’m good. I’ll be right behind you.”

Shedding her apron, unclipping her hair as she went, Laurel hurried down and arrived at the checkpoint with thirty seconds to spare. Not her taste, she thought again, but she had to admit the bride knew what she was doing. A half dozen attendants lined up under Parker’s orders, glittering in their bell-skirted gold gowns with the striking bouquets Emma had created of blue dahlias offset with white roses. The bride herself, a regal vision in lustrous silk, pearls gleaming, sequins sparkling on her formal train, stood radiant beside her father—and he was damn dashing in white tie and tails.

“MOG’s in place,” Parker murmured to Laurel. “MOB’s being escorted now. Ladies! Remember to smile. Caroline, you look spectacular.”

“I feel spectacular. This is it, Daddy,” she said.

“Don’t get me started.” He took his daughter’s hand, pressed it to his lips.

Parker cued the music change so the string orchestra the bride had chosen segued into the entrance music. “Number one, go. Head up! Smile!You’re gorgeous. And ... number two. Heads up, ladies.”

Laurel smoothed skirts, adjusted headpieces, and finally stood with Parker to watch the bride take her walk on the flower-strewn path.

“Spectacular’s
the word,” Laurel decided. “I thought it might be too much, just tipping over into gaudy. But it stops just an elegant inch short.”

“Yeah, but I can tell you I’ll be happy not to see gold or gilt for a month. We’ve got twenty minutes before we need to move the guests into the Great Hall.”

“I’m stealing ten and taking a walk. I need a break.”

Instantly Parker turned. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just need a break.”

Head-clearing time, Laurel thought as she circled around. Away-from-people time. The valet team would be in the kitchen now, getting fed before they went back on duty, so she took the long way around, past the side terraces and gardens to where she could enjoy the quiet, and the abundance of summer flowers.

Emma had set urns and pots here and there to add to that abundance, with wildly blue lobelia spilling or sweetly pink impatiens dancing. The beautiful old Victorian stood dressed for the wedding with the bride’s favored blue dahlias and white roses rioting around the entrance portico, swags of tulle and lace adding romance.

Even without them, the house was romantic, to her mind. The soft, quiet blue trimmed with cream and pale gold. All the rooflines, the pretty bits of gingerbread brought that romance, and a touch of fancy, to dignity. It had been a second home to her as long as she could remember. Now, of course, it was home. And that lovely house stood only a quick call from the pool house and guest house where her friends lived and worked.

She couldn’t imagine it any differently, even with Carter and Jack now in residence, even with the addition nearly complete on Mac’s studio to make it a home for two.

No, she couldn’t imagine her life without the estate, the house, the business she’d built with her friends and, well, the community they’d made here among them.

She had to think about that, Laurel admitted, about why she had what she had.

Her own hard work, certainly, and the hard work of her friends. Parker’s vision. The check Mrs. G had handed her that day, so many years ago—and the faith that had been as valued as the money—had thrown open the door.

But that wasn’t all.

The house, the estate, everything on and in it had gone to Parker and Del when their parents died. Del had taken a leap of faith, too, every bit as vital and essential as Mrs. G had when she’d written that check.

This was his home, Laurel mused, standing back, studying the lines, the grace, the beauty of it. But he’d signed it over to Parker. There were legal ins and outs, business models, projections, percentages, contracts—but the bottom line remained.

His sister—no, all four of them, what he liked to call the Quartet—had wanted something, had asked, and he’d given. He’d believed in them, and he’d helped them make a dream a reality. It hadn’t been for percentages or with projections in mind. He’d done it because he loved them.

“Damn it.” Irritated with herself, she dragged a hand through her hair. She hated knowing she’d been unfair and bitchy and just plain stupid.

Del hadn’t deserved the things she said to him—and she’d said them because it was easier to be pissed at him than attracted to him. And finally, kissing him? Stupid wasn’t even close.

Now she had to make amends, cover her ass, and save face. That sort of hat trick wouldn’t be a snap.

But she was the one who’d crossed the line, and she was the one with feelings that had to be resolved. So she was the one who had to fix it.

She heard Parker cue the lighting of the unity candle and the vocal solo.Time’s up, she told herself. She’d figure out how to work the fix later.

S
INCE SHE DIDN’T TRUST ANYONE ELSE TO PROPERLY CUT THE complicated design, Laurel stationed herself by the cake table. She waited while the bride and groom made the ceremonial first slice—where she’d instructed—and fed each other while Mac memorialized the moment. Then, while the music and dancing continued, she took over.

With a chef’s knife, she broke away the side decorations.

“Damn, that seems wrong.”

