[Author’s Note #1: This is the sequel to Something Old, Something New — but you don’t actually need to read that story before you read this one.
Here’s all you really need to know: Dion is my not-technically-legally-adopted younger brother, and Pippa is his better half. The initial arc of our familial relationship is chronicled in Something Old, Something New, which ends with my becoming the couple’s wedding planner for the final hundred days of their engagement.
So, naturally, this post conveys the events of those jam-packed fourteen weeks.]
[Author’s Note #2: I had initially intended this piece to conclude with Dion and Pippa’s wedding, but that scope proved to be too much for a single installment. That grand finale will feature in a future post, instead. We’ll see how tardy that one ends up being….]
[Author’s Note #3: Curious whether Pippa and I remained friends? Check out La Tía y Sus Sobrinos Van al Zoo. (Spoiler alert: We did.)]
Act III
By Thursday morning, I decided that I must have imagined the whole thing. It was January 21st, and there was absolutely, positively no way that Dion and Pippa were hoping to get married on May 1st… especially not with my amateur planning.
Right?
Right!?
Wrong. A morning text from Dion confirmed that, indeed, they were planning on a May Day wedding.
I had a little over three months to pull together this huge event. If I did well, my brother and sister-in-law would be eternally grateful; if I did poorly, Pippa would probably never speak to me again.
So, no pressure.
I launched into triage mode. Before anything else could happen, Dion and Pippa needed to select a venue — because before that, we could move forward with little else: no invites, no caterer, no florist, etc.
Thus, I urged the couple to choose a venue — immediately.
Just pick The Manor House, I texted them. It’s still available the morning of May 1st, and it’s the perfect venue for you guys.
But, understandably, Dion and Pippa wanted to see a few additional options first. After filtering through hundreds of venues, I sent them my shortlist the next day — and I requested their decision by Monday.
On Monday, however, no decision was forthcoming. I was not pleased.
That evening, Taylor put Bo and Aza to bed so I could FaceTime the couple.
I opened with the facts. “If you were planning your wedding for a year out, you could take two months to decide on a venue — but we’re working with three months here.”
“Yeah, we know,” Pippa said.
“Then why haven’t you chosen a venue?” I countered. “We can’t do anything else until then!”
“Yes, we know,” Dion repeated. “We’re taking this very seriously — we just need a bit more time. Can we have another night?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, fine. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
We hung up, and I went back to staring at my computer. I was fighting a losing battle against frustration — and my pregnancy hormones certainly weren’t helping. I felt like I wasn’t being taken seriously: I had gone to all the work of drafting a short list, but apparently Dion and Pippa didn’t trust my judgment.
Well, you are a *pretend* wedding planner, my subconscious reminded me. So perhaps they’re wise not to trust you.
I looked again at the four options on our shared Google Document.
Except, suddenly, there were five options.
“Are you serious!?” I seethed. I immediately called Dion back and asked, “Um, I thought you guys didn’t want a barn wedding?”
“We don’t,” he answered.
“Then why did Pippa just add another venue to the shortlist?” I demanded. “A barn venue?”
“Oh… is that one a barn?” Pippa asked in the background.
“Yes, it is,” I bit out. “Which is exactly why I eliminated it as an option — last week.”
“Um….” Dion stalled. “Well, Pippa just wants to be sure that we’re not missing anything.”
I growled in annoyance. “Then what’s the point of my doing all of this work? Is the whole planning process going to be like this — where you don’t trust my judgment, and you just completely redo all my research?”
“No, it’s not that—” Dion started.
“Because that’s a waste of my time, and it’s a waste of your time as well,” I snapped. “So either *I* can be your wedding planner, or *you* can plan your own wedding. But we’re not gonna do this ‘double-wedding-planner’ game.”
Pippa murmured something in the background, and Dion said, “Yeah, copy that. Let’s talk tomorrow.”
And with that, I was once again alone with my frustrations.
My temper cooled overnight — but only slightly. I was still offended that Dion and Pippa were essentially wasting my time — asking me to help them, but then disdaining to trust that help.
Taylor tried to muster up some sympathy for me. “Yes, I get how you’re frustrated,” he said, “but try to see it from their angle, too. Weddings are always stressful to plan, and their tight timeline is making it even harder.”
“That is exactly my point!” I exploded. “You get a wedding planner to help de-burden the planning process — not to duplicate it!”
Taylor shrugged. “I think you’re more upset about this than you need to be. I’m pretty sure this will all end up working out.”
I groaned. “Yeah. Thanks.” Glancing at my phone, I noted, “Oh, and now I have a text from Dion. Can you do breakfast for Bo and Aza?”
Taylor: <grunts in assent>
I flopped back onto my bed to read Dion’s text.
Hey… I know we’re going to talk about wedding stuff tonight — so I ask that you give Pippa a little more grace when she seems indecisive. Yesterday was kinda overwhelming for her. She takes a bit longer to process these things and is really feeling the pressure of wedding planning.
As always, my brother was immaculately polite — but his message came through loud and clear. I had been so focused on how Pippa was making me feel that I had given little thought to how I was making her feel. By treating their wedding as a behind-schedule project, I conveyed that Dion and Pippa were little more to me than delinquent clients.
