Best Laid Plans - Robyn Kelly (red white and royal blue hardcover .txt) 📗
- Author: Robyn Kelly
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I hear something that sounds like a car horn in the background. It seems to make Bryan even edgier than his grooming. “Did you hear that? That was a rooster. It’s four o’clock in the morning, and they have roosters on Viagra here.”
Boy, this is a high-strung family. “Actually, your brother has decided to move your party.” It’s not technically a lie. “That’s why I’m calling. I’m trying to figure out what you’d like.”
“Jackson wants to know what I’d like?”
So it’s not just me. He treats everyone the same. “Well, it is your birthday. I was going over the guest list, and I didn’t see Monica on it.”
“Who’s on the list?”
I read him off the names as quickly as I can. A Hunter woman (his mom, I find out), and the rest of the names are employees of Hunter Enterprises, which sets him off more than the rooster.
“This is a company party? He is making my birthday a company party? When was someone going to ask me who I wanted to invite?”
I think of Felicity the intern. “Oh dear, I’m afraid that’s my fault. I was supposed to do that, but I dropped the ball. Please don’t tell your brother. We both know how he can be.” I know when I start manipulating people I’m headed for trouble. But if I can pull this party off, I’ll have a nest egg and one non-kinky event I can use as a reference.
We chat for half an hour, and I realize that he wants a big blow-out party for a hundred and fifty of his closest friends—none of whom are on the guest list Jackson provided. Jackson is expecting a quiet, boring business dinner. Can I make them both happy? I offer Bryan a compromise. If he’ll endure the company dinner, with Monica by his side, I’ll give him the birthday he wants.
I worry I might not be able to afford two parties, so we start negotiating. He wants a full bar, so I cut his food budget to just a cake, and I can remove the dessert from Jackson’s dinner. Bryan wants the party built around the dance floor, and makes some great suggestions on how to do it. He’s been going to clubs in the city long enough to know what works and what doesn’t, and he gives me the names of his favorite DJs.
“And Jackson is okay with this?” he asks.
It might be 4:30 in the morning in Italy, but Bryan doesn’t miss much. “He told me he didn’t want to be bothered with the minutia.”
“I’m not sure he would consider this minutia,” Bryan warns.
“Bryan, I know it’s your birthday, but can we make this a surprise for your brother?”
“He doesn’t like surprises.”
“He doesn’t like a lot of things.”
Bryan stares into his screen. In that moment, I see the family resemblance. I remember that same expression on Jackson’s face in the elevator. I start to wonder whether this is a bad idea just as Bryan breaks into a smile.
“A surprise party. This is going to be lit!”
I hope that’s a good thing.
Bryan puts me in touch with Monica, who promises to compile a list of friends to invite. I tell her we should email out an STD today, and then have to quickly explain that it’s an acronym for Save The Date—not Sexually Transmitted Disease.
Once I know we need a space with both a dance floor and large dining area (and as much space between them as possible), I let Robert do his magic. At this late date, no restaurant or event venue is available. We’re going to have to find a raw space, and bring everything in.
With Robert’s connections, we find a church for sale in the Dogpatch neighborhood. It’s perfect. The church itself is empty, and there is a parsonage next door with a large kitchen and reception room. What’s more, there’s a private courtyard that connects the two buildings. We contact the realtor, and by the end of the day, we have arranged to rent it for the week.
Robert and I spend Sunday coming up with a timeline and a vendor list. Monica has received a hundred RSVPs already, and Robert tries to push me over the $150,000 budget. He’s very persuasive, but I just keep hearing Bryan’s voice in my head. He doesn’t like surprises.
Monday we hit the ground running, and the week flies by. I have an inspector verify the building is up to code, I contact our insurance company to give us a quote, I schedule a walk-through with the fire marshal, and hire a cleaning crew for before and after the event. Robert handles the caterer, the DJ, and the lighting company. We meet with our décor vendor on how to turn the parsonage into an elegant dining hall and the church into a techno palace. Bryan has been in rural Italy for two weeks. He needs some sensory overload for his birthday.
And, of course, I had the little black dress dry-cleaned.
Thursday morning, the milk curdles in my coffee. Considering I just bought it, I check the refrigerator and find that everything is warm. I call the building super and within an hour he confirms what I already know—it’s dead. He promises to get a repairman out today. These things always happen when I don’t have the time to deal with them.
Thursday night, there’s a sticky note on my fridge. “Cheaper to replace than repair—ordering new one.” Looks like I’ll be eating takeout for a few more days. I hope I can still fit in that dress tomorrow night.
When Friday arrives, I’m at the church at nine in the morning. I had hoped to grab breakfast on the way in, but the line at the local coffee shop was too long. Robert is working with the lighting guys, so I take the lead on the décor crew load-in. There is some drama when the forklift gets stuck in the up position, but I leave that for the crew to handle while I run back to the parsonage.
Inside, I find a hysterical woman. She starts speaking to me in Spanish. Very rapid Spanish. At that moment, my phone rings. It’s not a number I recognize, so I let it go to voicemail. This woman’s outburst seems more pressing.
My phone rings again from the same number. I give her my best “Uno momento” and take the call. I recognize the voice immediately. Or rather, the tone.
“For what I am paying you, I expect you to pick up the phone and not send me to voicemail.”
“How’s your Spanish?”
“What?”
“Can you speak Spanish?” I’ve thrown Jackson off his stride. He says he does, so I order, “Translate” and hand the phone to the woman. They have a short conversation before she hands the phone back to me.
He’s calmer now. “It seems there are pigeons in your kitchen. Is everything all right?”
That is not something you want a client to know. “Oh, she must mean that they’ve delivered the quail.”
“I’m sure that’s exactly what she means. So, I should expect quail for dinner?”
“Appetizer.” What tangled webs we weave. “Did you have any other questions?”
“I was just checking that everything’s on schedule.”
“And that I haven’t absconded with your money?” Oh, I’m getting testy. “No, everything is going very well. I look forward to seeing you tonight at six.”
“Then I’ll let you get back to your quail.”
“Thank you. You’re very understanding.”
“Yes, I am.” Jackson makes that phrase sound practically threatening.
Now, who can I call to deal with these quail?
By six o’clock, we have transformed the parsonage into a refined dining room (lots of fabric and up lighting), and turned the courtyard into a garden oasis (and dealt with the pigeon infestation). Crews are still working in the church to get it ready for later. I hired a string quartet from the Conservatory of Music. Having worked my way through college, I know how good it feels to have a little extra money for the weekend. I just don’t remember looking so young when I went to college. In their tuxedos and gowns, they look more as if they’re going to the junior prom, but they play beautifully, and the music will help drown out any sounds from next door. Robert has strict orders to keep the crew in stealth mode.
I slip into the ladies’ room and put on the little black dress. It isn’t a good work uniform. There aren’t any pockets, so there’s no place to stash my phone. I’ve had to add a belt with a ditty bag, and that just makes the dress even shorter. I run my fingers through my hair, dab a little perfume on, and freshen my lipstick. I’m more nervous than usual, and I know why. It’s not the event that scares me—it’s the client.
When I return to the room, I notice the photographer is setting up. She’s pretty, she’s a brunette, and she has long, straight hair. I wonder whether Jackson has slept with her. I won’t tell her about the after-party, in case she’s a mole.
By the time I’ve lit all the table candles, the first of the guests arrive. Almost everyone is an employee of Jackson’s, so the dress is business attire. I guess Hunter Enterprises doesn’t have casual Friday.
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