When he strolled out of sight, Parker told herself she could spare thirty seconds to sit down, to get her legs back under her.

Since it took twice that, she had to sprint up the stairs to check on the suites, and stay on schedule.

CHAPTER NINE

AS EXPECTED, THE EVENING EVENT ENTAILED PROBLEMS, MINI crises, and personal conflicts Parker outmaneuvered, solved, or tamped down.

She solved the potential combat between the feuding MOB and GMOB by taking each on separate tours of the facilities while the other got her face time with the bride.

And firmly played Switzerland when each woman listed the faults and failings of the other.

She managed to keep the groom’s good friend occupied, and segregated from any areas his ex-wife, the bride’s sister, might pass through.

While personalities and defusing human time bombs ate up most of her time and energies, she passed what she thought of as guard duty on to Mac or Laurel long enough to run personal checks on the setup.

Step-by-step, she glimpsed Emma transforming forest and meadow into an elegant and elaborate feast for the eyes while Laurel added finishing touches on a five-layer cake as spectacular as a white diamond.

In the Bride’s Suite, Mac documented another transformation—one of woman to bride, capturing the moment of pride and pleasure when their client stood in her glimmering white gown, sparkling with silver beads on the strapless bodice.

Parker watched the bride sweep back her elaborate skirt so her mother—obviously too overcome to think of feuds—could fasten the icy fire of diamonds around her daughter’s neck.

“Something old,” the mother murmured.

Parker knew Mac would capture that iced fire, the lovely lines of the bride’s shoulders, the sweep of the dress—but the moment and the photo would also illuminate the emotion between mother and daughter as they smiled into each other’s damp eyes.

“Baby, you look like something out of a dream.”

“I feel . . . God, I—Mom. I didn’t expect to get all choked up.”

Parker handed her a tissue.

“You were right, Parker,” the bride added as she carefully dabbed the corners of her eyes. “About not wearing a veil.” She touched a hand to the simple band sparkling in her dark, upswept hair. “About keeping the headpiece understated.”

“You couldn’t look more perfect, Alysa,” Parker told her. “Unless . . .”

As Emma was still completing the Ballroom, Parker took the bridal bouquet from its box, offered it to the MOB. “One last lovely detail.”

With the trail of silver-edged orchids accented by clear beads in her hand, the bride turned to the cheval glass once again. “Oh. Oh. Now I—I guess I feel like something out of a dream.”

The MOB laid her hand on Parker’s arm, sighed.

And that, Parker thought, was the best acknowledgment of a job—so far—well done.

She heard the squeal—young, happy, not distressed—but hurried to the other side of the room as Mal, his arms full of flower girl, opened the door.

“Excuse me, ladies, but I found this fairy princess. Is this the entrance to the castle?”

“It certainly is.” Parker started to reach out for the girl when a woman called out, and headed toward them, the other two flower girls on each hip.

“Leah! I’m sorry, so sorry. She got away from me, and I couldn’t catch up with her with the other two.”

“No problem.”

“They’re ready for pictures,” Parker said. “So you can take them right in to Mac. I’ll give you a hand.”

She took the unrepentant Leah. “Thanks,” she said to Mal before carrying the little girl away.

“Bye, Mal! Bye!” Leah called over her shoulder, and Parker’s lips twitched in amusement as the girl added noisy blown kisses to the farewell.

When she came back, she found Mal helping himself to the cheese tray.

“Good stuff,” he commented.

“Protein helps keep the energy up.”

“Okay.” He spread some Port Salut on a cracker. “Have some energy.”

It couldn’t hurt, she decided, and accepted. “Where did you find Leah?”

“The kid? Right out in the hall, dancing. Doing, you know. . .” He twirled a finger in the air. “She’s all about her getup. I’d just taken the—what is it, FOG?—or maybe it was the other, the FOB—a shot of Jack Black, so she couldn’t have been out there long.”

“We appreciate the help.”

He smiled. “Show me.”

“I don’t have time for this. I have to—” She held up a hand. “Red Alert. Solarium.”

“What are you, Captain Kirk?”

But she was already streaking out of the room. “What’s the—Well, damn it,” she muttered into her headset. “I’m on my way.”

“What’s the deal?”

“One of the guests decided the B and G’s specific directive of no children under twelve didn’t apply to their four kids, who are now apparently wreaking havoc during the preceremony cocktails. Laurel’s the only one down there, helping the servers, and she’s about to blow.”

“Do you often have to sprint through the acres of this house?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you do it on stilts?”

“These are exceptionally attractive Pradas, and I’m wearing them because I’m a professional.”

She sure as hell could move in them, he thought. “It doesn’t have anything to do with vanity.”

“By-product.”

She slowed from sprint to brisk as they entered the Solarium.

He heard the kids before he saw them. Easily enough, he mused, as they were yelling, squalling, crying at the top of their lungs. He saw, as he imagined Parker did, the varied reactions of the other guests who’d arrived early enough to enjoy a few belts and some fancy finger food before the I Dos. Amusement, annoyance, distress, disdain.

A hell of a mix, he thought. And when he noted one of the uniformed caterers sweeping up broken glassware, a hell of a mess. As Parker wove through the crowd with the accuracy and focus of a heat-seeking missile, he noted the kids came by their manners naturally. Mama was shouting, too.

“Parker.” Laurel, who wore a white chef’s apron over her business suit, bared her teeth in what could only loosely be called a smile. “Mrs. Farrington.”