I squeezed shut my eyes against tears of shame. I finally recognized the severity of my error — an error that needed to be verbally dispelled.
“My relationship with Dion and Pippa is more important than getting their wedding exactly right,” I murmured to myself.
And I believed it, too. Now, I just had to act on that belief — starting with my response to Dion.
Yes, I’m sorry that I was pushy on the phone last night. I didn’t mean to be as rough as I was, and I will be more gentle tonight.
Things were better that evening: not because we made tangible progress, but because our communication was no longer adversarial. Suddenly, I wasn’t trying to drag Dion and Pippa into a decision for which they were not yet ready; instead, I was now their teammate, trying to determine the circumstances under which they would be ready.
It didn’t take long to realize that the couple couldn’t choose a venue sight-unseen — which posed a problem, because Pippa was still stationed at McConnell Air Force Base in Wichita. Dion, thankfully, was temporarily in southern Colorado for the first part of his pilot training program, and his weekends were free. Thus, accommodating for Pippa’s interstate travel, the only opportunity for these venue tours was President’s Day Weekend in mid-February — a little over two weeks away.
I was determined to leverage this long weekend to our logistical advantage, and Dion and Pippa agreed. Thus, it wouldn’t just be a venue-touring trip: it would be a wedding planning extravaganza. We’d kill three birds with one stone: venue selection, engagement pictures, and wedding dress shopping.
I spent the next several days aggregating dozens of wedding-related tasks into a massive spreadsheet. I was daunted by the sheer number of incomplete items — but it was reassuring to get them compiled, at least.
As the days ticked by, Dion and Pippa completed several venue-independent tasks: finalizing and digitizing their guest list, creating their wedding website, and hiring a photographer. For that last one, they selected Brenna Skattebo — much to my delight! (She’s the photographer who shot our pandemic-themed family photos, as featured in Something Old, Something New.)
They also worked to refine their wedding theme. Pippa initially sent me ten different color schemes — which was, needless to say, a bit overwhelming.
However, after I consolidated those many choices down to three general options, she settled on light pinks and purples, with accents of gold. They would lean heavily into a Colorado-esque vibe, starting with simple but elegant mountainous invitations.
Now, all we had to do was populate those invitations.
January gave way to February, and time was somehow duplicitous: simultaneously as viscous as molasses but as swift as a naughty toddler. I eagerly anticipated President’s Day Weekend — but I nevertheless had plenty to do. I cycled between wedding stuff, house stuff, and writing stuff.
And then, my life changed forever.
I miscarried my third child, Occidentalis, on February 7. It was a Sunday — the Sunday before our wedding planning extravaganza. Taylor stayed home on Monday, but he returned to work on Tuesday — the same day that Aza climbed out of her crib and onto her dresser. Then, on Thursday, our basement flooded with sewage.
To state it plainly: it was a really, really bad week for me. My tears constantly hovered just below the surface, and the slightest disturbance would trigger a deluge.
But, as I said in my miscarriage story, life doesn’t stop for grief — and neither does wedding planning.
I recognize that this sounds like a thinly-veiled humble brag: Oh, it was so tough, but I soldiered through.
In a very genuine sense, though, I felt that I could not renege on these preexisting commitments without surrendering a very core part of myself. I had already lost Occidentalis; I couldn’t also lose this vital aspect of my character. Plus, abandoning Dion and Pippa wouldn’t bring back my son — but it would muck up my wedding-related progress, and potentially my familial relationships, too. I cringed at the thought of forcing my brother and sister-in-law to navigate their wedding planning journey alone — or maybe with a last-minute, high-priced professional.
So, instead, I did what I had promised to do. I sent emails, and I made appointments, and I finalized our weekend plans.
And what plans they were!
On Saturday, Pippa would fly into Denver. Dion would pick her up from the airport, then pick me up from Golden, and drive us all to Littleton for our first venue tour. We’d then continue to Woodland Park for the second venue tour, followed by an engagement photo shoot. The next day, we’d go wedding dress shopping and suit shopping, then finish with a Valentine’s Day double-date. Pippa would fly home on Monday, the 15th — which, of course, was also Bo’s birthday. I would have just enough time that night to finish preparing for the MOPS baby shower I was cohosting on the 16th.
Again — no pressure, right?
Saturday morning found me unbearably anxious. I feared that, despite my best efforts, I would be irretrievably sad — like, sobbing hysterically on the venue tours, and unable to emerge from my own personal misery.
But then Dion and Pippa retrieved me from my house, and I discovered that the change of scenery and company was actually beneficial. Unlike my time at home, venue shopping didn’t continually remind me of my lost baby.
However, while I may not have been “irretrievably sad”, I was still unquenchably embarrassed. It just seemed beyond ludicrous for me to present myself as a “wedding planner” — because, though I may have been “planning a wedding”, I couldn’t arrogate to myself the actual professional title.
It was a subtle yet important distinction — to me, at least.
But not, apparently, to Dion. Throughout the weekend, he cavalierly introduced me as “my sister Holly, our wedding planner”.
