Pinky is livid.
I put her on the speakerphone of my car to get the full effect of her anger. “A disaster,” she says for the third time. “A complete disaster, Eden. I’m popping Nexiums like Altoids.”
“Put down the prescription medication,” I say calmly, “and tell me what you’re dealing with.”
“Okay. The bride was running an hour late to the hotel.” I picture Pinky waving her hands dramatically the way she always does when she tells a story. “Fine, no problem, our schedule can handle that. I directed her bridesmaids to the bridal suite. And that’s when everything started to go horribly wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“Signs, Eden. Signs. All over the room. Big red stickers. Contact with fire sprinklers will cause flooding. Do not touch sprinkler heads.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes! The mother of one of the flower girls hung a dress on a sprinkler head to steam it. And guess what?”
I allow her the sick joy of telling me. “What?”
“Flooding!” Pinky shrieks. “The sprinklers went off in the bridal suite. The fire alarms were going woop-woop-woop! Lights were flashing. Pandemonium. The whole hotel had to evacuate, including the staff and vendors. We all stood waiting in the parking lot until the maintenance team figured out what happened. The bridal suite was under an inch of water. Furniture, carpet, drapes. Everything ruined.”
“And the bridesmaids?”
Pinky sighs. “Except for that poor little girl’s dress, they got out of there just fine. Someone’s aunt drove two blocks to Target and picked up a new dress for her. I found the bridal party another room in the hotel and they’re all getting ready now. The bride arrived ten minutes ago. She’s finishing hair and makeup now too.”
“Was she around for Noah’s Ark?”
“No. She didn’t see any of it.”
“Well done, Pink. You handled that beautifully.”
“And we’re still on schedule, miracle of miracles.”
“So not really a disaster, then, was it?”
A sigh. “I suppose not. Just an epic…hiccup.”
Pinky is my strongest team member. She gets spun up sometimes, but who wouldn’t? The event planning business is all about managing frustration. If you can do that, you’re golden.
“Thanks for letting me vent,” she says.
“Of course.”
“I should go. The flowers arrived just before I called you. Three plastic buckets of uncut red hypericum berries and a flat of glass bud vases.”
I pause. “No florist?”
“No. The family told me to arrange the vases and put them on the tables.”
I stifle a groan. “Pinky, do not touch those flowers.”
“What do you mean?”
“You are the DOC. A day-of coordinator, not a florist. If you arrange those flowers, I will have to retroactively charge the family for additional services, and those bills never get paid.”
A touch of panic reappears in her voice. “What should I tell them?”
“Easy. The father of the groom signed the contract with me and pays the bills. Go to him discreetly and say, ‘I’m so sorry about this. My company doesn’t arrange or place any florals, but since there is a need, we’re happy to accommodate you for an additional two hundred dollars.’ If he agrees, go ahead and do the flowers. If he doesn’t agree, I guarantee you he will find someone else to do it. Text me when you get his answer.”
“Okay,” she says, and hangs up.
I turn the music back up in my car—my relaxing piano playlist, although I feel far from relaxed. I cross the bridge into Vallejo and pass the old C&H sugar factory. Below, under the overcast sky, the deep water is blue and green. Not quite a river, not quite the ocean.
I grip the steering wheel a teensy bit tighter. My shoulders ache. My neck is rigid.
Why? Why do I feel so tense? For months, I’ve been working on this birthday party with what I thought was cool, professional detachment. I’ve gone over the details again and again with hotel staff, dozens of my cousins and Tita Vida. My team has prepared schematics, flow charts, diagrams and endless lists.
I’ve overseen hundreds of parties much more complicated than this one. Ugh. Why do I feel like a rookie at bat for the first time?
Of course, I know why.
Because this is not a strangers’ wedding or another soulless corporate wine retreat.
This is a party for Grandlola Naty. And after fourteen years of avoiding my past, I’m finally returning to Hacienda Luz, the heartbreakingly beautiful place that, for a short time at least, was my only real home.
That is, until I met Nicholas Salgado.
My phone buzzes with a text, breaking me out of the firm gut-grip of regret.
It’s Pinky again.
I clear my throat and recite a text reply.
I send Pinky the message and realize I’m completely unable to send the same message to myself.