Planning for Love (3 page)

“You’re right. I’ve spent the last fourteen months obsessing over every tiny detail. To say it’s hard to let go, relinquish control, is an understatement.” Tracy’s self-deprecating grin quirked up the corners of her glossy lips. “But I knew I wouldn’t be able to enjoy today if I tried to do it all myself. And my friend Brittney said you were wonderful. You made sure she had fun while you ran the wedding like a Swiss clock. Knowing that makes it a little easier to relax.”

“I’ll make sure there’s a glass of champagne in your hand as soon as you and Seth finish recessing down the aisle,” Ivy promised. “Bubbles tend to jump start the relaxation process.”

Ben marveled at her calm. In his experience, the term wedding planner was synonymous with four-star general. Someone who barked orders into a headset. Bullied the wedding party into order. Ran circles around the bride, fussing and twittering. But not Ivy. She acted as more of a sounding board for the bride, almost like the foam covers around microphones that filter out ambient noise. Even more surprising, she seemed genuinely happy for Tracy. Hard to believe, since an hour before she’d been filled with resentment at being blindsided into appearing on
WWS
, all courtesy of the bride.

A breathtaking smile washed across Ivy’s face. The power of it rocked Ben to his core. Just a smile, right? People smiled a dozen times a day. Half the time it was an involuntary reaction, at best. So why couldn’t he resist zooming in, right past Tracy to fill the screen with her twinkling hazel eyes?

“Tracy, are you ready to marry the man of your dreams?” she asked.

The bride took a deep breath, held it, then nodded. Ivy stepped out from the cover of the trees and raised her arms. Ben trailed her, seizing the opportunity to be the lone voice of reason.

“You’re really not going to wait for the skydiver?”

“No need. He’ll drop down right on time.”

Maybe with her head so firmly in the clouds, she imagined she could see the parachute unfurling already. All Ben knew was that the clear April sky above didn’t hold a plane for as far as he could see in any direction. “Sure, in a perfect world. But this world of ours is light years from perfect.”

“Your lack of faith is astounding, and more than a little insulting.” She moved her arms up and down in wide gestures, out to the sides.

“What are you doing? Trying to flag down the next plane that soars by and hope it’s got a spare set of wedding rings and a guy willing to jump down with them?”

“Semaphores.”

Ben blinked. “You lost me.”

“A signaling system, usually with flags. Of vital importance to the British Navy during the Napoleonic Wars. Lets me communicate with my assistant Julianna silently, to let her know we’re ready to begin. I picked up the basic alphabet years ago as a lifeguard.”

He craned his head to see a short woman with a sleek brunette pixie cut signaling in their direction from the open second floor porches where the guests congregated. Ben hadn’t noticed Ivy even
had
an assistant. Talk about working smoothly behind the scenes! His admiration for her skill kicked up another few notches. With her running the show, his last official event for
WWS
might just come off without a hitch. And wouldn’t that drive his producers nuts!

“So no headsets or walkie talkies for you two?”

Ivy snorted. “It’s a wedding, not a space shuttle launch. They’re a measure of last resort for oversized events.”

Ben pressed on. Maybe the viewers would be interested in the behind-the-scenes minutiae. Of course, he really wanted to see if she’d throw off her own vaunted schedule by talking with him. “Such as?”

“Filipino weddings, for example, utilize sponsors in the ceremony. Their typical bridal parties are over fifty people. Imagine that many people squeezed up the stairs, into a choir loft to line up for the processional. If I’m at the back with the bride, there’s no way to see or hear the front of the line. Times like that, Julianna and I utilize electronics out of necessity. But for a wedding this size, I’d call it sheer pretention.” She walked to the edge of the pond and waved at the first bridesmaid and groomsman. Each of the four pairs floated in their own swan boat. Ben hoped none of the groomsmen’s legs gave out midway. Paddleboats could be a real workout.

With perfect synchronicity, the ear-splitting drone of the bagpipe rent the air as the first boat began to move. Ben made sure to get a close up, past the giant curved fiberglass swan neck to the red and yellow tartan yarmulke atop the groomsman’s head. It matched the pattern in the sash around the bridesmaid’s waist. By the time this wedding ended, his eyes would be bleeding red and yellow. One by one, the boats slowly glided across the pond. Ben kept one eye fixed on the cloudless sky.

To his surprise, a small biplane sputtered into the airspace directly overhead. As the first boat docked, a dark speck dropped from the wing of the plane. Seconds later, a red and yellow plaid parachute ballooned open, slowing the fast free fall. Ivy might’ve actually pulled off this crazy, complicated plan. Deep down, though, Ben still hoped the guy would land in the kangaroo pen.

