TWO

CLAIRE

“The space is just beautiful,” Lynette says.

I release a pent-up breath because thank God the tour is over. It was hard enough running into Jesse—I mean, how was I to know he was home? The house has stood empty for years. But to be forced inside by a client? It’s not that I’d made a vow never to step foot in that house again. It’s just . . . I assumed I would never have another reason to, and, believe me, I was fine with that.

I waited on the front porch long after Jesse and Mia had gone inside, checking my smartphone obsessively under the auspices of making sure my boss found the place okay. In reality . . . I was scared. I wasn’t sure I could handle passing over that threshold, didn’t know what waited on the other side of that door, or if I even wanted to find out. Because I still had these pictures in my head. Every room. Every time I curled up on the couch in the den, snuggling closer to Sean as we watched a movie. Every time I traipsed into the kitchen to grab us something to drink from the fridge. Every time I fell onto his bed, giggling.

This could only end two ways: it would either be everything I remembered or nothing at all. Either the space would look and feel exactly the same as it had before, or it would be too strange. Too foreign. Barely recognizable. And part of me wanted unrecognizable because I was different now and Jesse was different and why should the house be spared?

But then Lynette arrived and I couldn’t stall another second, so I stepped inside and discovered, to my dismay and relief, it was everything I remembered. The furniture. The hardwood floors. The rugs. Two years vacant and it even smelled the same. Walking inside was like stepping into this time warp—a dream already falling apart at the edges—and for a moment I was seventeen again. Like I could call his name and he would come bounding down the stairs, happy to see me.

I kept my distance as Jesse led Lynette through the main rooms on the first floor, but hung on to every word as if they were life preservers meant to keep me from drowning.

“I adore the trim work,” Lynette continues. “There is so much personality here. I think it will be a perfect venue.”

We’re gathered around Jesse’s dining room table, unboxing and taking the first bites of our sandwiches as we wait for Mia’s mother to arrive, because final say always comes from she who writes the checks.

But the house is perfect. Mia thinks so. Lynette thinks so, and I trust Lynette because she knows beautiful. She sees more than a living room or dining room or empty space. She sees what could be. The possibility. The promise. She will find the perfect tree for a bride to stand beside during a photo shoot. She knows when a bouquet needs more stephanotis. Her edits are what take each wedding she oversees to the next level, why brides are willing to postpone their days for nearly two years to work with her, and why they’re willing to pay twice as much to make the wedding of their dreams (to the power of Lynette Sutton) come true.

“Do you think it will feel too closed off with the separate rooms?” Mia asks. “Should we knock out the wall between the formal living room and the den to open up the space?”

The piece of bread I’m chewing wedges itself in my throat, too difficult to swallow. Knocking out walls? Opening the space? I steal a glance at Jesse who, up to this point, has handled this day with aplomb, and take a quick sip of sweet tea.

“No. We have less than a month to get this house reception-ready. There’s no time for a major renovation,” I say. “And it’s Jesse’s house. He’s being totally generous with us as it is.”

It’s not only that we have infiltrated Jesse’s living space. It’s that an hour ago I’d second-guessed myself for even saying hello at all. Because maybe Jesse didn’t want to see me or speak to me or accidentally run into me. God knows I didn’t exactly want to run into him. But maybe he was dreading the encounter as much as I was, because when we finally spoke the first words to each other in four years, he seemed more than cool. He seemed distant. Detached. Even now, gathered at his table, discussing a wedding reception that our client has totally made his problem, it’s hard to gauge what he’s thinking or feeling.

But old friendships must die hard because even though he’s agreed to go through with this (and is getting more than fairly compensated for it) part of me feels obligated to protect him from the impending chaos as much as possible.

“I agree,” Lynette says. I exhale quiet relief at the show of support. “There’s no need to tear anything down. The space will work beautifully as it is. We’ll move the furniture out and bring the tables and chairs and decorations in. It will be perfect.”

“You’re not concerned about the number of guests?” I ask. “One-fifty is a lot, and what about parking?”

“The wedding is in the late afternoon and we’re serving dinner. The hottest part of the day will be over by the time the reception begins. There seems to be plenty of shade in the neighborhood. The porch alone will hold about four or five tables. We can seat people inside and out.”

“But what about the cake cutting and toasts?” Mia asks.

“Everyone can pile inside when the time comes,” Lynette says. “But we will have to reconfigure seating arrangements. We can have the tables for the bridal party and family reserved, but everyone else should have the option for indoors or outdoors, based on their preferences.”