The first time this happened — at the start of our first venue tour — I quickly amended, “No, I’m planning the wedding.”
My clarification didn’t have the desired effect: though I had intended to humbly disclaim authority, I instead just looked silly. The venue coordinator gave me an odd look, and Dion chuckled, “Uh, that’s what I said.”
I didn’t bother arguing. After all, my own insecurities were not the star of this venue tour; rather, the main attraction was The Manor House itself.
The stakes here were high. You’ll remember that this venue was my top pick for Dion and Pippa, and I wanted them to love it — because I genuinely believed that it was the best fit for all of their particular desires.
They wanted something private and mountainous; I recommended something accessible and nearby. They wanted something unique and beautiful; I urged functionality and comfort. They wanted a memorable event; I cautioned against a memorable price tag.
Against all odds, The Manor House met all of these criteria — so long as they were amenable to a morning wedding, which they were. Thus, I was eager for them to see and fall in love with the venue.
Somewhat to my chagrin, however, the venue coordinator, Greta, remained nearly affectless as she showed us around the property. I tried to compensate by enthusiastically highlighting the venue’s attributes: its views; its many different rooms; its in-house catering and bar service; its bride’s and groom’s areas; etc. Unfortunately, this plan partially backfired, as much of my knowledge was years out-of-date.
After our tour, Greta brought us to a sitting room to discuss logistics.
And here, finally, the truth came out.
“How do you know so much about this venue?” she asked me. “Have you worked with us before?”
I shifted uncomfortably. “Uh, yeah, in a manner of speaking. I actually had my own wedding here, almost five years ago. A lot’s changed since Covid, though.”
The coordinator’s eyebrow rose. “Oh, well, I’m glad that you had a good experience with us.”
Dion and Pippa, of course, already knew my history, but I still felt hopelessly embarrassed by the conversation. Turning to them, I admitted, “I may be a bit biased, but I really do think that this venue has everything you’re looking for.”
Greta agreed. “Yes, hopefully we do.”
The rest of our conversation centered around contractual stipulations — principally, Covid rules and scheduling. We once again expressed interest in the still-available May 1st morning time slot — but admitted that, given the proximity of the date and the complications of pandemic weddings, our plan might not actually be feasible.
“You’ll just have to keep me updated,” Greta concluded. “Do you have any other questions for me?”
“Yeah, I do,” Pippa answered. “So, we have to pay half the total cost as a down payment, right?”
“Yes.”
“Under what circumstances could we get that money back? Like if the Covid rules get more severe?”
“Oh, that’s a good question,” I commented. “I would assume so?”
But, the coordinator shook her head. “You’ll only get your down payment back if we have to cancel on you, completely. So if the county bans all gatherings, at all — then that would count. But it’s more likely that they’d put an upper limit on it — like fifty people, which it is right now. You can have more people at an outdoor ceremony, but then they can’t all come back inside after the ceremony.”
“I guess we’ll hope for good weather, then,” I muttered.
Dion smirked. “Yeah — just like today.”
Pippa concluded our tour with a FaceTime call to her mother, who had been unable to join us from Boston. Dion and I gave them their privacy, and they chatted for quite a while — much longer than I would have expected.
As we finally left The Manor House, Pippa enthused, “Holly, I really love that you complimented me in there.”
“Huh?” I asked. I was startled — both by the sincerity of her comment, and by the fact that I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Inside! When you said that my question was good.”
“Oh!” I remembered. “Uh, well, I just thought you made a salient point.”
Pippa beamed. “It’s the first time I can remember you complimenting me. It really sweetened my tea.”
Dion burst into laughter. “It really sweetened your tea!?”
I, meanwhile, grimaced in shame. “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I’m that awful. Really? That was enough to sweeten your tea? Am I truly so stingy with my praise?”
“Did it ‘butter your biscuit’, too?” Dion guffawed.
Pippa ignored her fiancé and responded, “Well, I always remember that one time when you were like, ‘Yeah, Pippa, I think you’re one of those people who shouldn’t sing out loud.’”
“Will I never live that down?” I groaned.
“Did it also ‘pour your beer’?” Dion crowed.
“Not helping, Dion!” I grumbled. “Let me just wither away in my remorse, alright?”
As we slid back into the car, Dion smirked, “Aw, don’t be so mopey. It really un-sweetens my tea.”
The weather continued to worsen as we journeyed south. After an hour’s drive, we made a quick pit stop at my parents’ house in northern Colorado Springs.
Just according to plan, Taylor had already arrived with Bo and Aza, having driven my car down from Golden that morning. Now, my big SUV waited for me to drive separately to a Woodland Park bed-and-breakfast lodge — our second potential venue. Since Dion and Pippa would be staying there overnight, I would need to make my own way back to my parents’ house that evening.
So, this was where things hit a little snag. When I had pictured driving my car up to Woodland Park, I hadn’t pictured it being so… snowy. Plus, while Woodland Park is nearby, it’s not, like, that nearby. I quailed at the thought of driving forty minutes each way — especially since my return trip would be in the dark.
“Will you come get me afterward?” I begged Taylor.
