My heart plummeted. Before I could respond, another fan approached, this one clutching her phone like a lifeline.
“Oh my God, I thought my friend was wrong, but now that I’m here—” The dark-haired girl babbled on, oblivious to our tension. “Can I just tell you what an inspiration you are? Yourdress like a million on a budget of less than fiftyposts? Oh my …”
When she finally left, I reached across the table. “Shelly, I’m so sorry.”
“Let’s go for a walk?” she suggested, already gathering her things.
I nodded, following her into the warm late-spring air of Michigan Avenue. The shadow of skyscrapers fell across us as horns echoed through the steel canyon and the “L” rumbled overhead. Here, at least, pedestrians were too focused on their own destinations to notice us.
“He has to be at my wedding,” she said, twisting a tissue between her fingers as we walked. “He has to walk me down the aisle. I’ve dreamed about this since I was a little girl, and if he’s not there …” Tears tracked down her carefully contoured cheeks.
I placed my hand on top of hers, our footsteps slowing. “Of course,” I said gently. “He has to be there.”
She let out a deep breath of relief, as if this part of the battle was behind her. But I knew better.
“You know,” I ventured, “we could pivot. Organize a justice of the peace, get you married by next week if you want.”
Her posture stiffened. “No,” she said firmly. “I’m not willing to sacrifice quality. It still has to be perfect; it just has to be earlier.”
My stomach churned at the impossibility of it all. Perfection in seven weeks? I might as well try to teleport to the moon.
“Doctors seem confident he can make my wedding in July,” she added. “That gives us time to move everything up.”
Now I understood, with crushing gravity, what she expected. Perfection. The same stakes were there. Her brand and mine would be in shambles if all those same high-end guests came to a disaster. Influential guests that would probably reorganize their lives when they heard why the wedding was moving up to July. Shelly’s father was a powerful politician. The last chance to see him? People would reschedule an organ transplant to make that.
“Okay, listen,” I sighed, stopping her near a towering glass building that reflected the afternoon sun. “I hate to say this, but you’re taking a huge gamble on me. I want this wedding to be everything you’ve dreamed of, and while selfishly, I want to keep working with you”—hello, bankruptcy court—“I have to put your needs ahead of my own. Other wedding planners have hundreds of weddings under their belt and can probably handle a curveball like this without missing a beat. Many of them have exclusive contracts with florists and venues they can leverage.” Me? I was running on desperation and sheer will.
“I know it’s a challenge, but I wantyouto do it.” Shelly grabbed my hands, her eyes intense. “I fell in love with you, Tessa. Your vision. Your talent. I don’t want anything to change, except the date.”
I swallowed hard. “I want to,” I started, but she cut me off.
“This isn’t just about you. One day, a female clothing designer chosemeto promote her brand. She could have gone with anyone more experienced, but she chose me and gave me my big break. I saw that same talent in you, and as you know, this whole wedding planning journey has gone viral.”
Don’t remind me. It was an asset then. Now it’s aTitanic-level liability.
“I’m getting messages from aspiring female entrepreneurs. They’re watching you, Tessa. Looking on to see you pull off the wedding of the century, and if you do, it will tell them whatever dream they have in their heart, they can achieve it too. This is bigger than just us; it’s hope for all the aspiring businesswomen who need a win when big corporations keep crushing the little guy.”
Well, crap. When she put it that way …
“Speaking of big corporations,” she added, lowering her voice, “you know another big problem.”
“Once Upon a Lifetime,” I muttered, the name tasting as delicious as vomit.
Chicago’s largest wedding planning company had been trying to crush me since day one. Evidently, it wasn’t enough that they planned thousands—yes, thousands—of weddings a year. They were sharks, securing an almost monopoly by bullying out any budding competition. Like me.
Moving the wedding date would be massive news with Shelly and her influential father. Maybe they wouldn’t be that ruthless if they knew the reason it was moving was because he was dying?
But the churning in my stomach told my sixth sense that they wouldn’t give two craps; all they cared about was winning this wedding planning war they’d created. And even without their interference, the impossibility of planning a wedding in mere weeks made my vision blur. A wedding of a lifetime? I needed to hire a leprechaun for good luck.
My heart started to race, and nausea exploded, along with sweating palms. Nerves? Or another health crisis?
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Shelly, I need to tell you something.”
Panic flooded her eyes. “Don’t say no,” she pleaded, gripping my arm. “I can’t start over with someone else.”
“The other day, when I missed our meeting …” I forced myself to meet her gaze. “I was in the ER.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you okay?”
