30. TESSA
TESSA
I was about to die a very public death. Professionally, that is.
I stared at Chicago’s most influential bride as she dropped her bombshell.
“You want to change the wedding date?” I tried to keep my voice from panic-level shrieking as we sat in the gleaming interior of Le Petit Café, where the scent of fresh croissants usually calmed my nerves.
Not today. “We’re more than halfway done with the planning,” I reminded her, ticking off on my fingers.
“Florists, caterer, venues—all with signed contracts.”
“I don’t want it to be next June.” Shelly twisted her hands on the marble tabletop, avoiding my gaze. A cappuccino sat untouched before her, its foam design dissolving into nothing. “I want it to be this July.”
“ This July?” The words came out as a strangled whisper. “As in seven weeks from now?”
“That’s the one.” Her shoulders hunched forward, so unlike her usual camera-ready posture.
Do not laugh out loud at the audacity of it, I commanded myself. Part of being a wedding planner was dealing with unreasonable and unattainable requests from the bride and groom. But this? This was impossible.
“Shelly.” I leaned forward, lowering my voice.
“This is supposed to be the wedding of a lifetime.” As an influencer with millions of followers, Shelly knew this, but perhaps it bore repeating.
“There are politicians and Wall Street executives, massive influencers … they’ll all be there.
Which means we can’t afford anything less than perfection.
People like that will be looking for something to criticize. ”
Especially with Shelly. She attracted a massive following, and with great success came ruthless trolls. One slipup, and that slip would be the headline on the front pages of gossip columns. Yes, including Page Six . And right next to it? My name and my shattered reputation.
I might as well engrave a headstone for my business right now. Here lies Tessa’s dreams, murdered by impossible deadlines.
“Yes, it has to be perfect,” she said, her manicured nails drumming against the table. “And it has to be in July.”
“There won’t be any venues available.” The words tumbled out as I ran my fingers through my hair. “And that doesn’t even factor in?—”
“I’m going to stop you right there.” This was the curtest Shelly had ever been with me; my spine stiffened at the icy tone frosting her words. “Something has come up, so it has to be in July. Period. And I need you to make that work.”
I studied her, only now noticing how tense she seemed—her shoulders rigid, face tight.
“Oh my goodness!” A redheaded teen materialized at our table, practically vibrating with excitement. “You’re Shelly McBride!”
McBride. Ironic, considering the circumstances.
“I am.” Shelly’s face transformed instantly, her media-perfect smile sliding into place as she posed for a selfie with the fan who gushed for over a minute before finally leaving us alone.
“Something has come up.” I repeated her words softly, trying to imagine what could possibly derail a wedding that had more sponsorship deals than a Super Bowl commercial.
“Are you … expecting? Because if you are—” The wedding was a year out.
She could get her pre-baby body back in time if that’s what worried her.
“I’m not pregnant,” she said, her voice barely audible over the café’s espresso machine hiss. “My dad …” Her voice cracked, and her eyes welled with tears. Tears she tried to force away with a clearing of her throat. “It’s pancreatic cancer.”
My heart plummeted. Before I could respond, another fan approached, this one clutching her phone like a lifeline.
“Oh my God, I thought my friend was wrong, but now that I’m here—” The dark-haired girl babbled on, oblivious to our tension. “Can I just tell you what an inspiration you are? Your dress like a million on a budget of less than fifty posts? Oh my …”
When she finally left, I reached across the table. “Shelly, I’m so sorry.”
“Let’s go for a walk?” she suggested, already gathering her things.
I nodded, following her into the warm late-spring air of Michigan Avenue. The shadow of skyscrapers fell across us as horns echoed through the steel canyon and the “L” rumbled overhead. Here, at least, pedestrians were too focused on their own destinations to notice us.
“He has to be at my wedding,” she said, twisting a tissue between her fingers as we walked. “He has to walk me down the aisle. I’ve dreamed about this since I was a little girl, and if he’s not there …” Tears tracked down her carefully contoured cheeks.
I placed my hand on top of hers, our footsteps slowing. “Of course,” I said gently. “He has to be there.”
She let out a deep breath of relief, as if this part of the battle was behind her. But I knew better.
“You know,” I ventured, “we could pivot. Organize a justice of the peace, get you married by next week if you want.”
Her posture stiffened. “No,” she said firmly. “I’m not willing to sacrifice quality. It still has to be perfect; it just has to be earlier.”
My stomach churned at the impossibility of it all. Perfection in seven weeks? I might as well try to teleport to the moon.
“Doctors seem confident he can make my wedding in July,” she added. “That gives us time to move everything up.”
Now I understood, with crushing gravity, what she expected.
Perfection. The same stakes were there. Her brand and mine would be in shambles if all those same high-end guests came to a disaster.
Influential guests that would probably reorganize their lives when they heard why the wedding was moving up to July.
Shelly’s father was a powerful politician.
The last chance to see him? People would reschedule an organ transplant to make that.
“Okay, listen,” I sighed, stopping her near a towering glass building that reflected the afternoon sun.
“I hate to say this, but you’re taking a huge gamble on me.
