Page 1 of Willa’s Weddings

1

WILLA

The groom’s mother wore a cream dress, because of course she did. It wasn’t a subtle cream, either. It was the kind that was basically white in photographs and dared anyone to call her out on it. Add to that the taffeta sleeves and the world’s most strategic push-up bra, and you had the textbook definition of a “moment.”

That alone made my blood boil and the processional hadn’t even started.

“Miss Brandt?” The hotel event coordinator sidled up to me, nervously twisting a walkie-talkie in his hands. “MOG is asking if she can get a peek at the seating chart.”

I kept my gaze on the door at the end of the hall and sucked in a long breath. “Tell her it’s been set and approved for weeks, and that if she touches it, her son is contractually obligated to not call her for Christmas.”

“Seriously?” The poor kid looked confused, like he couldn’t tell if I was joking or not. At six foot one, he still hadn’t mastered the art of not flinching when a five-foot-two woman in a severe ponytail barked orders at him.

“Just tell her you don’t have access to it. She can ask me if she wants.” I narrowed my eyes, hoping to convey the importance of her not coming to me with such a ridiculous request. “Thank you, Steve.”

I’d been planning luxury weddings for years and they were almost always the same. A version of organized psychological warfare. For as much as people paid me, my job wasn’t all about arranging flowers or serving the right canapés. Hell, it wasn’t even about getting the happy couple down the aisle without someone fainting from nerves. My job was really about keeping a few hundred warring egos pointed in the same direction for three to five consecutive hours.

It was a miracle I wasn’t in an institution.

My phone dinged with one of my many daily reminders. Drink water.

I had that exact reminder set to go off every two hours because if I didn’t, I could go an entire day with a drop of water and not realize it until my head was pounding, my lips were cracked, and I couldn’t form a coherent thought.

Fortunately, past Willa was smart enough to take care of present Willa or I’d never make it through the day. I downed half of my giant bottle then scanned the ballroom for anything out of place. So far, so good.

People think being a wedding planner was easy but it was anything but. The trick was to look so completely in control that people didn’t realize I was putting out infernos with my bare hands.

My earpiece crackled with the update I was dreading. “They’re fighting in the vestibule.”

I pulled the lapel mic to my lips and adopted my ‘calm for the security footage’ voice. “Copy. Who is ‘they’?”

“The mothers.” Of course it was the mothers. They’d been at odds since the first florist interview months earlier.

“On my way.” As I walked to the scene, I took a quick scan of the cake the bakers were setting up. It was fondant perfection. Four tiers that were each hand-painted with something called a watercolor ombre effect. Expensive and a bit pretentious for my taste, but most of my clients leaned toward flagrant consumerism over understated charm. I continued to the vestibule, clapping my hands loudly to interrupt the shouting match happening between the two menopausal matriarchs. “Excuse me, ladies. How can I help you?”

“Miss Brandt.” Beatrice Goodwin, the bride’s mother was the first to turn toward me with her arms crossed over her shoulders. “There seems to be some confusion about the cake.”

Sweet Jesus. “And what is that?” I made my face into its politest, most neutral setting. Fake.

She relaxed her stance as if trying to butter me up. “Martin’s mother is under the impression they went with chocolate, but my son doesn’t like chocolate. Never has. Not even when he was little.”

I nodded and took a step to the left, blocking her view of the gorgeous chocolate cake. “Actually, Evelyn is right. Martin and Amber did go with chocolate for two of the layers and they both seemed to really enjoy them at the tasting.” I smiled and tried to soften the blow. “Maybe his taste buds have evolved or maybe he’ll stick with the boston creme layer but either way, it’s a beautiful cake that the guests will enjoy.”

She looked past me and narrowed her eyes at the cake. “It’s not too late to change the top tier, is it?”

“I’ll ask.” I lied through my teeth as I waved over one of the ushers. “Let’s get you seated so we can get this wedding started.”

My phone vibrated against my hip with a new alert. Sugar level?

Excellent question, reminder app. It had been a while since I ate anything, so I popped an Altoid and forced myself to chew it. It was sugar, technically.

On my way to check with the caterers, I passed the best man. He was already rosy as he hit a flask and then slipped it back into his breast pocket. “Hey, Willa! You’re the fucking best!”

“Save something for the toast.” I kept going until Beatrice was seated on one side of the aisle and Evelyn was on the other side.

One crisis at a time.

I just had to keep my shit together for a few more hours.