Page 85 of This Is How It Started
He nods like he understands, but there’s a well of disappointment in his eyes. I know it has nothing to do with me not taking the listing. But I only have room for one man in my heart. Someday, I’ll find someone. A friend, a lover, a person I can settle down with. A companion. Someone easy, someone I don’t have to give too much, someone I don’t have to love with all my heart. It could never be that way with Campbell. And if I loved him the way I should, the way I know I would, it would be a betrayal of Josh.
I get to my feet because I can’t stay here any longer. The sheer depth of sorrow in the room is overwhelming.
“I’m excited for you,” I say, trying to sound like the friend I hoped I could be, but now I realize there’s too much between us for that to be possible. “You always wanted to travel. And this place”—I take one last look around—“when you’re done with it, it’ll go in a snap. It’s beautiful, Campbell.”
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I’ll walk you out.”
When we get to my car, no words pass between us, but there is a world of meaning in the silence. We both know this is it for us. Campbell is gone to me.
Chapter 30
Wedding Crasher
Shireen’s wedding is today, and I’m playing the part of event planner, even though I have no idea what I’m doing. Brooke is in the kitchen making enough canapes to feed the city, despite me reminding her that there are only fifty guests.
The fog seems to have lifted, promising a sublime day weather-wise. Not too cold. Still, the guests have been warned to bring wraps and coats. June in San Francisco can be like Christmastime.
The chairs for the ceremony have been set up on the front lawn. In back are the tent and tables. Shireen has hired a string quartet to play both at the ceremony and the reception. They appear to be pros and don’t need any guidance, leaving me to deal with the messier things. Like the wedding cake, which isn’t here yet and was supposed to be an hour ago. Every time I call to check on the baker’s ETA, I get “We’ll be there in ten minutes.” Ten minutes have come and gone three times now, and I’m about to lose my mind.
The flowers were unceremoniously dumped off in boxes this morning in front of the house. Silly me, I was under the impression that the florist was supposed to place the arrangements on each table and tie the leafy green garland Shireen ordered to the arbor and rows of chairs. This now falls on me? A person who has zero talent in this sort of thing?
Luckily, Josie came early to help the bride with her dress, and I foist the project on her.
“You were born for this kind of assignment,” I tell her, and she gives me the finger.
But when it’s done it looks spectacular, like something you’d see on Pinterest. I snap a few pictures for our portfolio, an idea I got from the leather-bound one in Shelby’s office. Later, I’ll sweet-talk Shireen’s photographer into giving us a few glossy pictures with the promise to recommend him in the future. I’ve already begun collecting business cards of reliable vendors. As soon as this is over, I plan to throw away the ones from the florist and cake baker.
The bartenders show up, lugging crates of booze. I point them in the direction of the bar and let them do their thing. The bride arrives—she’s an hour early. I send her upstairs to my parents’ old bedroom and tell her champagne is on the way. Then I remember she’s pregnant. Shit.
Brooke shoves a bottle of sparkling apple cider at me. The woman thinks of everything. I fill a lovely wine bucket I find in one of the cabinets with ice, grab a few crystal flutes and send Josie up with a tray.
“Keep her busy,” I say.
Jo beams like a proud mama. “Look at you all bossy and shit. Girl, you’ve found your calling.”
I don’t have time to contemplate Josie’s words. It’s only three hours until showtime, and there’s still a million things to do on my list, including sweeping the driveway for the valet station. I’ve hired a company that has a contract with a parking lot not far from here. Which works out perfectly.
I jog to the gardener’s shed and grab the broom. On second thought, this calls for the big guns. I put back the broom and pull out the leaf blower. Johnny, Mr. Scott’s replacement, was here yesterday. But the big oak out in front never stops shedding.
I’m out blowing when the Queen of Tarts—more like the Queen of Tardy—rolls up. I watch them carry Shireen’s four-layer wedding cake to the backyard with my heart in my mouth. All I need is for them to drop it.
They make it to the round table Josie has decorated with rose petals from the garden and manage to hoist it onto the lazy Susan without incident. Done. One more thing I can check off my list.
Back to the leaves. When that’s done, I remember the glass balls for the pool. As Mom predicted, they were in the attic. Brooke, on a break from the kitchen, helps me put them in the water. The effect is quite nice. Return on zero investment, priceless.
Brooke steps back and assesses the white tent, the pretty tables with their flouncy floral linens, the buffet stations lined up in perfect precision and lets out a sigh. “You’ve outdone yourself. Seriously, it looks like something out ofBridemagazine.”
I have to agree. I suppose I borrowed a little inspiration from my own wedding, which makes me all at once melancholy and proud that I can pass this on to someone as sweet and lovely as Shireen. Someday, her children will pore over the pictures from today and see how it started. I remember spending hours sifting through my parents’ wedding photos. Unlike my mega wedding, they had a small reception with just family and a few friends on the East Coast while my father was in medical school. They looked so happy in those photos that they instantly became my role model for the perfect couple.
I try not to think of that now and only want to focus on the bride and her special day.
“Oh shit, the place settings. They’re up in my room.” Josie and I stayed up all night at her place, making them on her Cricut machine. Hannah even came over and brought pizza.
I dash upstairs, bring them down and carefully line them up in alphabetical order on the guest book table.
Shireen’s parents are here. They’ve traveled from Minneapolis and stayed with the bride last night. But tonight, they’re staying in the cottage with their son and daughter-in-law, who are also here from Minneapolis. Shireen and her new husband will be taking the pool house. And Brooke is making a big breakfast for the wedding party tomorrow.
I send them up to the bride’s room and lug their bags—they’ve packed enough for a month—to the cottage. I go over my list one more time to see if there is anything I’ve missed, then check my watch. Only one more hour until the guests start arriving.
