Hannah was somewhat surprised that a perfectionist such as Dawn wasn’t worried that her dress might end up smelling of smoke. But, Hannah supposed, if everything smelled like nicotine, it didn’t really matter. It was a universal perfume, and only Hannah seemed to be bothered by its scent.

Dawn took a last drag from her depleted cigarette, prompting Hannah to lean back in anticipation of the smoky aftermath. Even in this expansive tower, with its high ceiling, Dawn’s fumes seemed omnipresent, revealing themselves in the form of baby clouds under the bright ceiling lights.

There were two large, connected rooms on the top floor of the country club tower where Hannah, Dawn, and the rest of Bee’s bridal party were readying themselves before the main event. The ceremony would take place outdoors, on the lawn, beside a white tent that was already set up for the reception. There was a plan B, in case of rain—a shorter ceremony in the club’s dining room—but it wouldn’t be necessary. It was a beautiful September day—still warm enough to go without a jacket.

The historic, brown-brick castle where the bridal party now primped was the oldest part of the country club, a members-only Annapolis institution that sat alongside the Chesapeake Bay, on more than one hundred acres of open space for golfing, skeet shooting, and whatever else wealthy people like to do on weekends. To Hannah, the neo-Gothic tower from which the Tower Gardens Country Club took its name looked as if it had been transported straight out of a fairy tale. Its tall cylindrical shape, sterile exterior, stained glass windows, and the view of the well-trimmed green below, where guests would soon be milling about, made Hannah feel like Rapunzel, which was appropriate, she thought to herself, because she was just as trapped. If this were a movie, Hannah thought, unable to shut off her casting-director’s brain, the locked-up bridesmaid version of her would be played by an imperfect yet likeable up-and-comer. Or better yet, an A-lister, but someone known for a good scowl. “Kristen Stewart,” Hannah had whispered to herself when she first peered out the window from her tower prison. Emily Blunt, she’d then decided, acknowledging that at twenty-nine she was probably too old to be played by anyone in a Twilight movie.

Dawn, as matron of honor, would be played by Reese Witherspoon. That was a no-brainer. Dawn’s cherubic face was framed by a bouncy blonde bob. She had a southern accent and sounded especially shrill when giving orders. Hannah wondered for a moment whether Reese Witherspoon would be open to smoking on screen.

Casting with an imaginary budget was Hannah’s favorite addiction. In real life she only had experience with indie films that paid the leads less than two hundred thousand dollars. The conservative budgets forced Hannah to get creative and to hunt for new talent, but she longed for the chance to cast a film that allowed her to hire the celebrities she’d developed crushes on over the years.