Page 281 of Wild Card 13

His gaze dropped briefly to Dottie, sleeping with total faith beside my desk, then returned to me. “It gets strange when the building quiets down.”

The next morning,Vivienne Hart arrived at the arena with a leather folio, perfect hair, and the focused calm of a woman who could make a thunderstorm sign a nondisclosure agreement.

Bea waddled beside her in a soft green dress, one hand resting on the top of her belly, the other holding an iced tea Alois had clearly insisted she bring because the cup had a sticky note on it that said DRINK in blocky handwriting. “This is not necessary,” Bea said, peeling the note off as she came into my office.

Vivienne glanced at the cup. “Hydration is always necessary.”

“See?” I snickered.

Bea pointed at me. “Do not side with the professionals.”

“I always side with women carrying folios. They know things.”

Vivienne gave me a small, approving smile. “Lucy Thomas?”

“Yes.”

“Vivienne Hart.”

We shook hands. Her grip was cool and precise. She looked around my office once, taking in the desk, the dog, the lamp, the paperwork, and somehow making me feel like she had also assessed every weak point in the arena’s emergency evacuation plan.

“Your father said you understand logistics,” she said.

“My father says many things when he wants me to inherit problems.”

“Excellent. Then you’ll be useful.”

Bea groaned and lowered herself into the chair across from my desk. “I miss when people pretended I was the boss of my own wedding.”

“You are the boss,” Vivienne said. “That is why everyone else is doing the lifting.”

“That sounds like something Lo would say.”

“Lo and I agree on many things.”

“Terrifying,” I said.

“Deeply,” Bea agreed.

The meeting lasted twenty minutes and somehow covered transportation timing, photo flow, floral delivery access, guest arrival spacing, conservatory humidity, backup umbrellas, seating for Bea during every possible pause, and a firm reminder that no hockey player was permitted to “just move” anything inside the Sunken Garden without direction.

“Why do I feel like that rule has Alois’s name on it?” I asked.

Bea looked at her iced tea. “Because Alois has strong feelings about everything, apparently.”

Vivienne made a note. “I have assigned him jobs that cannot damage the layout.”

“That is wise.”

“He will escort Bobby, stand where I tell him, marry you, and not touch a single urn.”

Bea’s expression softened at Bobby’s name before she could hide it.

There was so much love gathering around that wedding. Not perfect love. Not simple love. But sturdy love. The kind with assigned transportation schedules and hydration notes and men who would rather fight furniture than admit they were afraid of failing the people they loved.

For a second, I saw Bea and Alois in the Sunken Garden as clearly as if I were already there. Greenhouse light. Flowers climbing toward glass. Rafa watching his daughter. Lo crying gracefully and denying it. My dad pretending not to. Alois standing tall and still and completely undone by the woman walking toward him.

A life being chosen in public.