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Chapter One
~ Maddie ~
The shriek reverberates through the corridors of Gracewood Hall like a banshee portending death. I drop the ringbearer’s pillow, which I’m sewing, and sprint toward the caterwauling.
“Why are you not wearing the nail polish I asked you to get, Betsy?” Bride-to-be and social media influencer London Brinks screams at her maid of honor.
Betsy stares at her glossy, deep green nails for a moment before she opens her mouth to answer, but London steamrolls over her.
“Did I or did I not explicitly tell you to buy Les Mains Hermes nail enamel in Vert Egyptien?”
London’s Southern accent murders the French words and Betsy smirks at her defiantly.
My daughter Jenna stands between them, arms bent at the elbows, palms out, like a boxing referee keeping the fighters apart. She glances at me as I skid to a stop in the doorway.
“London,” Jenna says. “Even if it’s not Hermes, the nail polish Betsy is wearing will look lovely with her dress.”
That is if one likes the color green.
London’s face turns a cartoonish shade of deep red. I’m starting to worry that her head might explode when my mother, Gloria Phillips—everyone calls her Gigi—appears on the threshold next to me.
“What’s all the ruckus about?” she asks.
I put a finger to my lips and nod toward the action, determined to let my daughter take care of her clients.
Gigi owns Gracewood Hall, the venue. I own Blissful Beginnings Bridal Boutique. Jenna owns Champagne Wedding and Event Designs. Despite my mothering instincts to step in and make everything right, I know I must stay in my lane. Jenna is more than capable of handling the situation.
“I said Hermes because I want Hermes.” London’s voice is guttural and low, shaking like a volcano ready to erupt. “What is so difficult to understand about that?”
Gigi, who could be Betty White’s younger sister, returned to Hemlock, North Carolina, last year after her fourth husband passed away. It’s good to have her home. I’m glad she turned to us in her grief.
She’s outlived all of her husbands and admits she’s starting to feel like a black widow—even though they all died of natural causes, and she had nothing to do with their deaths. She doesn’t want to get married again, but she still believes in love. So, she purchased Gracewood Hall, the storied mansion on a sprawling property on the outskirts of Hemlock, North Carolina, and turned it into a romantic wedding venue.
Hosting London Brinks’s wedding as Gracewood Hall’s inaugural event was Gigi’s idea.
I would outfit the bride and groom.
Jenna would plan the wedding and reception.
Gigi would host the wedding—the first event at the newly renovated and reopened Gracewood Hall.
London Brinks would post about the event on her social media accounts, and her three million followers would clamor to book their weddings and events here, too.
Little did we know.
“I don’t know what kind of skank-show weddings you coordinate, Jenna; my followers expect better than a low-rent imitation of my brand.”
Despite my resolve, I start to step forward, but Gigi puts a hand on my arm, holding me back.
“We agreed my wedding would be classy, which means first-rate everything, right down to the Hermes nail polish. What is that tackiness on your fingers, Betsy? Don’t tell me it’s OPI.”
“As a matter of fact, London, it is OPI.” Betsy rolls her eyes. “It’s called Stay off the Lawn!! And that’s with two exclamation points. You are a piece of work.”
“No, Betsy, you are,” London yells. “You agreed to my standards when I let you be in the wedding. It was all good when you thought you’d get exposure at my expense—”
“How is anything at your expense?” Betsy yells back. “You get everything free. You get to wear the twenty-thousand-dollar bridal gown at no cost. You get the sixty-dollar Hermes nail polish free, but you expect me to go out and drop a fortune on a dress in a hideous shade of chartreuse that I will never in my life wear again. And then when I try to save a few bucks on nail polish, you treat me like a criminal.”
She’s right—the dress is chartreuse. While it’s a fun, trendy color, it doesn’t flatter many people—certainly not Betsy, with her brassy blonde hair and pale skin. The color makes her look like she’s nauseated.
“By the way,” Betsy adds. “The Hermes nail polish doesn’t even match the chartreuse dress.”
“Get a manicurist in here right now,” London barks at Jenna. “Have her redo Betsy’s nails. I suppose she will have to use my bottle of Hermes since Betsy was too cheap to spring for a bottle of her own. If the manicurist charges, send the bill to her.”
