Page 17

Amy

This is not our first visit to Wedding Protectors, Inc. It’s our second, together.

Mom’s third overall, but only her second authorized visit.

The second time—when she came alone, uninvited—the head of security, Archie, nearly added her to the firm's no-fly list, right between the bridal party fist-fighter from Cape Cod who used a fire-breathing technique to set the bride's veil on fire and the woman who tried to get a live llama ordained.

When Katie told me that, I whispered, "Please don't give Mom any ideas."

I have no idea what kind of internal debate took place among the key players in the company, but Mom is still allowed in the building.

Under Archie's watchful, squinty, suspicious eye.

So, she’s back. We’re back.

And I’ve already lost control.

“I just love what you’ve done with the lobby!” Mom gushes as we step into the glassy, serene reception area of the Highwater Building’s thirty-second floor, where Wedding Protectors reigns supreme. “So elegant! Very Farmington Country Club meets Stockholm design blog!”

It’s not. At all.

First of all, nothing's changed since she was last here.

And second, she's using any excuse to say the F word. No, not that one.

Farmington.

The front office at Wedding Protectors is visually clean and intentionally soothing, as if a Pinterest board for luxury spas merged with an architecture magazine and added crème br?lée.

It’s all shades of white and cream, creating a neutral background for any client’s wedding color scheme.

Matte gold accents, soft lighting, and a veil of sheer white floor-to-ceiling window treatments ice the Wedding Protectors cake.

In the air is the faintest whiff of fresh paint and citrus.

A bell chimes softly as we enter. Mom is already rifling through her giant leather tote, which holds three thick, zippered binders, one labeled “Wedding Vibe Reference,” and a loose-leaf notebook filled with gel pen annotations from the 1990s.

Katie Gallagher Cooper meets us at the entrance to the inner offices, iPad in hand, her calm, tailored exterior utterly undisturbed by the bridal tsunami known as my mother.

Katie’s hair is slightly longer than the last time I saw her, though the blonde shade is still on point.

Some women look tired when they have kids, but on Katie, parenthood casts a sophisticated maturity that actually makes her look more put together.

Please let me have some of those genes, somewhere. We're not related, but maybe a mutation is floating around somewhere in my SNPs.

"Hello, Amy. And Marie, how nice to see you again."

The woman is a fantastic liar.

“Katie,” Mom beams, grabbing both her hands. “It’s Mom. Just call me Mom! I didn't push you out of my vagina–and not for the eighteen hours this one took of my time." She points to me as if there's any question about which of us is her progeny. "But you're like a daughter to me."

Katie’s eyes flick to me. I mouth help over Mom’s shoulder, wincing like Steve Carell caught in a bad lie on The Office .

Katie nods diplomatically and gestures us inside. Does the woman have a bowl of antacids on her desk, like some professionals have Skittles, or M&Ms?

I hope so. She’s going to need them. Office Omeprazole should be deductible.

And then, Ranney Martini appears in a beige suit–wide-leg trousers and a loose double-breasted jacket–and the kind of lipstick that dares you to underestimate her. The neutral clothes blend with the decor, which can’t be an accident.

“Oh, Marie, you brought the binders ,” Ranney coos, eyes wide as she stares at Mom's hands. “And this one’s tabbed. You are my organizational soulmate.”

Mom practically swoons. “My elder daughters never appreciated my wedding-planning archives. I was ahead of my time! I had the hand-pressed daisy bouquet concept long before Pinterest even existed!”

“Savages,” Ranney says gravely, looping her arm through Mom’s and gently steering her toward the conference room. “Come. Let’s drink lemon water and judge other people’s napkin choices. Are those perfume sample pages in there?” Ranney sniffs. "Something 1980s?"

"Yes!" Mom exclaims. "I think Cinnabar fell out of fashion way too early."

Katie points me to her office the second they disappear, discreetly closing the glass door.

“Thank you,” I breathe. “If she got into one more monologue about Victorian sleeve theory, I was going to hide behind the scent wall.”

“This is nothing,” Katie says, settling into the chair across from mine. “Last time, when she came in alone, Archie almost set off the emergency lockdown protocol.”

I am trying to process all this. “There’s a lockdown protocol?”

“There is now.” She picks up a remote and points it at a large conference screen mounted behind her.

A familiar Glaswegian fury flickers to life. Katie's eyes focus on it. "We're fortunate to be in conference with Scotland," she says slowly, as if I don't notice the four-foot head of copper anger behind her.

