Always the Wedding Planner, Never the Bride Page 8

  "I'm sorry," Emma offered. "Look, we've accomplished a lot tonight. We have the guest list pared down."

  "From almost two hundred people to sixty-one," Sherilyn conceded. "That's a minor miracle. Of course, Vanessa is sure to have a stroke."

  "And you have the final list safely saved in your BlackBerry."

  "Yes."

  "And you've chosen the room, the colors, and the invitation. You're even moseying toward a final menu."

  "True."

  "Now all we need is a date."

  Sherilyn fell backward into the sofa and buried her face in one of the pillows.

  "Pace yourself," Emma said with a chuckle. "You can choose a date tomorrow. Of course, none of it will matter if you don't pick a dress."

  Sherilyn let out a long, labored growl.

  "So when is moving day?" Emma asked her as she tossed another pillow at her friend.

  "We close on the house next week," she replied, tossing both of the pillows to the sofa beside her. "I'll move in right after. And so will Henry."

  "The dog?"

  "Ninety pounds of clumsy, hairy, and nauseated."

  "Sounds like my Grandpa Dwayne, may he rest in peace." They shared a laugh before Emma added, "You're going through with it then."

  "I am."

  "You. And a dog."

  "Yep."

  Emma thought that over for a moment. Shaking her head, she asked, "Remember when I wanted a dog? You threatened to move out of our apartment. You must really love you some Dr. Drummond, girl."

  "Yeah," she stated thoughtfully. "I really must."

  A strange thread of anxiety surged through Sherilyn, but she didn't have time enough to identify it clearly. A quick tap sounded at Emma's front door, and Jackson pushed it open.

  Emma hopped to her feet and into Jackson's arms before Andy even closed the door behind them.

  "Did you boys have a good time?" Emma asked, Jackson's arm still around her waist.

  "Well, I did," Jackson replied. "But then my team won."

  The women groaned sympathetically, and Andy frowned.

  "What can I say? My Blackhawks failed me."

  "Get used to it," Jackson teased.

  "Ready?" he asked Sherilyn, and she nodded, grabbing Andy's extended hand.

  He pulled her to her feet, and as she slipped her laptop case over her shoulder, Sherilyn turned toward Emma. "Thanks for tonight."

  "Anytime." Emma grinned at Andy as she added, "We made great strides toward your walk down the aisle."

  "Oh, good," Andy replied, but Sherilyn didn't think he sounded too convincing.

  Once they said their final goodnights and were settled in Andy's car on their way back to The Tanglewood, Sherilyn leaned forward and turned down the volume on the radio.

  "Want to hear the magic number?" He gave her one of those noncommittal half-nod, half-shrugs, and she exclaimed, "Sixty-one!"

  "Sixty-one what?"

  "Guests."

  "Guests," he repeated.

  "The guest list," she clarified. "For the wedding. Emma and I were able to whittle that thing down from nearly two hundred people to a stunning sixty-one."

  Andy rumbled out a sigh. "Mother will have a stroke."

  "That's what I told Emma!" she replied with a giggle. "But I feel great about it. And we chose the invitation, the room. All we need now is a date."

  Andy nodded as he made a left turn through traffic.

  "And a dress, of course. I still can't decide on my dress."

  "There's no rush, is there?" he asked. "You'll find something."

  Sherilyn gazed at Andy and noticed the hard, square line of his jaw.

  Now there's no rush? Wasn't it you who said we were on the fast track?

  After a minute or so, she asked him, "Are you all right?"

  "Sure. Why?"

  "You just seem quiet."

  "I'm fine."

  "They didn't do it on purpose, you know."

  He glanced at her curiously. "Who didn't do what on purpose?"

  "The Blackhawks."

  He blew out a chuckle. "It's my own fault. I forgot to let them know I was counting on them."

  "They'll do better next time. We'll phone ahead, ask them not to embarrass you like that."

  Andy reached across the seat and squeezed Sherilyn's hand.

  "So do you want to talk about dates?"

  Andy didn't reply. As she watched him, she wondered if he'd even heard her.

  "Andy?"