“So we’re scrapping place settings?” Mia asks.

“We’re not scrapping them” Lynette replies, swooping her bangs from her eyes and reaching for her drink. “We are simply going to be more flexible in our arrangement.”

“I just want everything to be perfect.”

“The house is beautiful, Mia,” Lynette assures her. “But we’re going to have to make some concessions as we are left with very few options. I pride myself on being a miracle worker, but even I can’t conjure a reception site for one hundred and fifty people with little more than a month to go. Even the American Legion buildings and Shriner’s halls are booked by now.”

I swallow back a smile. Lynette would never allow one of her brides to celebrate her marriage in an American Legion building. It didn’t matter if the bride’s grandfather built it by hand—brick by brick by brick—or if every bride in her family for the last fifty years celebrated there. Lynette can afford to offend a bride or two; a bride cannot afford to offend Lynette, especially if she’s aiming for perfect.

“She’s here,” Mia announces. The rest of us turn to the expansive window just as Mrs. Porter pulls her luxury SUV along the curb. Mia heads outside to show her in.

“I am so sorry, Jesse,” I say, as soon as I know Mia is out of earshot. “I promise we will not tear down any walls or do anything crazy with your house.”

“She is one of my more excitable brides,” Lynette admits, taking a quick bite of her sandwich. “And unfortunately her mother is not too far removed.”

“We might be looking at a veto,” I say.

“This is true. We’ll see what she says, but we really are out of options, especially if they want to keep the reception in town and indoors.”

“Before anything else, we have to discuss parking,” I say, opening the black Moleskine I keep on me at all times for moments such as these. “This neighborhood can’t handle that many cars, and you have to have a permit and permission in advance from the homeowner’s association. We could do valet, but logistics would be a nightmare.”

Lynette considers this. “The church is only a few blocks up the street,” she says. “So technically we’re already in the area. We don’t want grandma walking the distance, but some of the younger attendees could handle it, depending on the weather situation. Let’s see about a car service. If we can get about five to ten black suburbans, drivers can shuttle the attendees from the ceremony to the reception and back again. Call Ritchie to see what he has available that afternoon. I’d want the Suburbans or the Town Cars. Do not let him talk you into his fleet of Camrys. That will not happen for this event.”

I scribble the notes quickly, abbreviating where necessary and hoping I can make sense of them later.

“We’ll have to verify the time with the church to make sure it’s okay that we leave cars parked through the evening,” I add.

“Good thinking.”

The front door opens and closes.

“Let’s keep our fingers crossed, shall we?” Lynette says, lowering her voice. She wipes her mouth with her napkin and stands to greet Mrs. Porter. “Mary! It’s good to see you again, especially now that we might have solved our little venue situation.”

Though I’ve met her on several occasions, it’s always startling how alike Mia and her mother look. Same size, same height, same hair color. Same style of dress. Mrs. Porter has had more work done, but they could easily pass for sisters, which, I imagine, is Mrs. Porter’s end goal.

“Jesse is a godsend,” Lynette continues. “I just can’t thank him enough for opening his home to us for the weekend.”

Mrs. Porter removes her sunglasses and places them on her head. Her face is pink—as if she spent a few hours too many in the sun, but it’s more likely that she can cross pre-wedding chemical peel off her list. “I’m not a fan of the tree,” she says, not bothering a hello. “It must go.”

“Which tree is that?” Lynette asks.

“The big one out front. It’s blocking half the house. It should be removed.”

We should have warned Jesse the sense of entitlement also runs in the family.

“Well, that’s something we’d have to discuss with Jesse since he owns the property,” Lynette says.

“I think the tree is fine,” I add.

“I was actually thinking—” Jesse begins, but we are cut off by Lynette, who lifts her hand to stop us both.

“If it’s something Jesse agrees to—and he would have to agree to it—we would add the fee for removal to the final balance.”

“Fine. And what about the rooms? They could use a coat of paint. They’re too dark.”

“The raised moldings shouldn’t be painted, in keeping with the tradition of the home, but the paint color of the wall above. . . . Something more neutral would be effective. But again, that’s up to Jesse. And, again, you would have to absorb the cost.”

“Done. Now, in your professional opinion, do you think this space will work for us?” Mrs. Porter asks Lynette.

“I think it will more than work, and the result will be gorgeous.”

“That’s all I need to know.”

“But don’t you want to look around?” Mia asks, seeming disappointed. “See the rooms?”

