The Wedding Caper, no. 1 Read online

  But they were the kind of clothes the new Gwendolen wore. The Gwendolen turned Grace Taylor, that is.

  Ransacking her jewelry box, she unearthed a strand of plain imitation pearls given as a graduation gift. She had seen her boss's wardrobe often enough to know that pearls were the perfect choice for any outfit. The reputation of Grace Taylor demanded at least some kind of jewelry.

  She pulled the pins from her hair and let it tumble to her shoulders. Strands of dark blond, soft and shoulder-length; the untidy little knot wouldn't do for her sophisticated makeover.

  Practicing with a handful of pins, she wound her hair into a French twist she'd seen in magazines, then into a chignon from a fashion book. The low sweep against her forehead accented her face's angles, transforming her thin features and high cheekbones into the elegant corners of an Audrey Hepburn.

  Slipping into a black silk dress, she surveyed herself in the mirror. It was the first time in years she'd worn a dress that flattered her figure. Opening the new makeup kit on her dresser, she applied a little mascara, a sweep of eyeliner.

  The transformation complete, she stared at the girl in the mirror, who seemed nothing like mousey and meek Gwendolen Lynch. Not that she ever had anything–or anyone –to impress.

  She pulled the dress off and reached for a t-shirt and sweats. Time for homework, if she wanted even a chance of pulling this off. Crossing the room, she plopped down in front of a long bookshelf devoted to binders and folders of wedding material.

  Catering menus, restaurants and hotels, florists and gown designers. A rolodex devoted to the contact information and rank for jewelers across the city, rows of books on floral design and table settings. Piles of material accumulated from years of picking up the details for Perfect Vows.

  Tomorrow she would have to present forceful ideas, practice a patient smile for difficult moments, and plan on having no free time. After all, the real-life Grace Taylor had a staff who took care of these details. But the faux Ms. Taylor would have only herself.

  *****

  "So we're thinking of plum as the primary color," said Mrs. Harlett, "with burgundy accents. You don't think that's too much, do you?" She pushed her way between two racks of bridesmaid dresses packed close together.

  "Perhaps," Gwendolen ventured. "But two bold colors generally cancel each other out, I'm afraid." She was doing her best to keep up with her client in a dress shop that looked like a war zone. Stumbling along in stiletto heels while avoiding piles of fabric and lace on the floor.

  "Oh, but surely you can make it work," Mrs. Harlett replied. She pulled a dress from a pile draped across the back of the chair, inspecting the silk's pattern. "Julie is positively obsessed with having bridesmaids in cocktail dresses, but I think formals are so much prettier, don't you?"

  "Well, I–" the wedding planner began. That was as far as she got, since the client tossed aside the dress with disdain as she continued talking.

  "I'm thinking perhaps something with small double-puff sleeves, in a rich plum taffeta. A princess-fairytale sort of motif, especially since Julie's dress is so modern. I really couldn't talk her into anything more traditional."

  The woman's hands racked through the display until they discovered a dress that reminded Gwendolen of abandoned prom dresses from the eighties.

  This was a typical moment spent as Mrs. Harlett's planner, giving Gwendolen the first faint clue of what might have happened to the previous firm. She shifted her aching feet in stilettos, her pen poised above the page of her planner as she waited for a moment of silence in which to skillfully steer her client away from the monstrous dress.

  "If Julie prefers cocktail dresses, something in red chiffon would be very chic," Gwendolen suggested. "I know a garment dealer who would offer a discount for three or more–and it's very trendy for the bride to select a similar reception gown to match her bridesmaids." She offered what she hoped was a charming smile as Mrs. Harlett's face grew blank.

  "We'll discuss it later," her client answered, her lips tightening. "I intend to talk Julie out of her choice if I can. In the meantime–" she pulled a salmon-colored pants suit from the rack, "–could you see if the shop has something similar in cranberry for the mother of the bride?"

  By the time they had toured the racks of dresses, Gwendolen's arms were piled with possible garments. Loud shades of satin, floor-length silks resembling nightgowns, even a few puffy-sleeved gowns with princess skirts.

