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A Call From A Possible Serial Killer

ANICA

I was elbow-deep in the bride’s petticoats when the string quartet texted, “Running late lol.”

“No, I need the string quartet now . Tell them traffic isn’t an excuse when they signed a contract that specifically mentioned their firstborn children as collateral!

” I barked into my earpiece while simultaneously MacGyvering the torn hem of a twenty-thousand-dollar Vera Wang gown with dental floss and what might have been a bobby pin I found in my hair.

The bride, sweet, perfect Lissa, stood trembling above me like a wedding cake topper having an existential crisis.

Her gown had not only caught on her father’s wheelchair exactly seven minutes before they were supposed to go down the aisle, but had also somehow attracted the venue’s resident cat, who was now batting at the sequins from a suspiciously close distance.

“Mmmmph,” I mumbled around the pins.

“What was that, Anica?” Devonna’s voice crackled in my ear.

I secured the final pin and removed the others from my mouth.

“I said, tell the quartet I’ll personally ensure they never work another wedding in the tri-state area if they’re not here in ten minutes.

Then call the DJ and have him ready with the processional music as backup.

And get someone to remove the cat before it turns this dress into a five-figure scratching post.”

“Already on all three,” my assistant replied. I could hear her fingers flying across her tablet. “Also, the best man just threw up in the koi pond.”

Of course he did. Probably the same best man who thought seven tequila shots at the rehearsal dinner was “getting a head start on the celebration.”

“Is he visible from the ceremony site?” I asked, standing to inspect my handiwork on the dress.

The repair was invisible unless you were specifically looking for it, which no one would be, because I’ve developed ninja-level stealth techniques for emergency dress repair after nine years in the business.

“No, but the venue manager is freaking out about the fish.”

“Tell him I’ll pay for any casualties. And get the best man some mouthwash, activated charcoal, and coffee strong enough to raise the dead. If he ruins this wedding with alcohol breath, I’ll personally ensure his dating profile specifies ‘vomits at formal occasions.’”

I looked up at Lissa, whose mascara was starting to run.

Raccoon eyes were not part of her carefully curated bridal vision board.

I reached for the emergency makeup kit I kept strapped to my thigh like a weapon.

After the Great Bridesmaid Mascara Flood of 2022, I never went to a wedding without waterproof everything.

“You’re perfect,” I assured her, dabbing at her under-eyes. “And your dress looks flawless. No one will ever know. Least of all your future husband, who is currently so love-drunk he wouldn’t notice if you walked down the aisle in a potato sack.”

That got a wobbly smile, which was all I needed. Happy bride, happy hide—mine, specifically, which remained intact for another wedding day.

The door burst open with the force of a SWAT team raid, and Mari swept in with an open bottle of champagne and three flutes dangling between her fingers. My business partner and best friend had an almost supernatural sense for when alcohol was required, like a sommelier with ESP.

“Emergency bubbles!” she announced, pouring generous servings. “Bride gets double. Wedding planner gets triple, but has to pretend it’s water.”

“Mari, you’re a goddess,” Lissa whispered, accepting the glass with shaking hands.

“Just doing my job as second-in-command to the Wedding Wizard here.” Mari shot me a wink while handing me a glass.

“Drink up, boss. The quartet just pulled up looking like they escaped a hostage situation, the best man is getting hosed down by two very annoyed groomsmen, and I’ve dispatched the ring bearer’s mother to confiscate his Nintendo Switch and the slingshot I caught him making out of rubber bands and corsage pins. ”

I knocked back the champagne in one gulp. “That child is a terrorist disguised as a seven-year-old.”

“That’s why I slipped the wedding photographer an extra hundred to get action shots when the kid inevitably tries to dive-bomb the cake,” Mari replied. “We can sell them to his future prom date in ten years.”

Lissa laughed despite her nerves, which was exactly Mari’s intention. Good cop, bad cop. Our signature dynamic. I kept things running; Mari kept everyone smiling through the chaos.

Devonna appeared in the doorway, tablet clutched to her chest. My assistant wore her usual expression of contained panic, which somehow never affected her efficiency. That woman could plan an evacuation during an alien invasion and still manage to make it to afternoon tea.

“The officiant is in position, the groom has stopped hyperventilating, and the quartet is setting up now,” she reported. “Also, I’ve confiscated all pens from the flower girls after finding them drawing tattoos on each other.”

