Forget Me Not by Julie Soto
6
Ama
MARCH
With Hazel’s schedule being what it is, we’re squeezing a lot into one week. We go to Blooming tomorrow afternoon, but my stomach is already a mess today, so I’m sticking to iced tea at our second meeting—this time, lunch at Cafe Bernardo, a casual farm-to-fork restaurant in Midtown.
I take out my iPad and say, “So, tell me what you know so far. List size, colors, dresses—”
“Ah.” Hazel finishes her bite of salad. “I’m in a white pantsuit. Jac’s in the dress.”
“I love that.” I lean forward on my elbows, smiling. “Both walking down the aisle? Just Jackie?”
“Well, it’s been my dream to walk down the aisle at the Rose Garden,” Jackie says with a smile, “but I want Hazel to have an entrance too.”
“That doesn’t matter to me though, babe—”
“I know, babe, but I still think your brother should walk you down the aisle …”
I sip my iced tea, letting them bicker. It’s great to get a sense of people early on. Hazel is laid-back and open to anything, and Jackie, while she wants her hands in everything, only has one real demand—the Rose Garden. Hazel is happy when Jackie is happy. A different type of planner would have catered to Hazel, the celebrity. But now that I’ve spotted this, it’s going to set me ahead.
“Can I ask about the proposal? I love hearing the story.”
Jackie’s eyes brighten, and she brushes hair out of her face. “It was at my parents’ house. I brought Hazel home for Christmas, but she had already talked to my dad.” Jackie smiles at her, and I see her eyes water.
“What I didn’t know,” Hazel says, “was that Jackie had a fucking ring in her suitcase too.”
I gasp as Jackie elbows Hazel.
“So I had to wait there like an idiot in front of her parents when she shot out of her chair and ran upstairs without saying yes or no. I thought she’d gotten sick at the thought.”
They laugh and lean together for a soft kiss.
Proposal stories are the best, and this is a good one. There’s nothing wrong with a football stadium proposal if I feel the bride is as much a sports fan as the groom. And the simplest “Wanna get married?” stories that happen without a ring can tell me a lot too. Sometimes it’s that they haven’t thought it out, but also they might be more spontaneous than other couples.
Some people can tell if a marriage will last when they watch the groom’s face as the bride comes down the aisle; some people can tell at the first meeting with the couple; I can tell when I hear the proposal story.
And Jackie and Hazel? They’re the real thing.
I don’t believe long-term commitments like marriage work out, but I do believe in love. It can be fleeting and undependable, rarely long-lasting, but I do believe it exists. I know my mom has been in love with many of her husbands, but marriage was the quickest way to kill it. I’ve been in love once, and it, too, ended.
I sip my iced tea to help swallow the lump in my throat that rises with that thought. Across from me, Jackie threads her fingers through Hazel’s on top of the table.
It’s not my place to hope that Jackie and Hazel will be together forever, but I can be happy they are together for now. I believe they are in love, and that that love will last a long time. End of story. Whenever I find these kinds of couples, I put more of myself into the design, and those weddings end up being my best work.
I get more of their details over lunch, writing myself notes:
• Jackie walking down aisle; Hazel TBD
• Jackie in dress; Hazel in pantsuit
• Both commissioned by Elle Stone—friend of Hazel
• Colors—TBD (H wants muted fall colors with drama; J wants pink)
• Live band at reception
• Cellist at ceremony—Xander Thorne—friend of Hazel
• AMA ACTION ITEMS
▪ Reception venue
▪ Make initial contact with Elle Stone
▪ Contact Xander Thorne—don’t go through agent—[email protected]
When I finish my bubbles and tie them to Hazel and Jackie, I say, “So we haven’t talked guest list. Give me a ballpark as I look at reception venues.”
Jackie looks at Hazel. “Well, I think it can be done under one hundred. But Hazel is worried about her publicist’s list.”
“I have a feeling that ‘Hazel Renee’s Wedding’ isn’t really going to be my wedding,” Hazel says with a grimace. I nod, feeling like Hazel’s publicist may be the equivalent of the mother-in-law in this case. “I think two hundred.”
I try not to widen my eyes. An extra hundred for the mother-in-law is a lot. I write down 100–200 and bubble it. “Well, then. I guess it’s time for money. What’s the budget?”