  "Shouldn't we eliminate some of these choices?" she asked her client. "I mean, the elaborate skirts on these dresses threaten to eclipse your daughter's gown." She pulled a piece of green tulle fabric from the bottom of the pile to illustrate her point.

  "Of course I don't want that one in green," chuckled Mrs. Harlett. "I was thinking dark red."

  Gwendolen checked her watch as she listened, panicking at how much time had passed. At work her desk was still piled with Taylor's current clients whose bills were overdue, with lists of restaurant private dining rooms she was supposed to cancel. She tried to push the thought from her mind as she moved aside a plastic-wrapped hanger poking her in the cheek.

  Mrs. Harlett added a cranberry-colored gown to the top of the pile. "Will you see if they can modify this one to be larger?" she asked. "And ask if the skirts on these can be altered to feature trains. I rather see Julie with a parade of bridesmaids with trains."

  Gwen hurried through the sea of colors draped and hung from every surface to the clerk's desk. Peering above the top of the stack, she suspected that the eminent Grace Taylor never allowed herself to be piled high with garments for consultation. No, that was a job for assistants like Gwendolen.

  She calculated the odds of talking a woman as headstrong as Mrs. Harlett out of this hideous pantsuit. Surely there would be a moment today to pull Julie aside and suggest that she step forward with more of the decisions before her mother consumed the whole wedding.

  "The manager is in the fitting room, ma'am," said the clerk, who disappeared somewhere in the store room with a bundle of satin. With a sigh, Gwen turned away, bumping into a man standing behind her, dropping a mound of garments onto their feet.

  A tall, muscular build, dark eyes framed by spiky blond bangs. He surveyed her with a lopsided smile that melted the strength in Gwendolen's knees, his strong hands closed over her arms. She tried to steady herself, but her heel was caught in the plastic garment bag and tumbled them both to the floor.

  There was a slight groan from her would-be rescuer as she landed on him, her eyes peering into the depths of his dark orbs. Filling her with a strange warmth as she gazed into them.

  "I'm sorry," she managed after a moment's time. Pulling away, she scrambled to her feet as he sat up.

  "No harm done," he answered. "With an armful like that, I'm surprised you made it all the way to the desk."

  She tried to hide her blush as she struggled to gather them up. "That's the curse of the job, I'm afraid," she answered. He knelt down and began untangling the piles of plastic-wrapped garments.

  "Oh, you don't have to," she said, hastily stuffing the garments under her arms. "Really, I can handle them. I'm sure you were on your way somewhere."

  "Actually, I'm meeting someone here," he answered, draping a few more garments carefully over her arm. He studied the beading on one with a slight grimace.

  "Some of them are awful, aren't they?" she whispered with a grin. "I'm hoping to change their minds, don't worry."

  "Then they're lucky to have you," he answered, laughing at her remark. She could feel the heat mounting in her cheeks as she watched his face. For a moment, she felt an anxiety that wasn't connected with mousey Gwendolen Lynch pretending to be a famous wedding planner. An emotion that seemed to sweep through her like a fever.

  She piled the dresses on the counter and hastily pulled her planner out. "Tell the manager I would like the stock photos of these garments emailed to this address," she said, handing him a card. "I need to discuss some modifications, too."

  "I'
m afraid that's not my job," the clerk answered. "Any firm has to discuss dress modifications with the designer."

  "Is he here?" she asked, doing her best to refrain from looking at her watch. "I have several clients to see today.”

  As an errand-girl, she was used to begging for attention from clerks, so this was nothing new. This designer was notorious for considering himself an "artist" and preferring his garments to be purchased as-is.

  Another voice interrupted the conversation. "I think maybe you should go find the manager for this lady so her time isn't wasted." She turned in surprise to see her would-be rescuer had joined her, adding another dress to her pile.

  The clerk rolled his eyes slightly. "I'll go see if he's available." He slinked from behind his desk.

  Gwendolen offered a timid smile to the man next to her. "Thank you. Now I really do owe you one."

  He shrugged. "I just thought you deserved a good break today." His crooked smile did things to her heart which she had never felt before.

