“He’s not my type.”
“He’s rich, single, and a Travis,” came Steven’s sardonic reply. “He’s everyone’s type.”
By the end of the day I felt as if I’d walked the equivalent of a thousand miles, vectoring between the reception tent, the ceremony pavilion, and the main lodge. Although it seemed that everything was coming together, I knew better than to succumb to a false sense of security. Last-minute problems never failed to plague even the most meticulously planned ceremonies.
The members of the event production team worked in concert to handle any issues that cropped up. Tank Mirecki, a burly handyman, was proficient with carpentry, electronics, and mechanical repair. Ree-Ann Davis, a sassy blond assistant with a background in hotel management, had been assigned as the bride and bridesmaid handler. A brunette intern, Val Yudina, who was taking a gap year before starting at Rice, was managing the groom’s family.
I used a radio earpiece and clip-on mike to stay in constant communication with Sofia and Steven. At first Sofia and I had felt silly using standard voice procedures for the hands-free radios, but Steven had insisted, saying there was no way he could tolerate both my voice and Sofia’s in his ears without some rules. We had soon realized he was right; otherwise we would have constantly talked over each other.
An hour before the guests were scheduled to be seated, I went to the reception tent. The interior had been floored with eight thousand feet of rare purpleheart hardwood. It looked like a fairy tale. A dozen twenty-foot-high maple trees, each weighing half a ton, had been brought inside the tent to create a lavish forest, with a scattering of LED fireflies winking among the leaves. Strands of unpolished rock crystal hung in loops from a row of bronze chandeliers. Luxuriant live moss crossed the long tables in organically shaped runners. Each place setting had been accented with a wedding favor of Scottish honey sealed in a tiny crystal jar.
Outside, a row of ten-ton Portapac units pumped nonstop, chilling the air inside to a blissful sixty-eight degrees. I breathed deeply, relishing the coolness as I looked at my final countdown list. “Sofia,” I said into my mike, “has the bagpiper arrived? Over.”
“Affirmative,” my sister said. “I just took him to the main lodge. There’s a crafts room between the kitchen and the housekeeper’s room where he can tune up. Over.”
“Roger. Steven, this is Avery. I need to change my clothes. Can you handle things while I take five? Over.”
“Avery, that’s a negative, we’ve got an issue with the dove release. Over.”
I frowned. “Copy that, what’s going on? Over.”
“There’s a hawk in the oak grove next to the wedding pavilion. The dove handler says he can’t release his birds with a predator in the vicinity. Over.”
“Tell him we’ll pay extra if one of them gets eaten. Over.”
Sofia broke in. “Avery, we can’t have a dove snatched from the sky and killed in front of the guests. Over.”
“We’re at a South Texas ranch,” I said. “We’ll be lucky if half the guests don’t start shooting the doves. Over.”
“It’s against state and federal law to capture, harm, or kill a hawk,” Steven said. “How do you propose we deal with it? Over.”
“Is it illegal to scare the damn thing off? Over.”
“I don’t think so. Over.”
“Then have Tank figure it out. Over.”
“Avery, stand by,” Sofia interrupted urgently. After a pause, she said, “I’m with Val. She says the groom has cold feet. Over.”
“Is this a joke?” I asked, stunned. “Over.” All through the engagement and wedding planning, the groom, Charlie Amspacher, had been rock-solid. A nice guy. In the past, some couples had given me cause to wonder if they’d make it to the altar, but Charlie and Sloane seemed to be genuinely in love.
“No joke,” Sofia said. “Charlie just told Val he wants to call it off. Over.”
Three
Over. The word seemed to echo in my head.
A million dollars, wasted.
All of our careers were on the line.
And Sloane Kendrick would be devastated.
I was filled with what felt like the equivalent of a hundred shots of adrenaline. “No one is calling this wedding off,” I said in a murderous tone. “I will handle this. Tell Val not to let Charlie talk to anyone until I get there. Quarantine him, understand? Over.”
“Copy. Over.”
“Out.”
I stalked across the grounds to the guesthouse where the groom’s family was getting ready for the ceremony. I fought to keep from breaking into a run. As soon as I entered the house, I blotted my sweating face with a handful of tissues. The sounds of laughter, conversation, and clinking glasses floated from the living room of the main floor.
Val was at my side instantly. She was dressed in a pale silver-gray skirt suit, her microbraids pulled back in a controlled low bun. High-pressure situations never seemed to fluster her; in fact, she usually became even calmer in the face of emergency. As I looked into her eyes, however, I saw the signs of panic. The ice in the drink she held was rattling slightly. Whatever was happening with the groom, it was serious.
“Avery,” she whispered, “thank God you’re here. Charlie’s trying to call it off.”
“Any idea why?”
“I’m sure the best man has something to do with it.”