Hazel sits forward. “I’d like to think of it as a Do Not Exceed number.”
“That’s wonderful for me. It’s usually something I clarify anyway!” I make a note. “And you’d like me to come up with a general budget, knowing the Do Not Exceed?” When Hazel nods, I ask for the number.
“Two hundred and fifty thousand.”
To my credit, my stylus doesn’t slip out of my hand, roll onto the floor, trip a waiter, and bring a tray of drinks crashing down. But in my mind all of that is happening. And it is my career swirling on the floor with the mimosas.
That’s more than I’ve ever worked with, except under Whitney. I’m filled with half excitement and half dread. Numbers like that usually come with vendors who are out of my league, venues I have no relationship with, and high expectations. I should have gotten this information before I agreed to this, but Jackie’s only wish of the Rose Garden didn’t indicate that budget.
“Is that not enough?” Jackie asks quietly, misreading my silence.
“No, it’s great,” I say. “It is … a lot. I haven’t seen that kind of budget since I was with Whitney, so I’m just trying to wrap my head around it.”
I think of the promise I made Whitney when I resigned—that I would never intrude on her market. The way she waved her hand like it wasn’t even something she was worried about. The hug she gave me. Firm, caring, vanilla-scented.
But what do I do now? Back out? Send them to Whitney, who can handle this size, who knows these vendors?
No. Absolutely not. This wedding is a window of opportunity that won’t come my way again.
I know I can do this. I’m the right choice for Hazel and Jackie. And I can’t wait to prove it.
I have a free morning before Thursday’s appointment at Blooming, so instead of staring at the wall and sweating, I decide to check in at the WHW office. It’s been a few months since I’ve visited, and I’d like to pick Whitney’s brain about Hazel and Jackie’s wish list.
With my signature box of donuts in one hand, I tug open the door to the brick building, neatly situated in East Sacramento—the hub of rich people. The front desk is occupied by a new girl I don’t know, but soon enough, people are stepping out of their offices to give me a hug and grab a donut.
It was hard to leave. It wasn’t that I wanted to stop working with Whitney, but I knew that if I continued there, I’d stay forever. And the clients that Whitney takes on are not my people. The budget weddings I’ve done in the past two years have been more satisfying than the six-figure ones I was doing here. I get to see the bride’s face light up when I tell her what we can achieve, even with funds being tight. That’s the heart of it.
Whitney has a corner office—not that it matters when you’re not downtown—in the back, and as my old friends munch on the donut holes Mr. Kwon tossed in, I rap on the door and wait for her “Yes?”
I slip inside with a grin, and I’m transported back to my first interview in this office, fresh out of high school. My mother had a Whitney Harrison wedding the weekend of my graduation, and after tossing my cap, I ran to her reception and saw Whitney for the first time. She was an intimidating presence—tall and blond and disappointed with everyone. I watched her grab the wrist of a server as he brought the first entrées out ten minutes early, and with a bone-crunching squeeze and a honey-sweet smile, she guided him back into the kitchen. It was fantastic. I learned later that her assistant had canceled on her that day, which was why she was running the wedding. I didn’t even wait for the job opening announcement to hit their website; I showed up on Monday with a lookbook from my mother’s past four weddings, all of which I designed for her. With a calculating gaze, she offered me minimum wage to answer phones. Two weeks later, I was promoted to assistant; three more months and I was the design and production coordinator. While my classmates were starting college, I was already making a living, doing exactly what I wanted.
Whitney’s the exact same as she was. Her hair is swept back into a thick blond ponytail. She’s starting to get lines around her eyes, but I know she’s just overdue for an injection. Her thin lips are downturned as she looks up to see who has disturbed her, and the moment she realizes it’s me, her teeth shine pearly white at me.
“Ama, how nice!” She jumps up and smooths out her boatneck dress, sweeping me into her arms. “What’s the occasion?”
Her soft perfume envelops me, and I breathe deep before saying, “Thought it was overdue.”
I settle in the chair in front of her desk, and we catch up. She has four weddings this weekend. I have one, but she still wants to hear all about it.
“How’s Mom?” she asks, crossing her legs and smiling at me.
“She’s good. She just got married last month.”
“What number is that?” She laughs, and I feel like I have to do the same. “Has someone checked the world record yet?”