My snow-confident Minnesota man gave me a grimace that almost passed for a smile. “Uhhhhh…. sure, I can do that.”
Normally I wouldn’t have prevailed upon this generous concession — but I was absolutely desperate to avoid nighttime snow driving. If he was willing to come get me afterward, then I was perfectly content to ride with Dion and Pippa to the bed-and-breakfast lodge.
Or, at least, I was mostly content. Our trip became unexpectedly harrowing, especially at the end. I muttered a prayer as Dion cautiously navigated the snow-packed dirt road leading to our final destination. His car could barely climb the last hill — and only after two or three attempts. We were all relieved when we reached the bed-and-breakfast.
The owner and his wife greeted us cordially, then showed us around the lodge — which was still decorated for the holidays.
“I don’t love the decor,” Pippa commented quietly.
I laughed softly, then whispered. “Don’t worry — it’s not going to be Christmas-themed for your May wedding.”
“But what if it is?” she retorted. “It’s just… sooooooo Christmas-y.”
Indeed, even the couple’s suite was thematically on-point — complete with a faux Balsam fir. The lodge’s owner told us that, on clear days, the room’s south-facing window offered a beautiful view of Pikes Peak. Today, however, we could see only low-lying snow clouds.
I immediately began unloading my big bag of hair and makeup tools. “Alright Pippa,” I sighed. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
“Wait, I have to brush my teeth first!” she objected.
I anxiously checked the time as she freshened up in the bathroom. Our drive had taken longer than expected, and we were only an hour from the nominal start of their engagement shoot.
For someone with normal hair, an hour would have been sufficient. For Pippa, however, I was not optimistic. I was forcibly reminded of our Ring Dance hairstyling debacle.
And now, here we were again — and once more, I had insufficient time to beat Pippa’s hair into submission.
I got started immediately, but seemingly no amount of hair spray or repeated curling could overcome the humid conditions. (Recall that it was still snowing.) Pippa’s locks fell in barely twisted waves as, somewhere behind the snow clouds, the sun dashed toward the horizon.
And that’s when Brenna arrived.
I was glad to see her, for multiple reasons. Brenna and I have known each other since we took Honors Chemistry together in 2009. We both left Colorado, then came back, then married tall handsome men. She’s always impressed me with her calm but forceful enthusiasm and kindness, and I was grateful for the opportunity to reconnect once she began pursuing professional photography.
But, while I was glad to see Brenna, I was also terribly mortified by the situation. I had assured her that I’d keep the couple on-schedule for their engagement shoot — but instead, I had only succeeded in giving Pippa some haphazard waves.
Noting that we were racing against the clock, Brenna took over hair-curling, leaving me to hastily (but effectively!) apply Pippa’s makeup. After thirty minutes or so, Pippa’s hair was sorta-kinda-mostly curled, and her makeup was complete.
“I think my eyebrows look a little dark,” she noted.
“Your eyebrows are fine,” I snapped. “They’ll photograph great.”
“Yeah, we really need to go,” Brenna said. “We’re losing the light pretty quickly.”
We all looked at the dreary scene outside, and I grimaced at the thought of once again riding around in Dion’s little sedan.
Brenna seemed to read my mind. “Why don’t we all go in my SUV?”
So we all piled in and drove to a nearby field — Brenna’s recommended photo shoot location.
For the next hour, she gamely kept up a cheery series of commands: “Stand behind him and smell his ear. Ok, now turn towards her. Now walk towards me — and it’s going to feel ridiculous, but pick your feet up really high. I promise it will look good, even if it feels weird.”
Brenna let me pretend to be her styling assistant — fixing Pippa’s hair, adjusting Dion’s hat, etc. I think I was probably more of a hindrance than a help, but Brenna was too sweet to say.
Eventually, the failing light put a firm end to the photo shoot — and by then, Dion and Pippa were more than ready to be done. Shivering, we all climbed back into Brenna’s car, and she drove us back to the bed-and-breakfast.
Timidly, I asked whether she would drive me back to Colorado Springs, too — you know, since she was already going that way, anyway. She graciously agreed, and we had a really lovely ride back down the hill.
That is, until we arrived at her apartment and saw a police car idling outside.
Brenna’s eyes widened. “Uh, I have no idea what this is about.”
I couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Ha! Don’t worry. It’s just Taylor. We drive an old police SUV.”
She visibly relaxed. “Oh, that’s a relief.”
As I gathered up my belongings, I gushed, “Thank you again, so much. I really appreciate your generosity.”
Brenna smiled. “Anytime! I appreciated the company.”
“You’re sweet. I’ll see you in May!”
I clambered into my beat-up SUV, and we drove into the snow-filled night.
Act IV
The rest of that weekend passed in a blur: wedding dress shopping for the girls, suit shopping for the boys, and a double-date to finish things out. Dion and Pippa left Monday morning, and I returned to Golden to finish some last-minute preparations for Tuesday’s joint baby shower.
I had been waiting until after this shower to announce my pregnancy at MOPS. After all, I hadn’t wanted to steal the spotlight from the four honorees, nor suggest that I wanted to join them at the last minute. Unfortunately, this decision meant that my pregnancy — and miscarriage — went largely unknown until months later. I was happy to celebrate the new life in our MOPS group, but still devastated by my own loss.
