Chapter eight
Tessa
Iarrive at the first venue with my notebook clutched against my chest like a shield, still replaying the moment Eleanor called to confirm our "little girls' day" with a warmth I absolutely did not deserve. My palms are damp against the cover. I wipe them on my coat before anyone can notice.
Eleanor is already waiting in the foyer with Beth beside her, and the moment she spots me through the glass her face opens with delight.
She crosses the marble floor with her arms already opening, and I barely have time to brace before she folds me into a hug, all expensive floral perfume and easy affection, like this is the most natural thing in the world.
Margaret stands two steps behind her, watching me over Eleanor’s shoulder. I give her my best professional smile, the one assembled from excellent posture and controlled facial muscles.
She returns a single, deliberate nod.
Progress, I think, unless I have wildly misunderstood the standards by which Margaret Maddox evaluates human beings.
The venue coordinator appears with every visual marker of someone who has spent the morning herding expensive opinions from one room to another. Tall. Clipboard in hand. Headset on, but attention fully on us.
Eleanor immediately loops her arm through mine and says, “This is Tessa, my brother’s girlfriend." I shake the coordinator’s hand aiming for confidence. Even if behind my 'I have everything under control' smile, I have no idea what I'm doing.
The ceremony space opens ahead of us. High ceilings, stone archways, afternoon light falling through tall windows in long pale columns. It is, objectively, stunning. Eleanor squeezes my arm and whispers, "Can you imagine?" and I make a soft, appreciative sound instead of answering, because the honest answer is yes, I can, and that is exactly the problem. I redirect my attention to the sight lines from the back row.
Eleanor falls into step beside me while the coordinator describes the floral installation options, and in the easy, sideways manner of someone who has been curious for a while but too polite to ask directly, she says, "So what is it you actually like about George?"
My heart performs a small, undignified lurch.
"He pays attention to things most people miss," I say, because it's the truest thing I know about him and it costs me nothing to admit it out loud.
Eleanor tilts her head at me. Her expression could mean I've given either the right answer or a deeply suspicious one. "He does," she agrees, quietly.
I exhale.I passed, I think.I file that away and keep walking.
The coordinator gestures toward the altar position and mentions something about the light being "particularly romantic at golden hour," and I catch Beth clasping both hands togetherand mouthingperfectat no one in particular, which makes me want to laugh loudly and inappropriately. I press my lips together and look at my notebook.
Eleanor asks me three more questions about George, and the answers come easier than they should. How surprised I was that he takes notes by hand. The way he holds doors without making a ceremony of it. The fact that he remembers details other people toss aside. Every answer is true. That is what makes them dangerous. There is no protective distance of invention between me and any of it.
Eleanor smiles wider with each one, and her smiles are doing quantifiable damage to my composure.
During a lull while the coordinator steps away to take a call, I drift toward the window and stand looking at the space at the front of the room. I think, briefly, involuntarily, about what it would feel like to walk toward it. I am, of course, picturing myself as a bridesmaid. This is Eleanor's wedding. I am a professional. That is the only reasonable interpretation.
George is standing at the front in the mental image.
I turn away from the window and ask Eleanor a very focused question about catering minimums.
She answers it and then says, lightly, "You must do a lot of this kind of thing at ERS," and I realize she is quietly, carefully trying to understand how I fit into her brother's life. The attention is gentle and entirely terrifying.
"I do help organize lots of high-profile events," I say, "but never as part of the bridal party."
***
The second venue visit, a few days later, is quieter. There is more marble, stone columns, and the kind of grandeur that photographs beautifully and functions awkwardly. I amwatching the coordinator describe the ballroom layout when I notice the proposed dance floor position will form a complete barrier between the kitchen corridor and two of the primary guest tables. The first-course service will be a slow-motion disaster.
"The server traffic would be completely blocked during the first course," I say, under my breath.
The coordinator stops mid-sentence.
Margaret, who has been a decorative and slightly terrifying presence since we arrived, turns and looks at me directly for the first time all day. She considers me for a moment with an expression I cannot entirely read.
"That's actually a very good point," she says, in a tone that makes clear she does not deploy that phrase carelessly.