Her mother replaces her sunglasses. “I told you, Mia, that I am on my way to book club and I can’t be late. If Lynette approves, I approve. We are simply low on options, at this point. I haven’t the time or the stomach for this any longer.”

“Please know that you will not be sacrificing quality for this reception,” Lynette says. “I will bring in one of my best designers to work with the home’s natural elements. The space may not have been your first choice, but it will be the best choice. You’ll see.”

Mia smiles and she and Mrs. Porter leave together, seeming satisfied.

“My God. They are a collective piece of work,” Lynette says as soon as we are alone. “Claire, I’m officially putting you in charge of this reception. If you can make this happen, you get half of my commission on top of your regular pay. Work with Jesse. He gets final say, but let’s do what we can to keep the Porters happy. Go ahead and give Deb a call and let her know what we’re working with. We’ll need to create the space from scratch. Tables, chairs, the works. Call the caterer with an update. We also need to get cards out to the attendees noting the reception site change. Check with Ritchie first about the car situation. The florist will need the new address, as well. I need everyone associated with this wedding on the same page in the next forty-eight hours. If Jesse decides to paint and remove the tree, it needs to happen in the next ten days. I don’t want a mess in the landscaping, either. Get quotes first, but keep a running tab because we are billing the Porters for their every whim.”

I take notes, writing furiously as Lynette doles out orders.

“Jesse,” she continues, “I will draft a contract and cut you a check this afternoon to cover the deposit. Claire will be in touch. Any questions, concerns, or cries of outrage are hers to handle.”

“Okay,” he agrees. “Thank you. And thank you for the lunch.”

“Thank you for saving our asses,” she replies. “And Claire, we need to go over final checklists for the Bennett wedding before you leave for the day.”

With this, she packs up the remainder of her sandwich, gathers her trash and other belongings and leaves Jesse and me alone at the table, the grandfather clock in the corner ticking the seconds away.

“Wow. That to-do list is . . . something,” Jesse finally says.

I feel my forehead and cool the back of my neck with my hands. The house is warmer than I remember. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe the excess heat is circumstantial.

“I’m honestly not sure I can handle cries of outrage right now,” I confess.

“I can keep those to myself for the next few minutes.” For the first time today, he smiles. It seems genuine enough, and I feel like I should maybe smile back. It’s just that it’s a mammoth task, finding the humor in this situation. I quite literally have to create a fairy-tale wedding reception from nothing in under a month. He clears his throat. “Half of the commission. Is that good?” he asks.

“It’s a very nice bonus on top of my current salary, yes.” I skim through my notes, wondering where to even begin. “I, um, guess we should talk about the tree.”

“You should finish eating.”

“I’m not that hungry, actually.”

“But you’ve barely touched your sandwich and I devoured mine like, half an hour ago.”

“There’s way too much to think about.” I study my rapidly expanding to-do list, written on the pages of my notebook. How am I going to get all of this done on top of my regular responsibilities? I check the time on my phone.

“Then I’ll make it easy for you,” Jesse says. “I’m fine with the trees coming out and repainting the first floor. I’d planned for that to happen, anyway. I was going to do something with the furniture. Pressure wash. Fix the landscaping. So now I’m on a tighter deadline. This whole reception thing? It’s not that big of a deal.”

He is so much the Jesse I remember. Light brown hair. Clear blue eyes. Older, yes. Broader in the shoulders, sure. But still as easygoing as he was yesterday. Yes, time has passed. Yes, things are different. But maybe not everything.

“You really are saving our asses,” I tell him.

“They are asses worth saving,” he replies.

I’m not sure what to say to this as the grandfather clock continues to tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. And soon it’s too late. The moment passes. I clear my throat. “Well, it definitely looks like you’ll be seeing a lot more of me,” I finally say, gathering my things. “I don’t know if that’s good news or bad news.”

“Once upon a time I saw you every single day.”

My cheeks warm at this. “It’s funny. ‘Once upon a time’ doesn’t seem so long ago,” I confess. Like forever and no time at all.

A charge lifts the atmosphere—an unexpected change—and I wonder if he feels it, too, as another heavy silence settles between us. “We should, um, probably exchange numbers in case something comes up,” I tell him.

Jesse passes me his smartphone. I click on his contacts and punch in my name, surprised to see it’s already there. The cell number is old, but my address and birthday and home number. . . . If he’d wanted to reach out—to get in touch with me—he could have. He knew where to find me.

I update my cell number, text myself so that his number is in my phone, too, then hand the device back to him.

“It was nice running into you,” he says.

I force a smile. “Yeah. You, too.”