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Married by June Mass Market Paperback – June 7, 2011
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About the Author
Ellen Hartman has been making her living as a writer since she got her creative writing degree from Carnegie Mellon University and went to work for Microsoft. She spent fifteen years writing technical documentation no one ever read until she decided to take a shot at writing what she really loves—romance.
Ellen lives with her husband and sons in a college town in New York State. Visit Ellen on the web at www.ellenhartman.com
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
"Mom, it's an April Fool's joke," Nadine Richford said. "No one would seriously propose this for a wedding. You totally got her, Jorie." She shook her head in admiration. Except, Jorie thought nervously, this wasn't a joke.
It was eleven-fifteen on April Fool's Day and she was meeting with Sally and Nadine Richford at one of the round ironwork tables in the lobby of the St. Renwick hotel. The fountain, whose water had doused the flames when the White House was burned by the British, was close enough that drops of spray tickled the back of her neck. Tossing pennies in the famous fountain was supposed to be good luck. Sitting in the splash zone conferred no such benefits, Jorie realized, watching as her fortunes turned as quickly and thoroughly as a wedge of Brie left on a sunny buffet table at an outdoor wedding.
The Richford wedding was the only contract standing between her and a total collapse of her wedding planning business. Maybe she should have known better than to have such an important meeting on April Fool's Day. But Jorie had fully expected to wow the Richfordsmother and daughterwith her plans to turn the Lilac Garden and Filigree Ballroom of the St. Renwick into a fifties-themed, full-on James-Dean-Rebel-Without-a-Cause fantasy wedding. She was positive she'd nailed the interviews with the bride and groom-to-be, working her trademark magic to capture the essential elements of their relationship and the way they'd want to present themselves to their guests. They were supposed to love her concepts so much, they'd fall over themselves to sign on the dotted line.
Sally Richford frowned when Jorie mentioned the skinny ties and gray suits for the groomsmen. Her daughter, Nadine, giggled nervously when Jorie started to describe her idea for red-and-white accents in the flowers and linens, based on the colors of James Dean's iconic jacket and T-shirt.
"I really don't think " Sally pushed back the gold bangle bracelets on her slender, tanned wrist.
Okay, maybe they needed a visual. Jorie pulled out the planning binder she'd put together for Nadine. During her first year in business, she'd searched long and hard to find functional but pretty binders. This style, handmade by a boutique stationer in Aspen, was one and a half inches thick and bound in linen in shades ranging from pale lemonade to ice-blue to peppermint-pink. The corners were covered in white leather, as was the spine, which was constructed so the binder lay flat when it was opened. Jorie had yet to meet a bride who didn't fall deeply in love with her wedding binder. Nadine's was silvery-gray to go with the old-time movie theme.
"In our conversations, you mentioned that you and David went to the movies on your first date."
"The Sing-Along Sound of Music," Nadine said. "David sang 'Edelweiss' to me on the way home in the taxi."
"Doesn't everyone die at the end of Rebel Without a Cause?" Sally asked. She didn't sound as if it were really a question, though. She uncrossed her legs and stood up before Jorie could answer.
"Sal Mineo's character dies, but he's meant to be a symbol of " She was losing them. "That's not the point anyway the point is "
Nadine clutched the strap of her purse to her chest. The corners of her eyes were red. Brides were always crying about something. Normally, Jorie would have offered her a tissue, but in this case, she didn't want to draw attention to the fact that she'd made Nadine cry. When a bride signed the contract, she and her mother both received a green leather, custom-designed envelope perfectly sized to hold a travel pack of tissues. Gloria Santana (September 2008, four hundred guests at the Widmere) had had the tissue envelope replicated as the favor for her shower guests. Tears and tissues were a big part of Jorie's business. The higher the tear count, the better.
Nadine's tears, however, were the wrong sort.
Jorie had been speaking, she realized, but now she couldn't remember what she'd been trying to say.
"Why did you think I'd want a wedding based on a movie where everyone dies?" Nadine asked. "My cousin Mira called you the wedding whisperer. Her wedding was beautiful, all springtime-in-Paris pastels and nothing about guns."
"I didn't mention guns," Jorie said. "It was just the theme, you know. Movies. We could pick a different movie. Gone With the Wind, maybe."
"That's a war movie!" Nadine said, turning to her mother. "What did David and I say that made her think of war? Is there something wrong with us?"
"You and David have perfectly lovely ideas," Sally said, patting her daughter's shoulder. "This isn't your fault."
"Everyone says you hire Jorie Burke because she can tell what you really want." Nadine's voice was rising now. "Does David want to shoot people?"
They had forgotten she was there. Just as well, probably.
