Paulie and the Wedding Bell Grouch

Paulie and the Wedding Bell Grouch By J.D. Walker I’ve always loved weddings, ever since I discovered my parents’ wedding album at the age of five while I rummaged through Mom’s closet for a pair of shoes. I’d had a “date” with Ronnie, the little girl next door, and we liked to play dress up. The pretty dresses in the pictures, the handsome men in tuxes, and all those happy smiles made me long to be there, too. I wanted to be like the bride, floating down the aisle toward the man of my dreams. Everyone seemed to be over the moon. I thought to myself, that will be me one day, too. I just knew it would happen. So, as I grew older, I learned everything I could about that special day. I read books, magazines, and anything I could get my hands on. My family, as open-minded as they were about my “eccentricities,” as they were termed, didn’t know what to make of my obsession, but I suppose they figured it was better than becoming a serial killer. As if. I didn’t do blood. Naturally, as an adult, I ended up working in the field for well-known wedding planner Viola Tremaine, who was tough as nails and made bridezillas—male and female—weep. The waiting list for her exceptional talents was miles long, and her fees were worth the astronomical expense for a Tremaine extravaganza, whether big or small. I’ve worked for Viola over a ten-year stretch. I knew her every whim and cranky spot. She considered me her right hand, though she assured me I would never be able to replace her if I even dared to think of taking over someday. I readily agreed, since I wanted nothing to do with running a company. I preferred to be in assistant mode, always. Except in bed. I may be five-foot-ten and slender, but be ye not deceived. I was a top, and no one ever got anywhere near my tight ass. Okay, there’d been one man, up until a year ago. Funnily enough, it was Viola’s brother, Van Tremaine. Van absolutely despised anything to do with marriage or any kind of relationship that had the possibility of “forever” tacked onto it. How did I know this? We had slept together for years, but the minute I started hinting at making things permanent, his and his, shared housing and all that, he laughed in my face and told me that happily-ever-after was hogwash. Then he beat a hasty retreat. He’d never attended a wedding as far as I knew, and he was a staunch supporter of the freedom from entanglements of the matrimonial or partnering kind. It broke my heart that the one man I’d thought would be my forever guy, and the only one who’d ever had my ass, was also a wedding bell grouch. Or was that Grinch? Silly me. Thus, I left him to his devices as a one-night-stand Lothario and ignored him as much as possible if he so happened to be in the vicinity, which was fairly often since he was Viola’s head of finances, a partner in the company, and worked down the hall. I hadn’t given up on the idea of happily-ever-after, though that possibility dimmed daily. I was simply too busy to worry about it, despite having my heart broken by someone I’d thought was the one, on some level. Maybe my mother had been right: I was too quick to fall in love with happily-ever-after, rather than see the realities of things.