By eight fifty-nine, Parker was dressed in a sharply tailored suit the color of ripe eggplants with a hint of frill on her crisp white shirt. She spent precisely fifty-five minutes answering e-mails, texts, and phone calls, refreshing notes in various client files, checking and confirming deliveries with subcontractors on upcoming events.

At the stroke of ten she walked down from her third-floor office for her first on-site appointment of the day.

She’d already researched the potential client. Bride, Deeanne Hagar, local artist whose dreamy fantasy work had been reproduced in posters and greeting cards. Groom, Wyatt Culpepper, landscape designer. Both came from old money—banking and real estate, respectively—and both were the youngest child of twice-divorced parents.

Minimal digging had netted her the data that the newly engaged couple had met at a greenfest, shared a fondness for bluegrass music, and loved to travel.

She had mined other nuggets from websites, Facebook, magazine and newspaper interviews, and friends of friends of friends, and had already decided on the overall approach of the initial tour, which would include the mothers of both.

She scanned areas as she did a quick pass-through on the main level, pleased with Emma’s romantic flower displays.

She popped into the family kitchen where, as expected, Mrs. Grady was putting the finishing touches on the coffee tray, the iced sun tea Parker had requested, and a platter of fresh fruit highlighted with Laurel’s tissue-thin butter cookies.

“Looks perfect, Mrs. G.”

“It’s ready when you are.”

“Let’s go ahead and set it up in the main parlor. If they want the tour straight off, maybe we’ll move it outside. It’s beautiful out.”

Parker moved in to help, but Mrs. Grady waved her off. “I’ve got it. I just put it together that I know the bride’s first step-mother.”

“Really?”

“Didn’t last long, did she?” Movements brisk, Mrs. Grady transferred the trays to a tea cart. “Never made the second wedding anniversary, if I remember right. Pretty woman, and sweet enough. Dim as a five-watt bulb, but good-hearted.” Mrs. Grady flicked her fingertips over the skirt of her bib apron.“She married again—some Spaniard—and moved to Barcelona.”

“I don’t know why I spend any time on the Internet, when I can just plug in to you.”

“If you had, I’d’ve told you Mac’s mother had a flirt with the bride’s daddy between wives two and three.”

“Linda? Not a surprise.”

“Well, we can all be grateful it didn’t take. I like the girl’s pictures,” she added as they rolled the cart toward the parlor.

“You’ve seen them?”

Mrs. Grady winked. “You’re not the only one who knows how to use the Internet. There’s the bell. Go on. Snag us another client.”

“That’s the plan.”

Parker’s first thought was the bride looked like the Hollywood version of a fantasy artist with her waist-length tumble of gilded red hair and almond-shaped green eyes. Her second was what a beautiful bride Deeanne would make, and on the heels of it, just how much she wanted a part of that.

“Good morning.Welcome to Vows. I’m Parker.”

“Brown, right?” Wyatt shot out a hand. “I just want to say I don’t know who designed your landscape, but they’re a genius. And I wish it had been me.”

“Thank you so much. Please come in.”

“My mother, Patricia Ferrell. Deeanne’s mom, Karen Bliss.”

“It’s lovely to meet all of you.” Parker took stock quickly.Wyatt took charge, but genially—and all three women let him. “Why don’t we have a seat in the parlor for a few minutes and get acquainted.”

But Deeanne was already wandering the spacious foyer, scanning the elegant staircase. “I thought it would be stuffy. I thought it would feel stuffy.” She turned back, her pretty summer skirt swaying.“I studied your website. Everything looked perfect, looked beautiful. But I thought, no, too perfect. I’m still not convinced it’s not too perfect, but it’s not stuffy. Not in the least.”

“What my daughter might’ve said in many fewer words, Ms. Brown, is you have a lovely home.”

“Parker,” she said, “and thank you, Mrs. Bliss. Coffee?” she invited. “Or iced sun tea?”

“Could we just look around first?” Deeanne asked her.“Especially outside, as Wyatt and I want an outdoor wedding.”

“Why don’t we start outside, then circle back through.You’re looking at next September,” Parker continued as she moved to the door leading to the side terrace.

“A year from now.That’s why we’re looking at this time, so we can see how the landscape, the gardens, the light all work.”

“We have several areas that can be utilized for outdoor weddings. The most popular, especially for larger events is the west terrace and pergola. But . . .”

“But?”Wyatt echoed as they strolled around the house.

“When I see the two of you, I picture something a little different. Something we do now and then. The pond,” she said as they rounded to the back.“The willows, the roll of the lawns. I see a flower-strewn arbor and white runners flowing like a river between the rows of chairs—white again, strung with flowers. All of that reflected in the water of the pond. Banquets of flowers everywhere—but not formal, more natural arrangements. Cottage garden flowers, but in mad abundance. My partner and our floral designer Emmaline is an artist.”

Deeanne’s eyes took on a gleam. “I loved what I saw of her work on the website.”

“You can speak with her directly if you decide to have your wedding with us, or even if you’re just considering it. I also see fairy lights glittering, candles flickering. Everything natural, organic—but sumptuous, sparkling. Titania’s bower. You’ll wear something flowing,” she said to Deeanne.“Something fairylike, with your hair down. No veil, but flowers in your hair.”

“Yes.You’re very good, aren’t you?”

“It’s what we do here.Tailor the day to reflect what you want most, what you are, individually and to each other. You don’t want formal, but soft and dreamy. Neither contemporary nor old-fashioned. You want you, and a bluegrass trio playing you down the aisle.”