Chapter 1
I t would be too easy , far too easy , she thought to herself. All it would take is a push of her foot, a flick of her hand, and she could simply put the car in drive and crash straight through the three-story Victorian mansion that housed the offices of Events by Design, the country’s foremost event planning business. A flick of her wrist, a push with her foot, and it could all be over, she thought, staring through the windshield at the building that she so dearly loved.
There were perhaps fifty people inside that building and another two hundred people in the spacious yard out back, seated under an elegant canopy as the wedding prelude played. She cared about her staff, and even the temp workers who’d signed on to work the event. Some of the people were like family to her, and that was the only thing that kept her foot off the accelerator. Well, that, and the fact that her BMW was just so darn pretty, and it was almost paid for.
“Stacy? Are you there?” her earpiece asked from where she’d thrown it on the passenger seat, its tinny voice coming through faintly with a loud crackle.
She didn’t answer right away, instead she stared blankly at the offending ear piece, its cable snaking across her upholstery like a noose before disappearing into the battery pack. The last thing in the world she wanted to do right now was talk to the voice on the other end of her radio, even though it belonged to one of her best friends and she loved him like he was her own brother.
And that’s why I can’t answer , she thought miserably. I love all of them too much to bring them down with me.
Events by Design was an established company with a reputation for being top notch, but ever since its founder and longtime matriarch, Abigail Prudell, had passed away, leaving the business to her very uninvolved nephew, Stacy had juggled not only the company’s stellar reputation and its services to elite clientele, but also managed to keep a secret that meant the difference between success and failure: the old lady was dead as a doornail.
Clients could have paid far less money for just as much professionalism and attention to detail, no matter who they chose to stage their parties and weddings. For that matter, they could have paid Stacy far less money to do the same quality job, if she’d started her own company after her boss passed away. But as Abigail’s assistant for more than fifteen years, Stacy felt a loyalty to the work that her employer had put into the company. When she learned that the nephew was planning to liquidate the company’s assets and shut its doors—leaving nearly forty people out of a job, or at least steady day labor work during events—she got the brilliantly stupid idea to keep the company going. In exchange for remaining in business, Nathan wouldn’t have to do anything except file the taxes each year and sign the paychecks.
It had all been too easy, she remembered again. Frighteningly so. After the first year or so of being afraid of being outed for pretending Abigail had lightened her workload while still manning the helm, the company’s name alone was enough to keep clients signing up years in advance. Stacy used to worry that someone would come along and stir up enough trouble that it all blew up in her face, but she’d gotten too good at running this company, and gotten used to lying through her teeth whenever a client, usually an unruly mother of an equally unruly bride, demanded to see the owner.
Which is exactly how Stacy found herself hiding in her car while a bride walked down the aisle a mere five hundred yards away. She’d been minding her own business, conducting herself in her usual polished, business-like, epitome-of-class-and-breeding manner when the final member of the wedding party to arrive—a bridesmaid who’d flown in that morning—turned to her and said the most horrifying words Stacy had ever heard:
“I remember you. My, my, if it isn’t little Stacy East, from
I t would be too easy , far too easy , she thought to herself. All it would take is a push of her foot, a flick of her hand, and she could simply put the car in drive and crash straight through the three-story Victorian mansion that housed the offices of Events by Design, the country’s foremost event planning business. A flick of her wrist, a push with her foot, and it could all be over, she thought, staring through the windshield at the building that she so dearly loved.
There were perhaps fifty people inside that building and another two hundred people in the spacious yard out back, seated under an elegant canopy as the wedding prelude played. She cared about her staff, and even the temp workers who’d signed on to work the event. Some of the people were like family to her, and that was the only thing that kept her foot off the accelerator. Well, that, and the fact that her BMW was just so darn pretty, and it was almost paid for.
“Stacy? Are you there?” her earpiece asked from where she’d thrown it on the passenger seat, its tinny voice coming through faintly with a loud crackle.
She didn’t answer right away, instead she stared blankly at the offending ear piece, its cable snaking across her upholstery like a noose before disappearing into the battery pack. The last thing in the world she wanted to do right now was talk to the voice on the other end of her radio, even though it belonged to one of her best friends and she loved him like he was her own brother.
And that’s why I can’t answer , she thought miserably. I love all of them too much to bring them down with me.
Events by Design was an established company with a reputation for being top notch, but ever since its founder and longtime matriarch, Abigail Prudell, had passed away, leaving the business to her very uninvolved nephew, Stacy had juggled not only the company’s stellar reputation and its services to elite clientele, but also managed to keep a secret that meant the difference between success and failure: the old lady was dead as a doornail.
Clients could have paid far less money for just as much professionalism and attention to detail, no matter who they chose to stage their parties and weddings. For that matter, they could have paid Stacy far less money to do the same quality job, if she’d started her own company after her boss passed away. But as Abigail’s assistant for more than fifteen years, Stacy felt a loyalty to the work that her employer had put into the company. When she learned that the nephew was planning to liquidate the company’s assets and shut its doors—leaving nearly forty people out of a job, or at least steady day labor work during events—she got the brilliantly stupid idea to keep the company going. In exchange for remaining in business, Nathan wouldn’t have to do anything except file the taxes each year and sign the paychecks.
It had all been too easy, she remembered again. Frighteningly so. After the first year or so of being afraid of being outed for pretending Abigail had lightened her workload while still manning the helm, the company’s name alone was enough to keep clients signing up years in advance. Stacy used to worry that someone would come along and stir up enough trouble that it all blew up in her face, but she’d gotten too good at running this company, and gotten used to lying through her teeth whenever a client, usually an unruly mother of an equally unruly bride, demanded to see the owner.
Which is exactly how Stacy found herself hiding in her car while a bride walked down the aisle a mere five hundred yards away. She’d been minding her own business, conducting herself in her usual polished, business-like, epitome-of-class-and-breeding manner when the final member of the wedding party to arrive—a bridesmaid who’d flown in that morning—turned to her and said the most horrifying words Stacy had ever heard:
“I remember you. My, my, if it isn’t little Stacy East, from
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