Back in the realm of weddings, though, there was some good news: Dion and Pippa had selected a venue!
By this point, I was sure that the couple would choose the bed-and-breakfast. Not only were its Covid regulations extremely lenient, but the lodge would also allow for a much more relaxed wedding schedule. It was obviously Dion’s choice — and Pippa’s internal machinations remained inscrutable to me.
To my surprise and delight, however, they had selected The Manor House! Apparently, Pippa had greatly preferred its ambience and location. (And, to be honest, I think she was still a little scared of the lodge’s Christmas decor.)
Regardless of their choice, I was beyond relieved to finally have a chosen venue. Now, the planning could really begin, and not a moment too soon. The couple immediately ordered and sent out their invitations.
I, on the other hand, got to work sifting through options for the vendors we still needed: caterer, cake baker, musician/DJ, hair-and-makeup artist, officiant, and florist.
This time around, our wedding planning decisions were much more cooperative. I generated a short list; Dion and Pippa chose the final winner. I had feared that each decision would trigger another round of second-guessing my judgment — but thankfully, those fears proved to be unfounded! The couple trusted my suggestions, and I gave them ample (ish) time to make their selections.
Out of my recommended cake options, Dion and Pippa selected a Littleton-based independent baker.
They wanted live music for their ceremony, so of course I recommended Diamond Empire Band — who had also done live music for my ceremony. To stay within their overall budget, however, they decided to use Spotify and a rented sound system for their reception music.
Selecting a caterer, at least, was easy: The Manor House does in-house catering, so there was only one option.
Hair and makeup would be done by Pippa’s aunt, so that was another easy choice.
Officiant selection, though, was a bit more tricky. The couple’s first choice didn’t pan out — and neither did their second, or their third. We were at the point where our only remaining candidate was one of our other brothers— who was nineteen at the time, and unmarried. (He’s great — just, not a great officiant.)
This was an unexpected problem. Taylor and I had been married by our pastor, but that wasn’t an option here.
Surely other couples deal with this, I thought — and as it turns out, they do! A quick search turned up a professional officiant who, though a bit pricey, was an excellent fit.
Knocking out these tasks was thrilling. A wave of green slowly overtook the red of my planning spreadsheet, and I finally began to believe it: we were going to pull this off.
I was still totally overwhelmed and anxious, but I started to feel something else, too. It took a while for me to pin down the emotion as “anticipation”: anticipation for the chance to do this again — and even better, next time.
But first, to finish planning this wedding — and to make sure that we had a florist.
It didn’t seem like it would be that hard. I’d found good vendors for all the other tasks — surely flowers would be no different.
But, I had underestimated the scope of this herculean hurdle. One does not simply choose a wedding florist.
Basically, the challenge boiled down to this: Pippa wanted to get flowers, but Dion wanted to save money. They gave me a conservative budget and a glorious vision, then set me loose.
I interviewed a half-dozen florists, all of whom gently informed me that the couple’s budget was unable to produce their desired results. I remember laying in bed and praying for a deus ex machina — an unexpected miracle that would result in more flowers for less money.
I looked into ordering extra flowers from Fifty Flowers or Flower Moxie. Both of those options, however, were time- and labor-intensive — and also still potentially over-budget. I planted dahlias, although there was no chance they would bloom in time. I confirmed that permanent botanicals (aka “faux florals”) were also over-budget. I even emailed Greta, our venue coordinator, to ask for help. Might any of the late-April Manor House brides be willing to give us their leftover wedding flowers? (Not surprisingly, she said that she didn’t know — nor would she ask on our behalf.) Similar efforts on Nextdoor yielded the same lackluster results.
Thus, I eventually had to deliver the bad news to Dion and Pippa: either Dion’s budget had to increase, or Pippa’s expectations had to decrease.
Long story short: Pippa won. Come hell or high water, we were going to have a round arch of flowers — one just like this. My job was simply to make it happen.
With that concession made, we were finally ready to select a Denver-based florist — until an unexpected phone call totally derailed our decision.
It was, in fact, on the day featured in There’s No Dragon Like Snow Dragon. Bo and Aza were napping, and I was working feverishly on the sculpture — so when I answered the unknown caller, I wasn’t really in the mood to talk. That feeling only intensified when the florist opened with, “So, there’s no chance that I could do this wedding for this price. I don’t even want to go through the work of quoting it out, because I know there’s no way.”
My cheeks burned with embarrassment. (And also from the exertion of moving around so much snow.) By this point, I knew how foolish I had looked in shopping around our imbalanced budget-vs-expectations combo: I didn’t need to be told again. I ought to have better done my research before giving Pippa and Dion such unrealistic [albeit cautious] hope.
So, eager to end the call, I gushed, “I know, I’m so sorry to have wasted your time. I really appreciate your call, and I understand that a florist of your caliber simply can’t justify doing this job — especially with the floral arch.”
My intention had been to mollify the florist and send her on her way — but to my surprise, my attempt produced the opposite effect.
