by Adrianne Lee
A WEDDING TO DIE FOR
ADRIANNE LEE
New York Boston
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Table of Contents
An Excerpt from Delectable
Newsletters
Copyright Page
In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
In loving memory of my kid sister, Paula Christine Pozzi. I will always remember your infectious laugh and the fun times we shared. Miss you, Polliwog.
Acknowledgments
THANK YOU:
Alex Logan—My amazing editor, the universe smiled on me the day we connected. I couldn’t ask for anyone better to work with. You smooth the rough edges from my manuscripts, ease my stress when life piles it on, and make me smile more than you know.
Karen Papandrew—My cheerleader. Thank you for being free for a pizza at the spur of the moment, for your honesty and your encouragement.
Brandi Maxwell—For being excited about this series in the planning stages and ever since.
Jami Davenport—For your friendship, your plotting advice, and your eagerness to read this book.
Gail Fortune—My fabulous agent. You are such a blessing.
CHAPTER ONE
The body came in on the noon tide just as the beach wedding reached a critical moment.
* * *
Three Days Before the Wedding
“Daryl Anne Blessing, you are the most wonderful maid of honor a bride could ask for,” sobbed my best friend Meg Reilly.
Tears poured from her eyes like spring runoff from Mount Rainier as Meg collapsed in my arms. I staggered back, almost falling down the steps of the motel cottage, shock rippling through me. The paramount duty of a maid of honor is to keep the bride emotionally calm. Until this moment, I thought I was doing that.
Until this moment, I would have agreed with her praise of my maid of honor prowess. My short, black hair and blue eyes—the colors of a dark, calm sea—define my penchant for planning, organizing, and keeping everything on an even keel, and are the perfect foil to Meg’s long fiery hair, flashing green eyes, and propensity for spur-of-the-moment chaos.
The sunny May day promised a warm afternoon, but at 7:00 a.m. in this small seaside town on Puget Sound, the temperature hovered around thirty-nine degrees. Meg was barefoot, her robe knee-length. I eased her out of the cold, damp morning air and back into the room that looked like a cheap Vegas wedding suite.
Possible causes for Meg’s meltdown ran through my mind as I shut the door. Wedding gown, shoes, veil—ordered, arrived, fitting later today. Check. Bridesmaid’s dresses, shoes, jewelry—all distributed. Check. My outfit. Check. Bridal shower—last weekend. Check. Bachelorette party. Tonight. Hmmm. Had the stripper canceled?
No. Wait. Meg said I was wonderful. That meant something else. Something… good? Then why the waterworks? “What’s happened?”
Meg released me, sniffling. “She’s coming.”
If Meg had stabbed me, I would have been less stunned. My heart sank. Of all things good I could imagine happening to, or for, my best friend, her coming to the wedding was not one of them. God knows, I had nothing to do with it. I’d tried every argument I could think of to talk Meg out of inviting her.
I foresaw nothing but disaster in this news. I couldn’t allow that. I had to minimize potential damage, but first I’d need more details, and as long as Meg was sobbing, I wouldn’t get any.
My gaze raced around the compact room, my vision bombarded by every possible honeymooning couple’s fantasy. Hearts and flowers and linked golden bands. Everywhere. I spied a box of tissues on the nightstand and handed one to Meg. I plastered on a smile. The maid of honor’s number one job is to keep the bride emotionally calm. That meant keeping my opinion to myself. “Why are you crying? This is happy news, right?”
Meg daubed at her watery, green eyes, shoved her mop of long, red curls from her splotched face, and offered me a wobbly smile. “I know you’re afraid she’ll hurt me again, but it felt wrong not to invite her. After all, she’s my mother.”
Who ran out on you and your dad when you were eleven! I was there. I’d witnessed the broken child struggling to understand why her mother didn’t want her. I hated that Meg struggled still with that sense of being unwanted that had shaped so many of her life choices.
