“It had to be you,” Anne sang with the music flooding her office. She smiled, recalling the warmth in George’s cinnamon-hazelnut eyes as he’d talked at length with her grandfather Friday evening at the picnic. He’d been such a good sport to put up with the ribbing Papere and the uncles had given him. But he still had to prove himself. She couldn’t just fall head over heels for him because he got along with her family.
She wound pink tulle onto a heavy cardboard bolt, pulling the fabric yard by yard out of the white trash bags that nearly filled the floor of her storage room. Her bride Saturday afternoon had taken the wedding from Steel Magnolias as her model, with pink bunting draped over anything that would stand still. Anne’s own wedding would be much more sophisticated—
Whoa. Thinking in terms like that could only bring disappointment. Sure, she liked George now, and he seemed to like her, but what if the glow wore off? What if she discovered him lying to her about something important again?
The future without George Laurence in it looked dim and dismal. But it was a possible reality she needed to face. At thirty-five, she was too old to indulge in a crush. She couldn’t pin her hopes on him. She could, however, have fun exploring the possibility of something permanent.
The room filled with Frank Sinatra’s voice crooning “I Get a Kick Out of You.” Anne sang along, swirling around in the tulle. She wished more brides would choose standards for their receptions. Easier to dance to, the words and music also spoke to a larger audience than the inane pop music of the moment her clients tended to choose.
George listened to the same kind of music, and oh, how he could croon it! But could he dance—more than just the waltz they’d already shared? If not, they could always take ballroom dancing together. She knew a few—the waltz, the fox-trot, and the cha-cha. She spun around, her feet tangled in the tulle, and she fell, landing on the soft pile of bags of fabric.
The bell on the front door echoed throughout the town house. Oh no, her ten o’clock consultation! She struggled to her feet and managed to reach the door. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” she called. Her own laughter didn’t make extrication from the pink cloud easy. Once out, she had to dive back in to find her left shoe and hair clip. She slipped into the eggplant-colored pump, then crossed to check her reflection in the mirror on the back of the storage room door. She ran her fingers through her hair, tossed the clip on the nearest shelf, opened the door, and rushed down the stairs.
The couple seated on the love seat under the front window stood. He was in his late thirties, slender, just over six feet tall, well dressed, wearing expensive shoes, and would look good in a single-or double-button coat, charcoal or black.
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting.” She extended her right hand to the bride first. “I’m Anne Hawthorne.”
“Kristin Smith. I’m so glad you were able to fit us into your busy schedule. This is my fiancé, Greg Witt.” Kristin looked several years younger than her fiancé. She stood about five and a half feet, with shoulder-length blond hair that would look good in an updo and a crown headpiece, and a pink skin tone that would look best with pure white.
Anne shook hands with the groom, then motioned for them to sit. She grabbed her planner off her desk before taking her place in the armchair across the coffee table from them. The purple tulips were starting to wilt a little. She’d have to call April’s Flowers to see if they’d gotten in another shipment.
“Let me start by saying congratulations. I know this is an exciting time for you as you start planning the biggest event of your life. My job as a wedding planner is to take the stress off of you on the administrative end so that you can relax and enjoy your day.” As she did with all potential clients, Anne reviewed her business credentials, association memberships, and certifications. Almost every potential client came in with a list of questions from the Internet to ask. Every list started with questions about the planner’s professional qualifications. She found most clients relaxed more if she got that information out before they had to ask.
“We saw the article about you in Southern Bride. That was one of the reasons I wanted to come to you.” Kristin tapped a black Waterford pen against her pink notepad. “How many weddings do you coordinate in an average month?”
“During the summer, I typically handle three to five weddings per month—about one a week. Some of those are just consultations—I help the bride plan ahead of time, and she handles everything the day of the wedding—while with others, I handle everything for the bride, allowing her to sit back and not have to worry about coordinating anything. Of course, during the fall, winter, and early spring, I don’t have as many clients. Did you have a wedding date in mind?”
“We’re looking at a couple of dates in the fall—October maybe?” The young woman pulled out a well-worn, checkbooksized calendar.
Anne flipped to October in her planner, nodding. “October’s a good month, especially if you’re thinking about an outdoor wedding. I have a couple of events already on the books for the first and third weekends but would be able to assist you either as a consultant if you choose one of those weeks or as your on-site planner any other week.”
Both bride and groom made notations in their calendars. “Do you have an assistant or someone who can fill in for you if something happens and you’re unavailable on our wedding day?” Kristin asked.
“Yes, if something happens and I am unavailable, I will line up a substitute to work with you at a discounted cost, although I have never missed a client’s wedding, so that shouldn’t be an issue.”