“Jenna, don’t bother,” Betsy says. “I quit. I’ve put up with her verbal abuse for months, and I’m done. I don’t care if she is marrying my brother. I should’ve dropped out when the rest of the bridesmaids walked out on her, but I figured since I was the last woman standing, she’d get a clue and rein it in. No more. I’ve had enough.”
“Oh, no,” Jenna says. “Betsy, the wedding is in two days. Please don’t go. London has pre-wedding jitters. She needs you more than ever right now.” Jenna casts a pleading glance at the bride. “Right, London?”
“I don’t need you, Betsy.” London crosses her arms and turns her back on them. “Go on. Get out of here. Just get.”
As London shoos her away with a swatting flick of her hand. Betsy picks up the garment bag that holds the bridesmaid dress. She shakes her head and mutters, “I am so out of here. I’m so over this.”
While Jenna deals with London, I go after Betsy, hoping to convince her to change her mind and stick it out.
“Betsy, please don’t go. It’s your brother’s wedding. Hang in there for two more days.”
With one hand on the iron rail, Betsy stops at the top of the marble staircase leading down to the grand foyer and heaves a weary sigh. She looks exhausted, and I can feel the frustration emanating from her in waves.
We can hear London shrieking out here.
“Now, what am I supposed to do?” London wails. “Everyone is against me. Every single person who agreed to be in this wedding was doing it for the exposure they’d get on my social channels. They’re all a bunch of users. I hate them. I hate them all.”
“See what I mean?” Betsy says. “Would you want to stick around for two more days of that abuse? Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot you have no choice.”
I weigh my words because I am firmly on Betsy’s side. She’s right. Jenna, Gigi, and I don’t have a choice.
It’s good that my daughter is handling London because I want to tell the spoiled brat to take a long look in the mirror. If she thinks the whole world is against her, the entire world might not be the problem.
Jenna is handling her, saying something in a low, soothing tone that I can’t discern.
“London Brinks might be Insta-famous, but she is a monster. I truly think she would kill her mother if it would get her ahead.”
“Honey, don’t say that,” Gigi says. “She just wants her big day to be perfect. Or at least the version of perfect she sees in her mind’s eye.”
“Good luck with that. Now, she won’t have any bridesmaids. That’s because no one can stand her. Sure, she’s a social media influencer, but if people knew the real her… You saw how she acts. She has no regard for anyone. Green isn’t my color. But she chose the dress and expected me to drop a grand on it like it was pocket change. I will never wear that dress again, but she doesn’t care. She thinks it looks rich and regal, but it’s hideous. I can’t do it anymore, Maddie. I’m out.”
I feel bad because I sold her the dress, but I thought everyone was on the same page. London would borrow a dress, and the bridal party would pay for their own. But Betsy is right. Even after I gave her a substantial discount, the maid of honor dress that London picked out still cost more than $1,000.
“How about if I refund your money and let you borrow the dress for the day?” I ask.
London picks that moment to come charging out of the room. “Give back the bracelet, you nasty little thief.”
Betsy shrinks away, but London grabs Betsy’s arm and yanks the golden rope bangle off her thin wrist. The force of London’s manhandling causes Betsy to teeter on the top step. I grab her arm to steady her. The last thing we need is someone to take a spill down the stairs.
“Be careful,” I say. “If you two don’t knock it off, someone will get hurt.”
London ignores me and unleashes the enormity of her wrath on her sister-in-law-to-be.
“Don’t you dare show up at any of the wedding festivities. If you do, security will throw you out. I don’t care if Anson is your brother. Since you are abandoning me, you’re not allowed to darken my big day with your ugly presence.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t believe my brother would marry someone like you. You’re the ugly one. You’d probably sabotage your own wedding for the publicity.”
London swats away Betsy’s words, turns, and stomps back to the bride’s room.
Betsy’s brows raise, and she shakes her head. “You heard her. If I show up, she will have security escort me out of my brother’s wedding. I’d appreciate it if you would refund my money and let someone else beg, borrow, or steal the dress. I’m done.”
