It Had to Be You, Georgia Clark [phonics reader TXT] 📗

a pretty bad cook. I’m not much better.” It felt odd calling Eliot her “ex”: she wanted Sam to know she was single but not the reason why.

“Oh, my ex-wife is a great cook. It was monogamy she sucked at.”

She surprised herself with a girlish giggle. Get a grip, lady. You’re a middle-aged widow with saggy tits and a mild drinking problem.

“Yeah, it’s just me and Dottie.” Sam slipped a tan leather jacket over broad shoulders. “My daughter. Little younger than Ben. Not as into Spider-Man.”

“Ha!” Liv’s heart was pattering. She hoped she wasn’t blushing. “Well, thanks for the food, and the cooking lesson, and for not being a home invader.”

“No worries.”

She rubbed at her forehead, pulling the wrinkles with her fingertips. “Look, I should mention… Things fell apart a bit workwise last year.”

“Yeah, I know. Think I read something about pigeons and bees?”

Screw the internet, seriously.

“Don’t worry about it.” He smiled at her. Sam’s eyes were the color of butterscotch pudding, of brandy, of warm, delicious things. “Guess I’m willing to take the risk.”

“Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”

“Sounds great.” The only caterer in New York willing to work with her ambled down her front steps. “Night, Liv.”

The early evening was unseasonably balmy. The air almost felt silky on her bare arms. A handful of stars twinkled in the lavender sky, delicate as fine jewelry.

“Night, Sam.”

Liv closed the door after him, letting the lock click into place with deliberate slowness. Her house was redolent of butter and onions. It smelled like a home. Enjoying the way the smooth wooden floorboards creaked under her footfalls, Liv wandered back into the kitchen. It was, impossibly, completely clean.

7

The next morning, Savannah was shaken awake by Arj, one of her new roommates. The skinny bartender did not look pleased. “There’s a crazy bitch downstairs who says she knows you. Also, I work nights. I was in the middle of my REM.”

Confused, Savannah pulled up her blind and peered down at the street. Liv was standing on the pavement, leaning on the horn of a beat-up Subaru. Savannah heaved the window up, bracing against the rush of cold morning air. “Mrs. Goldenhorn?”

Liv was wearing oversize sunglasses and a hot-pink pussyhat, the one made famous by the first Women’s March. “Hurry up, Shipley. We’ve got things to do.” She got back in the car, calling through the window. “And for God’s sake, call me Liv!”

An unseen neighbor yelled, “Shut the hell up, Liv!”

Liv almost smiled.

It took a long moment to land. Then Savannah bolted out of bed, threw on some clothes, and flew down the stairs. She’d never been less put together when she climbed in next to Mrs. Golden—Liv. But her business partner didn’t seem to notice.

After missing Sam Woods’s test meal thanks to a subway drama, Savannah figured she’d blown it and was planning on spending the morning booking a flight home. But now, she was in Liv’s inner sanctum. Faded stickers on the glove box. A blue evil eye charm hung from the rearview mirror.

“Here’s how it’s going to go down.” Liv clicked in her seat belt. “Rule one: I’m in charge. Rule two: I’m in charge. Rule three?”

“You’re in charge.”

“Exactly.” Liv was wearing lipstick. It made her look pretty, softening her edges. She started the car, and Alanis Morissette’s snarl blasted: “A slap in the face, how quickly I was replaced, and are you thinking of me when you fu—” Liv hit the eject button, mumbling something about breakup music. She reached into the back seat and groped for another CD from the dozen sliding around. Savannah had never once purchased a CD.

Savannah got her license at sixteen, eager to have the freedom and responsibility of a car. She’d only ever driven in Kentucky, never in New York. And at this moment, as Liv careened between lanes, riding the brakes and the horn, all while fiddling with the CD player and gulping coffee from a thermos, Savannah didn’t think she’d ever have the chance. It’d be a miracle if they got wherever they were going alive.

“The thing about wedding planning,” Liv shouted over the nervy jangle of vintage-sounding rock, “is it’s less about what they say they want and more about what they can—out of my lane, prick!—afford. Everyone comes in with big dreams—the cake, the dress, the destination wedding, but—what the hell are you doing?—all that adds up. So do they want to double their budget, or do they want some creative solutions? Because even though people hire a wedding planner because they’d rather spend their money than their time, you have to—learn to drive, ya dildo!”

On the three-hour drive north to the Catskills, Savannah tried to scratch the surface of twenty-odd years of wedding-planning wisdom while Liv blasted bands Savannah had never heard of. Despite the terrible first meeting the week before, Kamile was still open to working with In Love in New York. No other wedding planners were interested in exchanging two months of unpaid work for social posts, and Kamile was not prepared to fork out ten grand for a planner, or do it all herself.

In the Catskills, the rustic red barn was huge and completely empty, surrounded by apple trees. Twenty feet away, a pond glinted. The first thing Savannah said to the owner was “Adorable! What a perfect place for a romantic spring wedding!”

The first thing Liv said was, “I need to know about parking, power, liability insurance, sound restrictions, your preferred vendors, and the wet-weather plan.”

And they were off. The pace never slowed. The list of tasks was endless: design the wedding website, negotiate vendor contracts, connect with the officiant, coordinate the cake tasting. It was less “sophistication and tradition merging in surprising and delightful ways” and more… matter-of-fact. Budgets, dates, deadlines. Decisions were made quickly and often. Savannah assumed wedding planning would be about love and logistics. But it was so much more about anxiety and assurance. Kamile’s anxiety. Liv’s assurance. Was it okay to not do a