Vanessa’s million-dollar wedding was the only thing standing between me and foreclosure. She demanded perfection, but I never met the groom. Then the limousine arrived, the announcer welcomed “Adrian”… and my unemployed husband stepped out! Then the bride revealed the real reason she’d hired me.
At 12:04 a.m., the woman paying enough to save my house called to complain that her ivory napkins looked yellow.
I’d worked as an event planner for years, but I’d never encountered a bridezilla quite like Vanessa.
I closed my eyes.
“I’ll have three new options by morning.”
“Good. You know, if you make even one mistake, I’ll end your career,” Vanessa said sweetly.
I’d never encountered a bridezilla quite like Vanessa.
Upstairs, my unemployed husband was sleeping.
He’d had another job interview earlier that day.
Eight years of marriage.
Twelve years building a planning business from a folding table in a rented studio.
And one client, one wedding, standing between me and a foreclosure notice.
I went to hang Sean’s jacket on the coat rack where he’d draped it over the banister.
That’s when my fingers found the folded paper in the inside pocket.
One wedding standing between me and a foreclosure notice.
A receipt.
Bianchi’s, a restaurant downtown I’d never been to.
Two entrees, a bottle of wine, a dessert I didn’t recognize.
The receipt was dated three weeks earlier — a Thursday when he’d told me he had another job interview.
Had he mentioned having a business lunch that day?
I stared at the receipt until the numbers blurred.
Had he mentioned having a business lunch that day?
“Honey?” Sean’s voice, thick with sleep, came from the top of the stairs. “You still up?”
I slid the receipt back where I found it.
“Just finishing Vanessa’s notes.”
“That woman is going to put you in the ground.”
“One more week,” I said, and forced a laugh.
He came down two steps and stopped, silhouetted against the hallway light.
“You still up?”
“Come to bed soon, okay?”
“Soon.”
I watched him disappear back into our bedroom.
Then I sat down beside my swatches.
I pulled up the folder I’d built for Vanessa’s wedding.
Every email, every contract, every note.
And that was when something strange struck me.