I want this wedding to be everything you’ve dreamed of, and while selfishly, I want to keep working with you”— hello, bankruptcy court —“I have to put your needs ahead of my own. Other wedding planners have hundreds of weddings under their belt and can probably handle a curveball like this without missing a beat. Many of them have exclusive contracts with florists and venues they can leverage.” Me?
I was running on desperation and sheer will.
“I know it’s a challenge, but I want you to do it.” Shelly grabbed my hands, her eyes intense. “I fell in love with you, Tessa. Your vision. Your talent. I don’t want anything to change, except the date.”
I swallowed hard. “I want to,” I started, but she cut me off.
“This isn’t just about you. One day, a female clothing designer chose me to promote her brand. She could have gone with anyone more experienced, but she chose me and gave me my big break. I saw that same talent in you, and as you know, this whole wedding planning journey has gone viral.”
Don’t remind me. It was an asset then. Now it’s a Titanic -level liability.
“I’m getting messages from aspiring female entrepreneurs.
They’re watching you, Tessa. Looking on to see you pull off the wedding of the century, and if you do, it will tell them whatever dream they have in their heart, they can achieve it too.
This is bigger than just us; it’s hope for all the aspiring businesswomen who need a win when big corporations keep crushing the little guy. ”
Well, crap. When she put it that way …
“Speaking of big corporations,” she added, lowering her voice, “you know another big problem.”
“Once Upon a Lifetime,” I muttered, the name tasting as delicious as vomit.
Chicago’s largest wedding planning company had been trying to crush me since day one. Evidently, it wasn’t enough that they planned thousands—yes, thousands—of weddings a year. They were sharks, securing an almost monopoly by bullying out any budding competition. Like me.
Moving the wedding date would be massive news with Shelly and her influential father. Maybe they wouldn’t be that ruthless if they knew the reason it was moving was because he was dying?
But the churning in my stomach told my sixth sense that they wouldn’t give two craps; all they cared about was winning this wedding planning war they’d created.
And even without their interference, the impossibility of planning a wedding in mere weeks made my vision blur.
A wedding of a lifetime? I needed to hire a leprechaun for good luck.
My heart started to race, and nausea exploded, along with sweating palms. Nerves? Or another health crisis?
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Shelly, I need to tell you something.”
Panic flooded her eyes. “Don’t say no,” she pleaded, gripping my arm. “I can’t start over with someone else.”
“The other day, when I missed our meeting …” I forced myself to meet her gaze. “I was in the ER.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I assured her quickly. “Well, sort of. I’ve been sick for a while, and doctors can’t figure out why. It’s only fair that you know that. It didn’t start until after I took you on as a client,” I assured.
Shelly chewed her lip, clearly calculating this curveball. “Do you think it’ll interfere with wedding planning?”
“I want to say no,” I continued, watching pedestrians stream past us on both sides, “but the truth is, I don’t know what to expect. You need to understand what you’re getting yourself into if you continue with me.”
Rapid breathing, darting eyes. Shelly had entered full panic mode.
“How sick?” she asked.
“They’ve ruled out the really scary stuff, but?—”
“That’s good,” she cut in. “Because no one else would be able to take me on.”
“I’m sure they would.” God, this was so unfair.
I’d earned this job, sacrificed everything for it.
But this was her wedding, and she deserved the best. “People would probably cancel other weddings to make it happen.” I hated admitting it.
“One call, and you’d have ten wedding planners booked by the end of the day. ”
“But … you and I have been through so many details together.”
“I’d be happy to transition everything to them.”
“So, you’re quitting?” Her voice cracked.
“Not at all. Shelly, I want this wedding. Truth be told, I need it, but this isn’t about me; it’s about you getting the best chance at having the wedding of your dreams. You deserve nothing less.”
To this, her eyes watered. “See? This is why I want you, Tessa. Do you know how many people are cutthroat, bottom-line, greedy assholes?”
Sadly, I did.
“But you’re the kind of person who will give up her dream to make someone else’s come true. That’s why you deserve this wedding under your belt.”
And this was why I’d been thrilled to have her as a client. Despite how demanding she could sometimes be, Shelly was one of those female entrepreneurs who wanted to bring others up with her—the kind that paid it forward to underdogs like me.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Because you don’t have an hour to spare if we have any shot of pulling this off together.”
Shelly nodded.
I blew out a breath. “Okay. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this your dream wedding, Shelly.”
She hugged me, and as she did, it struck me again how lucky I was.
Not just to have a client like Shelly, but also that I didn’t have pancreatic cancer.
Shame on me for feeling sorry for myself during pockets of this past year.
I would do everything in my power to pull off the wedding of her dreams.
Even if it meant caving in to the bossiest man on the planet.
Blake’s warning about my home echoed in my head.
Maybe he was onto something. Maybe my environment was the culprit.
After all, I hadn’t been sick before moving in, and just the other night, I’d felt fine arriving home, but after sleeping there, I’d thrown up at that last meeting with Shelly.
Yes. My environment was suspect, and I couldn’t wait weeks to find out if it was making me sick.
Which left me with exactly one option.
With trembling fingers, I pulled out my phone and fired off a text to Blake.
Me: That offer to live with you still on the table?