  "I see you've met the wedding planner," said Mrs. Harlett, emerging from the fabric store room. She approached the young man beside Gwendolen and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Ryan, this is the Grace Taylor from Perfect Vows."

  He took her fingers in a warm handshake. "Very impressive," he said. "But are you sure you want to take on clients this crazy?"

  She stared into his eyes again, unable to pull away. "Absolutely.”

  "Ms. Taylor, this is Ryan Miller," said Mrs. Harlett. "My daughter's fiancé."

  The words washed over her like a bucket of ice water. She forced herself to smile as Ryan released her hand, repressing the blush of guilt and disappointment that struggled to rise in her cheeks.

  "You must be very excited," she said to him. "After all, the big day is only a few weeks away and there's so much to organize."

  Ryan's face changed subtly at these remarks. "Well, when it comes to planning–" he cut off abruptly at the sight of Julie entering the shop. With a smile, he slid his arm around her shoulder as she moved beside him.

  "Did you find the perfect dress?" he asked, tucking a strand of dark hair from her face.

  Julie rolled her eyes. "We're not dress shopping for me, Ryan. Don't you remember? This is for Katy and Marsha's dresses." She looked at Gwendolen with a longsuffering expression. "Ryan can't seem to keep up with the pace here, Ms. Taylor. I'm giving you fair warning now."

  Gwendolen glanced at Ryan, who looked slightly chastened over his fiancé’s remarks. Julie gave him a quick peck on the cheek, then disengaged as her cell phone trilled.

  "I hope that's not one of your classmates wanting a study conference," her mother said. "We still haven't made a decision on the bridesmaid's dresses or the flower girl's gown."

  Julie was busy checking her text messages, glancing up only briefly. "I know, I know, but I only have a few minutes today. You know what I want, Mom. Just something classy and elegant." She pocketed the phone. "I really have to go if I want to make the appointment with the Dean." She gave her fiancé another kiss on the cheek, then hurried out of the store.

  Ryan's eyes followed her as she disappeared down the sidewalk; something Gwendolen tried very hard not to notice. She turned to the bride's mother, her stylus poised above the keyboard of the planner.

  "So, should I go ahead and contact the dress designer about the chiffon?" she asked.

  Mrs. Harlett's eyes were latched on the pile of garments she had reserved earlier. "Not until I finish examining the formal dress options. I don't want Julie's wedding to be tarnished by a snap decision." She brushed her fingers along the edge of an empire-waisted maroon gown with a look of satisfaction.

  At the sight of her choice, Gwendolen couldn't help but notice the slight wince that crossed Ryan's face.

  *****

  "I'm so sorry for the inconvenience, sir. Thank you and good-bye." Gwendolen hung up the phone before the manager could scold her any further. He was the fifth in a long line of unhappy food service providers who were informed that their services would not be needed this month by Ms. Taylor.

  Shuffling through the papers, she located the list of florists in need of review, the bill for Ms. Taylor's dry cleaning service in need of paying. She tucked aside a few frazzled strands of hair as her fingers flew over the calculator's keys.

  "Where on earth were you this morning, Gwen?" Joan entered, carrying a box of client records in her arms. Hidden beneath the stack of papers on her desk was an open box of chocolates and a paperback romance novel–clear indicators that Ms. Taylor was safely away from her office.

  "Oh, I had ... an appointment," Gwendolen answered. Was that a nervous tremor in her voice? She hoped the secretary didn't notice the guilty way she averted her eyes. "Sorry about the pile of paperwork. I'll have it in by five, I promise."

  "There's still a list of limo services that need contacted," Joan reminded her. "I'm handling the exotic animal services, by the way. It's amazing how many people actually want tigers and dolphins at their wedding. Not to mention trained monkeys." She lifted the phone receiver and began dialing.

  Gwen gave a weak laugh and turned back to the restaurant cancellations. Wondering if she would have to arrange anything so nightmarish for Mrs. Harlett in the next few weeks.

  "Is that a new sweater?" Joan asked. She was pointing at a somewhat faded green pullover Gwendolen had found in the drawer, now untidily yanked over the silk blouse from her suit.