“Tracy, as soon as Alan lands you’ll start up the path,” Ivy reminded her. Both women stood, riveted, eyes trained on the now visible man waving a small pillow. Down he gently plummeted.

Even though he’d told Ollie to get the skydiver, Ben couldn’t resist tracking the descent with his own camera. At this point, a landing on the kangaroos or antelope didn’t appear likely. Alan used his free arm to tug on ropes that corrected his course. By the time the last boat docked, he floated directly over the pond. The
center
of the pond. Zooming in, Ben could see lines of grim determination around his mouth as he yanked at the cords, but it was too late. With a mighty splash, Alan landed in the water, his parachute a bright spreading splotch on the serene blue surface.

He switched his focus to the open mouthed bride. Surprisingly, next to her Ivy still looked the picture of calm. Only her clenched fists gave any indication of alarm at the turn of events. Ben checked his watch and didn’t bother to stifle the belly laugh surging out of him. He poked her in the arm.

“Gotta hand it to you. He’s right on time.”

Chapter Three

Marriage is popular because it combines the maximum of
temptation with the maximum of opportunity.

—George Bernard Shaw

Ben thought about muting the sound, but then remembered
it wasn’t his job to be sensitive. From day one, the directive had been crystal
clear—keep rolling no matter what, especially if things get ugly. The weirder
and more embarrassing, the better. His producers weren’t fans of simple,
beautiful events. They craved tears, hair pulling, name calling and objects
hurled across the room. Not the most caring mission statement to follow, but it
paid the bills.

So he stood by and recorded Tracy’s shrill squeals for
posterity. The nearby zoo animals were probably going crazy from the noise. And
it was a sure bet the guests, even all the way on the opposite side of the pond,
could hear, too.

“My wedding is ruined. Ruined! How are we supposed to get
married without rings? I knew Alan would screw this up. He’s Seth’s most useless
friend.” The serene bride had vanished, replaced by a foot-stomping,
hand-shaking virago. “It took the idiot an extra year to finish college because
he slept through four of his final exams, two semesters in a row. He’s failed
the CPA exam twice, so he does the books for his father’s company. At the
bachelor party in Vegas, he got everyone thrown out of the casino. But this—this
is too much to believe, even for Alan.”

Her face an implacable mask, Ben watched Ivy’s eyes slowly
track the waterlogged man wade out of the pond, his sodden parachute dragging
behind him. He gave a weak wave at the guests, indicating the landing left him
in one piece. When Tracy finally paused for a breath, Ivy leapt into the
breach.

“Don’t say another word,” she ordered. It amused him the way
she channeled the firmness of a school teacher. “Alan didn’t ruin your wedding.
There’s no question that he made himself look like an idiot. But as long as you
and Seth promise to love each other forever, this wedding is perfect.”

Tracy sucked in a breath, then another. Ben could see the
physical effort she put into smoothing out the crease between her eyebrows. The
white knuckle grip on her bouquet eased up a little. But then her eyes narrowed.
“I don’t see the ring pillow. Bad enough I’m going to have to follow his trail
of water and pond scum down the aisle. Where is the ring pillow?”

Ivy swung her gaze over to Alan, using both his hands to shrug
out of the harness. Yards of yellow and red fabric puddled around his feet, but
there was no sign of a puffy satin square sporting a set of rings. “In the pond,
I imagine,” she said, matter-of-factly.

Ben bit back a guffaw at the last second, turning it into a
cough. She cracked him up. One minute acting like love solved all the problems
of the universe, and the next blithely laying out the cold, hard reality of the
situation. How could someone simultaneously be so practical and yet so mushy?
Like a candy bar, her gooey center wore a hard outer shell of crunchy
sensibility.

All the color leeched from Tracy’s face. Ben braced himself,
one foot ahead of the other. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to leap to
catch a fainting bride. He had two cracked camera lenses and a faint scar on his
left knee to prove it. In the mother of all mood swings, Tracy’s shock wore off
in a second, replaced by anger. Heat raced up from her chest, turning everything
above her lacy neckline the same bright crimson as her flowers.

“Do you know how much those rings cost? More than shitheaded
Alan makes in a year. Seth’s band is titanium, and mine is platinum with
twenty-seven
channel-set diamonds. All fucking
flawless. How are we supposed to get married without rings?”

Yup, he could see why the producers chose her for
Wild Wedding Smackdown.
When the price tag became more
important than the priceless memories, then a couple was considered good fodder
for the show. Their viewers favored lowbrow, impolite and downright uncouth
antics. Nothing like playing to the lowest common denominator.