Jorie held her smile until the Richfords disappeared through the revolving lobby doors, then she carefully closed the binder and slid it back into her black leather shoulder bag. Her brides never abandoned their wedding binders. Or cried the wrong kind of tears. Planning weddings used to be effortless. Coming up with this idea for Nadine and David had been nothing but hard work and it hadn't gotten her anywhere. She sat on the uncomfortable iron chair, splashed by the lucky fountain, and waited to see if she was going to cry. But the numbness that had settled on her when her mom died six months ago didn't seem to be affected by the impending collapse of her business.
Once she was certain she wasn't going to cry, she picked up her bag and crossed the lobby to the restroom, where she splashed water on her face and then checked her lipstick in the mirror. That was when she saw the spiky brown splotch that spread from just beneath the neckline of her gray, crepe-silk dress to the top of her left breast. It wasn't huge, but no one would miss it. She wet a paper towel, but even as she blotted the stain, she knew it was futilethe dress was ruined. She must have spilled her coffee on the way to her appointment. She'd been so preoccupied thinking about which of her outstanding bills she was going to clear with the Richfords' down payment that she hadn't even noticed. The mark had been there the entire time she'd been pitching the James Dean-themed wedding.
Two years ago, when her business had been growing faster than she could manage on her own, she'd had interns, a pair of sophisticated, romantic-minded college girls from Sweet Briar. She'd trained them to look perfect but unmemorablebrides liked their wedding planners to reflect their good taste, but they didn't like to be shown up by the help. Between the coffee stain and the fact that the wide, patent-leather belt around her waist was straining at the very last hole, she'd lost all of the image points she normally counted on during an interview. She turned sideways and ran a hand over her stomach. She'd put on weight. As much as she wished she could attribute the too-small belt to a dry cleaning accident, she knew where the blame for her expanding waistline lay. With her. Well, with her and cake. Only she and the Lord knew exactly how many slices of her friend Alice's cakes she'd consumed in the past few months. Jorie had always loved food, but since her mom died, she'd felt a desperate inability to get full, no matter how much she ate.
Chelsea Burke was probably rolling in her grave. Actually, knowing her mom, she was plotting some way to escape her grave so she could chide Jorie in person for letting herself go. Chelsea had loved to tell people, "The Burke women have always been thin." She never revealed that it wasn't genetics, but hard work, strict diets and, in her mom's case, occasional fasts, that helped maintain that image.
Jorie missed her mom. When she was little, Chelsea had moved them from city to city, searching for the next guy to support them and shelter them. They'd been a pair of chameleons, changing themselves to suit whatever guy her mom had chosen as her next possible Mr. Right. In a way it was ironic that Jorie had become a wedding planner. Building a career around the one great disappointment of her mom's life might seem twisted, but she was successful because she'd grown up with Chelsea Burke. She knew how much the idea of a wedding meant to the women who sought her out. The ones who were so desperate for the perfect day that they'd leave the planning to a stranger. She'd worked hard to make sure her brides had the wedding they'd dreamed of and she'd been successful. Until her mom died and she suddenly lost her ability to connect with anyone's wedding dreams.
She slid her lipstick into a small pocket in her leather bag and then checked that she had the binder for her next appointment, a cake tasting at Alice's bakery, where she would restrict herself to the tiniest bites possible. She may have lost her last client, but she had one more wedding to plan. She was marrying Cooper Murphy, younger brother of Senator Bailey Murphy. If her fairy-tale wedding to one of the most-desirable bachelors in Washington, D.C., couldn't put her business back on the map, she'd eat her own bouquet (blush-pink peonies, white heather and pale green hydrangea).
St. Helen's church wasn't open on weekdays. Vandalism and a skeleton staff in the parish office combined to limit the public hours. Cooper had explained to Father Chirwa that he wanted to sit in the church to write his wedding vows, and the priest had made an exception for him. If he'd been born in an earlier generation, maybe back in County Cavan before the first Murphy emigrated, they'd have said he had the gift of the gab. His brother was fond of telling people Cooper could talk Greenpeace into advocating for more whaling. Not that he would, but the potential was there.
He'd been alone in the church for two hours now. He was supposed to meet Jorie to choose their wedding cake in a little more than forty-five minutes. So far, he'd read the Stations...
Top customer reviews
His parents demand a seat in the US Senate, which his brother Bailey held from Pennsylvania. However, Bailey has a newborn out of wedlock, which make him poison to his constituents. "Saint Cooper" as Bailey calls his brother will replace as the senator for the remaining few months to the term; heir apparent cousin Theo will be thirty and run in the election. To hold the "family" seat, Cooper needs Jorie as his fiancée because word of his dumping her on top of his sibling's indiscretion would lose the governor's support. Jorie accepts a new engagement only if they work on their relationship.
This refreshing political romance works because the audience will believe in the emotions of the lead couple. Fans will accept the tenet that politics is a contact sport played by amoral opportunists (no wonder Congress has such a low rating). Character driven especially by a strong cast (his father, uncle and the state governor are something else while Bay's logic for the affair is a stunner) readers will enjoy a look behind the scenes of DC power brokering.