  "No, it's just something I threw on today," Gwendolen answered. In her haste to debut this morning as the eminent Grace Taylor, she had forgotten to bring something less casual for office hours. After all, wouldn't everyone who knew her think something was wrong if she changed her style overnight?

  "Well, it looks nice anyway," said Joan, her tone vague as she turned her attention to the open phone book.

  At six o' clock, Gwendolen shoved aside the last of the day's bills and sample portfolios, checking the clock with an anxious eye. She still had a pile of work waiting for her in her boss's office– plus, all the work on the wedding to do. At this rate, she would have to come in for at least an hour in the morning before she met with Mrs. Harlett.

  It was ten o' clock the next morning before she escaped. She waited until Joan took one of the agency's favorite designers to lunch (an annual ritual on the company's tab) before rushing to the powder room. Yanking off the button-up sweater, she slipped the blazer over her blouse, and pulled the long cotton skirt off to reveal the tailored skirt beneath.

  Hopping on one foot as she slipped on the pair of heels, she stuffed her clothes into her shoulder bag and took off for the exit. Three blocks of swift trotting would bring her to the pre-arranged meeting place with her clients.

  "There you are, Ms. Taylor!" Mrs. Harlett looked distraught as she stuffed her cell phone in her pocket.

  Gwendolen offered her a warm smile. "I'm so sorry. There was another client at the office," she said, straightening her shoulders as approached the umbrella-covered table of the outdoor cafe. Julie was slumped in the nearest chair with an open binder of cake designs before her, a cell phone attached to her ear.

  "Thank goodness you're here," she said to Gwendolen. "Hand over the piece of paper and let the wedding planner fix it, Mother." She smiled tightly. "It's just one of those mistakes that happens.”

  "I scheduled the wrong band," Mrs. Harlett explained. "Or rather, the booking agency misunderstood when I called. Instead of a jazz band they booked–"

  "A Ukranian folk trio," interrupted Julie. "How on earth you ever made that mistake, I'll never know, but it's not an option for my wedding, trust me."

  "Of course not," said Gwendolen, accepting the slip of paper. Canceling bands was par for the course for an assistant of Taylor's agency. She was relieved it was nothing worse.

  "I'm meeting with the baker today about the cake we decided on," Mrs. Harlett continued, "so there's something I simply must have you do. Julie would do it, but she has an economics exam."

  "Enough
, Mother; no need to tell Ms. Taylor all the personal details of our life," snapped Julie. "Mother wants you to engage in espionage for us. To find out if they're copying Ryan's ring."

  "Ryan's ring?" Gwendolen stared. "You mean your fiancé, correct?" Despite herself, she felt a wave of heat creep up to her face at the memory of the young man from the dress shop.

  "Yes. Julie designed the perfect wedding ring. All her own idea, really," said Mrs. Harlett, giving her daughter an approving smile. "The trouble is, we think the jewelry store might be offering the design as their own to other clients."

  Julie tossed her hair. "I won't have that design on every finger between here and Hoboken. You understand, right?" She looked at Gwendolen and offered a helpless shrug of her shoulders.

  "Of course," Gwen answered. "I'll see what I can do." Her voice faltered slightly with the promise. This was something new; until now, her work as an assistant had never required this kind of subterfuge.

  "Here's the address; we know we can count on you." Mrs. Harlett offered her a squinty smile as she scribbled the address on a piece of paper. Gwen glanced at it, wincing as she recognized the address of the city's premier jewelry designers. The kind of place that only let prestigious clients waltz through its doors.

  "Now, about the flowers. Do you have time this evening to look at a few bouquets I've worked up?" Mrs. Harlett asked. "I've been toying with a few ideas–red carnations and baby's breath, for starters."

  "But mother, I told you I don't want hyacinths," Julie said. To which her mother merely rolled her eyes.

  Carnations? Baby's breath? Gwendolen sighed. Clearly, she was going to have to talk to Julie alone.

  *****

  With a deep breath, Gwen straightened her blazer and tried to look like a forceful wedding planner. The darkened doors of Hammond's Jewelry seemed like an inscrutable gaze, reflecting her pale skin and skinny figure.