Ivy dug into the bag she’d propped against the far side of
their sheltering tree. A moment later she produced a white pillow, complete with
rings. Spring sunlight glinted off the band of diamonds? No, they couldn’t be
real. No way did she carry around a spare set of actual rings. But if they were
Seth and Tracy’s, why weren’t they at the bottom of the pond? Ivy hitched up her
skirt with one hand, and presented the pillow to Tracy with the other.

“Breathe and count to ten.” Using her elbow, she bumped up
Tracy’s bouquet so the flowers surrounded the bride’s nose. Not missing a step,
she hurried forward to stop Alan from coming any closer. Too bad. Ben would’ve
paid good money to watch Alan try to blunder his way through an apology. The
bride looked like a scratcher.

Ivy handed over the pillow and with a shove in the small of his
back, sent Alan on his way toward the Great Hall. As predicted, each squishy
step left a wet mark on the cement and a few globs of mud and greenish muck,
souvenirs from the bottom of the pond. A few more of those flashy arm signals at
her assistant, and the piper switched to the wedding march.

“Time to start your new life with Seth.” With a beaming smile,
she pulled Tracy out from behind the tree. After a quick assessment, she then
moved her over a few steps to the right so the spotlessly white dress wouldn’t
drag through Alan’s slime trail. She gave a final floofing of the long train as
Tracy began the walk down the path.

Once she was out of earshot, Ben couldn’t hold in his question
another second. He swung the camera to face Ivy. “What was that bait and switch
you pulled on her? Are those rings a couple of great fakes you dug out of a
Cracker Jack box?”

“Of course not. Those are the real rings, and the real ring
pillow, for that matter. Didn’t you notice the red and yellow tartan ribbon tied
around the bands?”

“Then what did Alan risk his life carrying down thousands of
feet through the ozone layer?”

Ivy’s lips upturned in a slow, sly smile. “A cheap
imitation.”

Ben almost bobbled the camera. “Did the bride and groom
know?”

She shook her head from side to side. “They only needed to know
that when it was time, the rings would be there. Why worry them with logistics?
Wedding rings are an integral part of a sacred ritual.” Her stern, all-business
expression settled like a mask onto her face. “I don’t trust them to a
four-year-old, no matter how cute his first tuxedo is. I don’t trust them to a
dog wearing an adorable bow tie. There wasn’t a chance in the world I’d risk
them on a skydive. Last night at the rehearsal I gave Alan the stunt
pillow.”

“You may talk a good game about romance and true love, but
behind it all you’ve got a ruthless core of practicality.”

And then she sniffed. By the third sniff, Ben figured it
out.

“You’re crying, aren’t you?”

A quivering finger pointed at Tracy, entering the building.
“Every bride, every time. I can’t help it. The shiny promise of a lifetime of
love always tears me up.”

Ben lowered the camera to the ground and shook the pins and
needles out of his arm. He used his other to dig in his back pocket for a
handkerchief. “Here. Blot away.”

“You’re quite the well-prepared gentleman. Thank you.” Ivy
dabbed below each eye. They must teach that to girls the same time they learn
how to put on makeup.
How to whisk away tears smudge free,
in three easy steps.
“I don’t know how anyone can stay dry eyed at a
wedding.”

“Easy. Know the divorce stats.”

“What a horrible thing to say.” She froze in the act of
refolding his handkerchief, her eyes round circles of wounded naiveté. “You
can’t really be that cynical.”

“Wanna bet?” Ben picked up the camera and took off for the
Great Hall. No reason to stick around and listen to her attempt to defend the
mythical sanctity of marriage. Too many women had already tried to flog that
dead horse in front of him. Didn’t work. He was immune.

Not to say he didn’t like women. All it took was a single,
sassy glance—kind of like the one Ivy leveled at him a few hours ago—and he’d be
in pursuit. Chasing women was fun. Flirting even more fun, and a sweaty round
between the sheets ranked right up there with an island vacation home. Great
while you were there, but just a financial and emotional drain once out of
sight.

“The divorce rate is actually in decline in the United States.
Some studies put it as low as 41 percent. And 81 percent of college graduates stay
married. It’s all how you mix and sift the numbers.” Ivy popped up at his
elbow-spewing statistics like a twisted version of a jack-in-the-box. He’d heard
it all before. Seen the same sleight of hand employed by guys running street
games on hapless tourists in Battery Park.

“You know how to avoid losing at a shell game? Don’t play.”

“Marriage isn’t a con. It’s a miracle.”

“Right up there with walking on water, huh? Too bad we didn’t
see any of that today.”

