simultaneous appointments, so this worked well enough without having individual offices. We had comfy seating facing both desks so clients felt pampered into parting with their money. The corner opposite Sara’s desk had a coffee and tea area with a mini fridge containing milk, creamer and various juices. There was usually a pink bakery box sitting on the counter.
We liked cookies, and so did our clients.
The carpet was plush white, the walls a deep burgundy, and the whole thing came together with the air of a parlor rather than a cold, sterile office space. We used the work counter in the back room for crafty projects, assembling favors with birdseed, squares of tulle, ribbons, fabric, imitation flowers, candles, and endless jars of beads and sequins. We were prepared for anything.
Knowing this, I probably shouldn’t have offered my open hour to Sara’s needs. Without answering, she pulled me into the stuffy room and put me to work.
“Apparently,” Sara said, “Gail Dickson’s bridesmaids are not in the least interested in being helpful. I told her not to worry about it. We’d take care of the birdseed favors.”
“Why do people do that? Why would you agree to be in a wedding unless you were going to help? Do people not read Miss Manners anymore?”
Sara shrugged. “My guess is they’re already tired of taking crap off of Mama Dickson—I’m sorry, Madam High Pubah City Councilwoman Dickson. She’s even got me ready to slap her pompous little face, and I don’t rattle easily.”
That I could believe. Sara had taken point on this wedding, so I’d only been at the initial meeting. I was running backup. But I knew Councilwoman Dickson well. Everyone did. She managed to get her picture in the local paper on a regular basis, and anyone with a business in Sausalito knew pissing her off was a very bad idea.
This wedding would make or break us. Councilwoman Dickson’s only daughter’s wedding ranked a two-page spread in the local paper, and the politician had scored a promise of coverage in the San Francisco Chronicle as well. Being the head of the city council in a town as small as Sausalito shouldn’t have been a big deal, but Alma Dickson had made herself into some sort of local celebrity. If everything went well, we could expect a long line of giggling debutantes clamoring for us to do their wedding.
But if Mama wasn’t happy, we might as well pack up and move to another county.
An unhappy Alma was known to cause all sorts of trouble for business owners—parking tickets, building code violations, spontaneous sanitation inspections. I wouldn’t put it past the old bitch to send someone over in the dead of night to dump cockroaches into the office.
No. This was one wedding we had to pull off without a flaw. Sara looked uncharacteristically frazzled. Her eyes darted around the room like she wanted to pounce on the work table and get started.
“Go. I’ve got it. Well, some of it, anyway.” I waved my arm in the air. “Run around town. Be efficient.”
She looked relieved, but still edgy. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. Being an idiot isn’t usually fatal. It’s you I’m more worried about. Leave this. I’ll help. It’s what I do.”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, Maurice’s voice reverberated in my skull. Was that all I was on Earth to do? Help people? Might as well suck it up and accept it, Zoey. Helping is what you do. Just like Mom.
After Sara was gone, I puttered around collecting seeds and ribbons and tulle and tiny fake flowers. It took a few minutes to find Sara’s file on the wedding to double check the colors and number of guests. Sara is the put-together lady and I’m the spastic psycho, but underneath her pressed suit and my candy-striped socks, I’m more organized. The universe is an odd place.
The Dickson-Strauss wedding didn’t look like any more fun than I’d predicted after the initial consultation. Two hundred guests, midnight-blue
We liked cookies, and so did our clients.
The carpet was plush white, the walls a deep burgundy, and the whole thing came together with the air of a parlor rather than a cold, sterile office space. We used the work counter in the back room for crafty projects, assembling favors with birdseed, squares of tulle, ribbons, fabric, imitation flowers, candles, and endless jars of beads and sequins. We were prepared for anything.
Knowing this, I probably shouldn’t have offered my open hour to Sara’s needs. Without answering, she pulled me into the stuffy room and put me to work.
“Apparently,” Sara said, “Gail Dickson’s bridesmaids are not in the least interested in being helpful. I told her not to worry about it. We’d take care of the birdseed favors.”
“Why do people do that? Why would you agree to be in a wedding unless you were going to help? Do people not read Miss Manners anymore?”
Sara shrugged. “My guess is they’re already tired of taking crap off of Mama Dickson—I’m sorry, Madam High Pubah City Councilwoman Dickson. She’s even got me ready to slap her pompous little face, and I don’t rattle easily.”
That I could believe. Sara had taken point on this wedding, so I’d only been at the initial meeting. I was running backup. But I knew Councilwoman Dickson well. Everyone did. She managed to get her picture in the local paper on a regular basis, and anyone with a business in Sausalito knew pissing her off was a very bad idea.
This wedding would make or break us. Councilwoman Dickson’s only daughter’s wedding ranked a two-page spread in the local paper, and the politician had scored a promise of coverage in the San Francisco Chronicle as well. Being the head of the city council in a town as small as Sausalito shouldn’t have been a big deal, but Alma Dickson had made herself into some sort of local celebrity. If everything went well, we could expect a long line of giggling debutantes clamoring for us to do their wedding.
But if Mama wasn’t happy, we might as well pack up and move to another county.
An unhappy Alma was known to cause all sorts of trouble for business owners—parking tickets, building code violations, spontaneous sanitation inspections. I wouldn’t put it past the old bitch to send someone over in the dead of night to dump cockroaches into the office.
No. This was one wedding we had to pull off without a flaw. Sara looked uncharacteristically frazzled. Her eyes darted around the room like she wanted to pounce on the work table and get started.
“Go. I’ve got it. Well, some of it, anyway.” I waved my arm in the air. “Run around town. Be efficient.”
She looked relieved, but still edgy. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. Being an idiot isn’t usually fatal. It’s you I’m more worried about. Leave this. I’ll help. It’s what I do.”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, Maurice’s voice reverberated in my skull. Was that all I was on Earth to do? Help people? Might as well suck it up and accept it, Zoey. Helping is what you do. Just like Mom.
After Sara was gone, I puttered around collecting seeds and ribbons and tulle and tiny fake flowers. It took a few minutes to find Sara’s file on the wedding to double check the colors and number of guests. Sara is the put-together lady and I’m the spastic psycho, but underneath her pressed suit and my candy-striped socks, I’m more organized. The universe is an odd place.
The Dickson-Strauss wedding didn’t look like any more fun than I’d predicted after the initial consultation. Two hundred guests, midnight-blue
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