  He sighed. "Do we have to do this now?"

  Biting her lip, she replied, "I guess not. I just thought—"

  "It's been a long day, Sherilyn."

  There had been a sort of punctuation to the statement. In no uncertain terms, the conversation had come to a close. He'd

  never been so abrupt with her before, and Sherilyn resisted the urge to press for an explanation, to dig deeper to find out what was really going on. Instead, she leaned forward in resignation and simply turned up the volume on the radio.

  Soft strains of James Taylor urged listeners to shower the people they loved with love and show them the way that they feel. Sherilyn caressed Andy's forearm. At the moment, it was all the showering she could manage.

  Not that he seemed to notice anyway.

  Wedding Themes: The Victorian Wedding

  LOCATIONS

  A garden location is essential in characterizing the

  Victorian era

  An outdoor setting with an open pavilion

  An inn or church depicting the era's ambiance

  THE BRIDE AND GROOM

  For the bride: conservative styling with long sleeves and a high neckline

  A wide-brimmed hat, cameo brooch, lace cuffs, gloves, ankle boots, or a lace parasol

  For the groom: top hat and tails, or possibly a dark blue frock coat

  Elaborate walking canes, capes, waistcoats

  FLOWERS

  Nosegay or tussie-mussie bouquet of pastel rosebuds

  Hyacinth, pansies, tulips, orange blossoms

  THE RECEPTION

  Fine china, teacups, and lots of candles

  Small fringed lamps and silk scarves adorning them

  THE CAKE AND FAVORS

  A Victorian-style fruitcake with white icing in scrolled patterns

  Favors, such as a penny for prosperity, attached to a long ribbon and baked into the cake

  8

  I need something sweet. Preferably chocolate. Whatcha got?"

  Fee raised her eyes and stared at Sherilyn over the bridge of her glasses for a moment before returning her attention to applying a thin line of red piping around the third layer of a massive cake.

  "On the counter," she stated. "Mocha latte cookies."

  Sherilyn hurried toward them. Dozens of round, light brown cookies, one side of each dipped in a thick layer of shiny, dark chocolate.

  "Are you kidding me with these?" she asked before plucking one of the cooling cookies from the runner of wax paper. Holding it up to her nose, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She bit off a piece of the cookie, holding it on her tongue for a moment before swallowing. "What's in them?"

  "Coffee, chocolate, all the good stuff."

  "I'll say," she replied, biting off another chunk of the warm, chewy cookie.

  Fee finished her piping work and set about applying large, perfectly-crafted red sugar roses to the cake. Sherilyn grabbed another cookie before sliding atop one of the stools at the worktable.

  "That's beautiful."

  "Thanks."

  "Beekman wedding?" she asked curiously. It didn't look like what Madeline had decided on.

  "Sullivan anniversary."

  "Ah."

  "So how are you getting settled up there?" Fee asked as she cautiously poked the final rose into place at the base of the top tier.

  "Pretty well, actually. I've been sitting in on Madeline's scheduled appointments, and I've met a few of the regular vendors." She paused to pop the last of the latte cookie into h
er mouth, and she sighed. "Mmm, this is cookie brilliance."

  "Emma went through about half a dozen versions before she finally got it just the way she wanted it."

  "How does she do that? I mean, she can't very well sample them all. She's diabetic."

  "That's why God sent me," Fee grinned.

  Sherilyn nodded into a shrug and smiled. "Used to be me . . . So anyway, I have my first meeting with Norma this afternoon to discuss how she manages her non-wedding events."

  "What time?"

  "What time do I meet with Norma?"

  "Yeah."

  "Two o'clock. Why?"

  "Emma hasn't told you?" Fee looked positively cat-atethe-canary as she leaned forward on the table and chuckled, and Emma made an entrance whose timing was Broadwayworthy.

  "What haven't you told me, Emma Rae Travis?" Sherilyn asked her as Emma sailed on past and into her office. "We're taking you shopping this afternoon," she called back.

  Sherilyn hopped down and followed her. "Shopping for what?" she asked, leaning in the doorway.

  "A wedding dress."

