Page 77 of To Have and to Scold

Such is the life of a wedding planner.

Lila is radiant in her frolicky, just above the knee, ivory dress. As the first bride of the season, I couldn’t have asked for a betterfit. In the planning stages, she was easy to please, the mayor and her husband were appropriately detached yet supportive, and her fiancé Ryan? Tenderly in love with Lila.

Really, things couldn’t have gone better in planning this wedding. Granted, when I came on the job, much of it had already been done. But to take their visions and mesh them with their ancestral mansion was like symphonic clockwork.

Which is exactly why I’m freaking out.

Because every wedding, and I mean every single one, has something bad happen at some point. It’s a bad omen if nothing at least slightly catastrophic hasn’t happened by Day Zero.

And it’s Day Zero. It’s Hour Zero and everything’s been fine. Which means something’s about to go horribly wrong.

I’m not a pessimist. I’m just speaking from experience. Years of experience planning weddings of all shapes and sizes: something will go wrong.

Not “accidentally send the cakes to the wrong receptions” wrong, but wrong enough.

The only thing that’s keeping me from climbing into the honeymoon suite’s huge tub, curling up in a ball, and singing sad Taylor Swift songs to myself is the thought of Beck.

We had a glorious time kissing at the mansion last night, before Leo’s date got injured. And today, we’ve been texting each other like preteens who just got their first phones.

It feels like he’s my boyfriend and best friend all wrapped up in one—that perfect combo that has always eluded me. He even had flowers delivered to my place this morning. Pale lavender hydrangeas. Large, perfectly scented, layered petals of loveliness, with a note that read:Best of luck on wedding number one, my sweet Dallas.

“My sweet Dallas.” I like beinghisDallas.

And I know—feel it to my bones—that we were meant to meet here in Willow Cove. As bad as the fallout from the Clancy andBozzelli weddings has been, I’m grateful for it because it led me to Beck.

I lied a little the other night, when I told him I liked him. I’m also falling in love with him, and that fact is buzzing inside of me, adding to the anticipation and nerves of the day.

I refuse to monopolize their time anymore, so I encourage Beck and his friends to leave midafternoon, thanking them for their help.

Just because I encourage it, doesn’t mean I like seeing him leave.

A couple of hours later, Lila is nearly ready in the bride’s room, and I leave her to do one last walk through of the outdoor seating area. It’s already nearly filled to capacity, the various guests talking happily amongst themselves. I can feel the Willow Cove comradery. The officiant is casually chatting with the father of the groom, and Ryan is sitting nearby, excited energy oozing from him. It’s nearly six, and everything’s supposed to culminate in the reception, winding down just as the sun sets in about three hours. Lila and Ryan wanted to literally fly off into the sunset to a nearby island on Beck’s friend Coop’s seaplane.

Just three hours to go. Is it too much to ask that we get just three more hours of perfection? I’d settle for near perfection.

Yes, yes, it is too much to ask. I know this, and my heart rate ratchets up at this thought.

I squeeze the stress ball I have tucked inside the pocket of the tool belt (I refuse to call it a fanny pack) that I’m wearing over my silvery halter top dress. I’m grateful that I was finally able to find the time to go get my nails done at the salon here in town. My nails had been in bad shape with my suddenly adopted compulsion to pick at them. The stress!

But everything’s okay now. And look at me. I’m even wearing bow-knot ballet flats in pearlescent gray.Flats.Who knew I could feel comfortable and confident at the same time?

I feel good in this dress, which helps. I have a lot of wedding-appropriate dresses, naturally, and this one’s arguably my best.

And yes, I wore this dress for Beck. No shame.

Not that he’ll be here. But I wore it in honor of him. Which sounds weird. But truly, we wouldn’t have made it without his leadership and his dedication to finishing the project on time. I may have to ask the photographer to snap a photo of me so I can send it to him.

“Dallas?” Martha Dobbs, looking beautiful in her peachy-pink floral maxi-length dress, places a hand on my arm. Her smile is tight, her eyes wild.

Oh no. Is this it?

“You look stunning, Mayor Dobbs.”

She breathes out a short breath. “Thank you. I was wondering if I could speak with you?”

“Of course.” I gesture to the small hut where the DJ is sitting, ready to go with his sound equipment, and where I’m storing essentials like tissue boxes and umbrellas—just in case.

Her eyes are pooling with tears before we even get to the hut. Alarming since she’s not the weepy type. Then again, her daughter is getting married in a few minutes. The most stoic of moms have been known to cry at this point.

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