It Had to Be You by Georgia Clark (iphone ebook reader .TXT) 📕

rushed Savannah’s eyes. She’d come all this way. This was her big break. “But Dave and Kamile are—”

“Savannah?” An attractive young couple who wouldn’t look out of place in a renters’ insurance commercial stood behind her on the stoop.

“Early,” she finished. Dave and Kamile were here.

Savannah followed Liv inside as if it wasn’t the very first time she’d done it. The bones of the brownstone were impressive—high molded ceilings, sturdy hardwood floors. There was framed art on the walls: classy art, the kind that didn’t make sense. Somewhere, possibly upstairs, faint classical music was playing. Savannah’s shoe clattered against an empty wine bottle, one of many lining the wall. No way Dave and Kamile could miss that. She didn’t dare turn around to check.

Liv paused outside the first door to the right. If Savannah’s googling served her correctly, this was In Love in New York’s office. Liv’s hand lingered on the doorknob for a long moment. Savannah said a quick prayer as Liv turned the knob and led them inside.

Savannah could see how the large front room could be a lovely office. A three-cornered bay window looked out onto the quiet, sun-dappled street. A long white desk and two brown leather office chairs were at the opposite end. Four smaller chairs faced them. Above the desk hung the pink-and-black In Love in New York logo, an oval design Savannah felt was dated. A sofa and coffee table were tucked against the far wall, next to a tall bookcase stacked with wedding and photography books. Half a dozen framed magazine and newspaper articles hung on the walls, including the front page of the New York Times Style section. MEET BROOKLYN’S IT WEDDING PLANNERS invited the subhead, under a photo of a much younger-looking Liv and Eliot, lounging casually by the bay window. Of all the publicity photographs Savannah had found online of Liv, that one was her favorite. The dark-haired young woman looked cool, confident, and completely in charge. Hashtag boss lady. Savannah tried to replicate that facial expression in approximately one thousand selfies but always came across less like a CEO and more like a snotty heiress who owned too many whippets. The article suggested that a happily married couple working out of their enviable brownstone gave In Love in New York a unique edge. Engaged couples felt buoyed by both the home and the couple’s charm and class: This could be our future, married and living in a gorgeous brownstone in a tree-lined neighborhood. The article casually noted the celebrity clientele, which included Jesse Tyler Ferguson and Maggie Gyllenhaal, the latter described as “very intelligent, with a strong sense of what she wanted on the big day.” Savannah could picture a productive and positive consultation in this room, where everyone hugged at the end instead of shaking hands.

If the room didn’t look like a squat.

In the middle of the floor was a bag of golf clubs that had once been set on fire. Strewn next to it were four bulging suitcases, a few boxes of books and records, and about two dozen men’s shirts and trousers still on hangers. A framed set of baseball cards under broken glass. Most shocking of all, a dozen vases of long-dead flowers. Most likely, three-month-old funeral flowers. They were responsible for the smell. The stench of death.

Savannah forced her mouth into a breezy smile and spun around. “Sorry about the mess: renovations. Come, take a seat.” Two patches of sweat circled from her underarms, staining her peach-pink blouse. Her heart, which had been bouncing with excitement all morning, was now thumping like an executioner’s drum.

Dave took in the room’s disarray with an expression of light confusion. In his expensive-looking chinos and blue-check button-down, he looked a bit like a Kennedy—someone for whom style was an instinct. Kamile wore tight white jeans and a silk shirt printed with tiny flowers. The rock on her fourth finger was the size of a skating rink. Kamile was a sorority sister, president when Savannah was a sophomore. She’d built her extensive online following (@TheRealKamile, on all platforms) by exploiting her natural beauty and her private life. The chance to help plan this successful woman’s wedding was Savannah’s first real career opportunity. As an intern she’d been indulged but never respected. Never put in the driver’s seat. And now she was sinking into the worn leather chair Eliot bequeathed her in his will. Its divot was off-putting; her feet didn’t touch the floor.

Rather than join Savannah behind the desk, Liv sat on the white sofa behind the couple. She gave the room a raw stare, took a drag of her cigarette, then ground it into one of the sofa cushions.

Kamile didn’t notice, instead angling her phone at herself, trying to find the best light. “Hey guys! Dave and I are here at our very first meeting with our wedding planner.” Big smile, hair flip. “We have so much to get through, so I’ll let you know how it goes. Wish us luck!” Kamile put her phone faceup on the desk and addressed Savannah. “Sorry, so rude. Hi. How long’s it been?”

“Too long!” Savannah was so flustered she honestly couldn’t remember. “It’s great to see you again, and meet you, Dave. You look great, and this is just so”—she raised her palms to the ceiling, smiling manically—“great.”

“You were the best social chair that Delta Zeta Lambda ever had,” Kamile said. “I know you’ll be an amazing planner.”

Savannah glanced at Liv, so distracted by her lack of involvement that she almost missed her cue to reply. “Thank you, yes, of course.”

A pause. Dave and Kamile glanced at each other, then back at her.

“Sorry,” Kamile said. “We’ve never done this before, obviously, so we’re not exactly sure…”

Savannah looked back at Liv, who slanted her eyebrows slowly, as if to say, Be my guest.

A tiny ember in Savannah’s chest began to glow hot.

The only thing on the desk in front of her was a pen and an In Love in New