“Well, let me look at it again,” she hedged. “Who else are you considering?”
Reluctantly, I told her the other florists on our shortlist.
“But I’m the best,” she stately flatly.
I laughed, then honestly replied, “Yes, I know that — but you’ve just told me that we can’t afford you.”
“Hmm… well, let’s just quote it out really quick, like back-of-the-envelope.”
And so, for the next thirty minutes, I remained on the phone with the florist, whom I could hear was using an old-school adding machine. Click click click, ca-chink! Click click click, ca-chink!
Meanwhile, I tried to continue working on the dragon — without working up a sweat. I hardly wanted to explain my heavy breathing to the florist. Oh, me? I’m just making a big ol’ snow dragon! You wanna come help me with that, too?
As she quoted out Dion and Pippa’s wedding, the florist asked every conceivable question.
“What flowers does the bride like? Dahlias? Ha! Those are way out of your budget. But I’ll use mums that *look* like dahlias. And ranunculi are in season, at least, so I can get her some of those.”
“What time are you setting up? And tearing down? Ok, well I could manage set-up, but I couldn’t *possibly* help with strike. We’re very busy, you know, and this is super last-minute.”
“Hm… you’re very thorough. What company did you say you worked with? Oh, you’re independent? You should get a business name. People will remember it better.”
“Does the Manor House have a round arch? Oh, *you’re* bringing the arch? That seems like a bad idea.”
Indeed, it did seem like a bad idea.
Pippa was wholly unsatisfied with the rectangular option offered by her venue, so Dion instead purchased a round arch kit from Amazon and sent it directly to my house. Even knowing this, I was somehow still shocked when it arrived on my doorstep in a laptop-sized box. “Some assembly required”, indeed.
[Note: Tellingly, I can no longer find this particular floral arch — but it was basically a lower-quality version of this one.]
The main issue, however, wasn’t that the floral arch required some elbow grease — it was that each nut in the kit required re-tapping, because they had all been squashed by the construction process. That, in turn, warped the internal threads, which prevented the bolts from slotting into any of the nuts. In short, the floral arch was unusable without a tap — which, thankfully, Taylor was able to borrow from work.
Anyway, after he fixed each nut, I spray-painted all the components gold to match the rest of the wedding. We had assembled the arch to verify that it actually worked — but while it was functional, it wasn’t exactly sturdy.
The florist wasn’t happy about this plan — but she eventually consented.
“A brushed gold? Well, *that* will be nice, at least — even if the construction quality *isn’t*. I’ll bring extra sand bags to help stabilize it.”
Eventually, the florist settled on a number that was only a few hundred dollars greater than Dion’s [already enlarged] budget. I thanked her for her time and gratefully ended our call. That night, I updated the floral shortlist and sent it to Dion and Pippa for their final decision.
To my surprise, after looking at the florists’ quotes and portfolios, they picked the adding machine lady!
So, in the end, we had dramatically exceeded Dion’s budget — but I hoped that this florist would also exceed Pippa’s expectations.
It was now the beginning of April, and things were humming along smoothly. We had all of our vendors selected, and we’d be attending our final walkthrough on the 11th — since the couple would already be in Colorado for a friend’s wedding.
But then, I got another unexpected call — this time, a FaceTime call from Pippa.
She seemed… agitated, and I couldn’t immediately tell why. It appeared that she was in a hair salon — and I suddenly remembered that she had flown home to Boston for a pre-wedding girls’ weekend.
Sure enough, she introduced the hair stylist as her aunt — and then she asked, “Could you work with my aunt on my makeup?”
“What, like, right now?”
Pippa paused. “No, like, for the wedding.”
I felt my eyebrows shoot up. “You want me to do your wedding makeup.”
“Well, I mean, just, like, collaborate.”
My mind spun. I had already started scheduling my wedding-day responsibilities, and I could hardly imagine adding a pee break — let alone this.
I thought back to the only other time I had done wedding makeup — you know, when I made the bride late for her first look. (But only a little bit late!) Or, what about when I made Pippa miss her pre-Ring-Dance photos? (But not Ring Dance itself!) Or what about when I made her late to her engagement pictures? (But irretrievably late!)
In short: my doing Pippa’s wedding makeup seemed like an immensely bad idea.
“Uhhhhhhhhh….” I stalled.
“Please?” peeped Pippa.
“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh….”
“Pleeeeease?”
“Pippaaaaaaaaaaa!”
“Pleeeeeeeeeeeease!?”
“What about your eyebrows?”
“My eyebrows will be fine. Pleeeeease?”
“Don’t you want someone else, instead?”
“No, I want youuuuuuu!”
I squeezed my eyes shut in defeat, then relented, “I — ugh, ok, I’ll find a way to make it work.”
“Thank youuuuuuu!” Pippa beamed.
I rolled my eyes — and then I started praying.
Amazingly, God answered my prayer almost right away.
It was the day before my birthday, and one of my Life Group friends sent a message to our girls’ GroupMe.
Now, it wasn’t immediately obvious that this was an answer to my prayer. In fact, it seemed quite the opposite! Rosie’s message radiated despair — especially in her work as a commissions-based realtor.
