Page 20 of 4 Weddings and a Feud

He sank his head into his hands. This had to work. Sure, Rochelle had seemed to connect with Mary. But she was a lawyer who understood how business worked. She’d accept the personnel change as the business decision it was.

Regardless, bad news, unlike wine, didn’t improve with age. He’d leave her a voice mail about the change in wedding planners, assure her that her needs would be met and her expectations exceeded, etcetera, and deal with any fallout on Monday. He pulled up his copy of Evie’s file on the Richardson wedding and dialed the bride’s number.

To his surprise—and disappointment—she picked up.

“Hello, Rochelle. This is Alex Villa. How are you today?”

“Hi, Alex.” Her voice was slightly muffled with wind noise. “I’m leaving work early for a change. I guess you’re still in the office?”

“I am.” He took a deep breath. “I’m calling to let you know we had a change in personnel. Our newly promoted chief wedding planner, Joey Campo, will be taking lead on your wedding. You can expect?—”

“Hold on. What happened to Mary?” The wind noise disappeared, like she’d rolled up the windows in her car.

“Mary’s fine. She’s just no longer working on your wedding.”

“Why not?” The two words hit his breastbone like rubber bullets.

“We had a…difference of opinion. However?—”

“Are you serious right now? No. We are five weeks out from my big day. We can’t afford to play around with this.”

“No one’s playing. It’s a simple change in personnel.” Alex took a deep breath. “Joey is a qualified?—”

“No. This is my one and only wedding. Mary gets me. I don’t care about your difference of opinion. Get her back, or I will go full-on bridezilla on you. Understand?”

He rubbed his tired, scratchy eyes. “I don’t know that she’ll be willing to come back.”

“Nuh-uh. Listen to me. Tell her I asked for her. Tell her I need her. Remind her I am hormonal and pregnant.” Her shaky voice had risen an octave.

“Maybe you should pull over.”

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do, Alex Villa. You need to work through your shit and get Mary back. Daddy didn’t want me to work with you, but I insisted that you—thatMary—would give me a lovely wedding. Don’t prove me wrong.”

“I underst—” The line went silent.

Shit. It shouldn’t have surprised him that Rochelle could be just as hard-assed as her father, but she’d seemed so sweet when he met her at the expo. When Mary had been there to smooth everything over.

If he fucked up this wedding, he’d never get the Paradise. Someone else would buy it, and he’d die a little inside every time he looked at the shabby old high-rise, thinking of how he could’ve finally destroyed the loathsome reminder of his miserable past.

He needed Mary back.

He scrubbed his hands down his face. The only option left was to grovel.

ChapterNine

The Forzas’ house had hardly changed in the twenty years since he’d last been welcome here. Like the other homes in the neighborhood, it was small, with stucco walls and a red tile roof. The Joshua tree in front had grown taller than the roof. He wondered if it had bloomed in the spring. Although the yard was landscaped with stones, cacti, and yuccas, a pot of cheerful yellow lantana flourishing on the porch showed off Mary’s green thumb.

He reached for the enormous bouquet of blue hyacinths. The woman at the flower shop said they were best for apologies, and he’d bought every stem they had. After locking his car, he strode up the front walk.

He paused for only a second at the bottom of the steps up to the house. The last time he’d been here, only a week before prom, Mary had made a giant tray of lasagna. God, her lasagna was delicious. He never ordered it at a restaurant anymore because it was always a lifeless imitation of hers.

After dinner, they’d ended up in the garage, where her dad was tinkering with a ’64 Mustang. It looked like shit on the outside, but the engine was so clean they could’ve eaten their dessert off it. Her dad had let him help replace the belt on it and had clapped him on the shoulder after. They’d laughed over the greasy streak on his preppy button-down shirt.

He could imagine how much Mr. Forza hated him when he didn’t show the night of prom.

In the weeks leading up to prom, he’d planned it all out. He’d bring her flowers. Not like today’s armful of hyacinths but a corsage in a clear plastic box. A single red rose, surrounded by a spray of tiny yellow roses and delicate baby’s breath he’d bought to symbolize his hope to turn their friendship into something more. His pulse had pounded when he’d imagined sliding it onto her wrist. Kissing her soft cheek and inhaling her coconut shampoo. Weeks later, he found the corsage desiccated in the refrigerator, the roses brown and lifeless, and chucked it into the trash.

How many times had he imagined what could’ve happened if the investigators hadn’t showed? He’d have marched up these steps, his head held high, and shaken Mr. Forza’s hand. He’d have promised to drive safely, not have a drop to drink, and have her home by whatever time her dad had said. And then Mary would have walked in, wearing…

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