Chapter 9
Brooke
Caleb is late.
Shocking.
I’m sitting on the front steps of the office and look at my watch. Again.
I should have never agreed to letting him drive.
The more I can separate myself from him this summer, the better.
We’re going to have to attend several meetings together, communicate regularly, and spend all of Labor Day weekend together.
That’s more than enough. I dig through my bag for my car keys.
If I leave now, I can make it a few minutes early.
The double honk of a horn sounds from the street.
Caleb pulls up in his navy Jeep Wrangler. The same car he would drive me home from the country club in. The roof and sides are off. That was fun in my early twenties, but now it’s going to ruin my hair before an important meeting.
“You’re late,” I say, pushing off the steps.
“Late? The meeting starts at two and it’s only ten minutes away.” He looks at the clock on the dashboard. “It’s 1:45!”
“I’m always early to meetings. Early is on time and on time is late.” I stand next to where the passenger door should be. How the hell does one get in and out of this thing in heels?
Caleb stares. “Are you getting in? It’s going to be your fault we’re late.”
I place my foot on the step and attempt to grab the frame above me, which isn’t easy with my purse, workbag, and a big-ass water bottle in my hands.
Taking hold, I hoist myself up and into the car.
I overshoot and tumble over the center console right into Caleb, my free hand landing high. High on his thigh.
He looks at me, eyes wide, before fixing his face into a neutral expression. “Graceful, Brooke,” he says with a laugh.
When I realize my hand is still on his thigh, I pull away quickly, straightening myself in the passenger seat. I turn to look out the…well, to just look out, hoping Caleb can’t see the fire I feel flushing my cheeks.
“Just drive,” I say.
He shifts into drive and we’re on our way.
The landscape quickly changes from quaint downtown to the older beach neighborhood.
It feels like you’ve been dropped in the middle of Nantucket or Martha’s Vineyard.
People who have the audacity to say Connecticut isn’t part of New England have clearly never seen these picturesque views.
We pull into the circular driveway in front of a magnificent multi-million-dollar waterfront home, one I recognize from Hannah’s many Instagram posts and stories. Not Hannah’s current home, but the home where she spends holidays and summer weekends. Her family home.
“Welcome to the venue,” Caleb says, cutting the engine.
The what? I assumed the wedding was going to be held at Charter Oaks Country Club down the road. I’m entirely too distracted lately. We’re only a few days into this partnership and I’ve already let Caleb rattle me enough that I’m not focused.
“Excuse me?” My mouth hangs open a moment before I remember I need to be presentable. The wedding is here. A backyard wedding. Mom failed to include that bit of important information. We have three months to plan an at-home, backyard wedding. For four hundred people.
Shit.
Though there is something oh-so Father of the Bride about a backyard wedding that makes my little wedding planner heart sing.
Especially when, like the Banks’ family home in the film, the houses are gorgeous classic colonials like this one.
Only, this one is a lot bigger. Thousands of square feet bigger.
The Quincys live on the more historical side of the beach neighborhood where the houses are old and the money is older.
I do love a backyard wedding, but they’re particularly labor-intensive. Often, I end up convincing couples not to do one unless they’re going for an extremely causal vibe or have the means to do it right—like the Quincys do.
This venue means bringing in every single thing.
Caleb will have to construct a full catering tent, bring in all the required appliances, and install a generator.
Every single piece of furniture we need will have to be brought in.
Everything from the tent to the butter knives will have to be rented.
There’s trash collection, traffic flow, and parking to think about.
I’d better give my contact at the police station a call.
What’s the noise ordinance for this part of town?
Eleven o’clock? For the right price, I’m sure we can arrange an extension to midnight.
Have the Quincys spoken to their neighbors?
Invited them? There is a good amount of land between them, but a wedding of this size will inconvenience the neighborhood during an already busy holiday weekend.
I’m so caught up in the mental checklist of our tasks for the next three months that I don’t notice Caleb get out of the car until he’s standing next to the doorless passenger side, holding his hand out for me.
“I can get out on my own,” I scoff.
“Based on how gracefully you got into the car, I doubt it,” he says. “Just take my hand, Brooke.”
I collect my things and attempt to get out on my own. It’s not going well. I can’t manage holding on to the frame of the car and my belongings at the same time. “Fine,” I sigh, taking his hand and hopping out with a tad more grace than I had getting in. When I let go, my hand tingles.