Kristin made another note and continued down the list of standard questions, becoming more open and chattier as Anne answered each concern. With the interview list complete, Anne guided the couple into talking about their ideas for what they wanted. She took copious notes, including the fact that neither seemed locked into any firm decisions. That could be good if they would be open to her suggestions. Bad if it meant they were indecisive.
When their half hour was almost up, Anne set her planner on the coffee table. Time to close out the consultation with chatty conversation. “So are both of you from Bonneterre?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Anne blinked and glanced from bride to groom.
“What Greg means is that he’s not from Bonneterre but I am.” Kristin’s explanation was rushed, her tone embarrassed. “What about you?”
“Bonneterre born and raised. Where’d you go to high school, Kristin?”
“Governor’s Academy.” The boarding school that cost more per year than an Ivy League university. “What about you?”
“Acadiana High.”
Kristin exchanged a glance with her fiancé. “Really? Were you there when Cliff Ballantine went to school there?”
Of course. Everyone always asked that when they heard what school she’d attended. “He was a year ahead of me. But it’s a really big school.” Her standard reply.
“I read somewhere that he’s getting married here.” Kristin gave her a sly grin. “You wouldn’t be planning his wedding, would you?”
Anne forced a smile. “I hadn’t heard he was getting married.”
“I just think it would be awesome to know what his wedding’s going to be like. It’s going to be the social event of the year, no matter where he gets married. But could you imagine planning his wedding? Whoever that wedding planner is, she’s set for life.” Kristin tucked her notepad and calendar into her pink gingham purse and stood.
Anne shook hands with the couple and walked them to the door. “Please let me know if you’d like me to write up a contract.”
“Oh, we’ll be in touch soon.”
Anne stood at the front door and watched as the couple crossed the square toward the restaurants on the other side. For a newly engaged couple, they weren’t very affectionate with each other. Oh well. Everyone showed their love in different ways. Odd that they didn’t even hold hands, though.
Where had they heard that Cliff was getting married—and in Bonneterre of all places? She prayed that wasn’t the case, although if it was true, it would have been on the front page of the Reserve. Planning his wedding, indeed. Besides the fact that he would never hire her personally, he would never stoop to hiring a local to plan what Kristin had aptly called the social event of the year. He probably had some overpriced Beverly Hills event planner on retainer—someone like the character Martin Short played in the remake of Father of the Bride: pretentious, foreign, and way overpriced.
The phone rang and interrupted her ponderings.
“Happy Endings, Inc. This is Anne Hawthorne.”
“Good morning, Anne.” George’s silky accent brought her fully to the present.
She sank into her chair and leaned her elbows on the desk. “Good morning, yourself. I guess you got my message?”
“I did. I would love to have dinner with you tonight. Shall I meet you or pick you up at the office?”
Her heart did a happy dance. “Actually, I’m coming to you.”
A warm chuckle melted through the phone. “I’d love to cook for you some night, but with no advance notice and Mama Ketty’s not being here…”
“The chef will be there at four o’clock to start cooking.”
“The chef?”
She laughed. “Major O’Hara, the executive chef for Boudreaux-Guidry. Tonight is the only time he has available to do a tasting menu for the rehearsal dinner. Since you didn’t have a chance to taste his food before agreeing to his catering the engagement party, I hope to set your mind at ease tonight.”
“Ah. And here I was thinking you were trying to surprise me with a romantic, home-cooked dinner.”
Were he standing in front of her, he would wink and give her that enchanting crooked grin of his. She bit her bottom lip and took a calming breath. Have fun but don’t indulge. “I’ll see you at six o’clock.”
The caterer arrived at four. After a brief interview, George turned him loose in the kitchen and returned to his quarters. Less than two hours before Anne arrived. Plenty of time to get ready.
He rummaged through shopping bags until he found the table linens. He hadn’t expected the enormous discount store to have quality linens, but the ivory fabric with an embossed pinstripe was at least as nice as what he could find at the local department stores. He ironed the creases out of the tablecloth and napkins and carried them into the small room off the kitchen that would serve as the employees’ dining and break room, once he hired a full house staff.
Covering the large round table with the cloth, he placed a glass vase of lavender tulips in the center. He’d gone to nearly every florist in town trying to find Anne’s favorite flowers, eventually securing the last two dozen at April’s Flowers—finalizing the purchase just as someone else called in looking for some.
He opened the french doors onto the promenade that ran the length of the back of the house. The small iron café table with a glass top and two matching chairs, which he’d found at a locally owned hardware store, made for a perfect alfresco dinner for two. He whistled as he arranged the table, finishing with the second vase of tulips and two taper candles.
Distance, remember. Don’t let’s get in too deep, aye, old boy?