  "Oh, no," Sherilyn growled. "I can't. I don't have the strength to try on anymore wedding dresses that make me look like an elegant cow!"

  "Then we won't try those on," Emma told her, and she dropped an armload of magazines and file folders to the top of her desk. Without pause, she pushed her way past Sherilyn and back into the kitchen. "We'll just pull the magical ones."

  When she reached Fee, Emma held out her fist, which Fee bumped two times fast with a grin. Palms upright and two slaps, then two returned, a couple of animated hip bumps, and the two of them exclaimed in unison, "Hoo-yeah!"

  "What is that? Some sort of secret baker handshake?" she asked them from the doorway to Emma's office.

  "Sort of," Fee answered. "You want to be in the club too?"

  Sherilyn shook her head. "Probably not."

  "Well, we're going to take you to an awesome dress shop that Fee knows. And if there's nothing there that you deem magical, well, we'll just go to another one."

  "And another," Fee added, "until you find your wedding dress."

  Sherilyn grimaced and made her way toward the counter again. "It's not like there's any rush," she commented before picking up one more cookie and biting into it.

  "Uh-oh. That doesn't sound good," Emma said.

  "On the way back to the hotel last night, I was telling Andy that I hadn't found a dress yet, and I suggested we pick a date for the ceremony. Do you know what he said to me?" She pushed the rest of the cookie into her mouth and chewed it with a frown. "No rush! To pick a date or find a dress, he said

  there's no rush!" After she swallowed the last of the cookie, she deflated atop one of the stools.

  "Don't worry," Emma reassured, standing behind her and patting her on the shoulder. "It's just another phase."

  "Just press on," Fee told her with a nod.

  "Man," Sherilyn groaned. "That after-care thing is ruthless, isn't it? Why haven't I ever heard about it before? If it's some kind of big hush-hush secret among women, shouldn't someone have told me?"

  "You didn't know the handshake," Fee teased, and Sherilyn let out a spontaneous laugh.

  Norma arrived at the table with two cups of coffee. Sherilyn continued tapping at the keyboard as she sat down across from her.

  "Emma said you take milk and three sugars?"

  "Yes. Thanks, Norma." She closed her laptop and took a sip from the white porcelain mug.

  "So what do you think?" Norma asked her. "We've covered most of what I do, and how my events might intersect with your weddings now and then. Did you think of any additional questions?"

  Sherilyn shook her head and smiled, stirring her coffee with the small silver spoon leaning against the side of the cup.

  "Not that there are too many non-wedding soirees at The Tanglewood. A birthday here and an anniversary there, but I think people have pretty much—"

  Norma's observations were cut short as something crashed to the table between them. Coffee mugs went flying just before the table turned over amid Norma's spontaneous wail and Sherilyn's own instinctive and primal scream.

  Sherilyn, still occupying her chair, clutching her open pink laptop to her chest, and relatively unscathed by the chaos, couldn't seem to catch her breath as she surveyed her surroundings. Shattered glass littered the brick courtyard, and a large scruffy man rolled over at her feet.

  "Arghhh!"

  As she took it in and began to gather her wits about her again, Norma touched her on the shoulder. "Are you all right?"

  Sherilyn simply nodded, still dazed, but she nearly jumped out of her skin when the guy at her feet—the one who'd dropped out of the sky—groaned and wrapped his arm around her ankle.

  She let out another little scream and popped up from her chair, still holding tight to her open laptop, and maneuvered her foot away from his grasp. Norma dialed her cell phone as he groaned again, and Sherilyn knelt down beside him.

  "Uh, sir? We're going to call an ambulance, OK? Just, umm, be calm and try . . . not to . . . you know . . . move."

  "Nah. No ambulance," he growled, tugging on his somewhat tattered gray T-shirt screened across the front with a large banana.

  The courtyard doors burst open, and a couple of strangers emerged from the lobby. A young wisp of a girl stood several feet back, her arms folded across her barely-there chest, as the middle-aged man in a disheveled blue suit raced to the crumpled guy's side.

  "Russell! Russell, what were you thinking, you moron? Can you move?"

