Say Yes to the Death

by Susan McBride

  “Sorry.” The first lady politely shook her head.

  I was tempted to suggest to Mr. Dickens that adding a few bathrooms to his mansion might help speed up a sale, but I kept my trap shut.

  Then out of the blue my mother declared, “Well, I know someone on the market for a family home.”

  I turned to her, wondering which of her friends was on a house hunt.

  “Andrea and her fiancé need to find a place to live,” she said, reaching over to pat my cheek. “And they’ll need plenty of space to expand their family. Isn’t that right, sweetie?”

  My empty salad plate rattled as I dropped my fork.

  “Mother,” I said under my breath. She couldn’t be serious. Had she mixed champagne and Xanax?

  “Well, Cissy honey, if you want a tour of the place, I’ll give you one myself,” Dickens said with a wolfish grin. “Just give me a call whenever you want to see it.”

  “Oh, um, that’s so thoughtful of you, Les,” Cissy replied, giving him as fake a smile as I’d ever seen. “Although I think I’d like Andrea livin’ in Highland Park so she can be close to me. I want to help out with my grandbabies.”

  “For Pete’s sake,” I muttered as the chatter at the table hushed and all eyes fell upon us. “You have no grandbabies,” I reminded her. Like, I could ever imagine her changing a diaper or burping an infant.

  “I don’t have any yet, but I’m sure it won’t be long now. Tick tock, tick tock,” she said, doing her best clock impression.

  “Brian and I are fine with my condo,” I told her, wishing she’d knock it off.

  But Mother was winding up, not down. “Honestly, Andrea, you can’t live in that tiny condo forever or in Malone’s ratty apartment. There’s not room for a nursery, much less for the nanny.”

  “What nanny?” I said, hoping to God she hadn’t already hired someone merely in anticipation of my producing offspring.

  Cissy let out a weighty sigh. “Surely you don’t intend to try to raise children without live-­in help,” she said as the cater-­waiters reappeared to remove salad plates and set down the entrée. “I could hardly have handled you without Sandy full-­time. It takes a village to raise a child, or at least a lot of hired help, don’t you agree?” she asked, cocking her head and glancing pointedly toward the other women at our table.

  I noticed the former first lady took that moment to pat her mouth with a napkin, though I hadn’t seen her eat a bite from her plate.

  The blonde with all the bangles chortled and wiggled bejeweled fingers in the air. “I would’ve loved to pop out a few rug rats of my own but Herbert already had five grown ones and grandkids. So he bought me a pair of Pekinese pups and a live-­in groomer to go with ’em. That’s kind of like a nanny, wouldn’t you say?” She nudged her cotton-­haired husband awake. “Herb, come alive! We’re at a party.”

  He snorted and opened his eyes. Nodding, he replied, “Whatever you say, dear.” Then his chin dropped to his chest and the snoring resumed.

  “Women and dogs,” Lester Dickens remarked with a grunt, shaking his head.

  The chatter at the table resumed, and I sighed with relief that no one was paying the least attention to us as my mother leaned over and loudly whispered, “Oh, yes, a pet groomer is just like a nanny.”

  When I shushed her, she rolled her eyes, putting a hand up to her mouth and hissing behind it, “She’s wife number three and a half. One marriage was annulled so that only counts half as much.”

  “You don’t say,” I whispered back and leaned nearer so that Mother’s hair brushed my cheek. I inhaled a familiar mix of Joy perfume and Aqua Net. “FYI, I am all weddinged out. So I’ll stay for cake but then we’re leaving.”

  She drew away. “But you’re having fun.”

  “No, you’re having fun.”

  “You don’t want to stick around for dancing? Shelby said they flew in some big-­name singer I’ve never heard of.” Cissy tapped her chin. “I’m told his wife’s a pop star, too, and they named their baby after a primary color.”

  Dear Lord.

  Even if Shelby and Vern had booked Bon Jovi, I’m not sure I would have wanted to stick around, although I would have been tempted. I was a diehard fan of ’80s rock.

  “No, thanks, I don’t want to stay to hear the wedding singer,” I told Mother. Who would I dance with, besides? The former president? Lester Dickens? Blondie’s snoozing hubby?