I love what I do and I love helping people and providing value, she wrote, but it’s so challenging to spend so much time on work with no immediate reward! Especially when it keeps me away from my son.
And suddenly, it was there in a flash: a potential solution to both of our problems.
So I immediately called her — but when she answered, I realized that I hadn’t really prepped for our conversation.
“Uh, hi Rosie!” I began.
“Hi Holly — what’s going on?”
I grimaced. “Um, well, I read your message, and I’m sorry that your realtor business has been so hard lately.”
“Thank you, that’s very sweet of you to say.”
Rosie sounded uncertain, so I tried to get to the point. “Um, so, I have a proposition for you.”
She paused, then asked, “What sort of proposition?”
Again, I silently excoriated myself for failing to prepare a mini-speech. So, I took a deep breath and blurted, “So, you love ‘love’. You love ‘love’ more than anyone else I know. You’re always excited whenever someone gets engaged, and you adore weddings.”
Rosie was silent for a few seconds. “Where are you going with this?”
“Well, my sister-in-law just asked me to do her wedding makeup, and I won’t be able to do that and also get their wedding set up. I was wondering if you would agree to be my assistant for their wedding, and I’ll pay you for your time.”
Rosie didn’t immediately respond, so I rushed ahead. “And I think you’re really going to be good at it, too — and that you’ll even love it. You’ll be an awesome wedding planner because you’re so great with people, and you’re so determined to provide value. So after this wedding — if it goes well — then… well, then maybe you’d want to do this with me, again. Maybe… maybe we could be wedding planners together.”
Rosie was quiet again, and I could tell that she was trying to devise a diplomatic response. Eventually, she said, “I appreciate you thinking of me, and I would be happy to help you with your brother’s wedding. I don’t think I’m going to become a wedding planner, though. I’ve already spent all this time growing my real estate business, and I don’t want to start over with weddings.”
I took a deep breath. This was a partial win, at least: she had agreed to help with Pippa and Dion’s wedding.
Even so, I thought that she shouldn’t be so quick to quash my idea of continuing to pursue wedding work. I gently pushed back against her opposition.
“I know that real estate is very important to you — and that you’re good at it, too. But, the market is insane right now — so while you’re still providing lots of value, you’re not always compensated for that value. I’m not saying that you’ll be a wedding planner forever — just that this would be an opportunity for you to continue developing your interpersonal skillset while having a better guarantee of getting paid.”
“I’m not sure there’s actually much money in wedding planning.”
I scoffed. “Look — I’m doing this wedding for free because it’s my first one and because it’s for my brother. But that’s not typical, at all. Like, for our wedding planner? We met her once to make sure that she wasn’t an axe-murderer, and then we gave her five thousand dollars.”
And with that, our conversation took a complete one-eighty.
“Really?” Rosie marveled. “And is that, like, normal?”
“I think so,” I said. “She was definitely higher-end, but far from the most expensive option. All I’m saying is that there’s definitely money in wedding work. I understand that you’ll need to pray and talk to your husband about it — but let’s chat about this again?”
“Yes, for sure. You’ve given me a lot to think about! And you’ll let me know specifically what I’ll need to do? You know, for Dion and Pippa’s wedding?”
“Absolutely, I’ll get you a checklist!”
“Thanks Holly. I’m excited!”
“I’m excited too!” I answered honestly. “I’ll see you at Life Group!”
“See you then!”
And with that, my wedding planning team doubled in size.
That Saturday, I met Dion and Pippa at my parents’ house in Colorado Springs. The couple would be attending a morning wedding, and it was the perfect opportunity to test-run Pippa’s bridal makeup. The whole situation felt eerily reminiscent of the time I did her hair and makeup for Ring Dance.
This time, at least, I knew to ditch the curling iron. After twisting Pippa’s hair into a fancy bun, I began the “official” makeup trial. This was the third time I had done her makeup — but the first time I actually asked what she thought.
“Out of these two foundation colors, which would you choose?”
“I actually like my own foundation — right here.”
“Ok, what about these eye shadows?”
“Uh, maybe this one?”
“And false lashes — yes or no?”
“Let’s try them.”
My choice of false lashes — the magnetic kind — did not work for Pippa.
“Get them off, get them off, get them off!”
So, we went with her natural lashes, instead.
“But we’ll have to do false ones for the actual wedding,” I cautioned. “We’ll just use one of the glue-on pairs, instead. Are you sure you don’t want to try them right now?”
Pippa glanced at the clock. “I don’t think we have time this morning. You’ll be fine without practicing, right?”
I grimaced. “Uh, probably? We’ll see, I guess.”
“Great, I’m glad you’re so optimistic.”
“Just doing my job!” I said cheerily. “Ok, you’re done — so here, look in the mirror and tell me what you think.”
“My eyebrows are too dark.”
“Your eyebrows are not too dark!”
“They are!”
“They match your hair exactly!”
“I don’t like them.”
I wiped the excess powder from her brows. “Is that better?”
<glances in mirror> “No.”
I used a damp paper towel this time. “Now?”
