by Linda Howard
“Consider me comforted.” Peach took a bite of her doughnut, delicately licking the chocolate that oozed out. “But I’m going to be cremated, so you’d better toast me before I’m toasted, if you want to keep to that stiff, cold idea.”
“You are not.”
“Are not what?”
“Going to be cremated. You’ve told me you want a lavish funeral with all your ex-lovers weeping over your beautiful body as you lie there in the casket, which, by the way, you said you wanted festooned with white lilies, though I think festooning is in poor taste for a funeral, with a bagpiper piping away and white horses pulling your gun-wagon thingie to the cemetery. You can’t be beautiful in a casket and be cremated. They’re kind of mutually exclusive.”
“You don’t get a gun carriage,” Jaclyn said. “Heads of state get gun carriages. Think of the traffic nightmare. I’m pretty sure you’d have to have permission from the governor.”
“Well, rain on my parade, why don’t you?” Peach grumbled. “You’d think the one time a person could have everything she wanted was at her own damn funeral. At least play the songs I want, okay?”
“Sure,” Madelyn agreed, “as long as it isn’t ‘You Picked a Fine Time to Leave Me, Lucille.’”
“Spoilsport. Okay, how about Floyd Cramer’s ‘Last Date’? Get it? Because it will be.”
“You’re sick. Just sick. You won’t be here anyway, so what do you care? I’ll give you a perfectly lovely funeral, in keeping with Premier’s reputation and standards.”
“You’re turning my funeral into an event? I don’t know whether to be flattered or pissed that you’d use my death to promote the business.”
“Oh, honey, I promise you, your funeral will be an event. I’ll just have to make sure it’s a tasteful one.”
“Speaking of taste … Jaclyn, sweetheart, you do know your Saturday wedding is a rolling disaster, don’t you?”
Jaclyn looked up, her lips already twitching. “I began to get a glimmer of that when the bride insisted her eleven-month-old daughter, who isn’t the groom’s child by the way, be pulled down the aisle in a red wagon.” She couldn’t help laughing. The wedding was going to be hilarious, but as long as the couple was happy with the arrangements, her job was to make the wedding happen the way they wanted. Taste, or lack of it, wasn’t her call to make. “Diedra is thanking her lucky stars we have so much booked this week, so she can take one of the Saturday rehearsals instead of doing the wedding.”
“I’ll be so glad when this week is over,” Madelyn said, looking at the schedule on the board. Because they were so booked for the week, they weren’t trying to slot in any appointments; they had their hands full, since six weddings also meant six rehearsals. She rubbed her hands together. “Our bank account, however, is very happy. None of the checks bounced.”
“Glory hallelujah for that,” Jaclyn said wryly. “Now, if I can just get through all of today’s appointments with Carrie without anyone quitting, including me, the rest of the week will be smooth sailing in comparison.”
“Quit if you have to,” Madelyn said, her lips pressing together. “Don’t take any bullshit from her. The amount we’d have to repay would be well worth getting rid of her.”
Their contracts were prorated, so Premier got paid for the work they’d done to date. That protected them from being fired at the last minute and then refused payment because they hadn’t completed the job. Several times some frugal, or fraudulent—depending on how you looked at it—brides and/or mothers had tried that. Once they’d learned they couldn’t get the hefty fees repaid, every one of them had then decided that Premier’s services were just fine, after all.
“If we can just get past that magic point where she thinks she can change her mind and still have time to get what she wants done, I think we’ll be okay. Not happy, but okay.”
Madelyn rolled her eyes. “We’re already past that point.”
“Not in her mind. I’m hoping she reaches it this afternoon. She isn’t exactly reasonable, though,” she added in the understatement of the year, and possibly the decade. She wondered if maybe she could get Eric to come stand behind her, with that big gun visible in his holster—
—and just like that, boom, he was front and center in her thoughts so sharply that for a moment she physically felt him inside her. A warm flush swept over her body, and her face got hot. Swiftly she looked down, hiding her expression. She should not be having thoughts like this with her mother sitting right there, for God’s sake. She should be concentrating on the job and nothing else.