  "Well, I'm not entirely sure," Norma exclaimed into her cell phone. "I think he . . . fell out of . . . a tree? We definitely need the para—"

  "No!" the suit exclaimed, and he flew toward her and snatched Norma's phone away from her before she could

  complete her request. "Sorry, never mind," he said into the phone and closed it, disconnecting the call, and he handed Norma her phone.

  "What is going on here?"

  Sherilyn spun around on her heels as Jackson bounded through the doors. "Norma? What happened?"

  "I don't really . . . I don't know, Jackson. We were sitting at a table, and the next thing we knew, this gentleman came barreling out of the sky."

  Jackson squinted at her for a moment before turning to Sherilyn. "Did you see what happened?"

  "He just dropped right on the table between us, Jackson!"

  "Is he hurt? Hey, are you hurt?"

  The blue suit cut Jackson off at the pass, taking him by the arm and leading him away from the groaning man. "Alan Burkus," he said, forcing his hand into Jackson's and shaking it. "And you are?"

  "Jackson Drake. I own this hotel."

  "Excellent! The man in charge. Frankly, Mr. Drake, we have a bit of a situation here—"

  "I can see that," Jackson replied as Burkus pushed him toward the lobby door.

  "Let me fill you in."

  The writhing man reached out his hand toward the slip of a girl. Keeping her distance from him, she looked almost as if she might spit on him before turning away.

  "Come on, Danielle." Sherilyn detected the distant whisper of an accent. British?

  "Don't talk to me, Russell." She, on the other hand, was 100 percent American.

  He laughed, looking to Sherilyn with a slight shrug. "Could I possibly get a little help to get up? And it appears I've lost my Cascade."

  "Your Cascade?"

  "His beer," Danielle snapped. "He climbs over the railing of his third-floor hotel room and falls out of the tree, and that's right. He's worried about what happened to his beer."

  Sherilyn inched toward him, brushing his arm awkwardly with the palm of her hand. "I think you should just stay right where you are until we make sure you're okay to move."

  He appeared to consider her words before he finally rolled his hand through the air in an effort to call her closer. Sherilyn approached him with caution, but he rolled his hand again, nodding. "That's right. Come here."

 
She took one more step toward him, and the overpowering scent of alcohol wafted toward her. Upon closer inspection, she took note of his bloodshot green eyes, his dazed expression, and the bead of drool balancing on the corner of his mouth.

  "Are you drunk!?" she exclaimed.

  He pushed his shaggy blond hair away from his face and chuckled. "Not quite drunk enough," he said with a bitter tone. "But I'm willing to work on that. I believe you'll find I'm quite agreeable that way."

  Australian.

  Norma took Sherilyn's arm and pulled her away from him. Before they could exchange a word, Jackson reappeared with Alan Burkus close behind.

  "Sherilyn, I need Andy's cell number."

  "Andy?"

  "Please. Right away."

  "O-oh, okay."

  Jackson climbed out from behind the wheel of the car, followed by an unamused middle-aged man pushing his way out from the back seat.

  "A little help here?" he snapped.

  Jackson and Andy exchanged quick looks before they rounded the back of the car.

  There he was, just as Jackson had forewarned, looking very much like one of the dozen headline photographs that had kept the tabloids in business over the last year or so.

  Andy shook his head as he leaned into the back seat. "That really is Russell Walker."

  "Pleased to make your acquaintanceship," he slurred. "No autographs, please."

  Andy straightened and raised a curious eyebrow at Jackson before stating, "Let's get him out of the car and into the clinic while there's no one around."

  It took all three of them to pull Walker out and dump him like a heap of potatoes into the seat of a wheelchair.

  "Get this car out of here," Burkus snapped at a new arrival, a towering black man with a gold stud earring and a completely bald head. "Then come inside. We're going to need you."

  Andy pushed the chair through the sliding door, Jackson and Burkus keeping up with him stride for stride.

  "I've only been working here about eight minutes, so I don't know the staff well enough to choose someone based on their discretion. I did the best I could. We have one radiologist to take x-rays so I can evaluate his injuries."

  "And then what?" Burkus asked.

  "Then we'll wing it from there."