Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Nessa
In retrospect, Nessa thought, the Barr-Hopper wedding was beginning to seem like a child's birthday party: a few friends, a couple of games, cake and ice cream, and everyone goes home, tired but happy, clutching their goody bag.
George Torropoulos and Gianni Santini were being joined in matrimony, but they'd already been partners for years in their A-list residential interior design firm, Santorini Inc.
Theirs was a rarefied existence. Surrounded every moment of every day by the most beautiful of objects, swathed in the most luxurious fabrics, seated upon upholstery that had been custom made to their exacting specifications, they found it almost physically painful to be in an environment that they had not created, approved of, or somehow controlled.
So when it came to their wedding, they never considered hiring a professional planner, designer, or stylist; their own team of employees would handle every detail for their Provincetown nuptials. The wedding was, in some respects, the most important project Santorini had ever taken on.
George and Gianni were, it must be said, truly gifted designers. Talent alone, however, was no guarantee of success. Their well-kept secret was that they both possessed the business acumen of a Harvard MBA. They knew that their wedding, if managed properly, had the potential to generate more positive PR and result in more new clients than the cover of Elle Decor . Not to mention–if managed properly–a very healthy tax deduction.
Thus Nessa had found herself collaborating with four women her own age, none of whom had ever planned an event more complex than a cocktail party. All four were, however, so well versed in George and Gianni's taste and requirements that it rivaled the Vulcan mind meld, and they seemed to communicate in their own private language.
"Interlined?" one of them might ask, holding up a sample of the heavy white linen that Nessa knew was being used for some kind of tent curtains.
"No, contrasting cuffs, thirty inches," another replied, handing her another linen sample in a slightly different shade of white. "Break at the floor."
With her own passion for style, this was not uninteresting to Nessa, but she wasn't used to being considered an amateur in these matters, her opinion of no consequence. The Santoristas weren't bad or unkind people–not at all–they were just self-contained, like a very exclusive private club.
In her more exasperated moments, the word cult had crossed Nessa's mind, but of course that was an exaggeration.
Mostly.
"Are you that girl from verynecessary?" the one with glasses had asked her one afternoon, early in the planning stages.
"Yes!" Nessa had answered, thrilled. They know who I am! They've seen my posts!
"Oh," was the response.
This was also Nessa's first real exposure to chicness of attitude, and it was a revelation to her. The Santoristas didn't necessarily give much thought to what they were wearing; they had perfect self-confidence, which is the defining quality of chic. Jennifer Lawrence doesn't need to put on earrings to go to the grocery store.
The downside of perfect confidence, however, is that the people who have it sometimes forget to ask questions. And when those around them buy into that confidence, they can forget to ask questions, too, especially when any questions they do ask are met with a stare.
But Nessa didn't realize that yet.
And so the planning proceeded, with Nessa basically relegated to issues of emergency response. She acted as a liaison to Archie, she updated Katie and Kari, and she went to all the general team meetings with the Santoristas, which George and Gianni never attended. At these meetings, she kept her eyes and ears open.
"Do you want this bedside table?" she'd asked Liv on Monday.
"You mean your night stand? You're giving it away? Why? You just bought that."
"They're called bedside tables," Nessa said, dragging it toward the door. "And this one is too short. They should be thirty inches tall."
"What? Why?" Liv got up to help.
"I don't really know. I just know that's the height they should be."
"Sure, I'll take it. I'm short, so it probably doesn't matter if my night stand is short, too." In this way, Liv understood that there must have been a meeting at the Santorini offices the week before, and that someone there had been discussing bedside tables.
And now, today, the wedding was taking place at George and Gianni's place, at the very tip of Cape Cod. The water views were breathtaking. The house was one level, mostly glass panels that moved on hidden tracks so that on a beautiful day, the walls disappeared; rooms could be entirely opened to the ocean breezes and the cries of seabirds, one continuous environment. From the house, a stone terrace led out to the lawn, and the lawn to the dunes.