  “I heard the singer and his entourage are arriving by helicopter,” Cissy added, as if that would change my mind. “Good thing there’s a landing pad on the roof of the house. That’s how Les gets around town. He doesn’t like traffic.”

  I glanced across the table at the oilman and decided some people just had too much money and too little sense. So Lester Dickens’s house for sale had a helipad and, like, two bathrooms? That was what I’d call having your priorities in disorder.

  “Watch my lips,” I told Mother. “I do not want to stay,” I said, enunciating every word in case I’d been speaking in a tongue that she didn’t understand.

  “Spoilsport,” Cissy replied and set her face in a sad little moue.

  “I could take a cab,” I told her, and she clicked tongue against teeth.

  “And pay with what? Life Savers?”

  She was right. I hadn’t brought along any cash. Silly me.

  “All right, we’ll leave early,” she said reluctantly, “but not until after the cake’s cut.”

  “Deal,” I replied. Once I had a piece of Millie’s gorgeous seven-­layer creation—­and told Olivia how absolutely divine it was—­I would be more than ready to escape. I had no intention of staying until the bride tossed her bouquet. I didn’t need to catch it. I already had Malone.

  I’d just finished devouring the herb-­crusted Chilean sea bass with champagne sauce when I heard the chime of silverware tapping crystal. Then Olivia’s voice boomed through the microphone again. “Ladies and gentleman, it’s time for another sweet moment,” she said in her honeyed drawl, and she waved her arm at the circular table that held Millie’s towering, flower-­encrusted seven-­tiered confection. “The bride and groom will now cut the cake!”

  I had to shift position to see around a few large hats. As I did, I spotted Pete in his dark garb with his shoulder-­camera, lurking in the background.

  The sleek silver knife that Olivia had brandished at Millie earlier now glinted in the glow of candlelight as the newlyweds raised it, hand in hand, to cut through the first and largest layer. Before they lowered the knife, I saw Olivia motion Pete closer. Penny and Jeff hesitated for a moment, as if they realized they were about to vandalize a piece of art. Truthfully, it was a crime they had to cut it up. Millie’s cake was a thing of beauty.

  “Go for it,” I heard Olivia urge to nervous laughter.

  After counting “one-­two-­three” aloud, the pair finally brought the knife down onto the bottom tier of ivory fondant ringed with lifelike orchids glistening with sugar. I found I was holding my breath, waiting. Others must have done the same as a collective sigh followed when the knife plunged into the cake. Only instead of sliding through, it got stuck like the sword in the stone. Though the newlyweds pushed, the knife resisted.

  “What’s the damned thing made of?” I heard Lester Dickens say with a snicker. “Concrete?”

  Penny and Jeff both let go and glanced anxiously at Olivia, which is when La Belle from Hell marched toward the cake and bent down to take a closer look.

  “My God, it’s Styrofoam!” Olivia remarked quite loudly enough for everyone to hear. And then she pulled the knife from the cake, shook her fist to the heavens, and shouted, “Millllieeeee!”

  I felt like I was watching a scene ripped from the Star Trek movie that Malone had made me watch last weekend where Captain Kirk screwed up his face and screamed, “Kaaaaahn!”

  To say I was startled by th
e outburst was putting it mildly. It seemed so staged that I had a strong suspicion Olivia had rehearsed her reaction, although Penny and Jeff seemed earnestly surprised, and not in a good way. In fact, Penny’s eyes welled up and a big sob escaped her throat.

  And all the while Pete moved about with his camera, recording every tacky moment.

  Chapter 7

  “I’m free at last, and I’m heading home,” I told Malone, speaking into the cell phone that I’d retrieved from the Black Suits with a coat-­check stub. At least they hadn’t frisked us on the way out to make sure we hadn’t stolen pieces of silverware.

  “So it was that bad?” Brian asked, and I could hear the noises of the hockey game on the TV in the background.

  “Let me count the ways,” I said and sighed.

  “You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

  “Only if you promise to give me a foot rub,” I said, and my mother quietly snorted from behind the steering wheel of the Lexus.

  I hung up and slumped back against the comfy leather seat, happy to be leaving Lester Dickens’s House of Horrors. Although I still wore the ugly bridesmaid’s dress, I had my own shoes on at least. I couldn’t wait to return the borrowed dress and heels to Olivia first thing in the morning. While I was there, I planned to give her another piece of my mind about her public bashing of Millie Draper. The bullying had to stop.

