Dead Ringer

Dead Ringer: Chapter One

"Where are you?" I asked, holding my phone against my ear and carrying a pair of overstuffed canvas bags in my other hand. The hotel elevator had deposited me on the basement level of the W Hotel and I sidestepped cardboard boxes, bolts of gold sequined fabric, and bright orange buckets of flowers as I made my way to the ballroom.

"We're in the middle section about halfway down," Kate's voice crackled through the phone. The W Hotel sat right across from the White House, and I wondered if this had anything to do with the dodgy cell reception or if it was merely a basement issue.

The modern hotel had once been one of the oldest historic hotels in the city, the Hotel Washington, but after declining for many years, had been snapped up by a ritzy hotel group and refashioned into a sleek W Hotel. The classic lobby with brocade settees had been replaced by the Living Room with a black-and-white tile floor, a 360-degree bar that pumped out club music, and a virtual fireplace projected onto a flat screen. The rooftop, with its impressive open-air view of the White House and frequent sightings of the president's helicopter detail, had become a highly selective spot for cocktails, featuring willowy women in skimpy black dresses as gatekeepers. I never felt quite hip enough to be at the W.

"Okay, I'll see you in a second." I slipped my phone into the pocket of my jeans and shifted one of the heavy bags to my now-free hand. I stepped carefully down the staircase that led from the elevator bank to the ballroom level, avoiding the lighting crew on tall ladders at the bottom. Almost every inch of the floor was covered in boxes, crates, or tables yet to be unfolded.

"A bridal show is even more chaotic than a wedding," I muttered to myself as I snaked a path through the ballroom foyer. And as the owner of one of Washington DC's top wedding planning firms, I knew firsthand how chaotic weddings could be. I passed through the propped-open double doors to the ballroom and peered across the room, which had already been divided into thirds with panels of ivory fabric that reached from floor to ceiling. A pair of modern crystal chandeliers shaped like massive, glittering cones dominated the ceiling in the long rectangular space and drew my eyes away from the set-up clutter covering the dark carpet. I spotted my assistant's blond bob about halfway down the center, as promised. She waved at me with both hands and what appeared to be a to-go coffee in each one.

"I hope one of those is for me," I said to Kate, dropping the bags on the floor once I'd maneuvered across the room to reach her.

She held out a cup ringed in a brown cardboard holder. "The Annabelle Archer signature drink: a mocha with mint."

"You're the best." I took a sip and let the warmth and caffeine do their work. "But you know that not every person needs a signature drink." Sometimes the signature drinks and custom signage and personalized details that had taken over the wedding world were too much for me.

"Well, you've got one," she said. "And I've got doughnuts behind the bar."

"District Doughnuts?"

She grinned at me. "Yep. The cinnamon sugar ones."

My stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn't eaten breakfast yet. I glanced at the eight-foot-long gold bar with mercury glass panels set against the tall fabric wall. A white-framed mirror with our Wedding Belles logo painted in gold on the reflective surface hung in the middle of the drape.

"You're sure about the bar?" I asked as I ducked behind it to search for the box of doughnuts. Kate had convinced me that instead of a tablescape like all the other DC wedding planners would do for their display, we should have a bar. Even though I'd started Wedding Belles five years ago and was no longer considered the new kid on the block, I still wasn't completely comfortable being a trailblazer.