It’s Christmas Eve, the day of Grandlola Naty’s birthday party, and I’m up and working by eight in the morning. I coordinate guest arrivals by bus, shuttle, van, and private cars. The front desk is hopping. Hair and makeup teams arrive for guests waiting to get dolled up in their hotel rooms.
I’ve made arrangements with all of my preferred vendors, and I greet them as they arrive at the hotel, one by one.
Tables and chairs for four hundred, along with a mighty setup crew.
Stage, sound and lighting.
Dance floor, durable enough to handle a family who loves to boogie.
Linen rentals.
Props, including a full-size sleigh and North Pole backdrop for the photo booth.
An ocean of gorgeous flowers, courtesy of my favorite Napa florist and her team.
Under my direction, the ballroom takes shape before our eyes. I’ve kept the budget under control for Tita Vida, but you would never know—I bibbidi-bobbidi-boo Hacienda Luz until it is a glittering Instagram-ready palace, worthy enough for the Moores. Worthy enough for Grandlola Naty.
After a quick afternoon coffee break, I head to my room to change into my evening outfit. I sweep my hair back into a sleek chignon and carefully apply my makeup. Last, I put on my tailored suit and sky-high heels and look in the mirror.
And there I am.
Eden Rosales, event planner, captain, orchestra conductor, family therapist, fire extinguisher. Order in the chaos.
I check my watch—it’s almost six. Instead of holding Simbang Gabi at midnight, the Moores decided to celebrate the traditional Filipino Christmas Eve mass at five o’clock to accommodate their more distinguished guests who find it difficult to stay up late. I think it’s a wise move. After a hundred years of living, Grandlola Naty should be able to go to bed whenever she damn well pleases.
Okay.
Let’s rock and roll.
I leave my room, take the grand staircase, and find my way to the wedding chapel.
With each step, my body gets warmer and warmer. I’m tingling all over. There’s still a chance—albeit a very remote one—that I can avoid Nick. I’m good at blending into the background. I’m an event planner, for God’s sake. I can be invisible when I need to be.
As I approach the doors of the chapel, a light suddenly switches on. Above my head in the vestibule, a galaxy of parol light up, the star-shaped lanterns that symbolize Christmas in the Philippines.
The doors swing open, releasing the scent of just-extinguished candles and the tinny sound of prerecorded organ music.
And walking out, in all his fully enrobed glory, is Father Nicholas Salgado, youngest ever Vicar General of the Archdiocese of San Fernando and the second man, after my father, to truly break my heart.
I freeze.
Father Salgado and I exchange a glance. His smile turns to recognition and then, surprisingly, to sadness. Before we can speak to each other, everyone exits the chapel and engulfs us with chatter, hugs, and kisses. And we lose the moment—again.
I can’t.
I can’t think about him now.
Again, I put on my event planner mask and fasten it tight.
It’s time to work. Orchestrate. Smooth over. Handle every last detail so that Grandlola Naty and her gigantic, beautiful family can enjoy this evening without worrying about the broken PA system or missing swag bags or that one valet who is clearly higher than a bat’s ass.
As I listen to a burly security guard who’s sprained his finger throwing out some weirdo who tried to crash the party, in the back of my mind, I wonder if I can jump into work the same way I used to jump into sex, the same way I jumped into that ice-cold creek fourteen years ago—to knock myself numb. To keep myself from feeling anything at all, good or bad.
After checking in with Ruby about a cake kerfuffle in the kitchen, I accidentally catch another glimpse of Father Salgado across the ballroom. He’s tall and almost absurdly handsome in his black suit and collar. He’s thirty-three now, good hair, dimple in place, cheekbones sharper than ever. He’s talking to a small group of doting old ladies by the bar, but their twenty-something granddaughters are hovering on the perimeter, nodding, and hanging on his every word, the Christmas lights twinkling in their eyes like stars.
I wonder to myself how this ridiculous heartbreaker has affected churchgoing at his parishes. Record numbers of butts in pews. I’d bet big on that.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch an elf scurrying across the lobby into the conference room. Over the headset of my walkie-talkie, I call Norah to confirm that Santa and his elves are in costume and ready for their appearance in the ballroom, but she isn’t answering. As discreetly as possible, I walk over to the conference room. Through a crack in the door, I see Norah and someone else—is that Ollie? —coaxing a drunken Santa off a table while “Little Saint Nick” by the Beach Boys blares on the sound system in the room. I’m about to go inside when I pause. Ollie and Norah look like they have this situation under control. I decide to leave them to it.
Back in the ballroom, the speeches continue, followed by dinner. I linger in the back, watching from the shadows. This family is beloved to me, but I don’t belong among them. Not really. I settle for the next best thing—taking care of them from a distance.
The rest of the party goes relatively smoothly.
There’s lively karaoke and impromptu toasts. Soon the dance floor is packed. To the extreme delight of her guests, even Grandlola Naty does a little shuffle. Cake is served. Birthday presents are opened.
Wait, is that a tortoise? Who is giving Grandlola Naty a tortoise?
After Grandlola Naty makes her speech, the family assembles for a million photos. When he’s done, the exhausted photographer makes a beeline for the bar. I don’t blame him.
Grandlola Naty is wheeled safely home to her cottage, and the party begins its final crescendo. Drinks flow freely. There’s line dancing to “Electric Boogie” and “Todo, Todo, Todo.” For hours, the band keeps rocking until even the hardiest revelers begin to fade out, one by one. At last, “Pasko Na, Sinta Ko” plays once more, its sweet melody echoing in the quiet ballroom.
I pay the bandleader. He has a question for Tita Vida, but I can’t seem to find her anywhere. Where is she? I have no idea. I tell the man to call her in a couple of days.
Most of the guests have gone home or upstairs to bed. Some last inebriated hangers-on are lingering at the lobby bar talking about how to keep the party going. They’re decorated with tinsel and bows from presents. I have just finished up with my last vendor when, at the quiet end of the lobby behind the Christmas tree, I spot a figure sitting by himself near the fire.
I smooth my hair and stand up straight.
He hears the click of my heels before he sees me. He gets to his feet, and as I approach, I see that in my Tom Ford stilettos I can finally look him in the eye.
“Father Salgado,” I say, using the placating voice I reserve for clients who want the most I can give them for the least amount of money.
He takes my hand in both of his and shakes it warmly. “I was hoping to get the chance to see you. Tita Vida told me you were the event planner, and I didn’t want to interrupt you as you worked. What a wonderful event. Absolutely beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I say genially, but I pull my hand back and hold my arms at my sides. When I do this, I see a small spark in his eyes. He purses his lips.
God—his lips. Still full and soft and mesmerizing. He is the best kisser I’ve ever kissed. No contest.
“I’m having a nightcap before I head back to my room.” He gestures to the two large armchairs facing each other before the fire. An untouched glass of whiskey on the rocks sits on the side table. “Do you have a moment?”