Kaye Dacus - Stand-In Groom

Forgiving ol’ what’s-his-name didn’t seem so hard all of a sudden.

“It had to be you,” Anne sang with the music flooding her office. She smiled, recalling the warmth in George’s cinnamon-hazelnut eyes as he’d talked at length with her grandfather Friday evening at the picnic. He’d been such a good sport to put up with the ribbing Papere and the uncles had given him. But he still had to prove himself. She couldn’t just fall head over heels for him because he got along with her family.

She wound pink tulle onto a heavy cardboard bolt, pulling the fabric yard by yard out of the white trash bags that nearly filled the floor of her storage room. Her bride Saturday afternoon had taken the wedding from Steel Magnolias as her model, with pink bunting draped over anything that would stand still. Anne’s own wedding would be much more sophisticated—

Whoa. Thinking in terms like that could only bring disappointment. Sure, she liked George now, and he seemed to like her, but what if the glow wore off? What if she discovered him lying to her about something important again?

The future without George Laurence in it looked dim and dismal. But it was a possible reality she needed to face. At thirty-five, she was too old to indulge in a crush. She couldn’t pin her hopes on him. She could, however, have fun exploring the possibility of something permanent.

The room filled with Frank Sinatra’s voice crooning “I Get a Kick Out of You.” Anne sang along, swirling around in the tulle. She wished more brides would choose standards for their receptions. Easier to dance to, the words and music also spoke to a larger audience than the inane pop music of the moment her clients tended to choose.

George listened to the same kind of music, and oh, how he could croon it! But could he dance—more than just the waltz they’d already shared? If not, they could always take ballroom dancing together. She knew a few—the waltz, the fox-trot, and the cha-cha. She spun around, her feet tangled in the tulle, and she fell, landing on the soft pile of bags of fabric.

The bell on the front door echoed throughout the town house. Oh no, her ten o’clock consultation! She struggled to her feet and managed to reach the door. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” she called. Her own laughter didn’t make extrication from the pink cloud easy. Once out, she had to dive back in to find her left shoe and hair clip. She slipped into the eggplant-colored pump, then crossed to check her reflection in the mirror on the back of the storage room door. She ran her fingers through her hair, tossed the clip on the nearest shelf, opened the door, and rushed down the stairs.

The couple seated on the love seat under the front window stood. He was in his late thirties, slender, just over six feet tall, well dressed, wearing expensive shoes, and would look good in a single-or double-button coat, charcoal or black.

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting.” She extended her right hand to the bride first. “I’m Anne Hawthorne.”

“Kristin Smith. I’m so glad you were able to fit us into your busy schedule. This is my fiancé, Greg Witt.” Kristin looked several years younger than her fiancé. She stood about five and a half feet, with shoulder-length blond hair that would look good in an updo and a crown headpiece, and a pink skin tone that would look best with pure white.

Anne shook hands with the groom, then motioned for them to sit. She grabbed her planner off her desk before taking her place in the armchair across the coffee table from them. The purple tulips were starting to wilt a little. She’d have to call April’s Flowers to see if they’d gotten in another shipment.

“Let me start by saying congratulations. I know this is an exciting time for you as you start planning the biggest event of your life. My job as a wedding planner is to take the stress off of you on the administrative end so that you can relax and enjoy your day.” As she did with all potential clients, Anne reviewed her business credentials, association memberships, and certifications. Almost every potential client came in with a list of questions from the Internet to ask. Every list started with questions about the planner’s professional qualifications. She found most clients relaxed more if she got that information out before they had to ask.

“We saw the article about you in Southern Bride. That was one of the reasons I wanted to come to you.” Kristin tapped a black Waterford pen against her pink notepad. “How many weddings do you coordinate in an average month?”

“During the summer, I typically handle three to five weddings per month—about one a week. Some of those are just consultations—I help the bride plan ahead of time, and she handles everything the day of the wedding—while with others, I handle everything for the bride, allowing her to sit back and not have to worry about coordinating anything. Of course, during the fall, winter, and early spring, I don’t have as many clients. Did you have a wedding date in mind?”