  “Well, that was certainly something,” my mother remarked, and I knew she didn’t mean the ceremony. She’d also seemed stunned by Olivia’s histrionics involving the cake. “I can’t believe Olivia behaved so badly. Shelby looked horrified, and Penny burst into tears. Why on earth would she do that?”

  “Because she’s like a black hole bent on sucking happiness from the galaxy,” I said, and my chest tightened. I had a feeling I knew exactly why Olivia had performed her Wrath of Kahn routine. I’d been an eyewitness to her threatening Millie with nonpayment if the cake wasn’t perfect. What better way to carry out that threat than to point out an “imperfection” in front of two hundred guests.

  But something didn’t sit right with me—­namely, why should Olivia care about a $10,000 bill for a cake if that’s what Penny had ordered? Surely Senator Ryan—­or Lester Dickens—­would pay the tab, no matter how high. Olivia’s actions made no more sense than the senator allowing Pete the Cameraman to selectively tape footage from the wedding for Olivia’s show. What was up with that? Could it be that the senator didn’t care because Pete was mostly focused on Olivia’s take-­down of Millie rather than on Penny and her burgeoning belly? Or maybe he’d given Olivia a pass because the show wouldn’t air for months down the road, until after the election, so it wouldn’t likely damage his campaign.

  “Something smells fishy and it’s not the Chilean bass,” I said aloud, only to have my mother agree.

  “You’re darned tootin’ something’s fishy,” she drawled, “because if Millie used foam, there was good reason, and Olivia has to be well aware of that. Millie’s Cakes is not some fly-­by-­night operation.”

  I agreed.

  “I’ve chaired enough fund-­raisers and hosted enough galas to know that a cake with that many layers needs a strong foundation,” she went on, flicking manicured fingers in the air. “If Millie hadn’t used Styrofoam on the bottom, I’m sure it would have collapsed. Certainly Olivia understood that.”

  Oh, yes, I’m quite sure Olivia had understood. I’d bet my brand-­new convection toaster oven that Millie had told her there would be a polystyrene foundation, or perhaps Olivia had even asked for it. Either way, it meant Olivia had acted like a jerk.

  “They don’t call her La Belle from Hell for nothing,” I muttered.

  “Who calls her that?” Mother asked.

  Well, um, I did, and I was sure that I wasn’t the only one.

  “It’s too bad no one will stand up to her,” I said, changing the subject. “It would serve her right if someone would give her a taste of her own medicine.”

  “As the rumor mill has it, someone did stand up to her,” Mother informed me. “Jasper Pippin used to do all the flowers for the White Glove Society’s deb balls, but Dorothea Amherst quit using him. She said he didn’t follow through as promised on last year’s fete and then she saw the bit on Olivia’s show about him overbilling the mayor for flowers that weren’t fresh. Now he’s out of business.”

  That had to be the Jasper I’d heard Millie mention. Yep, those dirty tricks sounded just like the Olivia La Belle I knew and detested.

  “So if you don’t play Olivia’s game, she’ll shut you down,” I said, shaking my head. “Why does anyone want to work with her? Surely, there are other event planners in town that don’t treat people like crap.”

  “She has exquisite taste,” my mother explained, “and she’s incredibly well-­connected. She’s on a first-­name basis with everyone who’s anyone. Her father was once an ambassador and traveled extensively. In fact, he and Jolene live in Monte Carlo now.”

  So what exactly did that mean? Had Ambassador La Belle taught his only child how to twist people’s arms with a smile on her face? Olivia had always been great at kissing up at Hockaday. She knew how to get what she wanted by charming those who could help her most. The rest of us got kicked to the curb.

  “I’m sure Millie won’t suffer the same fate as Jasper,” my mother offered with a lift of her chin. “I had heard friends complaining that Jasper’s arrangements were too fuddy-­duddy. Everyone wants organic, earthy arrangements now. But everyone loves Millie’s cakes. They’re exquisite. Anyone who’s ever tasted Millie’s Italian meringue butter cream icing knows that she doesn’t skimp or take shortcuts. I said as much to Shelby, for all the good it did,” she murmured, and her fingernails testily tapped the steering wheel. “Millie’s a magician for even getting that cake done on such short notice, and she pulled it off beautifully. Olivia should have praised her to high heaven for that alone, and Shelby should have given her a generous tip.”

