Burned Deep Read Free Page B

to be replaced. The staff rushed about, adjusting everything to my specifications.
    I wasn’t obnoxiously OCD. People paid me good money to ensure every little detail was taken care of and that their event was extraordinary and memorable. I owed it to them to have the food and wine served on time. To make sure no one waited for plates to be cleared from in front of them. To keep servers on their toes so they delivered another fork to a guest before the first one even hit the floor.
    My painstaking attention to all facets of the process from start to finish was also born of the incessant need to occupy every waking second of my day and keep my mind on all things fresh and new and awe-inspiring—like the symbolism that weddings and other events evoked. I put substantial effort into stepping away from the pain wrapped around my parents’ hostile, failed marriage and the inevitable suffering that came from being an only child caught in the cross fire.
    Around the last ten or so minutes of the cocktail hour, the sky conspired against me and opened up. The deluge began. A few fat drops served as a prelude before the heavy shower hit. Everyone scrambled to get into the lodge as I urged them off the patio. Three-pronged lightning flashed wildly and the crack of thunder eclipsed the crashing of cymbals as the band’s equipment was hastily moved to the foyer.
    A harsh wind roared through the terrace while I rushed about with the staff, collecting vases of flowers and hurricane lamps containing pillar candles—now blown out by the gust, the smoky scent wafting on the night air. A couple tipped over. The one I reached for flew off the table.
    The shattering of glass on the Saltillo tile lent to the suddenly eerie atmosphere and the sense of urgency to gather everything up. Kyle jumped into the mayhem, snatching decorations quicker than I could and adding them to a service cart. Strands of hair slashed across my face as the undercurrent gained strength.
    â€œGet inside, Ari!” he shouted.
    â€œThis is my job!” I insisted as more jagged bolts lit the night. “You’re a guest. You get inside!”
    â€œYeah, right. And leave you out here?” He rounded up the last of the arrangements and all but dragged me into the lodge. We set everything off to the side with the gift table.
    My breath labored from the scurrying around—and how close the lightning had struck.
    The guests remained dry, thankfully, and incredulous conversations over how fast and furious the tempest had hit were in full swing.
    Meghan hurried over, delicately holding up the hem of her gown. “Ari, you’re drenched!”
    She dropped one side of her fluffy skirt and snatched a clean linen napkin from a high-top table set up specifically in the event the rain didn’t hold off until dinnertime. She handed the napkin over and I dabbed at my cheeks and throat while my pulse raced.
    â€œYou were so right about the monsoons,” she said, contrite. “But at least we got through the ceremony and almost all of the reception. Everything’s just gorgeous, Ari!”
    â€œI’m glad it worked out—for the most part.”
    She waved her manicured hand in the air as she was prone to do. “It’s all fabulous. Exactly what I wanted. Well, with the exception of you getting soaked.”
    â€œIt was worth it. We salvaged just about all of the arrangements.”
    Meghan had asked me previously to make sure the florist returned for the bouquets at the end of the evening and distributed them to hospices and funeral homes to brighten someone else’s day. I thought that was a beautiful gesture.
    She leaned forward as though to hug me. My hand jerked up to ward her off.
    â€œDon’t you dare,” I hastily said, “or you’ll ruin your dress.” I wouldn’t have minded the friendly bit of affection coming from her but I feared spoiling her gown. “You need to get upstairs so