Happy Ever After
Page 3
Parker noted down MOH for Angelica, the maid of honor, then continued to record other members of the wedding party. The best man as the White Rabbit, the mother of the groom as the Cheshire Cat, father of the bride, the March Hare.
She wondered what Sabina had eaten, drunk, or smoked before going to bed.
“Isn’t it fascinating, Parker?”
“Absolutely.” As had been the pattern of tea leaves that had determined Sabina’s bridal colors, the tarot reading that had forecast her honeymoon destination, the numerology that had pointed to the only possible date for her wedding.
“I think maybe my subconscious and the fates are telling me I need to do an Alice theme for the wedding.With costumes.”
Parker closed her eyes. While she’d have said—and would say now—that the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party suited Sabina to the ground, the event was less than two weeks away.The decor, the flowers, the cake and desserts, the menu—the works—already chosen.
“Hmm,” Parker said to give herself a moment to think.“That’s an interesting idea.”
“The dream—”
“Says to me,” Parker interjected, “the celebrational, magical, fairy-tale atmosphere you’ve already chosen. It tells me you were absolutely right.”
“Really?”
“Completely. It tells me you’re excited and happy, and can’t wait for your day. Remember, the Mad Hatter held his tea party every day. It’s telling you that your life with Chase will be a daily celebration.”
“Oh! Of course!”
“And, Sabina, when you stand in front of the looking glass in the Bride’s Suite on your wedding day, you’ll be looking at yourself with Alice’s young, adventurous, happy heart.”
Damn, I’m good, Parker thought as the crazy bride sighed.
“You’re right, you’re right.You’re absolutely right. I’m so glad I called you. I knew you’d know.”
“That’s what we’re here for. It’s going to be a beautiful wedding, Sabina.Your perfect day.”
After she hung up, Parker lay back a moment, but when she closed her eyes, the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party—Disney version—ran manically in her head.
Resigned, she rose, crossed over to the French doors to the terrace of the room that had once been her parents’. She opened them to the morning air, took a deep breath of dawn as the sun took its first peek over the horizon.
The last stars winked out in a world perfectly, wonderfully still—like a breath held.
The upside of crazy brides and those of that ilk was wakefulness just before dawn when it seemed nothing and no one but she stirred, nothing and no one but she had this moment when night passed its torch to day, and the silvery light sheened to pearl that would shimmer—when that breath released—to pale, lustrous gold.
She left the doors open when she walked back into the bedroom. Taking a band from the hammered silver box on her dresser, she pulled her hair back into a tail. She shed her nightshirt for cropped yoga pants and a support tank, chose a pair of running shoes off the shelf in the casual section of her ruthlessly organized closet.
She hooked her BlackBerry to her waistband, plugged in her headphones, then headed out of her room toward her home gym.
She hit the lights, flipped on the news on the flat screen, listening with half an ear as she took a few moments to stretch.
She set the elliptical for her usual three-mile program.
Halfway through the first mile, she smiled.
God, she loved her work. Loved the crazy brides, the sentimental brides, the persnickety brides, even the monster brides.
She loved the details and demands, the hopes and dreams, the constant affirmation of love and commitment she helped to personalize for every couple.
Nobody, she determined, did it better than Vows.
What she, Mac, Emma, and Laurel had taken head-on one late summer evening was now everything and more than they’d imagined.
And now, she thought as her smile widened, they were planning weddings for Mac in December, Emma in April, Laurel in June.
Her friends were the brides now, and she couldn’t wait to dig deeper into those fine details.
Mac and Carter—traditional with artistic twists. Emma and Jack—romance, romance, romance. Laurel and Del (God, her brother was marrying her best friend!)—elegant yet streamlined.
Oh, she had ideas.
She’d hit mile two when Laurel came in.
“Fairy lights. Acres and miles and rivers of tiny white fairy lights, all through the gardens, in the willows, on the arbors, the pergola.”
Laurel blinked, yawned. “Huh?”
“Your wedding. Romantic, elegant, abundance without fuss.”
“Huh.” Laurel, her swing of blond hair clipped up, stepped on the machine next to Parker’s. “I’m just getting used to being engaged.”
“I know what you like. I’ve worked up a basic overview.”
“Of course you have.” But Laurel smiled. “Where are you?” She craned her head, scanned the readout on Parker’s machine. “Shit! Who called and when?”
“Crazy Bride. Just shy of five thirty. She had a dream.”
“If you tell me she dreamed a new design for the cake, I’m going to—”
“Not to worry. I fixed it.”
“How could I have doubted you?” She eased through her warm-up, then kicked in. “Del’s going to put his house on the market.”
“What? When?”
“Well, after he talks to you about it, but I’m here, you’re here, so I’m talking to you first. We talked about it last night. He’ll be back from Chicago tonight, by the way. So . . . he’d move back in here, if that’s okay with you.”
“First, it’s his house as much as mine. Second, you’re staying.” Her eyes stung, shined. “You’re staying,” Parker repeated. “I didn’t want to push, and I know Del’s got a great house, but—Oh God, Laurel, I didn’t want you to move out. Now you won’t.”
“I love him so much I may be the next Crazy Bride, but I didn’t want to move out either. My wing’s more than big enough, it practically is a house. And he loves this place as much as you, as much as all of us.”
“Del’s coming home,” Parker murmured.
