Page 83 of Free to Dream
“Oh, well, if your hair is the only thing I can’t get wet…” He lowers his mouth to the crease between my neck and my shoulder.
“Ohh, Caleb. Dammit, I didn’t plan on the time for this. Mmm.”
“You woke up early and I’ll be quick.” His eyes are hot but steady. “I need you, my love. Today is going to be intense.”
I give myself a little boost and wrap my legs around his hips. “Well, as long as your quick includes full service.”
He laughs as he presses me up against the shower wall and lowers his mouth.
* * *
Six hourslater and I’m wishing we were back in the shower with a Brillo pad and a gallon of soap to scrape off the feelings I have from being on the grounds of the Lockwood estate. With its grand stone exterior, imposing turrets, and well-manicured lawns, the mansion should be a wedding planner’s dream.
In reality, this place gives me the creeps.
As mild as the day has been for November, I’ve had a perpetual chill since I walked in with my family, the high-end furniture rental delivery, and the VIP restrooms delivery service at 8:00 a.m. sharp.
Fortunately, I’ve been able to spend a great deal of time outside behind the house in the courtyard where the ceremony and reception will actually be taking place.
For the last two months, I’ve been a little put-off by the fact Mildred Lockwood has passive-aggressively refused to let us on-site to take measurements by already having daily events at the estate. I know it’s infuriated the grooms and Caleb to no end. Ryan’s come close to having his mother thrown off his own property on several occasions. It’s taken all of us to calm him down and to not let her be the focus of the wedding. Instead we’ve had to rely on pulling county surveys and aerial photos for our wedding plans. Now, I’m appreciative.
There’s no way I would’ve wanted to spend a minute more than I have to here.
I’m just grateful Caleb has no desire to spend time in the future at the old family stomping grounds either, or I might be spending more time dealing with my PTSD issues.
I pause. Where the hell did that thought come from? Why would a house trigger my PTSD?
I look around. It’s just a house, albeit an enormous one at over 12,000 square feet on five and a half acres of land. It has a lovely gazebo by the lake, which we’ll be incorporating for the vows. The chairs are being setup in two sections; the back section divided into three pie shape pieces with two aisles to allow both grooms to approach, then the front section has the traditional two with one center aisle.
Phil has outdone himself with the gorgeous primroses incorporated with lush fall colors, making sure that Ryan and Jason’s vision is artfully captured. I glance over to the courtyard which easily holds ten people at the fifty-five tables, room for the orchestra and dance floor. Corinna and her culinary interns carefully move each layer of the six-tiered cake into place. The caterer and head chef walk around checking linens, silverware, glassware, and chargers, making sure that for the elite of the elite, everything is perfect.
Around the side of the house, the VIP washrooms have been setup with the property waterlines, with attendants already being briefed on their responsibilities. In fact, as I glance around, tuxedoed staff members are already moving toward their final briefings. Glancing through the cathedral-size windows at the front of the house, I can see from my vantage point the valet has already setup, and all the delivery vans have started to move out or have been directed to the large tents at the edge of the property, offering a covered place to hide the aesthetically offending vehicles which adds an additional method of privacy.
I look down at my watch. It’s 1:45 and the wedding starts at 3:00. I have fifteen minutes before I need to head inside to get myself ready. I pull out my lists and check off items. I’m a little shocked when I see we’re actually ahead of schedule by fifteen minutes. I’ll take it.
My phone beeps. It’s Em.
“You almost ready to come in? We’re early in here if you can believe it.” Her voice holds the same shock and awe I’m feeling.
I laugh. “Don’t jinx us. I was just thinking the same thing out here. I’m making my way in right now.”
“Wait, you mean it’s on schedule out there too?” Now she’s laughing as well.
“Right? I just saw Corinna set the cake up, so she should be heading to the house soon too.”
Em lets out a long, low whistle. “Damn, Cass. Final briefings?”
I jog up the three steps of the stone patio, which wraps around the back of the house before turning around for a final sweep. “Already in progress. Vans have been moved under the tents. Valet is setup. I expect guests to arrive in”—I pause— “thirty minutes. And the chief steward and concierge staff we hired are waiting in black tie to escort everyone from the front door through the foyer, into the back.” As I walk into the house, again, an inexplicable chill hits my bones. Wrapping my arms around myself, I ask, “What room are you guys in?”
Before Em can respond, I hear a nasally voice behind me. “Against my wishes, your associates were set up in the secondary library. I expect you should be able to find it.”
I mutter into the phone, “No more than ten,” before hanging up and turning to face who I know will be Mildred Lockwood.
I am not wrong.
Mildred Lockwood is the epitome of elegance in her classically cut thousand-dollar St. John suit. This is the kind of woman who demands to be catered to and doesn’t care who she has to run over to get it. Things go her way or she gets them out of her way.
Aesthetically speaking, she’s an exceptionally attractive woman for her age with formerly dark hair, now well-mixed with salt and pepper and light eyes.
