“Mom, don’t shut me out of something this important. You can talk to me,” I said. “About Brooke’s situation too. I can handle it.”
She squeezed my shoulder. “Wren, I’m not shutting you out. Not purposely anyway. You don’t need to worry about any of this. You’ve got enough on your plate with school. I’m not sure I’m handling it that well, myself. It’s a lot to wrap my mind around. I didn’t think I’d be a grandmother this soon.”
“You’ll be a young grandma,” I said, nudging her. “A hot, young grandma.”
“I’m glad you see it that way,” she said, putting her makeup bag into the vanity drawer. “Hey, better get a move on. We’re leaving in fifteen.”
“Do I have time for a shower?” I asked, panicked.
“A really quick one,” she said, eyeballing her clock. “Go, go.”
The Camelot was as frenzied as usual. Eben pushed through the doors of the Lancelot ballroom, looking more like a groom than a maître d’. I felt that tug of sadness again. It was hard to believe this place would be leveled for condos. Did he have a clue? I would miss seeing him on the weekends.
He beamed when he saw my mother.
“Ruthie, I won’t let you down,” he said, “but it would help if your daughter was on time.”
“It’s my fault completely,” I volunteered, taking off my coat.
“Here, I’ll take this,” Mom said, grabbing my purse.
Eben led me by my elbow into the banquet room.
“Wren, I do not want to screw this up. This is huge for me. I know we usually pal around, make jokes, but I can’t be that person tonight. So in case I snap at you or something, just know I’m in management mode, nothing personal.”
“Eb, you’ll be awesome. My mom totally believes in you. So do I,” I said. “No worries. I won’t give you anything to snap at me for. By the way, am I allowed to say you’re quite, um, dashing in your tux?”
“Thank you, luv. Calvin Klein. Damn well better make me look dashing,” he said. “And Miss Wren, as my last official duty as your pal this evening—you and your favorite dark-haired new hire are working the head table. So scoot over to Guinevere’s Cottage. They’re setting up now.”
I gave Eben a quick kiss on the cheek and hurried off across the parking lot to the cottage. My stomach became a jangle of nerves again at the thought of seeing Grayson. Just be casual, Wren. Even though the first thing I wanted to blurt out was, Why haven’t you texted me all week? I had to come off like I didn’t care.
Grayson was taking champagne glasses out of a storage crate and lining them up on the bar. The cottage was a renovated home from the 1800s, and the ceilings were low. This particular feature gave the cottage its cozy feel, but anyone who was over six feet had trouble navigating the space. The top of Gray’s head was only about three inches away from grazing the ceiling, which made him look gargantuan. He smiled when he saw me, but it wasn’t the smile of reuniting with someone you hadn’t seen in a week. More like an Oh, you’re here kind of smile.
“Hey, what’s up?” I asked, attempting to be casual, even though my heart was about to jump out of my mouth.
Before he could answer, Lisa, a Camelot seasonal employee, came bounding out of the kitchen with a pitcher of ice. She stowed it behind the bar, her dark, angular haircut swaying with her every movement.
“Hey, Wren, how’s it going?” she asked. “We have to tell Tall-Drink-of-Water here to be careful.” She elbowed Grayson in a way that made my stomach tighten.
“Well, Leese, guess you have to remind me to duck when I’m going through a doorway,” he said, pushing his hair aside to show a red mark. I covered my mouth to keep from laughing in spite of the jab of jealousy I felt when Gray called her Leese. How long had they been out here?
“Come on, Wren, help me cut up the garnish,” she said, grabbing my hand. I ducked as we walked into the small kitchen.
“Wow, the help has gotten decidedly foxier since I’ve been away at school,” she whispered, handing me a lime. I reached for the paring knife and cutting board, doing my best to disregard her apparent attraction to Grayson.
“Mmm, hmm,” I mumbled, cutting the lime lengthwise so I could make fresh wedges.
“Dave’s going to be tending bar for cocktail hour in here. Damn, I haven’t seen him since September. Think maybe he’ll let me sneak a little sip of something? I’ve got a raging hangover from last night. I’m so relieved my exams are over. I’m surprised Joshie isn’t here. His exams must be over too, no?”
I shrugged, finishing up the lime. “Not sure.”
“Hey, um . . .” She stopped midsentence and motioned with her head out toward the parlor, mouthing, What’s his name?
“Grayson,” I whispered.
“Um, Grayson, can you bring us that white compartment thingie that holds the fruit on top of the bar?” she asked, collecting the lemon wedges she’d sliced up.
“Sure,” he called back.
One plus about working with Lisa was that she held up the conversation all on her own. Perfect sometimes but not quite what I envisioned when I heard I’d be working with Grayson. He walked to the doorjamb and made an exaggerated motion to avoid it by ducking. Lisa batted her eyelashes and grabbed the condiment holder from his hands.
“Thanks, babe,” she said. “Here, can you open these?”
Grayson took the jar of maraschino cherries from Lisa and twisted off the top.
“Honey, I’m home!” Dave-the-bartender called from the front door.
Lisa wiped her hands quickly on a bar towel and ran out of the kitchen, squealing.
“Crazy Davy!” she said, before disappearing down the hallway to greet him.
Grayson leaned toward me and whispered, “Does she ever shut up?”
I giggled, taking the jar from him. “Not really.”
He leaned on the counter next to me as I placed the cut-up fruit garnish into the various compartments. I handed him a jar of olives, my thoughts racing.
“Could you?” I asked, avoiding his eyes and trying to think of an appropriate way to ask him why he hadn’t answered my texts.
“My pleasure,” he said, inflecting a formal tone to his voice, then gritting his teeth when the jar top didn’t budge as easily as the last one. He took the bar towel, wiped the lid, then tried again, finally opening it with a pop.
He handed me the jar. “Do people normally order the kind of drinks that need to be garnished?”
“Well, you’ve got to be prepared,” I answered, feeling so damn foolish that we were discussing fruit. “And besides, it makes it pretty. I didn’t hear from you all week.”
My last sentence just hung there as the olives thunked into their compartment.
“Yeah, sorry. It’s been a crazy week, and my phone’s been acting all wonky. I didn’t get your texts until this morning. It does that sometimes. Weird. But since I figured I’d see you, I didn’t answer them.”
I stared at him until he looked away. That was his excuse?
“I’ll take these out there,” he said, grabbing the tray.
“Wonky,” I said to myself as I wiped up the counter. When I turned around, Chef Hank came into the kitchen, arms full of containers of hors d’oeuvres that needed to be heated. He placed them on the counter.
“No worries, Wrennie. No tiny hot dogs today,” he said, clicking on the oven.
A no-cocktail-weenies party usually meant a great night, but not this time. The bride was one of those divas who wanted everything yesterday, and no matter how quickly it was delivered, it wasn’t quickly enough. Bridal-party glasses were to be full at all times, all bridal-party dinners delivered first. I half expected them to ask us to cut their food and accompany them to the bathroom. We worked like dogs through most of dinner, so much so that Grayson said in passing, “Christ, I feel like I’m getting bitch slapped every time I go out there.” It felt nice to have some common ground with him.