But how could she, really, just block him out as if the night hadn’t happened? She couldn’t compartmentalize her life like that. He was way outside her experience, and until she got an emotional and mental handle on how explosively fast things had happened between them, of course she’d think about him—even when she was trying her best not to.
If she could just get through this week, she’d have time to think about him.
The weather cleared as promised, with a breeze chasing the rain to the east and a nice blue sky following. That afternoon, Jaclyn found herself smiling, just a little, even though she was on her way to meet with Carrie and the poor vendors. The next few days were going to be hectic, but so far things were going smoothly. Wedding number one was relatively small and Madelyn shouldn’t have any trouble handling it on her own, unless there was an unforeseen problem. Unforeseen problems were par for the course, but they tried to be prepared for any contingency.
Lunch had been excellent, a take-out salad eaten at her desk. The phone hadn’t rung for a good twenty minutes, so she’d had time to eat in peace.
And now the sky was a clear blue, traffic was light, and her body hummed in contentment, as it had all day.
“Don’t think about him, don’t think about him,” she murmured to herself. She had to be on her toes for the next several days, until after the week’s final wedding; if she let herself get distracted she’d make mistakes, overlook details. In five days this crush of work would be behind her and she could decide … whatever she decided. He might not call. She thought he would, but who knew? Maybe he was special—the possibility of which scared the crap out of her even though it also made her feel excited and happy and on the brink of something important. If he did call, and he was special—She was doing it again, thinking about him despite her best efforts.
But there was nothing like dealing with Carrie to bring her back to reality with a resounding thud.
The reception hall was built like a Greek temple, with columns and urns and ivy climbing the walls. The building was about ten years old, and judging by how long it took to get a booking, it had been a wonderful investment for the owners. Carrie had insisted that her wedding be here and nowhere else, and had even pushed back her wedding date when the date she’d selected had already been booked. That was one time she hadn’t been able to throw a tantrum and get her way.
Because this was a weekday the spacious parking lot was far from full, but a few cars were parked near the side entrance. Jaclyn recognized Carrie’s car, and her smile quickly faded. Carrie had the unique ability to affect time, making a minute seem like an hour, and an hour seem like an eternity in hell. There were times when Jaclyn had wondered what the poor groom saw in the woman he was marrying, but in Carrie’s case she actually felt as if she should call the guy and tell him to run far and run fast.
As she grabbed her briefcase, slung her purse over her shoulder, and stepped out of the Jag, Jaclyn spotted Gretchen’s car. Her heart dropped. Gretchen wasn’t supposed to be here for another half hour; Jaclyn wouldn’t schedule any vendor to meet with a bridezilla without someone from Premier present to smooth the way. She’d bet the Jag that Carrie had called the dressmaker and changed the time of their meeting. This could not be good.
Jaclyn picked up her pace as she strode toward the side entrance, hoping she wasn’t too late. She’d taken six steps down the hallway when she found out she was much too late.
Gretchen turned a corner, all but running toward the parking lot and escape. Her face was red and she was clutching a short length of fabric in one hand. When she saw Jaclyn she skidded to a stop, her jaw clenching for a moment before she let loose.
“She could pay me a million dollars, and I wouldn’t remake her bridesmaids’ dresses. No amount of money is worth putting up with that bitch.” Gretchen was short and plump, fiftyish and attractive, bottle blond and always nicely dressed. She was also normally easygoing and smiling, but not today. “The bridesmaids can be naked, for all I care.”
Well, that was fairly definitive. Jaclyn took a deep breath. “What did she say?”
Gretchen blinked back tears. “Among other things, she said the quality of the work on the dresses is subpar, and I’m lucky she hasn’t fired me. Because my work is so shoddy, she can’t see why I won’t make the new gowns in the next two weeks, because I can’t possibly be that busy, not with so many competent seamstresses in the area.” Gretchen’s chin trembled, then she quickly firmed it. “She said she’d blackball me, that I’d never work on an important wedding again if I didn’t do exactly as she ordered.”