It was high season on the Cape, and Nessa knew that crews had been onsite for weeks, assembling and erecting the frames for a series of huge, elegant cabanas on the beach for the dinner and dancing. One was furnished with white sofas and low tables for cocktails and conversation, with sand beneath your feet; in the others, temporary wood floors, stained the color of driftwood, were laid down. The cuffed white linen curtains had been hung, forming soft, billowing sides to the cabanas that were tied at the corners and supports. At one end was a more utilitarian version for the caterers, connected by a boardwalk. Teams of landscapers had planted masses of wild rosa rugosa both inside and outside, giving the impression that the cabanas had somehow materialized there, like a fantastical dream that would be gone in the morning.
"If I ever get married, I'm going to elope," Nessa informed Archie, as they stood on the terrace in the sunshine, looking out at lawn, dunes, cabanas, ocean, and scurrying workers. Photographers were unloading equipment and conferring with the Santoristas. The band was doing a sound check.
"You can't. I'm giving you away," he said, with such finality that there was no use arguing. He knew full well that Nessa’s father would have the honor, but Archie was a very close second. "Anyway, you all say that after a couple of years in this business."
"Kari did it."
"Yes, but Katie and Patrick didn't. You just have to have the wedding that's right for you."
"Have you ever been married, Archie?"
"Not yet. But you never know. Could happen."
"What kind of wedding would you have?"
"I'm going to give her my mother's engagement ring. Then we're going to go to City Hall. Then we're going to get in the car and drive to every historic ballpark in the country, where we will eat hot dogs and drink beer. Honeymoon."
"What if she doesn't like baseball?"
"I would never marry someone who didn't like baseball."
"Fair enough."
They surveyed the scene in silence for a moment.
"Besides, she does."
"Archie!"
"Yeah." He tried not to grin, and failed.
"Archie! This means… Archie, oh my god, you can't take that much time off!"
"I've been training Justin, you know that." Mostly to himself, he muttered, " Justin , for Pete's sake. That's no name for a security chief. What ever happened to names like Joey? Mike? Rocco? When did you all become Justin and Trevor and, I don't know, Cooper?"
She laughed. "I once knew a Cooper who was very tough."
"No, you didn't."
"Well, he beat up a kid named Tucker."
"Exactly."
The inappropriately named Justin appeared at that moment and signaled to Archie, who left her with a side glance. She wasn't alone for long.
"Did Archie say anything?" Ranney asked.
"Not really. Well, sort of–I think he said he might be getting married."
" What? Oh, Ness, I'm sure he was joking."
"Maybe," Nessa said doubtfully.
"One hour to guest arrival," Ranney said. "All good? I have to say, those girls make me nervous. I don't know how you work with them."
"The Santoristas? They're okay. They just exist on a higher plane than we do."
"They're passive aggressive."
"Maybe a little," Nessa conceded.
"That one down there, in the jumpsuit? She asked if you were my daughter."
"Really? She asked about me?"
"She said it must be nice to have time to go to the gym like you do."
"What? We've never talked about that. And anyway, I don't belong to a gym. Where would she get that idea?"
"Don't know, just telling you what she said. I'm going to talk to the photography people, see if they're all set. Fifty-five minutes."
"I know, Mom," she said, just the tiniest huff in her voice.
She picked up her iPad and went to do her own check-ins, but with her limited responsibility here, that just meant being assured that the caterer was ready to cater, the bartenders were ready to pour, and the musicians were ready to play.
Still, her time filled up, and eventually they were watching George and Gianni take their vows. These two dignified men were middle-aged, old enough to have lived through a time when this wedding would have been an impossible dream, and guests were weeping openly. Their deep and enduring bond was obvious and joy filled the air, along with salt spray, the delicious aroma of food on the grill, and the subtle fragrance, custom blended for the couple, that was being released around the property from strategically placed atomizers.