She hands me the garment bag and walks down the stairs.
I turn and see Gigi standing there with her hands on her hips. She and I stare at each other.
“Well, seeing that neither of us is a size two, do you know where we can find a tiny stand-in who looks good in this strange shade of green?” Gigi asks.
I shrug, and we both head back to the bride’s room, where Jenna talks to London in low, earnest tones. Miracle of miracles, bridezilla seems to be listening.
“Think about it, but don’t take too long,” Jenna says. “You’re lucky she’s free this weekend.”
“What does she look like?” London asks petulantly.
Jenna holds up her phone and shows a picture of an attractive petite blonde.
London takes the phone and paces as she scrutinizes the image. “She’s pretty and little. Maybe she’s too pretty. My maid of honor can’t be more attractive than I am. I might look like a moose standing next to her. You should know that, Jenna.”
As Bridezilla scowls at the picture, I realize London isn’t unattractive. She is big-boned and a little horsey-looking, which generally wouldn’t even enter the equation because I don’t judge women on their looks, but London is the one who brought up the potential replacement bridesmaid’s looks.
Who is this person that Jenna’s recommending? If London doesn’t know what she looks like, Jenna must be suggesting someone to take Betsy’s place as maid of honor.
Why should London be worried? She’s one of the world’s top social media influencers. She’s not beautiful, but she makes the most of what she has. This, paired with her ease on camera, makes her relatable and approachable to her followers.
I wish I could pull her aside and tell her that while her online personality is friendly and helpful, her real-life disregard for others’ feelings makes her unattractive.
“London, look,” Jenna says in a steady, neutral voice. “Unless you know someone who can drop everything and come to Hemlock by tomorrow morning, you’re out of options.”
London bleats a meh, and with a flick of her wrist, she skims Jenna’s phone back to her across the table. “I don’t know.”
My daughter barely catches it, saving the cell from sailing off the other end and smashing into the wall. I catch a barely perceptible flash of anger in my daughter’s eyes.
Jenna takes a deep breath before saying, “Of course, you don’t have to have attendants. You could walk down the aisle solo and say it’s the new trend, but it might look a little unbalanced since Anson still has ten groomsmen.”
“You haven’t told him that he needs to get rid of at least nine of them?” London bellows. “You were supposed to have already taken care of that. What in the world am I paying you for?”
“You’re not paying me, London.” Jenna’s voice is devoid of emotion, and I know my daughter well enough to realize it’s taking every ounce of strength she possesses to keep from throttling this woman. “We negotiated an in-kind trade. Promo for services.”
“Go tell him that he has to let everyone go,” London insists.
Jenna closes her eyes and rubs her temples.
“Oh, dear,” Gigi whispers.
“Before I do that, we need to figure out what you’re going to do,” Jenna says. “Do you realize it’ll raise some eyebrows if you don’t have at least one bridesmaid?”
“But you said I didn’t have to have a bridesmaid.”
“I’m saying one attendant makes a statement, but flying solo at your first wedding suggests something is wrong, especially since you have five flower girls and two ringbearers.
“You can get away with not having an attendant if you elope or have a small gathering, but when you invite five hundred people to a wedding, it’s bound to raise some questions if the bride has no bridesmaids. People talk, and by people, I mean the ladies you’ve kicked out of the wedding.”
Yes, five hundred people are invited to the wedding. Gracewood Hall can handle it, but we will burst at the seams.
“Everyone in the bridal party signed nondisclosures,” London says. “They can’t talk, or I will sue them.”
Jenna levels her with a look that says, yeah, right.
The real story is bound to get out. Even if London embraces the theory that there’s no such thing as bad publicity, it won’t be a good look. It could damage London’s brand.
That must be what the woman thinks because I sense her bravado wavering.
London makes a clucking noise. “It seems so gauche to hire someone to pretend to be your friend.”
I have to bite my tongue to avoid saying, “Well, honey, you’ve driven everyone else away. At this point, you’re out of options.”
But there is a note of vulnerability in her voice.
My diplomatic daughter says, “It’s not gauche. It’s a practical decision. You will be paying her to eliminate the drama. You want her to wear green Hermes nail polish? Consider it done. What do you say? Do you want to hire Kate for your big day?”
