“Steve’s got his hands full with theNutcrackeron Broadway this winter,” Jamie sighs. He sounds disappointed, and I am, too.
“Damn. Steve was our go-to guy on decorations.”
“He’s not our only go-to guy. I left a message for Karl. Remember him?”
“He helped us with the Halloween-themed wedding for that Connecticut couple,” I say. “I remember him. He was good, He delivered on time, he didn’t skimp on the materials, and he didn’t cost us a fortune either. Great call, Jamie.”
“Here’s hoping he’ll reach out by the end of the day, otherwise?—”
“Otherwise, I’ll talk to Sally over at the New York Ballet Company. They had a brilliant production designer who worked with them last season, a freelancer. Hemight be available. Either way, we need production design checked off the list.”
Jamie nods and makes a couple of notes next to that particular item, then moves on to the next. The further down the list we go, the more we realize we still have to get done. However, with a miracle or two, we might be able to pull it off.
But I’ve yet to spot any miracles on the horizons.
The hours go by, and my mind wanders back to Cole, Asher, and Toby in between phone calls and last-minute emails to some of the city’s most highly rated florists. It’s a crazy stretch, but I think Sheila knew I’d be able to handle it on such short notice. She wouldn’t have taken the risk, if she didn’t.
I also know she’s using this opportunity to hurt me eventually. I just wish I knew what her endgame was.
My phone pings; it’s Cole.
How’s the wedding planning coming along?
Shaping up slowly but surely. On the phone and emails all day. My eyes hurt. How’s business over at Morgan Enterprises? I reply, allowing myself a smile as I notice Toby and Asher are typing messages of their own in our group chat.
As usual. Keeping the business ethos alive. We just salvaged a credit union. It’s being absorbed as one of our subsidiaries, Cole texts.
Detroit is finally picking up slack in the automotive industry, Asher says, referring to his own independent company, not under the Morgan name.We’re opening a plant there in February. I just signed the contracts.
That’s amazing! Congratulations! I reply.
I’m elbow deep in grease, Toby chimes in.Not that I envy my brothers or anything. Just felt the need to point that out.
I laugh lightly. Toby has a way of lightening any mood, and the fact that he turned his passion into a thriving business model only makes me like him more.
Who’s that Hog for? Cole asks him.
Some bigwig over at Stanley. You might know the guy, Curtis Shaw.
That idiot? What is this, a midlife crisis buy?Cole shoots back.
Call it natural selection. I’ll still cash the check, Toby replies.
I set the phone down. I’m glad I can tune into our little group chat once in a while for stress relief. We don’t always answer right away, but when we do, it’s like we’re picking up where we left off. There’s no pressure, no obligation. Terrence used to throw a fit if I didn’t respond quickly—probably because he was a professional slacker while I was busy running my business.
The more I look back, the more reasons I find to dislike him.
My phone pings again.
Tonight, my place, Cole says.The townhouse on 44th. I’ll have a driver pick you up, Willow.
What’s happening tonight? I ask, though I think I already know.
You’ll find out when you get here.
I giggle and put the phone down again, then focus on a half-written email to the New York Ballet Company. I know I’ll get a quick reply, and I hope it’ll be apositive one.
From the copy of Thornwood’s blueprint that Sheila emailed over, I noticed that the gigantic hall is oval-shaped, a recent modification, with faux -plaster walls from about twenty years ago that Mrs. Morgan requested. I’ve gone over photos of previous events that took place there, and I’ve got a pretty good idea of what we’re dealing with.
