One Hot Summer (5 page)

“It won't be on there,” Alex said. “Last-minute addition by the MOG. That's what I braved this god-awful heat to tell you.”

MOG
was wedding planner speak for mother-of-the-groom. Next to tequila shots, the MOG was often a wedding's biggest wild card because there was very little official business for her to do at a wedding to feel useful and even less prestige, despite that she was marrying off her precious baby boy. MOGs were notorious for pulling off attention-stealing stunts and being even more temperamental and needy than the worst Bridezillas.

“Mixing doves and butterflies creates a predator/prey situation. Have you ever seen doves eating butterflies at a wedding? Because I've seen it, and it's not pretty.”

“The guests might be getting a lesson in Darwinism today, then, because it's too late for us to do anything about it,” Alex said.

“How many doves are we talking about here?”
Please say two; please say two.…

Alex's grim smile turned Remedy's bubble of panic into a tornado alarm. “Thirty.”

Remedy shot out of her seat and paced the length of the room. “Nope. Nope, nope, nope.”

“What? But you have a way with animals. You chased down a stampeding elephant last weekend!”

“Gwyneth was special!” Remedy snapped. With a deep inhalation, she fought to rechain her crazy.
Illusion of control … illusion of control,
she chanted in her mind.

With a gasp, Alex pressed a finger to his smiling lips. “Oh my God, are you afraid of doves?”

Hell, yes, she was afraid of those beady-eyed, razor-clawed terrors. “Of course I'm not.”

Alex broke down in a chuckle. Remedy shot him a cutting glare.

“Relax, Remedy,” he said. “There's nothing to be afraid of.”

Since when had telling a person to “relax” ever been effective? And yet every single man on this planet seems to be born with that phrase preloaded into his DNA, ready to be released onto womankind at every opportunity.
Breathe, Remedy. And “take two” on that smile in three … two … one.…
“For your information, I'm not afraid of anything, least of all thirty feathered rats being set loose for no good reason. My only concern is for those poor, defenseless butterflies.”

“The dove handler isn't worried about his birds eating the butterflies. He said he'll make sure to feed them first and he'll take care of releasing them, then corralling them back into their cages once the guests are tucked away in the reception tent. You won't even have to go near them. You can station yourself safe and sound under the tent eaves during their release and then beat it inside before they've cleared the chapel. Easy as pie.”

Easy as pie.
Right. Then again, Alex had obviously never had to contend with twenty attack doves that decided that instead of flying off into the sunset it'd be more fun to dive-bomb the poor first-time wedding planner before descending into the reception room to roost on the wedding cake.

Litzy, Remedy's assistant, popped her head around the tent's corner, her black hair shimmering in the sunlight in a bob cut with severe bangs that gave the illusion she was even younger than her twenty-four years. “The fire marshal's here for his inspection.”

Alex clapped his hands. “Hallelujah. The day has finally arrived when handling the fire marshal is your job, Remedy. Good luck with that.”

In a flash, he was fast-walking back toward the resort, probably to get out of sight before the fire marshal saw him.

Remedy had a
gee, thanks
on the tip of her tongue when a surge of panic nearly shot her out of her shoes as she realized what Litzy's presence meant. “Litzy, what are you doing out here? You're supposed to be tending to the bridal party in the prep suite. You're supposed to stick to the bride like glue.”

“The bride's fine. She's happily sipping champagne and getting her hair done.”

Wrong answer. A niggle of panic tickled Remedy's throat at the idea of having another assistant she couldn't trust. After the Zannity scandal, enough was enough. She draped her arm across the jacket of Litzy's fresh-from-the rack gray pantsuit and walked her away from Alex. “Litzy, we've talked about this. You need to get back to the prep suite immediately. I don't want to see you again until the ceremony. Got it?”

“But Alex always—”

Litzy's laid-back approach might have flown with the equally laid-back Alex, but if the day had truly arrived in which Remedy was in charge then her directive to “stick to the bride like glue” left no room for interpretation.

“Alex hired me to be the resort's wedding planner, so we're doing things my way now,” Remedy said. “Is that going to be a problem?” Yes, she hated to be
that
kind of boss, but she wasn't about to let another assistant sabotage her career.

