Private Scandals

their relationship.”
    From her seat at the head of the conference table, Deanna eyed Simon owlishly. “Thanks, I needed that.”
    “No, really.” He turned his chuckle into a cough. “I have this niece . . .”
    Margaret groaned and pushed her purple-framed glasses up her pug nose. “He’s always got a niece, or a nephew, or a cousin.”
    “Can I help it if I’ve got a big family?”
    “Children, children.” Hoping to restore order, Fran shook Kelsey’s rattle. “Let’s try to pretend we’re a dignified, organized group with a number-one show.”
    “We’re number one,” Jeff chanted, grinning as others picked up the rhythm. “We’re number one.”
    “And we want to stay there.” Laughing, Deanna held up both hands. “Okay, though it doesn’t do anything for my peace of mind, Simon’s got a good idea. How many couplesdo you figure break up sometime between the Will you and the I do ?”
    “Plenty,” Simon said with relish. “Take my niece—” He ignored the paper airplane Margaret sailed in his direction. “Really, they’d booked the church, the hall, found the caterer. All this time, according to my sister, they fought like tigers. The big blowup came over the bridesmaids’ dresses. They couldn’t agree on the color.”
    “They called off the wedding because of the bridesmaids’ dresses?” Deanna narrowed her eyes. “You’re making this up.”
    “Swear to God.” To prove it, Simon placed a hand on his heart. “She wanted seafoam, he wanted lavender. Of course, the flowers were a contributing cause. If you can’t agree on that, how can you agree on where to send your kids to college? Hey.” He brightened. “Maybe we can get them.”
    “We’ll keep it in mind.” Deanna jotted down notes. Among them was a warning to be flexible over colors. “I think the point here is that wedding preparations are stressful, and there are ways of lessening the tension. We’ll want an expert. Not a psychologist,” she said quickly, thinking of Marshall.
    “A wedding coordinator,” Jeff suggested, watching Deanna’s face for signs of approval or dismissal. “Somebody who orchestrates the whole business professionally. It is like a business,” he said, glancing around for confirmation. “Marriage.”
    “You betcha.” Fran tapped the rattle against the table. “A coordinator’s good. We could talk about staying within your means and expectations. How not to let your fantasies about perfection cloud the real issue.”
    “Cheap shot,” Deanna tossed back. “We could use the mother and father of the bride. Traditionally they’re in charge of the checkbook. What kind of strain is it personally and financially? And how do we decide, reasonably and happily, on invitations, the reception, the music, the flowers, the photographer? Do we have a buffet or a sit-down meal? What about centerpieces? The wedding party, decorations,the guest list?” The faintest hint of desperation crept into her voice. “Where the hell do you put out-of-town guests, and how is anyone supposed to put all this together in five months?”
    She lowered her head on her arms. “I think,” she said slowly, “we should elope.”
    “Hey, that’s good,” Simon piped up. “Alternatives to wedding stress. I had this cousin . . .”
    This time Margaret’s airplane hit him right between the eyes.
     
    Within weeks, Deanna’s organized desk was jumbled with sketches of bridal gowns, from the elaborately traditional to the funkily futuristic.
    Behind her, the same homely plastic tree Jeff had hauled into her office that first Christmas leaned precariously to starboard, overweighted by balls and garlands.
    Someone—Cassie, she assumed—had spritzed some pine-scented air freshener around. The cheery aroma made the fading dyed plastic boughs even more pathetic. And Deanna loved it.
    It was a tradition now, a superstition. She wouldn’t have replaced the ugly tree with the richest blue spruce in the city.
    “I can’t quite see saying ‘I do’ in something like this.” She held up a sketch for Fran’s perusal. The short, skinny dress was topped with a headpiece that resembled helicopter blades.
    “Well, after, Finn could give you a spin and the two of you could glide down the aisle. Now this one’s hot.” She held up a drawing; the elongated model was spread-legged in a bare-midriff mini with spike-heeled boots.
    “Only if I carry a whip instead of a bouquet.”
    “You’d get great press.” She