It's not necessarily my job to talk a bride off the ledge, but I'm pretty good at it. Taffy's maid of honor is drunk and crying over having gained half a pound since the last fitting, so she's no help. It's an hour before the ceremony and things are already out of hand.
But that's OK. I got this. It's what I do.
I hand over my coffee to the maid of honor. "Drink this," I say sweetly, and then plaster on my brightest smile and hiss for only her to hear. "And get your shit together; your best friend is getting married in an hour."
I lead Taffy to the chaise in the bridal suite.
"Honey," I say, talking to my client like she's my lifelong best friend, even though she's been the all-time worst client of my entire life. All she needs is a reminder that the love of her life is waiting for her downstairs to start their life together, and whether or not her mother decided to wear charcoal is not going to matter when they're on their honeymoon in Paris.
I feel her pain, a little bit. I'd be pretty pissed if my mom did that to me, but then, if I do ever get married, I won't give a flip what people wear to the wedding. The guests could be naked for all I care. I've done several hundred weddings in the last five years -- and a huge guest list with a dress code is almost always a recipe for disaster -- if the bride cares too hard. And the bride always cares too hard.
Taffy is on another level, claiming that these photos are going to give her PTSD.
I'm about done with this nonsense. It's time for some tough love.
Asking everyone including the makeup artist to clear the room, I offer some perspective. "Taffy. You are about to marry Jason, the love of your life, and you are about to make partner. Your daily barre class has your backside killing it in this dress, and your bridesmaids are carrying flowers that were imported here from Vietnam. I didn't think I could pull that off for you, but I did it. So let me tell you something else about PTSD. My grandpa—who was drafted in 1969, served proudly, and received a Purple Heart—has actual PTSD, and flinches whenever he hears helicopters."
Taffy's eyes go wide.
"Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night and hides under the bed. That, Taffy, is actual PTSD. Do you understand now?"
I worry for a moment that I might have pushed too far, but I press on.
"So do you think you can overlook your mother wearing a charcoal gray dress and get that immaculate backside of yours downstairs to get married?"
Taffy seems to understand but she still pouts. "I just don't know why she has to be so spiteful."
I squeeze her shoulder in understanding. "Some moms be crazy. Move on, woman."
Just then, a voice comes into my ear via my headset. My assistant tells me that all the guests are seated and it's time for the bridesmaids and the groomsmen to make their entrance.
"Send Dad on up. Let's do this."
Taffy gives me the hairy eyeball. "I can't believe I'm paying you to talk to me like this."
I smile sweetly and say, "Honey, that little pep talk is extra."
Chapter Three
Smitty
The next day, I take in the art museum that's a short walk from the condo.
Wandering around looking at art has never been my thing, but I have to wonder why not. Some of it I don't care for, but a lot of it is pretty cool.
A painting of a famous artist's bedroom catches my eye, and I find myself staring at it for a long time. The colors are bright and cheerful, and yet somehow it makes me sad. Maybe it reminds me of my empty bed. All around me, happy couples and families are taking in the art together, having interesting conversations, and I feel even more alone.
I keep thinking about how nice it would be to have brought a friend along with me.
Feeling the need to get away from all the happy couples, I take a walk around downtown for a while. I have to laugh at myself. How does a person meet friends in the city? Do I go to a bar? A dance club? That doesn't seem right to me.
I'm feeling a little bit disoriented, and look around for something, anything that feels comfortable and familiar. I don't want to go back to the condo yet. I'd feel like I failed at being a tourist in the city if I gave up exploring after only half a day. I look around, hoping for anything that looks like it won't cost me $12 for a craft beer. I wander into an Irish pub and belly up to the bar, feeling slightly more at home. It's not a cowboy bar but it'll do.
Scrolling through my contacts, I resist the urge to text Ally directly. That would feel too forward, having no reason to bother her. Besides, it's Saturday afternoon, and surely she's getting ready for another wedding today.
I get a surprising phone call from Sam while I drink my beer.
"I've already talked to that wedding coordinator whose number you sent me, so Wren and I are gonna go ahead and pull the trigger. The lady had a cancellation and says she can pull everything together in a couple of weeks. I don't know how long it usually takes weddings to get done but she seems legit.
"Wren goes back to work on Monday, so that'll give you all enough time to get everything done, but you gotta keep it a secret from Wren. I want it to be a surprise. She's never had anything nice done for her in her whole life and I want something beautiful for her, even if it's small. All I need you to do is lend a hand, otherwise stay out of the wedding planner's way. She's a real go-getter from what I understand. As soon as the lady gets here on Monday, I'm going to need all hands on deck because this is a lot to pull together for next weekend."
All of this came out of left field. I always knew he wanted to retire when he got married and sell me the ranch, I just didn't know when it would happen, and I surely never thought it would happen while I was still in my thirties. Sam's not an impulsive man, so if he says he's ready to retire and get married, I believe him.
I finished off a 20-ounce mug of beer and I'm feeling pretty good about the fact that I get to meet this Ally person face-to-face next week. I figure that's a good enough reason to text her directly.
"Hey, I know you're probably busy at a wedding today but my boss Sam just let me know he hired you for his wedding. Looking forward to seeing you Monday at the ranch! It's a tight schedule but me and the boys will lend a hand wherever you need it."
To my surprise, she texts back almost right away.
"Thank you so much for the referral, Mr. Smith! And don't you worry, I've pulled off weddings with much bigger guest lists, in a shorter time, in way more remote locations than across the river in the country. We got this, my friend."
Maybe it's the beer, but I text back a single, smiley face emoji. The one with the cowboy hat. Instantly I regret it. What the hell was that? So dorky.
She texts back with the heart eyes. Whoa. Something catches in my chest.
Is she flirting? No, she's just a real nice lady.
I decide to quit while I'm ahead and not text her back. I think I'm starting to like this woman, which is crazy because we don't know each other. She could be forty years my senior and I wouldn't care. She seems like a person I'd enjoy spending time with. I don't often get the chance to talk to women, other than the married veterinarian who comes to the ranch every so often.
Pulling up the web browser on my phone, I look up her business, which leads me to her social media page. I shouldn't be creeping on her like this, should I? I justify the creeping because, well, if she's going to show up to work on the wedding on Monday, I'd better know what she looks like.