Chapter 11
Brooke
The office is a flutter of activity after Caleb drops me off.
Most businesses are closing their doors around five o’clock, but the staff here is in the middle of their day.
Busy couples can’t meet during the typical workday, so meetings and calls happen when it’s convenient for them.
Planners type away on their keyboards. There’s a consultation in the conference room.
Two assistants assemble guest gift bags to drop off at nearby hotels for this weekend’s weddings.
Maddie’s on the phone when I stop at my desk to drop my bags before heading to Judy’s office.
Judy’s been texting me all afternoon, sending me questions to ask or reminders to mention certain items at the meeting.
Like I haven’t been doing this job for six years, working in the service industry long before that, and learning from her since I was five.
I don’t mind keeping her in the loop—it’s her company after all—but the constant micromanaging grates.
All my experience isn’t enough for her to trust me to do my job.
I take a deep breath just outside her office where she can’t see me, mentally preparing for the onslaught of questions and critiques.
“Hi Judy,” I say, settling into a chair.
“Ah, there’s my girl.” Apparently, it’s okay for her to acknowledge that I’m her daughter at the office, but not the other way around. “Too busy to answer my texts?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, it was a busy meeting.” I straighten my shoulders.
Confidence is crucial with Judy. “You forgot to mention this is an outdoor, backyard, at-home wedding. There was a lot to cover. And before you ask, we reviewed the full at-home wedding checklist and they have everything covered. Parking’s arranged.
They’ve spoken to, and invited, all of their neighbors. Landscapers are scheduled.”
She purses her lips, and it occurs to me that this was all a test I didn’t know I was taking.
“What about—”
“Trash? Handled. Mosquitoes? The yard will be sprayed four days before the wedding. Catering tent? Caleb’s on it. Bathrooms? Confirmed the luxury package from Flush King while we were there. Anything else?”
“Well, you certainly seem to have it all covered,” she says with a pinched frown, like it’s a bad thing to be excellent at my job.
Shit. That look. My tone slipped. Sometimes confidence is interpreted as defiance and she does not like that. I have to tread carefully now.
She needs to know I can handle this, like I’ve handled every other wedding, to perfection.
But I can’t upset her to the point where we get into our usual fight.
The one that starts with her accusing me of thinking she’s a terrible mother.
It turns to me being ungrateful for everything she’s done for me.
In the end, she’s in tears and I’m apologizing.
I’m never entirely sure what I’m apologizing for, but it’s the only way to end the argument.
I’m in no mood for it now. It’s been a long afternoon, and a dull throb is beginning to pulse at my temple.
“I’ve got this,” I say, smiling sincerely. “Just like you taught me.”
She started Spencer Soirees at our kitchen table in the small garage-loft we rented.
It was set behind a mansion on an estate in the country part of town where she moved us when I was barely two.
That must have been when my dad left, but I’ll never get that story.
Mom was a waitress and occasionally helped our landlords with lavish parties at their home, of which there were many.
She started with serving and cleaning before slowly starting to help with some of the planning—brainstorming themes, handling vendors, overseeing the event.
Guests started asking for her number to help with their own parties.
And thus, Spencer Soirees was born. When I wasn’t in school, she’d drag me all around town for meetings and site visits.
I’d do my homework while she made vendor calls and wrote out timelines.
She didn’t have a village around to help her, so she taught me to sit quietly with my books and coloring pages while she took meetings at clients’ homes or coffee shops.
I remember clients and vendors alike commenting on how well-behaved I was.
Mom telling them that I was her perfect little girl.
I’d beam a toothy smile proudly. The praise trained me to be obedient and perfect.
I wanted Mom to be proud of me so I could continue to tag along.
It’s no surprise I fell in love with wedding planning. I was enamored with the beauty of it all. And I’m still striving to be her perfect little girl.
But as I’ve gotten better and better at my job, I feel less perfect in Mom’s eyes. Lately, perfect isn’t enough for her. Any little slip-up or possible mistake is caught and called out.
“I did teach you well,” she says, smiling proudly. “Didn’t I?”
Crisis averted, for now. I relax in my seat, but my head continues to ache.