His watch beeped. Five thirty. He’d taken too long with the decorations. He left a book of matches on the table and closed the doors to keep the cool air inside a little longer.
He moved the rest of the spoils of his quick shopping trip into the walk-in closet. He made up the bed with sheets freshly laundered by Mama Ketty, a new duvet, and pillows. In the extra bathroom, he put out the towels Mama Ketty had insisted on laundering before being used. The navy and gold colors were the same he’d used in his quarters in Cliff’s two other homes. His brother Henry would laugh and call him set in his ways. He liked to think of himself as consistent.
He showered, then dressed in gray pants, a blue button-down, and a colorful tie. His short hair dried quickly. He leaned close to the bathroom mirror. The dark brown around his temples seemed to sprout new grays every day, and it needed trimming.
He heard a sound and realized it was his phone playing “I Can’t Give You Anything but Love.” Anne. His heart leaped, then stalled. She couldn’t be calling to cancel. “George Laurence here.”
“Anne Hawthorne here.” Her voice sounded amused. “I’m pulling up to the house now, but I thought I should ask—should I come to the front door or…?”
Only someone else who worked in a service industry would even think about that. “Since my employer is not in residence, the front entrance is fine.”
“Okay, I’ll see you in a sec.”
George switched the phone to silent mode, then snapped it into the holster on his belt. He needed to know if Cliff or Courtney called but didn’t want dinner disturbed. He straightened his tie, then headed to the front of the house. Through the etched glass in the door, he could see Anne, hand raised to knock. He opened the door and ushered her inside.
Her tremulous smile betrayed a surprising nervousness, given this had been her idea. “This is for you—a kind of housewarming/host gift.”
He took the white gift bag from her, surprised by its weight. “Thank you.” He kissed her cheek, then turned and made a sweeping gesture with his free hand. “Welcome to my employer’s home. Would you care for a tour?”
She smiled. “Maybe the upstairs part. I’m pretty familiar with the ground floor. Aunt Maggie used to cater events for the Thibodeauxes here a few times a year. Once I was old enough, I came out to help with setup, service, and cleanup.”
“Ah. That’s why you asked about the service entrance.”
She stuck her head in to glance around the formal front parlor. “This is the first time I’ve ever come in through the front door.”
He took her by the hand and led her upstairs. “Obviously, it’s not fully furnished yet. I expect a shipment later in the week, and once Courtney returns”—he winked at Anne—“she will address decorating the guest bedrooms.”
“And the thought of that frightens you?” She glanced in each room as they wandered through both upper levels.
“Not so much as the thought of her mother doing it.” He should have known she’d see through him. He opened the door at the top of the service stairs at the back of the house to take her down to the kitchen. “The one time Mrs. Landry came into the house, she suggested a pink faux-fur rug for one of the upstairs rooms.”
Her laughter resonated like chimes in the enclosed stairwell. “Hopefully she’s not planning to give Courtney the one that’s in her own house as a wedding present. Maybe you should find an interior designer to recommend to her.”
“I’m meeting with three on Thursday.”
The chef turned when they entered the kitchen. “Hey, Anne.” He wiped his hands on the red-and-white-striped towel draped over his shoulder and crossed to embrace her.
“Hey, Major. I’ve been looking forward to this dinner all day.”
He cut his gaze toward George. “I’m sure you have.”
George wasn’t sure how to read the look that passed between Anne and the caterer, who was not wearing a wedding band. George led her out of the kitchen. “How do you know him?”
“Major? He started working for Aunt Maggie when we were in high school.”
George smiled and shook his head.
“What’s so funny?”
He led her through the dining room and opened the french doors. “I grew up in London. For the last five years, I’ve shuttled back and forth between Los Angeles and Manhattan. I knew Bonneterre was smaller, but with a quarter of a million population, it’s not a village. Yet listening to you, seeing how you cannot go outside of your office without seeing someone you know…it’s very quaint.” He held her chair as she sat.
She looked over her shoulder with a grin. “It used to be a lot more ‘quaint’ than it is now. The city has nearly doubled in size in the last ten or fifteen years.”
He sat as she told him about how Bonneterre had changed over her lifetime. At the first lull in the conversation, he stood. “May I offer you a beverage?”
“Oh, that reminds me, you never opened your gift.” She pushed the white bag on the table toward him.
“Quite so.” He reached through the tissue paper and wrapped his hand around something rectangular and solid, with a smooth surface. Drawing it out, he grinned when he saw it. “Is this a hint for later?”
“I thought you liked flavored coffee.” Her protest was overshadowed by the laughter lacing her voice.
“Yes, but if I guess correctly, hazelnut caramel is your favorite flavor.”
She bit her bottom lip, and her smile grew wider. “Busted.”
He loved her laugh. “Would you like some now?”