I lost my dad the same year her mother left, and now a memory swept back. I’d escaped his funeral and its aftermath by stealing away to my favorite spot at the end of the dock. Seagulls cried overhead as though they shared my grief. Meg found me, sat down, and offered me candy and condolences. I’d thanked her, shared a long moment of silence, and then I’d turned to her and said, “You understand, don’t you?”
We were at that awkward age, little girls not quite preteens, naïve about so many things. And yet there lurked something in Meg’s eyes that was too wise for her years. “You mean ’cause we’ve both lost a parent? Yeah, it makes us the same.”
I’d taken her hand, glad of her friendship, but intent on correcting her perception. “Not exactly the same. Your mom can always come home.”
“No,” she’d said, dead certainty in the word. “She won’t. But if your dad could come back he would. He loved you.”
She’d been right about her mother. Tanya had never come home. Never phoned. Never written. But now the bitch was coming to her wedding? My heart wrenched. Even though I wanted to shout down the rafters, my best friend needed me to set aside my animosity and put a positive spin on this. I firmed up my smile, but not one supportive word choked from my constricted throat.
“Every girl wants her mother at her wedding,” Meg said, snuffling. “You’d want Susan at yours.”
Yes, but I wasn’t getting married. I wasn’t even dating. And my mom wasn’t a lying, cheating, family-deserting bitch on wheels. A widow for fifteen years, my mom still lived with her mother-in-law. My parental units put a premium on loyalty. As did I.
As did Meg.
I sighed inwardly. She needed my support now, not bawled out. I summoned courage. Fortitude. A best friend’s twin superpowers at times like these. “As long as you’re happy, Meg, I’m happy for you.”
“Really?” Her smile was crooked and instantly endearing.
“Pinkie swear.” We hooked little fingers as we’d been doing since grade school, then crossed our hearts to seal the deal.
“Now wash those eyes and get dressed, and do your makeup magic on that red nose. My body is craving caffeine and a stack of blueberry pancakes.”
She stopped the trek across the cabin toward the bathroom, a look of dread crinkling her face. “Not Cold Feet?”
Cold Feet Café is the best place in town to sit down with a cup of your favorite brew and contemplate whatever needs contemplating. It’s also Meg’s father’s business. I had another sinking feeling. “You didn’t tell your dad before you sent the invitation, did you?”
She bit her lower lip, hugging her bathrobe. “I know you said I should, but I thought he’d object.”
No shit, Sherlock. I suspected, though, she was mostly worried about hurting his feelings. That also worried me. Finn Reilly was the kind of big, strong guy who gave off the impression he could take on the world without blinking—unless you really looked at him and saw beyond the bluster. His quick smile never quite vanquished a dull pain in his eyes.
I had the niggling feeling some
thing bad was brewing, and it wasn’t coffee. “Okay, then, Jitters and a blueberry muffin.”
While Meg dressed and fixed her hair and makeup, I sat on the bed lost in thought. It seemed such a short time ago that we’d graduated high school and took off to seek our fortunes in Hollywood. A couple of years in, she’d landed a job on a network sitcom as an assistant makeup artist and suggested they hire me as Key Wardrobe, the person in charge of what the actors wear each episode. Where had the time gone? In three days Meg would be married and—
“What are you ruminating about?” Meg said—all signs of a crying jag abolished by her incredible cosmetic finesse—pulling me back to the moment.
Just thinking how our lives are going to change forever once you say “I do,” my friend, but I couldn’t say that out loud. “Just thinking how much I really need some caffeine.”
She laughed as we stepped outside into the bright sunshine. We both wore jeans and sweatshirts. If this were a TV episode, I would have selected these outfits for “two young women eating at a small-town diner.” But there was more to it than dressing appropriately. Meg and I were minor celebrities in the hometown-girls-make-good spirit, one of us even marrying a big-name actor, and it was important not to appear to be putting on airs.
We linked hands as though holding tight to our friendship and started down the street. Meg said, “I’m so glad we’re here together.”