“What do you mean I’ll be paying her?”
“Her services aren’t free,” Jenna says.
London makes a face that suggests this is the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard.
I’d heard about bridesmaids for hire, but I’d never known anyone who’d used the service. Jenna had resources and had already started looking into the possibility.
“You’ll have to pay her because she doesn’t do work in exchange for promo,” Jenna explains. “She has to be discreet. Think about it. If you promote Kate’s business, you’ll tell your audience you hired your maid of honor.”
London blinks. Reality seems to be dawning.
“I can vouch for Kate. I went to college with her. She’s a professional. Whatever backstory you all come up with—whether she’s your lifelong bestie or your sorority big sister, she will make everyone believe it’s true. So, do you want to hire her to be your maid of honor?”
~ Jenna ~
London relented, and I booked my friend Kate Asher as her stand-in maid of honor.
The next morning, I wait outside on the cobblestone driveway of Gracewood Hall for Kate to arrive.
I wince at the thought of throwing my friend to the queen of the bridezillas, but I remind myself that this isn’t Kate’s first rodeo. She will be well compensated for the trouble at $3,000 for the weekend, plus travel expenses and accommodations. While the job of bridesmaid for hire isn’t for the faint of heart, one advantage that Kate has as a professional is there’s no emotional baggage that potentially strains family relations or ruins lifelong friendships when a bride goes off the rails.
Still, London is a quirky little item who has proven she can test the outer limits of the strongest individual. This week, I watched her systematically decimate her bridal party.
Yesterday, I clarified to London that Kate was her last option. If she drives her away, she’s on her own.
I draw in a breath of humid midmorning air.
Two more days.
Granted, two very long days, but if we can get through this wedding without the bride killing someone, I will have gained the skills that will enable me to handle anyone.
I will be invincible.
Heh.
If I say it enough, maybe I’ll start to believe it.
A black sedan passes through Gracewood Hall’s stately wrought iron gates. The Breedon Golden Amber gravel crunches under the car’s tires.
When my grandmother, Gigi, bought the place last year and had it renovated, she insisted on only the best of everything. No shortcuts. No substitutions. If Breedon Golden Amber gravel was good enough for Buckingham Palace, it was exactly what she wanted for Gracewood Hall. I have to give her credit; it gives the place an understated regal air.
When the car stops in the circle part of the driveway, I walk around to the driver’s side door to greet Kate.
“Look at you standing out here like you’re part of the Downton Abbey cast,” she says as she glances around in awe.
“Would that make me nobility or part of the waitstaff?”
We laugh and hug each other.
Kate is blonde, tan, and gorgeous. She’s tiny but holds herself with an air of self-possession that makes her seem significant. It’s a vibe that draws people to her while allowing her to keep them at arm’s length.
I always likened Kate to an iceberg. She’s ice-queen calm on the surface, but her natural strengths are hidden. I know this because while I considered her a friend, I never really knew her.
“It’s been too long, Kate,” I say. “I’m so glad you could come on such short notice.”
“I’m happy to be here. I guess the wedding planning business is lucrative in these parts, huh? Clearly, I got into the wrong nuptial niche.”
“Maybe not this lucrative.” I gesture toward the house. “But I do okay. My grandmother bought this place last year when she moved back to Hemlock. Where’s your luggage?”
“I checked into the hotel before coming here,” Kate says.
Of course, she did. She’s as efficient as I remember her.
She shades her eyes from the sun and gazes up at Gracewood Hall.
“So, how big is this place?” she asks.
“Big,” I say. “I’ve never really counted the rooms beyond the ones used by the wedding party, the offices, and my suite.”
Kate gives me a double take. “You live here?”
“I do. When Gigi bought the place, she decided it didn’t make sense to have a house this big and buy a smaller one to live in. She asked me to move in with her. When she renovated the place, she built separate apartments for us within Gracewood Hall.”
I shrug and stop short of telling her that previously I’d been living in the downstairs apartment of my mother’s house. When Mom got engaged to Hemlock’s police chief, I needed to get my own place, so the move to Gracewood Hall made sense.