“You did and you know it,” I smile, and she glows. “Now let me show you their design inspiration! You’re going to love it.”
Event design always puts her in a good mood.
Even when she loathes a couple’s vision, she loves the game of taking it, reworking, and making it better.
Playing with all the pieces until it’s good enough to be a Spencer Soirees wedding.
We spend the next hour gushing over Hannah and Preston’s vision.
It’s close to seven o’clock before we wrap up. I rub my temple discreetly before gathering my files and papers from the desk.
“Oh dear,” she says, pursuing her lips again. “Not one of your little headaches, is it?” Not discreet enough.
If it wouldn’t cause even more pain, I’d roll my eyes.
Mom’s been dismissing my attacks since I was diagnosed with episodic migraine as a teenager.
When we left the doctor’s office, she told me it didn’t sound like a real issue but took me to CVS to fill my prescription anyway.
I try to hide any indication that an attack is coming on, and I’m usually successful.
She truly has no idea how often I have one of my little headaches.
Especially after we had a blowout fight about it a few years ago.
It ended with me apologizing for accusing her of being a bad mother who didn’t care about her own flesh and blood.
(Her words, not mine.) She never once apologized for being so dismissive of my legitimate diagnosis.
Instead, she called me dramatic and attention-seeking.
“It’s nothing,” I say. “Just been a long day, I’m tired.”
“If you say so, dear,” she says, picking up her purse to leave for the day.
At my desk, after making sure Mom has left, I take my medication and say a silent prayer that I didn’t miss the window that guarantees I won’t have to go right to bed with an ice pack when I get home.
If I don’t catch an attack in time, it can mean worlds of pain and discomfort.
The last thing I want to do tonight is prepare a meeting recap for Caleb and create a design presentation for the Quincys while battling a migraine.
But that’s exactly what I end up doing, because I always push myself for my clients.
For the next hour, I block out the noise in the office and focus on my work.
The other planners and assistants begin heading out for the day.
One of Maddie’s sisters drops off dinner for the two of us.
Taking a bite of the salad, I realize I’ve barely eaten today.
No wonder I had an attack. The office gets quieter and the pain in my temple finally subsides. Brooke: one, migraine: zero.
With the recap complete, I move on to creating the planning timeline and checklists.
This is where I shine. It’s my superpower: Taking all the moving elements and all the to-dos and putting them in a digestible format that won’t overwhelm.
The color-coding helps it make sense for the vendors, but of course Caleb gave me grief about it.
Yes, it’s aesthetically pleasing thanks to the Spencer Soirees branding color palette, but it does serve a purpose.
It highlights the most important details and gives vendors a quick way to find the information that pertains to them.
It’s a genius system, thank you very much.
By nine o’clock, it’s just me and Maddie left in the office, and I’ve taken Hannah and Preston’s inspiration and created a stunning proposal. Their weekend of wedding events is going to be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever worked on.
Unfortunately, before I can share the proposal with them, I have to run everything by Caleb. So much of this particular event design depends on service logistics, and that requires his cooperation.
I email Caleb the meeting recap, but there’s no way I’m sending something as proprietary as a Spencer Soirees event design to anyone at Foley’s. Even if it’s only a draft. I shoot him a text asking if he has time to review it tomorrow.
I start typing another message. Then delete.
Type. Delete. I want to proactively address any wrench Caleb is going to throw at me, but I have no idea what wrench he might throw.
I believe him when he says he cares about this wedding as much as I do, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to make my job any easier.
My phone buzzes in my hand. Caleb. Shit.
“Did you mean to call me?”
“Hey babe,” he says, and I don’t respond. “I can practically hear you rolling your eyes.”
Guilty.
“Why are you calling me? You’re not supposed to use your phone for actual phone calls unless it’s an emergency or work-related.”
“Is this not work-related?”
He has me there. “I take back what I said about us being in this together. Now I keep hoping I’ll wake up from the nightmare that is having to work with you.”
“I’m just happy to be in your dreams.”
My cheeks flush and I’m glad he can’t see me. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this work call, Caleb?”