Jaclyn placed a calming hand on Gretchen’s arm and said in a low voice. “You know better than that. Don’t let her intimidate you. No one in her right mind will take a word she says seriously.”
“I hope you’re right.” Gretchen gained control of herself. “We’ll find out soon. No matter what, I’m out. Life’s too short to deal with people like her.”
Jaclyn had to agree, but she was going to do her best to hang in there. The groom’s family was a prominent one; his mother came from an old Georgia family with money up the wazoo, and his father was in state politics. If she could get through the next month, she’d be golden.
Still, if Carrie ever attempted to hire Premier to plan an event again, they would be much too busy. Even if they were destitute and twiddling their thumbs, they’d be too busy.
She found Carrie sitting in the main reception hall, claiming a chair near the single table that was set up for her meetings. The rest of the large room was empty, cavernous and open. The stage at the far end of the room was dark, deserted. The hardwood floor had recently been cleaned and shined to a sparkle, but without the usual arrangement of chairs and tables, it looked a little sad. When everything was in place, the linen-covered tables and fragrant flower arrangements, the hot buffet and cakes, the flickering candlelight casting a magic spell while music flowed over the room, this became the perfect place for a wedding reception.
Right now it just looked empty, but for a crushed fabric sample that had been tossed to the floor, a few feet away from the bride-to-be.
“You’re late,” Carrie snapped without bothering to look at Jaclyn.
One more month …
“I’m five minutes early,” Jaclyn said calmly. “Did you change the time of the meeting with Gretchen and neglect to tell me?”
At that, Carrie flicked her hard gaze upward. “I strongly suggest that you steer your clients away from that unreasonable woman. In fact, I insist—”
Jaclyn placed her briefcase on the table. “I always recommend Gretchen highly, and I’ll continue to do so.”
“She’s incompetent. Her work is shoddy.”
“If I were you, I’d be very careful about making statements like that. She could sue you for damages, and despite your connections, she’d win. She’s made dresses for some very important women in this town, in this state, and every one of them could come out on her side. And let me warn you: she has a lot of close friends in the same business. It’s almost like a guild, and she’s very well respected, especially in the Southeast. If you ever expect to have a gown custom made again, I’d suggest you let this one go. The bridesmaids’ gowns have already been made, they’re lovely, and now it’s time to move on.”
Carrie’s jaw tightened and for a moment Jaclyn thought she’d jump up and physically attack her. Carrie really didn’t like not getting her way. Oh, the poor vendors who were still to come. If she could have warned them away, she would have, but this roller coaster was already going downhill; all she could do was hold on.
Chapter Six
CARRIE STARED STONE-FACED AT THE TABLE BEFORE HER, which was littered with the remnants of samples: cake samples, the remnants of shrimp and scallop kabobs, beef kabobs, lamb kabobs, meatball kabobs. Meatballs. As if she’d ever allow anything so low class at her wedding. They’d been good, as far as that went, but a meatball was still a meatball, no matter how fancy the spices or what kind of meat was used. It could have been an exotic blend of eel and emu, for all she cared; it would still have been a meatball.
“Forget the meatballs,” she said curtly. “I don’t know what you were thinking, bringing them. This isn’t some tacky middle-class wedding where half the women are wearing black hosiery with white shoes.”
“The meatballs are my most requested item,” replied the caterer, a thin, almost masculine-looking woman with short, iron gray hair and a stern face. “But they are the most expensive, because they’re so difficult to make; most people opt for the more economical choices.”
It was all Carrie could do to keep from slapping the bitch. Belatedly she sneaked a glance at the price sheet to make certain the woman wasn’t lying to her, and it was right there in black on heavy cream paper: the meatballs were a third again more expensive than even the shrimp and scallop kabobs. And now she was stuck with the cheap choices, because there was no way she could back down; the only thing she could do was go with something even more expensive, in total, than the meatballs would have been.
“I want three different kinds: the scallops, the lamb, and the beef. That way my guests will have a real choice.”
She wasn’t worried about the money, anyway; Sean’s family was footing most of the bill, because no way could her own parents afford this kind of splash. They were contributing, of course; she refused to let her future mother-in-law think she was a freeloader. For the moment, they were on good terms, and Carrie intended to keep it that way for the time being. Later … who knew?