“We’re looking at a couple of dates in the fall—October maybe?” The young woman pulled out a well-worn, checkbooksized calendar.

Anne flipped to October in her planner, nodding. “October’s a good month, especially if you’re thinking about an outdoor wedding. I have a couple of events already on the books for the first and third weekends but would be able to assist you either as a consultant if you choose one of those weeks or as your on-site planner any other week.”

Both bride and groom made notations in their calendars. “Do you have an assistant or someone who can fill in for you if something happens and you’re unavailable on our wedding day?” Kristin asked.

“Yes, if something happens and I am unavailable, I will line up a substitute to work with you at a discounted cost, although I have never missed a client’s wedding, so that shouldn’t be an issue.”

Kristin made another note and continued down the list of standard questions, becoming more open and chattier as Anne answered each concern. With the interview list complete, Anne guided the couple into talking about their ideas for what they wanted. She took copious notes, including the fact that neither seemed locked into any firm decisions. That could be good if they would be open to her suggestions. Bad if it meant they were indecisive.

When their half hour was almost up, Anne set her planner on the coffee table. Time to close out the consultation with chatty conversation. “So are both of you from Bonneterre?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Anne blinked and glanced from bride to groom.

“What Greg means is that he’s not from Bonneterre but I am.” Kristin’s explanation was rushed, her tone embarrassed. “What about you?”

“Bonneterre born and raised. Where’d you go to high school, Kristin?”

“Governor’s Academy.” The boarding school that cost more per year than an Ivy League university. “What about you?”

“Acadiana High.”

Kristin exchanged a glance with her fiancé. “Really? Were you there when Cliff Ballantine went to school there?”

Of course. Everyone always asked that when they heard what school she’d attended. “He was a year ahead of me. But it’s a really big school.” Her standard reply.

“I read somewhere that he’s getting married here.” Kristin gave her a sly grin. “You wouldn’t be planning his wedding, would you?”

Anne forced a smile. “I hadn’t heard he was getting married.”

“I just think it would be awesome to know what his wedding’s going to be like. It’s going to be the social event of the year, no matter where he gets married. But could you imagine planning his wedding? Whoever that wedding planner is, she’s set for life.” Kristin tucked her notepad and calendar into her pink gingham purse and stood.

Anne shook hands with the couple and walked them to the door. “Please let me know if you’d like me to write up a contract.”

“Oh, we’ll be in touch soon.”

Anne stood at the front door and watched as the couple crossed the square toward the restaurants on the other side. For a newly engaged couple, they weren’t very affectionate with each other. Oh well. Everyone showed their love in different ways. Odd that they didn’t even hold hands, though.

Where had they heard that Cliff was getting married—and in Bonneterre of all places? She prayed that wasn’t the case, although if it was true, it would have been on the front page of the Reserve. Planning his wedding, indeed. Besides the fact that he would never hire her personally, he would never stoop to hiring a local to plan what Kristin had aptly called the social event of the year. He probably had some overpriced Beverly Hills event planner on retainer—someone like the character Martin Short played in the remake of Father of the Bride: pretentious, foreign, and way overpriced.

The phone rang and interrupted her ponderings.

“Happy Endings, Inc. This is Anne Hawthorne.”

“Good morning, Anne.” George’s silky accent brought her fully to the present.

She sank into her chair and leaned her elbows on the desk. “Good morning, yourself. I guess you got my message?”

“I did. I would love to have dinner with you tonight. Shall I meet you or pick you up at the office?”

Her heart did a happy dance. “Actually, I’m coming to you.”

A warm chuckle melted through the phone. “I’d love to cook for you some night, but with no advance notice and Mama Ketty’s not being here…”

“The chef will be there at four o’clock to start cooking.”

“The chef?”

She laughed. “Major O’Hara, the executive chef for Boudreaux-Guidry. Tonight is the only time he has available to do a tasting menu for the rehearsal dinner. Since you didn’t have a chance to taste his food before agreeing to his catering the engagement party, I hope to set your mind at ease tonight.”