It was impossible to attend as many weddings as Nessa did and not try each one on for size. What had Archie said? You have to have the wedding that's right for you.
She knew all too well what had gone into this spectacularly lovely day; besides rivers of cash, it had taken a year of unstinting labor by dozens of people to produce the effect of a spontaneous, effortless party at the beach. Even if she had the rivers of cash, was this the kind of wedding that was right for her?
Anyway, did it matter? Before you plan a wedding, it's common practice to have someone who wants to marry you.
What kind of wedding would Matthew Draper want?
Instantly, she was annoyed with herself–she'd just met the guy! Given the unusual circumstances, you couldn't even say for sure how many dates they'd had, but it wasn't many. There was no proposal on the horizon.
For a quick distraction, she picked up her phone–maybe Liv had texted her. And sure enough, she had, but even better, “Marcus Bell” (she still hadn’t changed Matt’s contact info) was at the top of the list.
Hey, how's the million-dollar beach picnic going? I still can't understand why they didn't ask me to officiate, my ratings must be slipping. Speaking of ratings, I know the photos aren't good for either of us, but don't worry, I'm trying to get them scrubbed. And your face isn't in most of them. Call me when you get home.
What was he talking about? She opened Liv's:
Don't worry, sweetie, you can hardly tell it's you, and your ass looks great, srsly! xo
What?
What do you mean? she typed back to Liv. Butterflies started in her stomach, but they were the kind you get when you feel like something bad's going to happen, not the good kind, like a date or a party. Her phone pinged a weird ping but she barely registered it.
Looking up from her screen, she noticed that the sun was lowering in the sky. Cocktail hour was in full swing; a jazz quartet was playing and people were swaying and dancing gently on the terrace. Trays of Champagne flutes were everywhere; Mo?t must surely have felt the uptick in sales.
About now, she would normally be heading over to where dinner was going to be served, just to check on everything, but she could see at least two Santoristas already on the case. If she went down there now, they would just look at her as if she were totally superfluous and pushing in where she didn't belong. She didn't have the heart to do it.
A buzz from her phone, and it was Kari: All good? Any issues?
No issues , she typed. About to move to dinner.
Okay, good.
A stronger breeze was kicking up, lifting her hair and cooling her cheeks. The odd messages nagged at her, but personal texting during a work event was absolutely not allowed–she shouldn't have read them in the first place. Whatever the problem was, it would still be there when the wedding was over. At least she had a reason to talk to Matt later, something to look forward to on the drive home.
George and Gianni began a slow stroll toward the dinner cabana, arm in arm, surrounded by a group of laughing friends. There was a general putting down of glasses and picking up of wraps and handbags as everyone still on the terrace or the lawn joined the migration. Nessa followed.
Inside the cabana, the usual bustle was going on as guests picked up their table numbers, found their seats, and began introducing themselves to dinner companions. Servers moved between candlelit tables, filling wine glasses, soft music in the background. A more purposeful movement caught Nessa's eye, and there was Archie, bearing down on her.
"You checked the tide levels, right?" he asked directly.
She shook her head. "No, why? Do you see a problem?"
"The waves are coming pretty far up the beach, so I just looked at the NOAA tables online. Tonight is predicted to be a hundred-year tide. Do you know the high-water line here?"
"Well, no, but… the Santorini team did all the planning. I'm sure they would have looked into that. Plus, these structures were just built–they must have had to get permits from the town, right? When is high tide?"
But even as she spoke, a voice in her head was beginning to scream: You should have known! You should have checked! You are the project manager, it's your responsibility!
Like a post-trauma flashback, scenes from the island wedding in Georgia when a hurricane struck–her first travel event for Wedding Protectors–flashed through her mind. But as bad as that had been, she was there as Kari's assistant. She wasn't responsible then.
Today, she was.
"High tide is in two hours," Archie answered.