35. Lucy #3
“Sorry,” I said. “Long day.”
“I was going to say it looks good.”
I blinked.
Dad slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers. His suit jacket was gone, tie loosened, sleeves rolled once at the cuffs. He looked like the day had taken pieces out of him too, though he would rather buy a failing minor league franchise than admit it. “You made it yours,” he said.
Something in my chest shifted. “Yeah,” I said quietly. “I guess I did.”
His gaze moved to the framed photo on the shelf. Lo smiling. Bea glowing. Freya mid-laugh. Arlo ruining the shot behind us because subtlety had never once survived contact with my brother.
My father’s expression softened at the edges. Then, because he was Ezra Thomas and sentiment had a strict expiration window, he cleared his throat. “Vivienne Hart is meeting Bea here tomorrow at eleven to go over the conservatory timing.”
I frowned. “Here?”
“Apparently the wedding planner wanted to see where half the wedding party disappears to during work hours.”
“That sounds like a treat.”
His mouth twitched.
“Como confirmed the Sunken Garden timing?” I asked.
“As of this morning. Ceremony window is still locked. Photos before guest arrival are possible, but tight. Vivienne wants a cleaner transportation schedule from the hotel to the conservatory and back.”
I made a note, because if there was one thing I respected, it was the ability of a wedding to become a military operation while wearing flowers. “Bea doing okay?”
“She told Alois she could carry her own binder and he looked like she’d asked him to dismantle the moon.”
I laughed.
Dad’s face warmed in that quiet way it did whenever Lo’s orbit expanded around him and pulled more people into his care. Bea had her father. Rafa Ribeiro would be at that wedding with his heart in his hands and his daughter’s whole life in his eyes. Dad knew that. He respected it.
But he loved Lo. And loving Lo meant loving what Lo loved. Bea had become part of that equation before any of them said it out loud.
“I’ll be here,” I said. “For the meeting.”
“I know.”
I looked up.
My dad studied me for a moment, father first, owner second. “You handled today well.”
My throat dried. “You mean the paperwork avalanche or the emotional devastation parade?”
“Both.”
“High praise.” I rolled my eyes, but it came out softer than I intended.
He turned to leave, then paused. “Lucy.”
“Yeah?”
His gaze dropped briefly to Dottie, sleeping with total faith beside my desk, then returned to me. “It gets strange when the building quiets down.”
The next morning, Vivienne Hart arrived at the arena with a leather folio, perfect hair, and the focused calm of a woman who could make a thunderstorm sign a nondisclosure agreement.
Bea waddled beside her in a soft green dress, one hand resting on the top of her belly, the other holding an iced tea Alois had clearly insisted she bring because the cup had a sticky note on it that said DRINK in blocky handwriting.
“This is not necessary,” Bea said, peeling the note off as she came into my office.
Vivienne glanced at the cup. “Hydration is always necessary.”
“See?” I snickered.
Bea pointed at me. “Do not side with the professionals.”
“I always side with women carrying folios. They know things.”
Vivienne gave me a small, approving smile. “Lucy Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“Vivienne Hart.”
We shook hands. Her grip was cool and precise. She looked around my office once, taking in the desk, the dog, the lamp, the paperwork, and somehow making me feel like she had also assessed every weak point in the arena’s emergency evacuation plan.
“Your father said you understand logistics,” she said.
“My father says many things when he wants me to inherit problems.”
“Excellent. Then you’ll be useful.”
Bea groaned and lowered herself into the chair across from my desk. “I miss when people pretended I was the boss of my own wedding.”
“You are the boss,” Vivienne said. “That is why everyone else is doing the lifting.”
“That sounds like something Lo would say.”
“Lo and I agree on many things.”
“Terrifying,” I said.
“Deeply,” Bea agreed.
The meeting lasted twenty minutes and somehow covered transportation timing, photo flow, floral delivery access, guest arrival spacing, conservatory humidity, backup umbrellas, seating for Bea during every possible pause, and a firm reminder that no hockey player was permitted to “just move” anything inside the Sunken Garden without direction.
“Why do I feel like that rule has Alois’s name on it?” I asked.
Bea looked at her iced tea. “Because Alois has strong feelings about everything, apparently.”
Vivienne made a note. “I have assigned him jobs that cannot damage the layout.”
“That is wise.”
“He will escort Bobby, stand where I tell him, marry you, and not touch a single urn.”
Bea’s expression softened at Bobby’s name before she could hide it.
There was so much love gathering around that wedding. Not perfect love. Not simple love. But sturdy love. The kind with assigned transportation schedules and hydration notes and men who would rather fight furniture than admit they were afraid of failing the people they loved.