Chapter 11 I’ve Really Got to Start Locking That Door #2
Tuesday starts off about as miserably as Monday finished.
I am once again unable to board the commuter train leaving Salem—though I’m wise enough this time around to wear a hat, in case I’m visited by more seagulls.
While I’m debating the pros and cons of reaching out to my manager, Desmond, about the fact that Steve’s essentially ignoring me, a young couple walks inside Grandma’s shop, a tale of plain woe on their faces.
Clients!
The bride-to-be introduces herself as Myra…
Myrafififi… no, that’s not it… Murphy? Okay, I can’t remember her full name.
The point is, Fi and her fiancé, Asher, are in trouble, and their peril is so serious they’re willing to seek my help.
Sweeping her showy red hair behind her back, Fi outlines her dilemma: for months, the couple meticulously planned their mostly DIY wedding—and apparently, Fi’s mom kicked that off years before then—but as their wedding day drew closer, the couple grew concerned about Fi’s ability to coordinate the ceremony while participating in it.
Fi’s mom disagreed. She said that Fi should be more than capable of being in two places at once.
It is, apparently, part of Fi’s druidic heritage.
Fi is relatably neutral on said heritage.
Once they’d heard about me, Fi and Asher realized they could avoid blackmailing a non-paranormally acquainted wedding coordinator into ignoring the “unusual” aspects of the wedding. They are very excited to have found the right person.
I am not that person. But I’m desperate. See: my bruises from yesterday’s attempt to flee, my near-empty bank account, and the food stores in Grandma’s house that give me far too few options for a safe-to-eat dinner.
Anyway, Fi and Asher’s requests don’t seem unreasonable.
Unlike Dave and Amanda’s wedding, their event has actual functional parts.
Not to mention a full guest list! The complicating factor is that it’s also going to be held this weekend.
At sunrise, on Saturday. Meaning I have less than five days to figure out stuff like what a vendor actually does, how a wedding florist and coordinator should work with said vendors, and—oh yeah—how to be a boss.
I can barely remember to brush my teeth at night. How am I supposed to be a good boss, and not just a girl boss? To be ethical and manage at least a week’s pay and benefits for my pixie employee?
Well, that’s a later Sabby problem. Today Sabby needs to teach Mandy not to run with scissors blade-first. Between running errands for Fi’s wedding, I ask the pixie to change out the front window of the shop so it looks slightly less “Grandma Rose.” We reposition the dead-eyed, dreadlocked mannequin so that she gazes into the abyss beside a three-tiered layer cake.
If that’s not a symbol of marriage, what is?
With Bulan and Mandy’s encouragement, on Wednesday, I tack a handmade sign on the shop door. It reads SPüKTACULAR WEDDINGS, LLC.
I still can’t leave Salem, and I haven’t heard back from anyone at EFG, but who knows, maybe my emails to Desmond and Steve were so banal and blandly written that they forgot about them. I do send a follow-up to HR in case they need me to file something more official.
Then I get to work. Wedding work.
As much as I hate admitting it, I know I can’t wing Fi and Asher’s wedding like I did for Dave and Amanda.
As long as I’m stuck in Salem—which I’m starting to worry is going to be even longer than another week, with how little I’ve figured out—I’m going to play the part of a wedding planner more convincingly.
I need to learn how actual event planners do their job, and what it means to be a “day-of coordinator.” But why waste time building vendor relationships and drumming up event management strategies when I can just poach that info instead?
Clearly, it would be less work for everyone.
Wedding TikTok tells me that most of the wedding industry is run out of secretive storefronts and people’s homes and coffee shops. The only public-facing part is the venue itself.
Ergo: I’m going to crash some weddings.
So, equipped with my phone, my tote bag, and a basic oversize button-down shirt, I set out on my mission.
I cruise down Front Street, and don’t stop until I find a bougie hotel with a vibe as close as possible to the one where I worked in Midtown.
Utilizing my powers of wallpaper-blendiness, I breeze through the glassy double doors and pass the concierge and lobby in search of the event area.
Once I find a staff member folding tablecloths in the hallway, I approach him.
“Hey!” I say. The man spooks as if he hadn’t noticed me. Or as if he thinks I’ve burst out from his pile of laundry. Either way, I’ve still got it. I am as boring-beige-recycled-socks-blendy as ever. “Where can I find the hotel’s private event schedule?”
“I think I’ve got a copy somewhere,” the guy says. “Why? Who are you, exactly?”
I smile appealingly. “A wedding planner.”
This does not go over well.
Which honestly surprises me. It would’ve worked at my old hotel. I guess the waitstaff here have standards and like doing their jobs or whatever.
Since I can’t travel back to that hotel in Midtown East to ask my old coworkers for wedding planning tips, I’ll have to try somewhere local.
This leads me to Hamilton Hall in Salem’s historic district.
While unhappily sharing air with an extended family of tourists from Orlando, I catch two clipboard-armed women in ballet slippers setting up for an off-weekend wedding, probably tomorrow.
Rather than approach directly, I crouch in wait behind a bush for about forty-five minutes like a very boring, very stiff-legged sparrow.
At last, the timing’s perfect. I pounce on one of the event staff and, while she’s still shrieking, run away with her clipboard.
At least she can get a copy from her counterpart.
“An absolute treasure trove,” I tell Bulan and Mandy that night as we flip through the planning team’s printouts. “Look. A whole page listing out the décor they’re bringing on-site. It’s called ‘Details and Décor.’ ”
“It’s itemized!” says Bulan, impressed.
“And check out this spreadsheet.” I point at names in green. “The different colors indicate different vendors’ responsibilities.”
“There are so many of them,” says Mandy. As she talks, she pushes a giant peppermint against the inside of her cheek. “Do wedding planners know lots of people? Lots of ‘vendors’?”
“I think so. Seems important for us too. Think about it, how would a random satyr or minotaur know who’s the best florist in the area? They couldn’t exactly walk in and ask around. They have hooves.”
“A dead giveaway,” says Bulan. “Though I’d be happy to have any sort of foot, myself.”
“It doesn’t matter if they have hooves,” Mandy says around her mint. “As long as they have good attitudes! And smiles!”
The flash of her abnormally disarming dimples gives me an idea.
“Mandy,” I say. “You and me. Let’s hit a wholesale florist tomorrow morning. In person.”
Bulan cottons on immediately. “Clever. One with male staff? Or anyone who prefers to be in the company of women, perhaps!”
The pixie flashes worried looks between us. “What’s clever? And why’s it matter that they like wom—OH. I see! You want me to seduce them into working with us.”
“Just pretend to seduce them,” I say gently. “Flirt a little, make them feel special. Unless that makes you uncomfortable. I don’t want to—”
“It’s no problem, Sabby, I can do that!” Mandy beams. “My mom always told me to use my powers for good, not evil. And what’s more good than true love?!”
Completely beyond my control, my mind jumps to Hanry. Who is not my true love, and hopefully not a stalker, but a smooth-dancing, normal-ish guy taking me on a date tomorrow.
“Sabby, are you…blushing?” asks Bulan.
Absolutely not. I clap my hands together to draw my employees’ attention back to me as a professional. Because that’s what I’m pretending to be for the moment.
“Okay, on to the next thing. Using these lists, I’m going to build out some spreadsheets, and tomorrow I’ll crash the wedding and compare their prep to their timelines. Then we’ll meet back here…”
And that’s when I realize it: I’m a goddamned paranormal wedding planner.