“No, save it for dessert. I could really go for some iced tea.”
“The only kind we have is without sweetening.”
“That’s fine. I can drink it either way.” She started to stand.
He stopped her with his hand on her shoulder. “No. You’re my guest. Stay there and let me serve you.”
Anne’s blue eyes sparkled, and she squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”
The dinner Major O’Hara put before them was nothing short of perfection, from the spinach salad with muscadine vinaigrette to the medium-rare London broil with Cajun garlic mashed potatoes and sautéed baby asparagus.
“I hope this sets your mind at ease,” Anne said after O’Hara cleared their dinner plates. “Major is one of the best chefs I’ve ever worked with. He’s done a ton of catering for me over the years.”
George reached across the table and covered Anne’s clasped hands. “I’m happy you came.”
The candlelight glittered in the sapphire pools of her eyes. “I’m happy you didn’t mind the intrusion.”
Slow. Take it slow. “Your presence would never be an intrusion.” He leaned closer to her.
They both turned at the sound of a cleared throat. “Are you ready for dessert?” O’Hara stood in the doorway, a silver tray balanced on one hand, a coffee service cart beside him.
Anne groaned dramatically. “I don’t know how I could eat another bite. What is it?” She leaned back to make room on the table as he stepped forward.
“White chocolate crème brûlée with raspberries.” He put the individual dishes in front of them. “The coffee is hazelnut caramel.”
George couldn’t stop looking at Anne. The chef poured the steaming, fragrant liquid into fine china cups, set the silver coffeepot on the sideboard, and withdrew.
She closed her eyes and sighed as she savored the first bite of the custard dessert. Tonight had been a revelation to George. When she wasn’t in business mode—when she was relaxed and not on a time schedule—she truly enjoyed the experience of dining.
“What?” She’d caught him staring.
“I just like watching you.” He was going under deep and fast. Was the pleasure of falling in love with her tonight worth the risk of losing her in a few days?
Her cheeks glowed in the candlelight. “Why?”
“Because you’re beautiful.” He sipped his coffee.
She laughed and shook her head.
“Yes, you are.” He set down his cup and reached over to lift her chin, forcing her to look him in the eye. “You are beautiful, and I don’t know who would have told you otherwise.”
She didn’t speak for a moment, her gaze never wavering. “It was never in so many words.” She put her spoon down. “But the intent was the same.”
“Well, I’m here now—and I’m right, so you’d best believe me.”
The smile he’d become addicted to returned. He tweaked her chin between his thumb and forefinger, then lifted his dessert spoon.
The symphony of crickets, frogs, and other indigenous fauna filled the silence between them. The sky turned red and purple as the sun set on the other side of the house.
Anne sighed and cradled her coffee cup between her hands.
“What is it?” Although his father would have been appalled, he propped his elbows on the edge of the table and leaned toward her.
She swallowed and blinked a few times. “It’s just been a really long time since…” Her voice caught and her bottom lip quivered.
“Since?” Now that he had her to himself, he wasn’t about to let her clam up.
She shrugged, her gaze fixed on the horizon. “Since I stopped to let myself enjoy a quiet eve—” She flinched and reached for the phone clipped to the waistband of her pants. Her shoulders fell when she looked at the caller ID. “I’m so sorry. It’s my client who’s getting married next week.”
He stood and kissed her on the forehead. “I need to go speak with Mr. O’Hara anyway.”
The chef turned as George entered the kitchen. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes. It was a wonderful dinner. My compliments—”
“George, I have to run.” Anne breezed into the kitchen. “There’s a problem with the wedding dress, and I have to go find out if it’s something I can fix or really a problem.”
“I’ll walk you out.” He helped Anne into her suit coat and rested his hand on the small of her back as he escorted her to the front door. “What seems to be amiss?”
“I’m not sure. She was so hysterical she wasn’t coherent. So I’m driving out to her house to see what’s wrong. Hopefully it’ll be an easy fix. If not…well, I have a few days to figure out what to do.” She stopped at the door and turned toward him. “Thank you for a lovely evening. I’m sorry work interfered.”
“Thank you for making it a lovely evening.” He brushed back a lock of hair that had escaped to fall across her forehead. How was it possible that no man had claimed this wonderful woman? “I’ll ring you tomorrow about the final arrangements for the engagement party.” He flinched as the vibrator on his phone startled him. He reached for it as he kissed her on the cheek.
“Good night.”
She graced him with another full smile. “Good night.”
Cliff’s number scrolled across the phone’s screen. He waved goodbye to Anne and lifted the phone to his ear. “Yes, Mr. Ballantine?”
“Courtney may have blown our cover. If any reporters show up there in the next few days, you have to let me know immediately. We’ll have to change all the plans.”