My cheeks heat. It’s not the first time I’ve heard that joke, and it won’t be the last. My mother has never been ashamed of her marriages, but after the tenth, I started to realize that other people found it wildly entertaining. As a kid, I didn’t understand there was anything wrong with it. I didn’t know people talked behind her back or that she was the butt of jokes made by the people closest to her. I laugh along with them now so they don’t see my discomfort.
I change the subject quickly. “So I need some professional advice.”
“Of course!” She flicks her wrist, and her bracelet jangles. “What’s up?”
“I scored the Hazel Renee wedding.” Getting it out of me as quickly as possible is all I can do to not vomit. Though vomit may still come. It’s early.
Her brows jump. “Oh really?” She smiles, but a small laugh pops through her chest. “How on earth did you land that?”
“They found me.” I shrug, wincing. “I tried to talk them out of it—”
“Ama, no.” She shakes her head. “You’re perfectly qualified. You told them your services, your style, your scale, and they still wanted you.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. “Right. I’m starting to feel their scale is … more than they let on. Or maybe I didn’t clarify. I don’t know. And I wanted to be up front with you, because I said I wouldn’t be encroaching on your list or your clients.”
She waves her hand. “Well, that’s not something entirely in your control. I know that.” She levels a stare at me, a smile curling her lips without reaching her eyes. “I’m proud of you. It’s a wonderful opportunity. When is the date?”
I wince. “October seventh.”
She blinks at me. “Of this year? That’s very soon.”
I nod, chewing on my lip. “It’s fast, but I can do it. I’m positive. I was just hoping you could point me in the right direction of vendors that may still be free.”
The corner of her mouth tightens. “Of course. But … let me just advise you to be careful, Ama.”
I take a deep breath, knowing exactly where this is going.
“Hazel is your age, I think?” When I nod, she continues. “The celebrity aspect may be difficult. It can be seductive. So just remember to keep your distance. Any misstep could be broadcast to her followers.”
She says misstep like it’s a missing wedding ring or forgetting to hire a DJ, but I know what she actually means. I was one week into my position as design and production coordinator when I texted a bride out of the blue to ask why she never brought in her Pinterest board. I’d been snooping around and had found her social media pages. The pins she saved were nothing like what we had settled on. Veronica, the bride, messaged me back to say she didn’t think any of it was possible in their budget. The next day, I’d devised an entire plan of attack for the new wedding design and presented it to Whitney in front of the couple. Veronica was ecstatic. Whitney smiled and nodded and held her tongue until the couple left, and then released me from Veronica’s wedding.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to call your rental company, your caterer, and your florist at the four-month mark and tell them you’re redesigning? Oh, right, of course you don’t, because I’m the one that has to do that!” she’d hissed at me.
In the moment, I thought it was the timeline and the relationship with the vendors that she was most upset about. But three months later, I attended a bridal shower for one of our clients, and when Whitney found out, she took me off that wedding too.
I tried to be better. I tried to decline invitations to bridal showers and bachelorette parties, but to Whitney, it was a Band-Aid over the real problem—they liked me. They liked me enough to want to be around me and talk about their wedding design privately. I began to focus not on how to keep them from inviting me, but on how not to get caught. I was the best designer Whitney had, and to keep it that way, I had to get to know the couple and their style. When she felt I’d improved my boundaries, Whitney promoted me to director of design, a huge position for a twenty-year-old. And a month after that, something worse happened. I punched a groomsman for putting his hand on my ass and suggesting that I suck him off. While I was crying and apologizing, my fist swollen and my clothes too tight on skin that didn’t feel like mine anymore, Whitney tugged me to the side and said, “I’m surprised this is the first time, actually.”
Whitney handled it. She smoothed everything over with the couple and got the groomsman cleaned up and to the altar. She convinced him not to press charges, which was something I hadn’t even thought about. Once the reception had started, she hugged me to her side, pressed an ice pack on my knuckles, and whispered softly, “You’ll learn, sweetheart. I took care of everything. I made it all go away.”
I look into her eyes now, and force myself to smile. On days like today, I still wish I had her taking care of everything.
“Absolutely,” I say. “I’m getting better at my boundaries.”
She nods, and I’m not sure she believes me, but she pats the desk and reaches for her mouse. “October seventh? I’ll let you know which vendors of mine are already busy that day.”
I take a deep breath, steeling my nerves, and bring my chair around to look at her calendar—like old times.