We stand side by side, taking in the beautiful house. It’s a stone colonial-style mansion with exquisite landscaping. A stunning, one-of-a-kind wedding venue.
I wish I could control the weather. This wedding is going to be epic.
The only thing that could ruin it, besides Caleb fucking something up, is the weather.
To-dos continue to spiral through my head.
Cocktail hour around dusk means they should spray for ticks and mosquitoes.
I’ll need to check what time sunset is on the wedding day so I can build in time for the photographer to get some golden hour photos.
I need to call Jordan. I should have texted her the second I found out about this wedding.
And I’ll need to come up with a rain plan.
I have the urge to smack Caleb. So, I do. Right in his toned, muscular arm. Ow. I need to stop doing that. He’s wearing a short-sleeve button-down linen shirt, sleeves tight over his biceps. The light blue color brings out his tan, which only makes his arms more appealing.
“Geez, Brooke,” he groans. “Do you hit all of your caterers?!”
“Just you. When were you going to tell me this was a backyard wedding? No one mentioned that tiny little detail.”
He smirks and that dimple has to make an appearance. “Afraid you can’t hack it?”
“Of course not! I can plan a backyard wedding in three months, I’ve done it before. But the wedding of the year? Do you have any idea how much work I have ahead of me?”
“Believe it or not, I do.”
The double front doors of the home swing open.
“They’re here!” a beautiful blonde calls back into the house as she bounces down the front steps. It’s not Hannah, but she looks familiar.
“Shit,” Caleb says, under his breath.
“What?” I whisper.
Before he can answer, the blonde’s made her way to us. To Caleb. She wraps him in a hug and I watch them with narrowed eyes. The way she’s holding him is very…affectionate.
“Caleb,” she says, pulling away from the hug but leaving her hands on his shoulders. “It’s been too long. It’s so good to see you.”
Caleb’s stiff as a board. Who is she and how does she know Caleb? And why does it look like he wants to speed away in the Wrangler, leaving a trail of dust in his wake? Seeing him this uncomfortable should bring me immense joy, but it doesn’t.
“Hi!” I interrupt, extending my hand to her. “I’m Brooke from Spencer Soirees.”
She finally lets go of her grip on Caleb, and I don’t miss the quiet exhale of relief he lets out.
“Oh my god! Hannah and I are so excited to meet you! I told her there was no way you’d still be available on such short notice, but I was wrong!
Normally I hate being wrong, but this time I’m so glad I was.
” Her hands are now on my shoulders and squeezing tightly.
Too tightly. Before I know it, I’m engulfed in one of the tightest hugs I’ve ever experienced.
I look at Caleb with pleading eyes that say who the fuck is this, why is she hugging me, and we’re in this together whether we like it not, I recused you, now you have to rescue me!
He seems to relax at the expense of my peril. “Brooke,” he says, with a laugh that makes my stomach flip. I want to hear him say my name like that again. “This is Jennifer.”
I’m released from Jennifer’s arms as quickly as I was engulfed into them.
“Oh my god! I’m so rude. Please forgive me. There’s just so much excitement today and I’ve completely forgotten my manners! Jennifer, maid of honor, reporting for duty!” She salutes me then turns, bounding up the steps. “Hannah and Preston are inside.”
We follow a few paces behind her. “What was that all about?” I whisper to Caleb as we enter the grand foyer.
If it’s possible, the inside is more stunning than the outside.
Classic transitional style with modern touches.
Not stuffy and dated like I’ve come to expect from some of our clients with this kind of generational wealth.
“First, no one tells me it’s a backyard wedding,” I say through clenched teeth. “Now you’ve also forgotten to mention you know the maid of honor?”
“I barely know Jennifer,” he says, but I don’t believe him. “She’s just a hugger.”
“That was the most aggressive hug I’ve ever received. I think I’m going to have bruises on both of my shoulders.”
Caleb places his hands on my shoulders, giving a gentle squeeze. It feels good. Better than I want it to. “You’ll be fine,” he says. This isn’t going to work if Caleb keeps touching me. I shake my shoulders and he removes the loose grip.
“It might be time for shoulder pads to come back in style,” I say.
“I’d pay good money to see you wearing some ‘80s blazers.”
“You’ve seen me in shoulder pads, Caleb,” I say. “The first Warehouse Party I went to was an ‘80s theme. I wore my mom’s old pink cheetah blazer and teased my hair.”