“No. It won't happen again.”

“Excellent. Thank you.”

They'd cleared the reception pavilion when a metal cage holding a mess of white feathers was thrust into her face. “You the boss around here?”

Suddenly she wanted to give that title back to Alex. “Yes. Remedy Lane. And you must be the dove man?”

“Skeeter Cowles, at your service.” Skeeter was a slight man, with arm and legs that looked as limber as Gumby's and wearing overalls that were at least two sizes too big and a cream-colored cowboy hat that was even more ill fitting. He leaned in, as though confessing a secret. “Actually, they're not doves. They're pigeons. But that's just between you and me.”

Remedy nearly choked on her spit. “The groom's family ordered doves.”

“Doves can't be trained. My homing pigeons can, though. They look like doves and they sound like doves, but they're superior in every way. When I release them, they'll fly around a little bit for show so the wedding guests can ooh and ahh, and then they meet me at my truck when I blow my special whistle.”

“They're whistle trained?” Litzy asked.

“That's the beauty of pigeons. You can't reason with a dove, but these babies are as trained as dogs. I just set their cages open in the back of my truck, blow my whistle, and they come on home to Daddy.”

The birds' bodies were plump, their feathers a pretty cream color. Not at all mangy or pigeon-like.

Skeeter knocked on the top of the cage, much to the obvious displeasure of its occupants, who set feathers flying with the flapping of their wings. “Say, I have an idea. How 'bout I give y'all a live demo right now?”

“Oh, Skeeter. That's … wow … But I'd rather save the doves—”

His expression turned sympathetic. “Ma'am, these here are pigeons,” he said gently, as though she were daft.

“Right, but we're calling them doves today, aren't we? Let's save them for the wedding ceremony. We don't want to tire them out.”

“Hogwash. We've got plenty of time for me to show you 'bout their whistle training.” And before she could protest further, he flipped the doors of all four cages open.

“Duck!” Remedy called to Litzy as she dropped to the ground, her arms shielding her head.

“No, ma'am, they ain't ducks neither!” Skeeter called over the din of thirty birds taking flight. “They're homing pigeons, see? You sure have a lot to learn.”

Remedy couldn't think of a darn thing to say in reply. She didn't hear any wings flapping and so chanced a look past her arm. The pigeons were on the lawn about twenty feet away, pecking the grass.

Clearing her throat, Remedy stood and smoothed out her skirt in a valiant attempt to regain her air of authority. Between Gwyneth and Skeeter's pigeons, Remedy was starting to feel more like a zoologist than an event planner. Sounds like it was time to talk to Alex about adopting a “no live animal” policy.

“The pigeons don't seem very interested in flying,” she said.

Skeeter bumped his cowboy hat up so he could scratch his head. “Hmph. Not sure what happened. But I'll get 'em to fly.”

The last thing Remedy needed was an overalls-clad man chasing pigeons on the wedding lawn, but her protests went unheeded. Shouting and flapping his arms, Skeeter chased them down. Looking as bored as lazy cats, the pigeons hopped and flapped their way on top of the reception tent.

“Skeeter, please. I think it's time to show us that whistle trick.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He shoved a grimy metal whistle between his lips and blew, producing a shrill note that made both Remedy and Litzy wince.

The pigeons turned their heads in unison toward the sound. Cooing, they took to the air, flying high over Skeeter, Remedy, and Litzy like a flapping, feather-shedding, cream-colored cloud. Remedy covered her hair with her arms and closed her eyes in a prayer that they didn't bomb her as they passed. When she opened her eyes again, it was to see the birds flying over the wide expanse of lawn and up the hill to the chapel—right over a young woman clad in a flowing white wedding gown.

“Oh my God, is that the bride?” Remedy said on a gasp. She grabbed Litzy's arm. “What is she doing here? I thought you said she was getting her hair done.”

Litzy wrung her hands. “She is. I mean, she was. I don't know what she's doing out here. Oh my God. Why couldn't she just stay put?”

“Those doves had better not bomb her!”