“To quote Dorothy,” I said, “there’s no place like home.”
That made us both laugh. Our hundred-year-old seaside town, located near Fox Island in Pierce County, had come into existence when logging and fishing were mainstays of Pacific Northwest industry. As their economy flourished, the city founders—strapping young bachelors—commissioned a slew of mail-order brides. So many marriages took place the first year this Washington State town was established, it became known as Weddingville.
And the name stuck.
More recently, the town began to flounder. Income was down across the board. With one exception. Blessing’s Bridal, the wedding-wear shop my mom and grandmother run. The city council met and discussed the dire situation and came up with a brilliant idea. Turn Front Street into something akin to an outlet mall—for weddings. A kind of one-stop-wedding-shopping experience, everything a bride, groom, or wedding planner could want in a single setting.
Local shopkeepers embraced the proposal, changing not only their merchandise accordingly, but also their storefronts. Jitters espresso stand became Pre-Wedding Jitters, Trudy’s Lingerie became Her Trousseau, Ring’s Jewelry became The Ring Bearer, Flora’s Flowers became The Flower Girl, and so on. Motels were given honeymoon suite makeovers, some more tacky than others. The old community church and several outdoor locales became wedding ceremony sites.
Yes, there truly is “no place like home.”
“Hey, this isn’t the way to Jitters. Unless… did it move?”
“It didn’t move. But you were right. I need to tell Dad.”
My appetite fled. “Are you sure?”
“No, but I’m doing it anyway.”
“Alrighty then.” We trekked the four blocks downhill to Front Street. “After breakfast let’s swing by Trudy’s and pick out a couple of lacy bits guaranteed to make yours one hot, sexy honeymoon.”
“Let’s see how my talk with Dad goes first,” Meg said, seeing right through my feeble attempt to keep her calm.
How did one tell the dad she adored that she’d invited the woman who’d run out on them fifteen years ago to her wedding? That the invitation was accepted? I shuddered inwardly. Big Finn Reilly was not going to take this well.
Cold Feet Café came into view. Perched on the waterside of Front Street, it shared the brick facade of many other buildings on this street. Cars angled into the curb, and the large windows revealed occupied booths and tables. “Oh God, Meg, the place is packed.”
“It’s just the usual breakfast crowd,” she said, not sounding worried but biting her bottom lip, a sure tell.
I tried not to imagine the emotional tornado that was about to level this small-town diner. And failed. “Maybe you should put this off until the café is—”
“No way. If I put this off any longer, I’ll explode.”
If she didn’t put this off, Big Finn might explode.
Meg swept inside with me on her heels. A bell over the door announced our arrival, but didn’t dent the medium-level chatter, the clatter of silverware on plates, or the confluence of delicious aromas. Several folks offered welcome home greetings and congratulations to Meg, which we responded to in kind.
The decor was a cheery red and white with splashes of chrome. My nervous gaze found Big Finn. He stood behind the counter at the far end, deep in conversation with one of the diners. His crisp apron showed breakfast stains. Taller than most by six inches, he stood out like a red-topped evergreen in a forest of baseball-capped saplings.
I caught Meg’s arm. “Maybe you should consider saving your news until he isn’t so busy.”
She wasn’t swayed. “It’s rip off the bandage time.”
I gulped. A band tightened around my chest. I should go with her, but this was between Meg and her father. It was hard to stay where I was as Meg headed toward Big Finn. I felt like I was witnessing a train wreck in the making, yet unable to prevent it.
Halfway to her dad, Meg was stopped in her tracks by a woman with crayon yellow hair seated in one of the booths. “Oh, Meg, I was hoping to catch you here.”
Zelda Love, our local wedding planner, patted a folder on the table that looked more like an overstuffed sandwich with its ingredients about to escape from all sides.
I felt a tug on my sleeve. “Oh, Daryl Anne?”