Pippa sighed. “Yeah, I guess that’s tolerable.”
I groaned. “It’s not too late to hire someone else!”
Dion laughed. “You look great, babe. Let’s go! We’re gonna be late.”
Dion and Pippa returned a few hours later, sunburned and disgruntled.
“How was the wedding!?” I asked.
“We played ‘Hangman’ during the reception,” Pippa said. “So that should tell you how it went.”
“Yeah, it sucked,” Dion summarized.
My stomach churned. It was a reminder that, in exactly three weeks, Dion and Pippa’s friends would be passing judgment on their wedding.
“Well… what was so bad about it?” I asked timidly.
Pippa sighed. “Where do I even begin.”
“It started late,” Dion prompted.
“It started late!” Pippa echoed.
“Plenty of weddings start late!” I countered.
“Almost an hour late.”
I cringed. “Ok, that’s pretty bad.”
“Well, it was because the photographer thought the wedding was tomorrow,” Dion added.
My jaw dropped open. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah, so we were just waiting around for the photographer to show up.”
I blew out a long breath. “Wow. Well, at least we know that won’t happen with our photographer.”
Dion and Pippa nodded appreciatively. Brenna had very proactively confirmed the time, date, and location of their wedding — and barring an accident or act of God, she would be on time.
“And then they took an hour and a half of pictures,” Pippa continued.
“What, like, during cocktail hour?”
“Yep. And we could just see them the whole time, posing out there in the meadow.”
“Aaaaand… there was no alcohol.” Dion added.
I cringed even more. “Ooh, that makes for some really awkward dancing.”
“Oh, there was no dancing,” Pippa clarified. “Because they couldn’t get the sound system to work.”
“So it was just… like, quiet sitting?”
“No, some of her uncles formed an a cappella quartet.”
I choked on surprised laughter. “Actually?”
“Yeah, and they were unexpectedly good,” said Dion. “But it was still weird.”
“That sounds very… intimate.”
Pippa shrugged. “It was mostly a family wedding. We were at a little table of Air Force friends, and that’s why we ended up playing Hangman.”
I sighed. “Well, I guess if we can avoid that, at least, then your wedding will be a comparative success.”
Pippa and Dion stayed at my parents’ house that night, while I returned home to cram for Sunday’s exam: the final walkthrough.
I tried talking myself out of being so anxious. After all, I knew this wedding forward and backward. It had been my primary occupation for the past two-and-a-half months, and no decision had been made without my knowledge and/or input.
Even still, I feared looking stupid. What if Greta asked us a question, but I didn’t know the answer? Or even worse — what if my answer was completely asinine? What if she laughed — not with me, but at me? Maybe this was the moment that my charade would come crashing down around me.
Ha! You’re not a *real* wedding planner, and this wedding will suck.
Unfortunately, there was little I could do at this point. There’s only so much that you can cram for an exam.
And so, Sunday morning, I looked in the mirror and tried to project confidence. Fake it till you make it! I sent Taylor off to church with Bo and Aza, then drove to meet Dion and Pippa at their venue.
Greta was waiting for us when we walked inside. It felt for all the world like an interview — where I was the candidate, and Dion and Pippa were hopeful onlookers.
We had completed the required paperwork: namely, the vendor list and the ceremony order. Plus, I had prepared all sorts of other info: current guest count, reception order, photography shot list, etc. If anything, I wanted to be over-prepared.
And, amazingly, it worked! Well, for the most part.
We were there for about forty minutes — answering questions, sharing plans, and selecting linens. We didn’t know several answers (but not major answers), and we had to change several plans (but not major plans). Overall, though, I felt increasingly confident about our preparations — like even though we were less than three weeks out, we were somehow till on-schedule.
Eventually, Greta closed her notebook and said, “Well, that’s all the information that I need from you! Do you have any questions for me?”
I exchanged relieved glances with Dion and Pippa. We had passed the test!
Turning back to Greta, I answered, “Yes — you mentioned that we can bring items to the rehearsal and then store them here until the wedding. Could we bring the floral arch that we’ll be using?”
“No, we don’t have enough space for that.”
I held back a frustrated sigh, then forced a smile and asked, “Well, can we see the storage area, at least? So that we’ll know how much we can fit?”
The venue coordinator showed us a tiny set of closets, already crammed full with chairs, linens, and other couples’ wedding stuff. I suspected that we would encounter a similar lack of space when it came time for our rehearsal.
“Well, at least we don’t have a ton of decorations,” I sighed. “We’ll just plan to bring most of our stuff the morning of, and I guess the floral arch will hang in my spare room until then.”
Dion gave my shoulders a firm squeeze. “Thanks Sis! You’re the GOAT.”
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t hold back a grin.
Greta walked us to the exit and gave us an approving nod. “Ok, let’s touch base soon about those final details. I’ll keep an eye out for your email.”
“Thanks Greta!” I said. “We’ll see you on April 30th!”
She answered with an uncharacteristic grin. “I look forward to it!”
Dion, Pippa, and I walked together to the parking lot. Our goodbyes were equal parts sad, excited, and nervous.
… because the next time we saw each other, it would be for their wedding.