“I willna let Marie Jacoby strong-arm her way into controlling ma son's weddin’,” Fiona McCormick is saying, sitting in a tartan armchair and surrounded by what looks like a taxidermied hawk and a fresh-baked pie.

“I've researched yer fancy venue, and Farmington Country Club is where joy goes ta die!”

Kari’s voice floats in from off-camera. “Fiona, I hear your concerns. But today is just an information-gathering?—”

“Information? It’s propaganda, that’s what it is! I’ll no' be bullied by a woman who thinks sugared almonds count as culture!”

Katie leans over and mutes Fiona’s Zoom. “We give her five-minute windows. Any longer and she starts invoking ancient Scottish land claims.”

The door handle jiggles.

“Girls?” Mom calls sweetly from outside. “I just found a list of acceptable wedding procession lengths from Modern Bride, 1992. I’d love to share.”

"I wasn't even born in 1992," I hiss.

Katie reaches beneath her desk with her right hand, and after a few more moments of knocking, we hear Ranney’s voice outside: “Marie, I’ve got a linen swatch so emotionally evocative, I nearly cried. Come rank it with me. One of the Kardashian girls…”

The footsteps retreat.

Katie exhales. “You have a mother who knows what she wants. She’s tenacious.”

“She’s terrifying.”

Katie just pats my hand.

“Ranney’s unflappable,” I say.

“Your mother... flaps people.” Katie covers her mouth, eyes wide. "I am so sorry. That was extremely unprofessional of me."

“I'm her daughter," I laugh. "But you see the toughest of the tough cases. Mom has to be middle-of-the-road for Wedding Protectors.”

Katie raises an eyebrow. “There was the woman who wore a white bridal jumpsuit with fringe and asked for a trampoline-on-wheels entrance. We had to consult a physics professor at Harvard for that one."

"Whoa."

"Or the one who smuggled in seven ferrets as flower girls.”

" My mom made our family cat wear a kilt and be my sister's flower girl."

"I remember," Katie says, half sympathetic, half in what looks almost like a PTSD flashback. "I worked for Anterdec then. I managed most of Shannon and Declan's wedding details."

"Right." A dawning truth emerges. "Which means you know all about dealing with my mother."

"Oh, yes." Did she just shudder? "There was the bride who insisted her dog officiate at the ceremony. Complete with a tiny stole and paw-sized Book of Vows. Swore the dog was telepathically reciting the vows and only her true friends could hear it. Her future husband agreed.”

"Oh, dear," is all I can think to say.

"And the furry couple. Chipmunk and bear.

They insisted all guests dress as furries, then the reception was clothing-optional.

Ordered special, ahem... adult toys from a couple in Ohio who make them out of real roadkill tails.

Taxidermist, I think." Her voice gets high and reedy.

"Calvin and Kathy." She frowns, then half smiles.

"Though you really never know where networking will take you.

Kathy helped us book the band Random Acts of Crazy for a wedding, so. .."

"Uh, my mom's easy compared to all that!" Did she just tell me someone makes taxidermied butt plugs ? I'm too scared to ask.

Katie smiles sweetly. “Of course she is.”

I sink deeper into the chair, tugging at the hem of my sweater. “I’m losing control of this wedding.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” Katie says gently.

“You tell her that,” Fiona snaps as the Zoom unmutes itself. “Ye tell ma lass that this whole thing is a bloody hijack!”

“Fiona,” Kari says calmly, “you muted yourself. Did you sit on the remote again?”

Katie gives me a look. I give her one right back. These women are professional liars. They’re getting paid to bullshit our moms.

I am all in.

Katie doesn’t laugh. She just leans back slightly in her chair, giving me another look that says, Oh, sweetie, you have no idea.

“Do you know how this company got started?” she asks, her tone light—but something about it feels like she’s setting down a stone in a very specific place.

I blink at her. “Not really. You worked on Shannon and Declan’s wedding, I know.”

Katie nods slowly. “That flaming ball of formalwear and fury. Yep. That one.”

“No one who was there could ever forget it,” I commiserate. “My mother still calls it the worst day of her life, which is bold considering she’s lived through all three of her daughters’ adolescence.”

Katie smiles, dry and a little weary. “You and your family were in the thick of it. I was head of events for Anterdec. That wedding was the most complicated project of my entire professional life up to then. And I once planned a shareholder retreat where people got stuck in an infinity pool with a mariachi band.”

“Please tell me that was a euphemism.”

“It was a lawsuit.”

We both laugh, but it fades quickly.

Katie glances toward the glass door, then back at me.

“Kari was there, too, you know.”

I pause. “She was?”