It wasn’t as if I was twenty-seven and living in my mother’s basement … and so what if Kate took it that way? My mom is one of my best friends. I genuinely like being around her. That’s why it’s so nice working with her.
The business arrangement was a lot like our former living arrangement. We each have our own companies, but the businesses often intersect since she owns a bridal boutique and I own a wedding and events planning service.
It works.
I wouldn’t feel compelled to explain myself if it were anyone other than Kate.
“I firmly believe Gigi saw how much fun we were having and bought Gracewood Hall so she could have a stake in it, too. Mom outfits the bridal parties. I plan the events. Now, Gigi provides the venue.”
“Wow, you all are a triple threat.” Kate trains her gaze on me and smiles. “I love strong women. You know this place has quite a history, don’t you?”
I nod.
“I have to be honest with you,” Kate says. “I was booked this weekend, but when you told me the location of the ceremony, I got a colleague to sub in at the other wedding for me. It’s not every day you get full access to Gracewood Hall.”
“I had no idea you were a Carter Stanton fan,” I say. “Kate Asher, if I didn’t know you better, I might think you were a romantic.”
It’s true. Gracewood Hall does have a romantic yet tragic history. Movie star Carter Stanton was making a film at the Biltmore estate when he met Linda Conti, a waitress at a diner in downtown Asheville. It was love at first sight. After a whirlwind romance, the two married in June of 1944.
People loved them together. Linda was the perfect every woman. If a man regarded as American royalty could fall in love with her, it could happen to every woman.
The couple spent their honeymoon at Gracewood Hall.
The legend goes that Linda fell in love with the place, and Carter bought it for her. They were going to live there and raise their family. Sadly, their fairy tale was short-lived. Soon after their honeymoon, Carter joined the war and died in the battle of Normandy later that year.
After his death, Linda moved out but couldn’t bring herself to sell the place. So, it sat vacant until her death last year. Her estate wanted to sell it. Gigi knew someone who knew someone, and she managed to snag it before it hit the market.
The sound of crunching gravel brings my mind out of the past. A glint of sunlight reflects off a silver car traveling down one side of Gracewood Hall’s two-lane driveway. Kate’s head jerks in the direction of the approaching vehicle.
She stiffens and asks, “Are you expecting someone?”
Before I can answer, she sprints up the front steps and disappears inside.
What an odd reaction.
I watch the car as it draws closer. It’s an older-model silver Honda Accord. I don’t recognize it as a car driven by anyone I know. The sun reflects off the windshield, so I can’t make out the driver. When the vehicle reaches the circle, it hugs the left as it travels around the fountain that adorns the center of the drive and slowly crawls toward the exit.
Gracewood Hall is an events venue. When the gates are open, as they are this morning, vendors, prospective clients, and the curious are constantly in and out.
Plus, the rehearsal dinner for the #Lo-An_wedding—as London has insisted we refer to all her wedding events—is this evening. So, a lot of people will be coming and going today. One of tonight’s invited out-of-town guests might even have located the place early. As the car reaches the end of the driveway and turns right onto the road, a red Maserati spins in.
London has arrived. Anson is with her, no doubt. I realize I’m unsure what she has told her fiancé about her new maid of honor. I need to keep Kate tucked away until I know.
My job is a mix of service and discretion. By secreting Kate away for a while, I will avoid a potentially awkward situation for the bride.
Before the red car reaches the fountain, I duck inside and find Kate hidden around a corner, studying a painting on a wall in the room Gigi and I have named the parlor. It’s off the grand foyer and can be closed off by gorgeous, carved wooden doors.
She startles when I enter the room and close the doors.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says, but she eyes the door warily.
“Really? Are you sure? You seem a little spooked by that car. This place may seem like Highclere Castle, but it’s an events venue. A lot of people come and go.”
I’m sure she means her nod and shrug to convey nonchalance, but her stiff posture gives her away.
“Did the silver car stop?”
“No, it continued around the driveway and turned onto the highway. Kate, what’s going on? Can you level with me and let me know if something is wrong? I have enough to worry about over the next two days.”
Yikes. That sounds cold. But it’s true.