The caterer didn’t comment on Carrie’s choices, merely made notes, which irritated Carrie even more because the least the woman—and she used the term loosely—could do was say something like Excellent choice. Maybe she should tell the wedding planner to find a different caterer, but, really, Jaclyn was turning difficult about doing as she was told and she’d probably say something about all the really good caterers being booked months in advance.
She wanted to have the wedding of the year; she wanted to have the wedding that every other upcoming bride talked about, enviously, when planning her own wedding. It was frustrating that no one seemed to share her vision of something both stylish and exotic, outlandishly expensive but tasteful enough that no one made fun of her choices, and it was also damned frustrating that so many people seemed determined to let other people shine on the one day when only she was supposed to shine.
Take the bridesmaids’ dresses. Yes, she’d deliberately chosen a style just tacky enough that none of them would come even close to being attractive when posing beside her, but not so tacky that any of them would rebel—well, except for that bitch Taite, but she’d thrown a tantrum because of something else entirely, completely unrelated to the wedding. She would be taken care of when the wedding was over and Carrie had more time; in fact, the first steps of Taite’s comeuppance had already been taken, and Carrie couldn’t be more pleased with the results.
She enjoyed the different reactions she got from people when they found out just what they were up against when dealing with her. Most people were spineless wimps; they simply folded when faced with her greater will, which was fine with her; they were less trouble to deal with. And they amused her, seeing how they got upset, how their feelings were hurt, how they’d scramble to keep from upsetting her again.
The truth was, Carrie was almost never upset, because that would mean she cared. And she didn’t, at least not in any emotional wa
y. She cared about the image she projected, she cared that things were done the way she wanted them done. She wanted what she wanted, when she wanted it, but while her behavior might be over-the-top, inside she was cool and calculating, watching every reaction, judging the best way to get her way.
If Sean’s father won his election to the U.S. Senate, she was set for life. She had the money angle already taken care of, but an entrance to the D.C. social life was almost more than she could have hoped for. Once she was there, and entrenched, she might or might not keep Sean around, depending on the opportunities that came her way, but for right now he was just what she needed. And he was good-natured, which meant he was easy for her to manipulate.
Sean’s mother, Fayre (pronounced “Fair,” and wasn’t that as pretentious as all hell?) Maywell Johnston Dennison, used all four names just often enough to remind people that she was from the Johnston and Maywell families, before marrying Douglas Dennison and working to help his political star rise through local and state governments to now reach the national level. Mrs. Dennison was a calm woman, but Carrie didn’t underestimate her. She was the power behind the throne, the source of the money. Eventually Carrie would have to find a way to neutralize the woman, but for right now she was useful in other ways.
First, though, she had to get through all the annoyances this wedding was throwing at her. The table was too small for all the samples being presented; you’d think this place would be better prepared to accommodate her. The little table had gotten so crowded, she’d moved the wedding planner’s briefcase a while back, shoving it under the table. That briefcase wasn’t the only thing on the floor. Discarded ribbon and fabric samples had been dropped to the side, dismissed, unimportant. It wasn’t as if she was going to clean up the mess.
Overall, she was unhappy with everything, but the dress situation ate at her. When she’d first visualized the colors, pink sashes on the gray dresses had seemed so cool and stylish, but now she thought pink was more froufrou than sophisticated, and the line of gray just seemed dull. Bishop Delaney, the floral designer, hadn’t helped; he’d shrugged and said that his personal choice would have been dark gray dresses with bloodred flowers, but the pink sashes prevented that particular combination and now that the wretched dressmaker had simply quit, there was no way to get anyone else lined up in time to get the color of the sashes changed to teal, or even gray to match the dresses. Why couldn’t he have said something about the gray and red combination at the very beginning? Now she was stuck with the pink, and that made her so angry she wanted to take scissors and slash something, preferably Wretched Gretchen, the seamstress, but if Jaclyn didn’t fall in line soon she might make an acceptable substitute.