She glanced at Jack as she began to slice and transfer cake to serving plates. “It’s meant to be eaten.”

“I look at something like this and think, if I’d built it, I’d have to be far away when it was demolished. And I might still have to dab at a few tears.”

“It hurts the first few times, but then it’s not like building a house.You don’t do that knowing a wrecking ball’s going to swing into it eventually. Want a piece?”

“Damn right.”

“Hang on until we get the first couple of server trays filled.” Which, she concluded, would give her an opening to pump him for information. “So, Del’s not coming over to play with you tonight?”

“I think he’s got something going.”

Something female, she supposed. But that was none of her business, and not to the point.

“I guess you’re both too busy to hang out much these days.”

“Actually, we caught dinner Thursday night.”

After “The Kiss,” she thought. “So, what’s the news, what’s the gossip?” She slanted up a quick smile, trying to read his face.

“The Yankees are having a good month,” he said, and smiled back.

No awkwardness, she concluded, no smirkiness. She couldn’t decide whether to be insulted or relieved that Del hadn’t mentioned the incident to his closest friend.

“Here.” She handed him a generous slice of cake.

“Thanks.” He sampled. “You’re a genius.”

“Too true.” Satisfied she’d cut enough servings for now, she wound through wedding guests to check the dessert table and groom’s cake.

Music pumped, packed the dance floor. With the terrace doors wide open to the balmy night, guests danced or gathered outside as well.

Parker sidled up beside her. “The cake’s an enormous hit, FYI.”

“Good to know.” Laurel scanned the nearest dessert table and judged that supplies would probably last through the final dance. “Hey, is that the MOB?” She nodded toward the dance floor. “Girl’s got some moves.”

“She was a professional. Danced on Broadway.”

“I can see it.”

“That’s how she and the FOB met. He was a backer, came in to watch a rehearsal, and—he says—fell for her on the spot. She danced until after their second child was born, and a few years later started giving private lessons.”

“Sweet. But seriously, how do you remember all that?” Parker continued to scan the room, eagle-eyed, for any problem. “The same way you remember all the ingredients in that cake over there. The B and G requested an extra hour.”

“Ouch.”

“I know, but everyone’s having a great time. The band’s okay with it.We’ll transfer the gifts as scheduled, so that’ll be done. Then, hell, let them dance.”

“It’s going to be a long night.” She reassessed the desserts. “I’ll go get some more pastries.”

“Need help?”

“Probably.”

“I’ll beep Emma. She and Carter should be free. I’ll send them down.”

A
T NEARLY ONE IN THE MORNING, WHILE THE CLEANING CREW massed over the Ballroom, Laurel completed her check of the Bride’s Suite. She gathered forgotten hair clips, a stray shoe, a pink leather makeup bag, and a lacy bra. The bra might be evidence of a quickie during the reception, or an attendant’s need to free her girls.

The items would go into Parker’s Lost and Found bin until claimed—with no questions asked.

As she carried them out, Parker swung by. “Looks like we’re clear. I’ll take those. Quick staff meeting.”

Every muscle in Laurel’s body whined in protest. “Tonight?”

“Quick one—I’ve got most of an open bottle of champagne to kill the pain.”

“Fine, fine.”

“Our parlor. Couple minutes.”

No use complaining, Laurel thought, and made her way down to the parlor to claim the sofa.

She stretched out. Groaned.

“I knew you’d get here first.” Since she couldn’t claim the sofa, Mac lay down on the floor. “The BM hit on me. Carter thought it was funny.”

“The sign of a confident man.”

“I guess. But the thing is, I hardly ever got hit on at events before Carter. It doesn’t seem right. I’m not available.”

“Hence the hitting on.” With a sigh instead of a groan, Laurel toed off her shoes. “I think men have built-in radar for that. Unavailable is sexier.”

“Because they’re dogs.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I heard that,” Emma said as she came in. “And I think that’s cynical and untrue. You got hit on because you’re gorgeous—and because now that you have Carter, you’re happier and more open—therefore only more appealing.” She dropped into a chair, curled up her legs. “I want to go to bed.”

“Join the crowd. We have to meet tomorrow for the Sunday run-through. Why can’t whatever it is wait?”

“Because.” Parker stepped in, pointed at Laurel. “I have something that’ll make everyone go to sleep just a little happier.” She took an envelope out of her pocket. “The FOB gave us a bonus. Though, I, of course, politely and delicately demurred, he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Ahh,” she added when she stepped out of her shoes. “We gave his little girl the wedding of her dreams, gave him and his wife an extraordinary night, and he wanted to show his appreciation over and above.”