Her family, she thought, everyone she loved and cherished, would soon be together. And that, she knew, was what made a home.
She wondered what Sabina had eaten, drunk, or smoked before going to bed.
“Isn’t it fascinating, Parker?”
“Absolutely.” As had been the pattern of tea leaves that had determined Sabina’s bridal colors, the tarot reading that had forecast her honeymoon destination, the numerology that had pointed to the only possible date for her wedding.
“I think maybe my subconscious and the fates are telling me I need to do an Alice theme for the wedding.With costumes.”
Parker closed her eyes. While she’d have said—and would say now—that the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party suited Sabina to the ground, the event was less than two weeks away.The decor, the flowers, the cake and desserts, the menu—the works—already chosen.
“Hmm,” Parker said to give herself a moment to think.“That’s an interesting idea.”
“The dream—”
“Says to me,” Parker interjected, “the celebrational, magical, fairy-tale atmosphere you’ve already chosen. It tells me you were absolutely right.”
“Really?”
“Completely. It tells me you’re excited and happy, and can’t wait for your day. Remember, the Mad Hatter held his tea party every day. It’s telling you that your life with Chase will be a daily celebration.”
“Oh! Of course!”
“And, Sabina, when you stand in front of the looking glass in the Bride’s Suite on your wedding day, you’ll be looking at yourself with Alice’s young, adventurous, happy heart.”
Damn, I’m good, Parker thought as the crazy bride sighed.
“You’re right, you’re right.You’re absolutely right. I’m so glad I called you. I knew you’d know.”
“That’s what we’re here for. It’s going to be a beautiful wedding, Sabina.Your perfect day.”
After she hung up, Parker lay back a moment, but when she closed her eyes, the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party—Disney version—ran manically in her head.
Resigned, she rose, crossed over to the French doors to the terrace of the room that had once been her parents’. She opened them to the morning air, took a deep breath of dawn as the sun took its first peek over the horizon.
The last stars winked out in a world perfectly, wonderfully still—like a breath held.
The upside of crazy brides and those of that ilk was wakefulness just before dawn when it seemed nothing and no one but she stirred, nothing and no one but she had this moment when night passed its torch to day, and the silvery light sheened to pearl that would shimmer—when that breath released—to pale, lustrous gold.
She left the doors open when she walked back into the bedroom. Taking a band from the hammered silver box on her dresser, she pulled her hair back into a tail. She shed her nightshirt for cropped yoga pants and a support tank, chose a pair of running shoes off the shelf in the casual section of her ruthlessly organized closet.
She hooked her BlackBerry to her waistband, plugged in her headphones, then headed out of her room toward her home gym.
She hit the lights, flipped on the news on the flat screen, listening with half an ear as she took a few moments to stretch.
She set the elliptical for her usual three-mile program.
Halfway through the first mile, she smiled.
God, she loved her work. Loved the crazy brides, the sentimental brides, the persnickety brides, even the monster brides.
She loved the details and demands, the hopes and dreams, the constant affirmation of love and commitment she helped to personalize for every couple.
Nobody, she determined, did it better than Vows.
What she, Mac, Emma, and Laurel had taken head-on one late summer evening was now everything and more than they’d imagined.
And now, she thought as her smile widened, they were planning weddings for Mac in December, Emma in April, Laurel in June.
Her friends were the brides now, and she couldn’t wait to dig deeper into those fine details.
Mac and Carter—traditional with artistic twists. Emma and Jack—romance, romance, romance. Laurel and Del (God, her brother was marrying her best friend!)—elegant yet streamlined.
Oh, she had ideas.
She’d hit mile two when Laurel came in.
“Fairy lights. Acres and miles and rivers of tiny white fairy lights, all through the gardens, in the willows, on the arbors, the pergola.”
Laurel blinked, yawned. “Huh?”
“Your wedding. Romantic, elegant, abundance without fuss.”
“Huh.” Laurel, her swing of blond hair clipped up, stepped on the machine next to Parker’s. “I’m just getting used to being engaged.”
“I know what you like. I’ve worked up a basic overview.”
“Of course you have.” But Laurel smiled. “Where are you?” She craned her head, scanned the readout on Parker’s machine. “Shit! Who called and when?”
“Crazy Bride. Just shy of five thirty. She had a dream.”
“If you tell me she dreamed a new design for the cake, I’m going to—”
“Not to worry. I fixed it.”
“How could I have doubted you?” She eased through her warm-up, then kicked in. “Del’s going to put his house on the market.”
“What? When?”
“Well, after he talks to you about it, but I’m here, you’re here, so I’m talking to you first. We talked about it last night. He’ll be back from Chicago tonight, by the way. So . . . he’d move back in here, if that’s okay with you.”
“First, it’s his house as much as mine. Second, you’re staying.” Her eyes stung, shined. “You’re staying,” Parker repeated. “I didn’t want to push, and I know Del’s got a great house, but—Oh God, Laurel, I didn’t want you to move out. Now you won’t.”
“I love him so much I may be the next Crazy Bride, but I didn’t want to move out either. My wing’s more than big enough, it practically is a house. And he loves this place as much as you, as much as all of us.”
“Del’s coming home,” Parker murmured.
Her family, she thought, everyone she loved and cherished, would soon be together. And that, she knew, was what made a home.