Skeeter pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe a splotch of bird poop off his cheek. “Bless your heart, ma'am, but them there are pigeons, not doves. Guess that's a tricky fact to keep in your head.”

Remedy didn't have time for this. Not Skeeter's lectures on bird species or a wandering bride.

She had to clench her teeth to keep her voice modulated and quiet. “Skeeter, it's time for you to get those birds under control. Now.”

“Don't worry, ma'am. I'll get 'em where they belong before the guests arrive. You have my word.”

Remedy wasn't sure how foolproof Skeeter's word was, but she didn't have much choice. When she turned back toward the tent, Litzy was still standing there. “What's the deal, Litzy? Why are you here?” Her voice was shrill, but she couldn't help it. Not a single damn thing was going her way.

“I was watching the pigeons, ma'am.”

Oh boy.
“Get that bride back in her prep suite before she sees the trouble with the tent or the pigeons or any of this craziness. We're trying to put on a wedding, not a circus, damn it. And a wedding is no place for a bride!”

“I'm hoping that just came out wrong,” said a drawling male voice behind her.

Remedy closed her eyes. The last hour had been pure insanity, but she'd done a pretty good job keeping her cool right up until she'd seen Litzy gawking at the birds instead of doing her job.
Deep breath, Rem.

She pasted a serene smile on her face, transforming herself into a picture of cool calmness, then turned to face whichever vendor or resort employee had witnessed her mini-meltdown.

She wasn't prepared for the sight of the Alpha Bubba himself. Her serene façade vanished in an explosion of shock. “Garrity.”

“Ms. Lane.” Amusement danced in his eyes as the tip of his tongue appeared, pressing against that ever-present toothpick at the corner of his mouth. Was he fighting a smile? Was this all some kind of joke to him? And, furthermore, what was he doing in the middle of her job site cracking wise about the way she conducted herself and smirking down at her like he owned the world and she was but a plaything?

Too late to wish she'd worn platform heels so she could meet him eye-to-eye. She snapped her spine straight, all bravado and contained panic. “What are you doing here?”

He nodded toward the tent, which was now—thankfully—perfectly erect. “I'm here to inspect your setup. I told that poor assistant of yours that you just reamed out to let you know I'd arrived.”

“Inspecting the event setup is the fire marshal's job.”

He shifted his weight to his heels and hooked his thumbs on his belt, a clipboard tucked under his arm. “Which is why I'm here.”

“But you're the fire chief.”

He rocked on his boot heels. “I'm sure in California, what with all your sophistication and rivers of money, even the smallest community can afford to spread the public servant jobs around to a lot of men—”

“Or women.”

“I was gettin' to that, but thanks all the same for making me sound like a sexist asshole.”

God, she wanted to rip that toothpick out from between those smirking lips and snap it in two. “I'm sure you didn't need my help to achieve that.”

As if hearing her thoughts, he produced a second toothpick from his pocket and held it out to her. “Toothpick?”

It was her turn to sneer. “Disgusting.”

The triumph in his eyes made her wish she'd taken the damned toothpick. It would've given her something to grit her teeth around.

“As I was saying, as opposed to California, out here in the sticks the fire budget isn't large enough to support a separate chief and marshal. The good folks of Ravel County voted to combine the jobs years ago. So as long as you're working at this resort, you're going to have to deal with me. Every week, every event. You think you can handle that?”

No.
“Of course I can. You're not my first fire marshal.”

“Let's not start comparing the notches on our respective bedposts, darlin'.”

Oh, this man.
“Moving on.” From her clipboard she pulled a diagram of the tent's interior layout and handed it over. “Follow me.”

She strode through the main entrance of the tent as if it hadn't been on the verge of collapsing only minutes earlier, her heels clicking on the wood flooring in time with her pounding pulse. Three steps in, her messenger bag snagged on something. She lurched forward, then snapped backward, staggering. A rolling cart loaded down with centerpiece arrangements of hurricane vases and bright, exotic flowers and greens careened past her, the florist scrambling after it. It banged into a rack of chairs, sending birds-of-paradise flying like javelins.