“Smart.” Last month we’d had flower girls who arrived at the altar looking like tiny convicts on leave. “We’re back on schedule?”

“We’re three minutes and forty-seven seconds behind, but we can make it up if the father of the bride doesn’t stop for his emotional speech in the middle of the aisle like he threatened to during rehearsal.”

“I cut the brake lines on his wheelchair,” Mari whispered to me.

My eyes widened in horror.

“Kidding! But I did promise him an open bar tab for life if he saves the waterworks for the reception.”

I turned to Lissa, who had stopped trembling and now looked radiant. The transformation I lived for. “Ready to get married?”

Her eyes welled with tears that, thankfully, didn’t fall and ruin my emergency mascara application. “More than anything.”

A familiar pang throbbed in my chest, one I’d gotten good at ignoring over the past two years.

The same pang that had first appeared when I discovered my own fiancé and a client fucking on the mattress I’d had since college only two days before our wedding.

The same client whose beach ceremony I’d orchestrated down to the custom-dyed sand that matched her bridesmaids’ dresses.

I shoved the memory away.

“Then let’s make it happen,” I said, my professional smile sliding back into place.

Forty minutes later, I stood at the back of the venue as Lissa and her new husband shared their first dance.

The ceremony had gone off without a single visible hitch.

The best man had delivered his toast without vomiting again.

The ring bearer had remained mysteriously well-behaved (I spotted a suspicious bulge in Devonna’s purse that looked exactly like a confiscated Nintendo Switch).

Mari sidled up beside me, two flutes of champagne in hand. “Another wedding wizarded to perfection.”

“Don’t call me that,” I muttered, but accepted the drink. “And don’t jinx it. We still have cake cutting and four more hours to go. Remember the Donaldson’s wedding?”

“How could I forget? That’s the only time I’ve seen a mother-in-law try to perform an exorcism on a wedding cake.”

“She claimed the raspberry filling looked ‘suspiciously like the blood of the innocent.’”

Mari clinked her glass against mine. “Admit it. You pulled off another miracle.”

I allowed myself a small smile as I watched the newlyweds. They looked at each other like they’d just discovered the answer to every important question in the universe.

“It’s a nice moment,” I admitted.

“Almost makes you believe in true love, doesn’t it?” Mari waggled her eyebrows.

“I’ve always believed in true love. Apparently just not for me,” I corrected her. My heart gave a traitorous little squeeze watching the couple.

“Way to be a Debbie-downer,” Mari said, nudging me with her shoulder. “Nice job with the dress back there, by the way.”

“First rule of wedding planning: Always be prepared for disaster. Second rule: Never say the word ‘disaster’ where the bride can hear you.”

“And the third rule?”

“Don’t sleep with the groom. Or in my case, don’t let your fiancé sleep with the bride.”

Mari winced. “Two years, and you’re still carrying that around like it’s part of your emergency kit.”

“I learned exactly what not to do, which is mix business with pleasure.”

“Or men with pulses,” Mari muttered into her champagne.

“True.” I clinked my glass against hers before taking a sip.

“I’m thinking about becoming a nun.”

A stream of champagne bubbles erupted up my nose, and I choked, scrambling for a napkin off a nearby table. “What the hell, Mar?”

“What?” Mari asked with an obviously fake innocent expression on her face. “It’s true.”

“You wouldn’t last two seconds. You need dick to survive.”

“You’re right,” Mari gave me an evil grin. “You’d make a better nun. You haven’t been laid in two years.”

“How do you know?”

She looked me up and down. “Honey, it’s kind of obvious.”

I shot her a look that had made florists cry. “I date.”

“The chai latte guy asking if you want an extra shot doesn’t count as a date.”

Before I could defend my completely adequate personal life, Devonna appeared with her tablet, now displaying what looked like a small explosion.

“The DJ just played the groom’s mother’s forbidden song,” she reported. “She’s threatening to do an interpretive dance to it.”

“On it,” I said, already moving toward the dance floor. “Tell him to transition to ‘YMCA’ immediately. No one can resist group choreography, not even vengeful mothers-in-law.”

“I refuse to be the wedding planner who can’t pay her rent.” I slumped in my office chair later that night, staring at our books. The McMurty wedding had been a triumph, but its payment would barely cover next month’s expenses.