5. Emergency Chickens May Be Reported #2
I’d barely booted up my computer when the first crisis hit.
The bride, a strawberry-blonde whirlwind named Danielle “Dani” Hartley, aka @danidoeslife, called my cell with a voice trembling on the high wire between “I’m going to cry” and “I’m going to cancel this entire wedding.
” Her new request? Move the ceremony indoors because of a bad dream she’d had.
Not to the covered patio, where we could have easily accommodated her.
She wanted it in the barn’s main hall, where the reception was taking place, which was currently set up with twenty round tables and chairs to seat two hundred guests.
Oh, and she wanted the florist to “rework all the arrangements so they feel less "outdoorsy.” Her words, not mine.
I took a deep breath and reassured her in my best customer-service purr, “No problem at all. I’ll coordinate with the team and make sure the space is perfect.”
As soon as I hung up, I did what any seasoned event coordinator does: I started dialing.
First, I called Ben Harper, the facilities manager who oversaw the crew that handled all events set up and teardown.
He wasn’t thrilled about the last-minute pivot, but promised to start shifting chairs and staging ASAP.
Next, I got a hold of Harper Lane, who was still in school and working part-time at the ranch as the day-of coordinator, to update her on the new plan.
She said she would speak to the catering lead, who would need to adjust the schedule since the ceremony was now taking place in the space he’d set up for the reception.
All food setup would need to be removed immediately.
The photo team was already on site, so I messaged the second shooter—an earnest undergrad named Paul—and redirected him to start testing shots in the main hall to make sure the light would hold.
I spun plates, juggled calls, and kept one wary eye on Maverick. He was humming softly to himself, utterly absorbed in his digital kingdom. For a second, I wished I could trade places with him, no cares in the world.
Then the second crisis came in hot. The florist, who was not listed as a preferred vendor of the ranch but was working with the bride as a collaboration, had delivered the entirety of the wedding arrangements to the wrong location with a single letter and eighty miles of difference, Rockhart Ranch in Juniper Hollow.
Rockhart was a working cattle ranch where, as of this morning, an elderly rancher named “Bud” was the proud recipient of over ten thousand dollars worth of blush peonies and white ranunculus.
I learned this when the bride’s mother, voice at a pitch only dogs could fully appreciate, burst into my office with her phone held out as if it contained a live scorpion.
“Can you fix this?” she wailed, brandishing the phone in my face.
I pressed my lips together and nodded, because I wasn’t going to start crying until at least noon.
I pulled up the arrangement invoice to get the full details, then called the florist myself.
They were pleasant enough, but once I explained the problem, they simply read me from the contract’s fine print: “Company not liable for deliveries to incorrect, miscommunicated, or misspelled addresses. Please double-check event details prior to payment.”
There was no payment, they’d offered their services for the exposure they would get on DaniDoesLife’s multiple social media platforms. The upshot was, not only were they not recalling the flowers, they weren’t refunding the money since it was a trade, or sending a second batch to make up for their mistake.
For a split second, I calculated the time it would take to drive out to Juniper Hollow and back, and who I could send on this errand from the ranch. But before I could even make that an option, my phone buzzed again. New text from Selma.
Selma: Heads up, Chuck is on site. He’s checking on the new barn addition. If you see him, say hi!
I groaned. Chuck Lockhart had been out of town for the past week on business.
I still hadn’t met the patriarch of the Lockhart clan.
The only thing I needed less than a face-to-face with Mr. Lockhart was a third disaster.
But I straightened my shirt and tried to look like the kind of employee who never let brides or mothers or peonies make her sweat.
I’d only worked at the ranch for a week, but I already had Ever After Blooms programmed into my phone.
I pressed the contact and prayed for a miracle, fighting escalating waves of panic.
The phone rang and was answered by a machine directing me which number to dial depending on the reason for the call.
I entered three, speak to a florist, and “Going to the Chapel” hold music played.
As I sat, watching the minutes tick by, I was cursing under my breath while trying to keep my voice bright and non-murderous for the human beings on the other end.
When I finally got a manager—a woman named Bethany—I explained the situation as reasonably as possible, hoping the edge in my voice sounded more like competent event coordinator than woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
To her credit, Bethany handled it like a pro.
“Oh, hon, that’s a rough one,” she sympathized.
“Let me see if there’s anything we can do to at least replace the centerpieces, and bouquets.
” She promised to check their warehouse for their stock, and even offered to make the new arrangements herself.
I thanked her profusely and told her I owed her one.
They wouldn’t be the original arrangements, not the “elevated woodland romance” the bride wanted, but definitely not nothing, either.
I tried to negotiate a price, but apparently Selma Lockhart had quite a bit of goodwill banked.
Bethany refused to speak about any cost, saying she owed Selma her life so this was the least she could do.
By the time I hung up, my nerves were shot, but at least there was a vague, desperate plan in place.
Sometimes, that was all I could hope for.
I let myself collapse into the spinny chair for one luxurious second, rubbing the heels of my hands over my eyes, when I realized it was quiet.
Too quiet. No crayons on paper, no YouTube or video games playing from an iPad.
Instinctively, I scanned the room—tablet open, snacks untouched, and… no Maverick.