He laughs with his whole chest. “How could I forget that ensemble?”
I’m brought back to the summers I was home from college, working and snickering with Caleb in the corner about how drunk the guests were and critiquing their dancing. I didn’t realize how much I missed that laugh.
“C’mon, let’s find out exactly how massive this to-do list is going to be,” Caleb says, leading me behind Jennifer with his hand on the small of my back.
I gasp audibly when I step into the room and see the wall-to-wall built-in bookshelves filled to the brim. The room is painted a dark navy, but large windows let in plenty of light and the beige furniture provides a nice contrast.
Hannah’s a picture of Instagram perfection sitting on a love seat next to her fiancé, Preston.
Her dark brown hair, so dark it almost looks black, is pulled off her face with a simple thin headband.
She’s dressed in jeans, a white shirt, and a navy cardigan.
It might be a simple outfit, but it screams money.
Preston looks like he came in right off the golf course.
He probably did. They’re huddled close together, each holding one side of an iPad.
Hannah is swiping across the screen repeatedly.
In front of them, the coffee table is covered with swatches of fabric, catalogs of rentals, and papers with estimates. The mess of it all makes my eye twitch.
In the corner of the room, Mr. and Mrs. Quincy stand at the wet bar. I recognize them from the country club. Mr. Quincy holds a cocktail shaker and pours the golden contents into lowball glasses. Mrs. Quincy takes each glass and places it on a tray. A well-practiced ritual.
“The dream team is here, everyone!” Jennifer says, gesturing to Caleb and me.
All eyes in the room are on us at once. Or are they all focused on Caleb? Yes, they are definitely focused on Caleb.
Mr. Quincy puts the cocktail shaker down and walks over to us. “Caleb, long time no see, my boy.”
“Hi, Mr. Quincy.” Caleb extends his hand. “Mrs. Quincy.” He nods in her direction as he shakes Mr. Quincy’s hand.
Mrs. Quincy walks over to us with the tray of drinks.
“Whiskey sour?” Preston, Hannah, and Jennifer each grab a glass from the tray.
I shake my head. A drink might calm my nerves, but I’m too busy trying to figure out the dynamic here.
Trying to put together the pieces. “And please, call us Susan and Doug. You don’t have to follow the country club rules when you’re in our home. ”
Hannah gets up from the love seat and gives Caleb a hug that’s not nearly as aggressive as Jennifer’s. “Caleb, it’s so great to see you!”
“Nice to meet you, Caleb.” Preston comes up behind his fiancée and shakes Caleb’s hand. “When Jennifer told us she had an ex who’s a chef, we weren’t sure what to make of it, but then she told us it was someone at Foley’s and, well, here we are!”
That explains a few things. But when did Caleb date Jennifer?
I rack my brain for any memory of their relationship and I come up empty. There’s a twinge in my chest that I ignore. I’m here to work, not think about Caleb any more than I need to.
“You’re good to do this, Caleb,” Mr. Quincy says, taking a sip of his drink. “I wasn’t sure you’d agree to it. It was quite the spectacle when Jennifer’s father found out about you two.”
“Mr. Q!” Jennifer groans playfully. “Let’s not bring that up!”
Caleb’s tense again. His hands fist at his side, and his jawline looks more defined, like he’s clenching hard. Our clients don’t seem to notice.
“Oh Jennifer, it was years ago,” Mr. Quincy says with a laugh. “Caleb’s over it by now, aren’t you boy?”
I wish Doug would stop calling him boy. He’s thirty-two for god’s sake. This man is ribbing him over what sounds like a dramatic breakup. It’s childish. Caleb isn’t the one acting like a boy.
I need to take control of this situation—both the awkwardness of whatever is happening right now and the mess of all things wedding covering the coffee table. My eye’s still twitching.
“Hi, everyone!” I put on my most gentle and soothing voice.
The voice that calms the most nervous bride.
That never swears. The voice that says I have my shit together and everyone is going to shut up and listen to me.
I step forward to put space between the Quincys and Caleb.
“I’m Brooke, it’s so wonderful to meet all of you!
What do you say we get started on planning this amazing wedding weekend?
We have a lot to do this summer, don’t we? ”
I settle into one of the armchairs and look back at Caleb. His lips curl into a soft smile and his dimple shows again. He gives me a nod of thanks. I open my notebook to get started. We’re in it together now.