It’s Monday afternoon, and I just got off the phone with my lawyer when I walk into the kitchen, rubbing my forehead. She’s there, too, refilling her giant water bottle, a purse slungacross her body and sunglasses perched on her head, holding her hair back from her face.
She glances up at me when I walk in. “I’m off to view a couple venues. I don’t have appointments or anything. This is more of a vibe check, a pre-appointment visit if you will. Want to join me?” she asks.
It wasn’t really on the list of things I want to accomplish today, but I also don’t want to pass up the chance to spend a little extra time with her.
With that in mind, I nod. “Sure, I’d love to.”
I drive and she navigates, and every passing moment I spend with her shows me just what a powerful team we are. We arrive at the first venue, take a quick tour, and meet back in the car. She shakes her head. “It’s a no from me.”
I tilt my head and, out of curiosity, ask, “Why?”
“The carpeting.”
I chuckle. “The carpeting?”
“People want these grand photographs of their wedding. Every moment captured. I can’t have Lindsay and Devon walking into their reception on that hideous carpet.”
“So put down a red carpet or something,” I suggest.
She shakes her head. “We’re not going for a cheesy vibe, Ford.”
I hold up both hands. “What’s cheesy about a red carpet? Devon’s a celebrity.”
“Devon’s an athlete, and it seems to me that red would be the competition’s color. Right?”
“I suppose so,” I say, thinking of theotherteam in Tampa Bay.
“It’s not the vibe we’re looking for. Next up is the Lowell House.”
“Lowell House?” I repeat as she punches the address into her phone to pull up a map to get us there.
“Lindsay wants simple and elegant. This is near downtown, very elegant, coastal and cosmopolitan at the same time.”
“Let’s do it.” We head to Lowell House, which is actually a gorgeous venue that Tatum puts directly at the top of her list.
We view a few others, and it’s really kind of amazing to watch her at work. She knows as soon as we pull into the parking lot at one place that it won’t work because, according to her, “This parking lot can’t accommodate the number of guests they want.”
We navigate next to a place right on the water, Winston Manor. It’s a gorgeous mansion, very Florida with its stucco exterior that could use a fresh coat of paint but otherwise looks pristine.
When she tries the handles on the large double doors, they’re locked.
She glances at me, and I try them, too—and I find the same, as if she didn’t just try it to find it locked.
“Maybe try the doorbell?” she suggests.
I push the button, and it’s one of those ones with a camera. A voice comes through a speaker I hadn’t seen.
“Be right there!”
A woman who looks to be in her eighties opens the door. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Tatum Barker, and this is Ford Bradley. How are you today?” Tatum asks, clearly nudging the woman to share her name, but she doesn’t.
“I’m fine, dear.”
Tatum clears her throat. “We are interested in viewing the manor for an upcoming wedding.”
“Oh, dear. You’re a lovely couple, but I’m afraid I have some terrible news,” the woman says.