“In a world filled with billions of people, it is a miracle,”
Ivy repeated stubbornly, “when two people find their soul mate. Once paired up,
they take a leap and pledge themselves to each other for the rest of their
lives.”

Ben lowered his voice as they entered the building, stopping at
the steps where they met. “You’re right. It’s a miracle anyone is that gullible.
Or stupid. Take your pick.”

Cocking her head, she tapped a single, slim finger against her
chin. Gave him a thoughtful look, which he assumed could only mean trouble. “Oh,
I see. You’re messing with me. Trying to get my goat, as it were. All so you can
run a promo with a thirty-second hook to reel viewers into the next episode.
Something like
watch the crazy wedding planner lose her
cool
.”

He refrained from pointing out that the camera currently hung
from his hand at knee height. Lens cap on, power off. If her misconception meant
her saccharine tirade might wind down, he’d keep his mouth shut. Why stir the
pot? Although she did look even prettier with the glint of battle in her hazel
eyes and a pink flush in her cheeks. The kiss he’d grabbed earlier put the taste
of her on his mouth. Not long enough to qualify as an appetizer, the peck had
been barely an amuse bouche. Now he wanted to go back for a full, seven-course
meal of her lips and the tight little package that went with them.

Ivy barreled on. “Well, it won’t work. The key to being a
successful wedding consultant is to remain calm, no matter what problems an
irate mother or drunken groomsmen may toss at you. Not to toot my own horn, but
I’m quite successful. My serene disposition is a thing of wonder.”

Oh yeah, she gave him lots to wonder about. How long her hair
would be once he pulled the pins out of its tight twist on the back of her head.
If her underwear—and her nipples—were the same pale pink as her dress and shoes.
How many licks it would take to turn her serenity into breathless pants of
pleasure.

Then Ben remembered there were over one hundred people on the
other side of the door, and he had a job to do. “We should catch the end of the
ceremony, your serene highness.”

Ivy surprised him with a giggle. “Wait and see. You may mock me
now, but by the end of the night, it’ll ring true when you call me the Queen of
Calm. The Princess of Peace.”

“The Dispassionate Duchess?”

“Don’t use that one.” She tossed him a saucy wink over her
shoulder as she ran up the stairs to watch from the balcony. “I’m plenty
passionate.”

Ben hefted his camera back up, using her well-shaped calves to
check the focus. This could turn out to be the best last-day-on-the-job
ever.

* * *

Ivy toed off one shoe, then the other. The cool stone of
the portico soothed her aching feet. Eight hours of countless trips up and down
the stairs, tromping around part of the zoo for pictures and basically running
herself ragged to always stay one step ahead of the bride and groom took its
toll, even in flats.

The four-tiered cake (red velvet and lemon, once more mirroring
the wedding colors) was cut. She’d convinced a few of the burlier groomsmen to
help her move the presents to the parents’ cars. A white stretch limo idled,
ready to whisk the happy couple to a swanky hotel with a view of Lake Michigan.
Although why a couple embarking on their honeymoon needed a view escaped her. If
it was her wedding night, she sure wouldn’t spend it gazing out the window.

The persistent bass throb from the dance floor below pulsed in
time to the low throb at the base of her skull. A few more songs and she could
call it a night. Sighing, Ivy rested her elbows on the wide, rough-hewn stone
window ledge.

“Care for a drink?” asked a low, male voice.

The stock answer popped out before she slipped back into her
shoes and turned around. “Thank you for the offer, but I don’t drink on the
job.”

“Scared you’ll get wasted and flash all the overweight
spinsters doing the Electric Slide?”

That
spun her around fast. “Bennett
Westcott. Why am I not surprised? You don’t have even a modicum of respect for
this wedding, do you?”

“Sure I do.” He brought out a bottle from behind his back and
slowly waggled it back and forth. “They served Veuve Clicquot champagne. I very
much respect the good taste of whoever paid for a dozen cases of the stuff.”

Ivy kicked her shoes off again, relieved she didn’t have to put
her game face back on quite yet. “Tracy’s father bought the bubbly to celebrate
his daughter’s happiness. If you don’t share his sentiment, you’d better have a
darn good excuse for drinking it.”

“
Au contraire
, thou sweet champion
of love. You’ve got me all wrong.” Ben sidled closer, leaning his hip next to
hers on the wall. The sweating bottle he sat on the ledge, using it for leverage
while he pulled out the cork. It slid free of the neck with a muted pop,
followed by a quiet hiss of bubbles pushing for freedom. He hefted the bottle in
the air as if lifting a glass for a toast.