Her phone rang. “Yes, this is Liv Goldenhorn… On… Instagram? I mean, yes, on Instagram… Oh, thank you so much.”
Savannah whispered to her, “I put both our cells on the new website—” Her own phone rang. Another inquiry.
Liv Goldenhorn still didn’t know why Eliot had played matchmaker in bringing her and Savannah Shipley into each other’s lives. But right now, with the early-summer sun streaming through the front window and an eager-sounding customer on the other end of the line, she didn’t care.
The truth would present itself in due course.
PART TWO IN LOVE IN MANHATTAN
29
As the weather heated up, so did wedding season.
The wedding-planning business was a long game. Full-service planners would generally start working with a couple at least ten months out, overseeing every detail from save-the-date cards to after-party nosh. But while In Love in New York was starting to plan for clients who were getting married the following year, they didn’t have many marrying over the coming summer: those folks had taken one look at the infamous pigeons-and-bees review from last November and flown the coop. It was Savannah’s idea to promote a special for day-of coordination: a modest fee to show up on the big day and run a wedding they didn’t actually plan. This was where Savannah got her first peek into the wide spectrum of weddings in New York. There was the one with the WASPy couple who incorporated the hora, not because they were Jewish, but because the boisterous chair dance just seemed like fun. The one where someone’s uncle who, in lieu of giving a toast, read his recently published essay on the future of driverless cars. The rich-kid weddings where everyone was on coke. The sober weddings were everyone drank Coke. The first dance to that song from Dirty Dancing, complete with a passable lift at the end. They even ran a solo wedding, a new trend originating in Japan, where single women married themselves.
But despite the fact Savannah owned half the business, Liv still treated Savannah like hired help. Clients assumed Savannah was Liv’s assistant. Liv complained that Savannah made the coffee too weak, that she used too many exclamation points in her emails, that she was too intimate with clients. “They’re not your friends,” Liv warned. “Don’t overpromise. Or get too close.”
Savannah ignored this advice. She’d been raised with an open-door/no-ask-is-too-big policy. Which is how she found herself spending an entire weekend hand-addressing three hundred save-the-dates for a tearful bride who’d run out of time. “She’s paying us,” Savannah protested weakly, starting envelope number 126. Her wrist was already burning.
“Not to do this,” Liv said, almost smugly.
Liv was good with boundaries and expectations, even if, to Savannah’s taste, it made her come across a little cool. But it did suit the client base. In the South, you waved at every car and smiled at every stranger. In New York, pedestrians and drivers were in a constant battle for the road, and smiling at someone resulted in an odd look or pickup line. Brides in the Big Apple didn’t have time for endless hours of cozy chitchat.
Liv explained her sales system: inquiry (usually via email), intake interview (ideally coffee, in the front office), mutual approval, custom quote, negotiation, close the deal. Her contracts and quotes were good, but Liv recorded intake interviews on yellow sticky notes, then typed them into Word documents saved to her desktop. Mind-blowingly archaic.
“We could set up a CMS—a content management system—to keep track of everything,” Savannah suggested. “And some plug-ins in our in-box to help keep everything in a pipeline.”
Liv scoffed. The doorbell rang. “My system works. Remember,” she added, “don’t overpromise.”
Vanessa Fitzpatrick and Lenny Maple met the old-fashioned way. Online. For their first date, they planned to see Jurassic Park in Central Park, both being fans of outdoor entertainment and Jeff Goldblum. A boisterous summer storm had other ideas. As fat drops splattered and scattered the moviegoers, Vanessa and Lenny ran hand in hand to the park’s boathouse restaurant overlooking the Lake, to wait out the deluge with a glass of pinot. Four hours later, they were still there. They hadn’t stopped talking since.
Their wedding was to be held at the Harvard Club in Manhattan, a dark wood, old-world social club for the alumni of the Ivy League. The venue was to appease Vanessa’s father. General Tucker Fitzpatrick was a West Point grad with a master’s from Harvard, retired military, and a fan of tradition. “In general,” as Vanessa put it. Lenny squeezed her thigh supportively. He was skinny and kind-eyed, with shoulder-length hair tucked behind large ears. The couple exchanged a glance stuffed with a thousand unspoken words. While perfectly poised, Vanessa’s painted fingernails twisting the ends of her long blond hair gave away her concern.
“All I want,” she said, articulating each word carefully, “is for my father to walk me down the aisle on my wedding day. I know it’s old-fashioned: the idea of a man giving away his daughter. But it’s what I’ve always wanted. And maybe, it’ll bring us back together.” She exchanged a glance with her fiancé. “My dad and I haven’t really talked in a few years.”
In her intake interview, Vanessa shared with Liv and Savannah that she’d been dreaming about her wedding day since she was six. The vision of herself in a dramatic ball gown of tiered white tulle had been the very first indicator that the male body she’d been born into had been a “clerical error.” Vanessa had come out as trans in college and transitioned to female five years ago. Savannah had been extremely nervous to meet the couple. She’d never met a transgender person before and was terrified she’d make a slipup or break some unspoken rule. But then Vanessa and Lenny started sharing their heartfelt plans for a wedding that honored their community as well as their love for each other. They were excited and loving and clueless about how to pull it all off. Just like every other couple. All Savannah’s worries flew out the window. She admired Vanessa’s determination. The idea of standing up to her own father over anything felt foreign, even frightening.
“I think that’s lovely,” Savannah said. “I’d want my dad to walk me down the aisle, too.”
Liv asked the bride-to-be, “Have you told your father that?”
Vanessa shook her head.
Liv gave her an encouraging smile. “We can certainly help facilitate that conversation when he arrives.”
They moved onto music selection for the cocktail hour—jazz classics that invited (“Let’s Fall in Love”), flirted (“I’ve Got a Crush on You”), and declared (“Yes Sir, That’s My Baby”). But the pending arrival of General Fitzpatrick underscored everything with panicked violins. When the doorbell rang, Savannah felt it like the crash of a cymbal.
General Tucker Fitzpatrick was the kind of man who sucked all the air out of the room and all other buildings in a one-mile radius. And it had nothing to do with size. He was only five foot six, with the compact build of a bulldog and dark hair combed neat. His handshake was crushing. As he sat on the pale pink sofa, Liv attempted light banter. They parried awkwardly for a few minutes about traffic and parking before Liv steered the conversation to logistics.