She seems to shrink and bites her bottom lip. “I don’t mean to add to your burden, Jenna, but lately, I’ve had the strangest feeling of being followed. That’s one of the reasons I was glad to get out of town. I think that silver Honda is the car that’s been following me.”
“Why would someone be following you?”
She shakes her head and shrugs.
“Have you told the police?”
She doesn’t have time to answer before London’s voice pierces the air. “I asked you to bring in the bag with my shoes, Anson. Go get it. Why don’t you ever listen to me?”
Kate mouths, “The bride?”
I raise my brows and nod.
Confident that Anson will go out for the bag he forgot, I call, “Hi, London, we’re in the parlor.”
She opens the door, peers inside, then pauses on the threshold, looking skeptically from Kate to me and then back at Kate.
London’s blonde hair is piled high in a messy bun. She’s wearing a hot pink strapless romper that I suppose is fashionable but doesn’t suit her. For the first time, I notice she has a tattoo below her collarbone. It says FIERCE in fancy script. Sometime between yesterday’s debacle with Betsy and right now, she’d found the time to freshen up her spray tan because she’s virtually glowing.
“This is Kate Asher,” I say. “Kate, this is London Brinks. London, I wasn’t sure what you told Anson about the maid of honor situation. Was Anson okay with Betsy not being in the wedding?”
London tsks and hitches her leather Prada bag onto her bare shoulder.
“I did not give him a choice. I told him his sister was stressing me out, and I couldn’t deal with her and the wedding, too.”
“So, he understands that Betsy will not be in the wedding?”
London nods.
She’s staring at Kate, who has pulled herself to her full height. Kate seems more like herself as she eyes London with an impassive expression.
They’re like two dogs sizing each other up. I half-expect them to circle each other and start sniffing.
“As I said a moment ago,” I say, “I wasn’t sure how much you’d told Anson about Kate.”
“I didn’t tell him anything about Kate,” London says irritably.
“Well, okay. That’s fine, but you need to tell me how to proceed. You either know her and she was suddenly available to be in the wedding, or you need to tell your fiancé that you hired Kate to be your maid of honor. What do you want? I need to know so that I don’t blow your cover.”
“I didn’t realize she was so … blonde.” London bites her lower lip. “She won’t look good in the shade of green I chose for the maid of honor’s dress, but that’s fine.”
“I can wear an auburn wig if you’d like,” Kate offers.
London’s nostrils flare, and she gives a noncommittal one-shoulder tick.
I give London a palms-up shrug meant to convey the question, what will it be?
A moment later, her scowl transforms into a bright smile, and she closes the distance between her and Kate, pulling Kate into a hug. “Welcome to #Lo-An_wedding, bestie! I can’t believe you could make it to the wedding,” London gushes. “And you came all the way from Paris. Wait, I have something special for you.”
Okay then. We’re going for the lifelong best friend story. That’s fine with me as long as I know so I can keep everything consistent.
London releases a bewildered-looking Kate, reaches into her purse, and pulls out a velvet pouch.
“I had this bracelet custom-made for my maid of honor to wear. Go ahead, put it on. You must wear it when you’re out in public during the wedding weekend. I promised the jewelry designer it would be on full display in all the photos. So, make a point of showing it off.”
Kate opens the pouch, pulls out the gold rope-style bangle, and slides it onto her slender wrist.
“It’s lovely.” She traces the pavé diamond-encrusted letters L and A, artfully woven together to look like a heart set into the bracelet’s solid rope base. If you didn’t know that the shape was made of two joined letters, you would likely think it was a fancy heart.
It’s a little blingy for my taste, but it must be worth a small fortune with all the gold and diamonds.
The front door opens and slams shut. It’s probably Anson.
“Kate and I are going to take a turn around the gardens and catch up.” London laces her arm through Kate’s and walks her faux bestie toward the doors leading outside.
She pauses at the door and calls over her shoulder, “Tell Anson to take my things upstairs and put them in the bride’s room. Text me when the photographer gets here to do the pictures.”
“Oh, Kate, how long has it been?” She lowers her voice. “Make sure I get that bracelet back at the end of the wedding.”
End of Excerpt