  “Amen to that.”

  Millie had looked positively exhausted when I’d stumbled upon her and Olivia in the kitchen before the ceremony. She’d undoubtedly stayed up all night, working her fingers to the bone, and for what? So that Olivia could bad-­mouth her in front of two hundred very influential Dallasites?

  “I certainly hope she doesn’t lose business over this,” my mother remarked. “But people do talk in this town.”

  “And how,” I whispered. CNN had nothing on the real housewives of Highland Park.

  Well, at least the Black Suits had separated the wedding guests from their cell phones, otherwise someone would have recorded Olivia’s rant against Millie and it would have gone viral already. Then I remembered Pete and groaned. Even if the besmirching didn’t happen overnight, it would happen as soon as the new season of The Wedding Belle premiered, since the tattooed camera guy had definitely caught Olivia’s outburst.

  Would word spread so quickly that Millie would instantly feel the repercussions? Were canceled orders already popping up? Though I’m sure the worst wouldn’t come until after the scene aired on TV, whenever that would be. I’d have to check the local listings, as Olivia’s televised train wreck wasn’t exactly on my “must watch” list.

  “Olivia admitted that she ramps up the drama for ratings,” I said. “I wonder how many vendors she’s skewered so that she can keep her show on the air. I’m surprised no one’s sued her for defamation.”

  “Maybe they tried but it never got very far,” Mother suggested. “Besides”—­she clicked tongue against teeth—­“I can’t imagine anyone believes anything they see on TV these days. Even the news has gone tabloid. It’s all sordid crimes and scandal.” She sighed. “How I miss Walter Cronkite.”

  “The public is fickle, and the Internet’s pretty much a web of misinformation,” I said, because it was the truth. What seemed like real news on Monday could be exposed as a lie on Tuesday. I�
�d designed Web sites for hardworking nonprofits that reaped steady donations until one piece of bad press—­often an unsubstantiated story, review, or tweet on the wonderful World Wide Web—­could dry up the well in a snap.

  “It’s a shame,” Cissy said, shaking her head. “It’s as though there’s no dignity in anything anymore.”

  Since I couldn’t disagree with her there, we both got quiet. In fact, neither of us said another word as the Lexus rolled north. It wasn’t until we’d exited the Tollway, driven along Preston Road for a spell, and Cissy had pulled into the parking lot of my condo complex, that she opened her mouth again.

  “You know what, Andrea? You’re right,” she said, putting the car in park and letting the engine idle as I unhooked my seat belt.

  “I am?” I hesitated before opening the door. “About what?”

  She nudged the bridge of her Jackie O sunglasses and sucked in her cheeks before she replied, “I don’t think I want to hire Olivia to plan your wedding after all. She’s too unpredictable, and I don’t want to risk her mucking up your big day. So after you return that god-­awful dress tomorrow, we’ll wash our hands of her.”

  Hallelujah! My mother had seen the light!

  “Do come by the house in the morning once you’ve dispensed with the dress,” she told me. “It’s the perfect opportunity for some girl time with Stephen away. We’ll have lots of time to chat.”

  “You want to hang out?” I asked, because my mother and I didn’t usually chill together. There was generally an ulterior motive behind our get-­togethers, like her calf-­roping me into Penny’s wedding. “But it’s Sunday, won’t you be at church?”

  “I think God would forgive me for missing a sermon if it was for a good reason.” She shot me a grin like she had something up her sleeve.

  “Um, I’m not sure I can make it,” I murmured, not wanting to miss pancakes with Malone. “Maybe another time?”

  As I waited for her response, I grabbed the borrowed shoes from the floor mat. Before I slid out of the Lexus, I took my ChapStick and Life Savers out of Mother’s sparkly Judith Leiber bag and left the bejeweled clutch on the seat along with the torn Carolina Herrera dress and the Spanx. The Underpants from Hell belonged to her, too, I figured, since she’d bought them, and I definitely didn’t want to keep them. I would never wear them again. She could burn them both for all I cared.