While she worked, Parker gave periodic updates, and started the countdown in her ear.
Guests still trickling in. Most are seated or on the terrace.
Formal prewedding shots complete. Mac's on the move.
Grandparents escorted in two minutes. I'm bringing the boys down. Laurel, get ready for the pass-off.
"Roger that," Laurel said dryly. "Em, cake's assembled and ready for the table decor anytime."
Boys passed off to Laurel, Parker announced a moment later as Emma finished with a stand of hydrangeas. MOG escorted by BOG in one. MOB on deck. Escort is BOB. Queuing up attendants. Music change on my mark.
Emma walked back to the entrance doors, shut her eyes for ten seconds, then opened them to take in the entire space. She drew a breath in, let a breath out.
Paris Explodes, she thought, but it did so in lush style. Whites, silvers, purples, touches of green to set them off spilled, spread, speared, and shimmered under a perfect April sky. She watched the groom and his party take their places in front of a pergola simply smothered in flowers.
"Guys, we rule. We kill. You're done. Hit the kitchen for food and drink."
Alone, she took one last circuit of the room as Parker signaled the attendants to go! one by one. Then Emma sighed, rubbed her back, the back of her neck, her hands. And went to change into her heels as Parker gave the MB her cue.
JACK DIDN'T KNOW HOW THEY PULLED IT OFF, EVERY TIME, ALL the time. He'd been drafted to lend a hand now and again at an event. Hauling and lifting, bartending, even bussing tables in a pinch. As payment invariably included great food, drinks, and music, he never minded.
But he still didn't know how they managed to pull it all together.
Parker consistently managed to be everywhere at once, and so subtly he suspected no one really noticed she might be prepping the best man on his toast one minute and passing out a pack of tissues to the mother of the bride the next while coordinating the service of the meal in the Grand Hall like a general coordinating troops during battle.
Mac popped up all over the place, too, and was just as cagey about it as she shot candids of the wedding party or the guests, or maneuvered the bride and groom into a quick posed photo.
Laurel streamed in and out, signaled, he supposed, through the headset they all wore, or by some sort of hand signal. Maybe mental telepathy. He wouldn't discount that one.
And Emma, of course, on the spot when a guest spilled wine on the tablecloth, or when the bored ring bearer started to poke at one of the flower girls.
He doubted anyone noticed or understood there were four women literally holding everything together, juggling all the balls and passing them to each other with the grace and skill of NFL quarterbacks.
Just as he imagined no one knew the logistics and sheer timing involved in leading the guests from the Hall to the Ballroom. He lingered while Emma and her team along with Laurel swarmed on the head table to gather up the bouquets and holding vases.
"Need any help?" he asked her.
"Hmm? No, thanks, we've got it. Tink, six on either side, baskets on the end. Everything else stays in place for two hours here before undressing and loading. Beach, Tiff, snuff the candles, leave the overheads on half."
"I can get that," Tink said when Emma took the bride's bouquet.
"One bruised rose and she'll go on attack. Better she rips my throat out than yours. Let's go, first dance is starting."
While the flowers headed up the back stairs, Jack wandered to the main. He slipped into the Ballroom in the middle of the first official dance. The bride and groom chose what he considered the overused and overorchestrated "I Will Always Love You," while people stood in the flower-drenched Ballroom or sat at one of the tables strategically arranged around the dance floor.
The terrace doors stood open, inviting guests to stroll outside. He thought he'd do just that once he got a glass of wine.
When he saw Emma ducking out again, he adjusted his plan. Carrying two glasses of wine, he went down the back stairs.
She sat on the second level, and popped up like a spring when she heard his footsteps. "Oh, it's only you." She sank back down on the steps.
"Only me is bearing wine."
She sighed, circled her head on her neck. "We at Vows frown on drinking on the job. But . . . I'll lecture myself tomorrow. Hand it over."
He sat down beside her, gave her the glass. "How's it going?"
"I should ask you. You're a guest."
"From the guest point of view, it's a smash. Everything looks great, tastes great, smells great. People are having fun and have no idea the whole business is clicking along on a timetable that would make a Swiss train conductor weep in admiration."