I glanced down at three women seated in a booth. They were my grandmother’s age, her Bunko buddies. Velda Weeks had the flyaway gray hair of a fluffy dog and a grin like the Cheshire Cat about to lure Alice into trouble. “Sit, sit.”
She indicated the empty spot beside her. I complied, giving them all a warm smile. “How are you?”
“We’re more than a little curious,” Jeanette Corn, a throwback to the hippie generation, admitted, her thin face more animated than usual. I swear she’d never cut her long hair or worn a touch of makeup. “We hear Meg is getting married.”
I was pretty sure the whole town knew that by now.
“And she didn’t invite any of us,” Velda said, scowling her disapproval.
“I’m doing the cake,” Wanda Perroni, the owner of The Wedding Cakery, an Italian bakery, snipped as though that gave her a one-up on Velda and Jeanette. “The smallest one in many years, I can tell you.”
“What we want to know is who is this guy she’s marrying? Why is it so hush-hush?” Velda asked.
“He must be someone important is what I say,” Wanda said. “From Hollywood. A director or movie star. I’m right, aren’t I?”
“I’ll bet it’s George Clooney,” Velda said.
“He’s married, Velda,” Wanda said. “It’s probably that guy who does those Mission Impossible movies. I hear he’s single and looking.”
“Meg can’t marry him. She’s Catholic,” Jeanette said. She sighed and did a pretend swoon. “I hope it’s that new James Bond. He’s a dreamboat.”
“I bet it’s someone from TV,” Velda said. “Like that sexy Shemar Moore on Criminal Minds who’s always flirting with that computer whiz Garcia and calling her Baby Girl. Does Meg’s fiancé call her Baby Girl?”
I sat in stunned silence. I wasn’t happy they knew Meg’s fiancé was an actor. We’d tried hard to keep that under wraps, but I admired their attempts to get me to spill the beans. TMZ had nothing on the gossips in this town. “Ladies, I can’t tell you anything. I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”
“I always thought Meg would marry Troy,” Jeanette said. Her friends agreed.
I needed to make an escape without more questions and without offending my gram’s friends. But how?
“Does Troy know Meg’s getting married?” Veld
a asked.
Behind me, the doorbell tinkled, and a familiar voice called, “Daryl Anne?”
I said a silent “Thank you, God” and exited the booth, reaching the door to greet my paternal grandmother. Wilhelmina Blessing—known to one and all as Billie—was tall and reed thin, her black hair twisted into its usual chignon, her blue eyes bright with excitement. She wore her favorite Chanel pantsuit, the right sleeve pushed up to accommodate the removable cast on her wrist.
She gave a few friendly waves, greeted her Bunko buddies, then steered me toward the counter. “Come on, I could use a cuppa.”
“Me too,” I said, glad for the company, even if adding caffeine to my already anxious nerves might not be such a great idea. I settled onto a stool beside her. “How’s the wrist this morning?”
“A little weak.” Billie did all the alterations for Blessing’s Bridal, and she’d taught me how to sew when I was old enough to hold a needle and thread it. Six weeks ago, she’d slipped and broken her wrist, bringing me home from Los Angeles earlier than planned to help out in the bridal shop. Although the doctor pronounced her all healed last week, she claimed she wasn’t taking chances. Thus the removable cast.
I suspected, however, it was a ploy to keep me home longer. Sadly, I was returning to L.A. the day after the wedding. I kissed her cheek, knowing how much I would miss doing that once I was back in California.
We ordered coffee, the old-fashioned kind, then she said, “You forgot to turn on your phone. I kept getting voice mail.”
“I’m sorry.” I’d turned off my phone when Meg was having her meltdown. I pulled it from my pocket, turned it on, noting a couple of missed calls from Gram, but nothing else that required my immediate attention. I stirred cream into my coffee. “What’s up? Is everything okay?”
“Fine. Better than fine.” She stirred artificial sweetener into her coffee. “Exciting even. You know that reporter who’s coming to interview everyone in town for that series of articles?”
