with them. She flicked the faintest questioning glance at Mac, then switched to full-business mode. “The bride’s a solid nine point five on the emotion scale. Constant reassurance, support.”
“Got it.”
“We need her upstairs, busy, and focused on herself ASAP. I’ve already put champagne up there, but let’s not let her pull a Karen.”
“Won’t be a problem.”
“MOH and two of the BAs are with her, as well as the MOB. MOB is a rock. If I’m not available and the bride or the MOH go on, get the MOB.”
“Is Jack on his way?”
“ETA fifteen minutes. I’ll send him straight up.”
“Who’s Karen?” Carter wondered.
“Former bride, arrived half drunk, finished the job before we got a handle on it. Puked over the terrace shortly before the ceremony.”
“Oh.”
Outside, the women stepped to the side of the porch where the rails were already dressed in Italian lights and tulle.
“Where are your coats?” Carter asked. “I’ll get them for you?”
“No need.” Mac took out her camera. “Adrenaline works.”
As the white limo cruised down the drive, Emma and Laurel came out.
“I wanted all four of us,” Parker explained. “Solid wall of ‘we’re here to make your day perfect.’ Happy faces, everyone.”
The limo stopped. Mac framed a shot of the bride turning to exit the open door with what could only be called a brave and wobbling smile on her face.
Mac thought: Crap.
“Your day,” Parker said from the steps. “Guaranteed.”
The smile brightened, just enough. Mac got the shot before the bride’s face crumbled. She sprang out of the car, arms outstretched, and said, “Oh, Parker!”
“Hey!” Mac’s voice stopped the bride in midstride. “Are you going to let that bitch give you puffy red eyes in your portraits? Give me one, give me a beaut. One that’ll make her cry like a baby when she sees it.”
It might’ve been rage, but the bride’s face went radiant. “I’m getting married!”
“Damn right.”
“One of both of us.” The bride grabbed the hand of her maid of honor, grinned fiercely at her friend. “Together. Solidarity.”
“Now we’re talking.”
She captured the movement, the energy, as garment bags and totes were unloaded, as women milled together. And undoubtedly, she thought, caught the tension as well.
“Parker, what will I do if—”
“Not a thing,” Parker assured the bride. “We’re completely on top of it. All you have to do is be beautiful, be happy, and we’ll handle the rest. Let’s go up. There’s a bottle of champagne waiting.”
Giving Carter the come-ahead signal, Mac skirted around Parker and the bridal party. “We get a glass of champagne in her, and in the MOH. Celebrate their friendship,” Mac said as she bounded up the stairs. “It’s about the journey, and in this case, that relationship is part of the whole. We’ll play on that, so instead of keeping a little distance between them as I initially figured, we document the unity. The bride prep as female bond as much as mating ritual.”
“Okay.” He turned into the room behind Mac. “It’s a lovely space.” He scanned lace, flowers, candles, swags of silk. “Ah, very female.”
“Well, duh.” Mac pulled out the second camera body, strapped it on.
“Should I be in here? It doesn’t seem quite . . . proper.”
“I may be able to use you. But for now, you’re stationed at the door. Nobody gets in without the password.”
“What’s the password?”
“Make one up.”
He took up his station as Parker swept the bride past him. A brunette stopped, gave him a once-over that made his stomach twitch.
“Jack?”
“Ah, no. I’m Carter.”
“Oh. Too bad.” She gave him a hard, sharp smile. “Stick around, Carter. You may come in handy.”
The door closed with a snap. Through the panel he could hear female voices, then the happy pop of a cork leaving the bottle. The laughter that followed had to be a good sign.
Moments later a small troop of men and women carting totes and cases started toward him.
“Excuse me,” he began, and the door swung open behind him.
“It’s okay, Carter. They’re hair and face.” Parker gestured them in. “Let Jack through when he gets here.”
The door shut again, and the noise level rose behind it.
He wondered if this was typical, if Mac and the rest of them repeated this pattern several times a week. Emotion, immediacy, red alerts, strange codes, headsets, walkie-talkies. It was like a continuous battle.
Or a long-running Broadway show.
Either way, he decided he’d be exhausted at the end of every day.
Mac opened the door, stuck a glass of champagne in his hand. “Here you go.” And closed the door again.