by Josie Brown
“Oh, I see.” My tone should give her frostbite. Is that why she’s here, to rub my nose into the fact that Jack had a life before me?
If she insists on taunting me, she’ll regret it. I’m tipsy, and still upset at what might yet need to take place between him and Babette. All it would take is one good hit at a strategic angle for the champagne bottle in my hand to crack perfectly against the ice bucket, leaving me with a shard sharp enough to cut her jugular. The club’s crowd is so frantic that maybe no one will notice.
Maria, for one, is quite aware of the bottle I hold in my hand. “No, no, no, hermosa! He didn’t ‘make it up’ that way! I mean, yes, he bought me a drink. Ha! As if that would replace the money I lost on the hit.” Her chortle is deep and throaty. “Two days later, the bounty is wired into my bank account. An hour goes by, and I receive an encrypted file containing a photo of my target, shot through the head.”
“Jack did the hit so that you’d earn the scalp?” Lady Daniela shakes her head in admiration. “Now, that’s a gentleman!”
“Sí!” Maria nods enthusiastically.
What a guy. A regular Saint Dexter.
I empty the bottle into my glass. Hate to see good bubbly go to waste.
I know she means well. Still, I’m somewhat taken aback by his chivalry. We are not in a nice business. Ergo, we are not nice people. But each of us makes his or her own peace with the devil in our own way.
Which brings us to Lady Daniela. I take another swig of champagne in order to get up the gumption to ask, “So, tell me about your Jack attack.”
“It may just be the cutest meet of the night,” she gushes.
“Cuter than human trafficking, biker skinheads, a bonus hit, and the proverbial whore with a heart of gold? I’m all ears.”
My guests laugh so hard that tears are rolling down their cheeks—proof positive that I’m wittier when I’m soused.
Dannie’s laugh trills through the air with the greatest of ease. “My role in her Majesty’s Secret Service is to divert any and all unpleasantness that may befall members of the Royal family.” She shrugs. “As you can imagine, the low-hanging twigs on the family tree are particularly susceptible.”
“Why is that?” Emma wonders aloud. “I mean, you’d think they’d enjoy having the bennies without the glare of the spotlight.”
“To the contrary, some of them live on tight budgets, and resent their lack of prominence in comparison to those closest to the throne. They too want to make their marks, if not in history, then in commerce.” She rolls her eyes. “Sadly, business savvy does not flow, but trickles into the Windsor gene pool, as was the case with a certain duke who shall remain nameless. Usually such schemes are a bust. They break even at best. In this particular case, it came close to taking down the monarchy.”
“How?” I ask.
“Let’s just say that the duke’s investment in a little-known Internet start-up allowed those running the venture access to the monarchy’s secure server, and subsequently the British government’s most precious databases as well. Had word gotten out that the duke was the Trojan horse, public outrage might have ended the monarchy.”
“How does Jack fit in?”
“When I reached across the pond to the cousins, he responded. He’d been researching the holding company for the start-up firm. It was something called Romanov Corporation, and it’s owned by one of Putin’s closest mates. That being said, because of Jack’s intel, we were able to mitigate the hack with counterintelligence.”
“So you’ve never actually met Jack?” Did I sound too hopeful?
“I didn’t say that,” she chuckles slyly.
When she notices I’m not laughing with her, she adds, “I presume you’re wondering how closely we worked together. Not to worry, love. By then he’d fallen in love with you—apparently from afar! Surveillance makes the heart grow fonder, does it not?” She sighs. “But, I can tell you in all honesty that I tried my damnedest to break your spell on him.”
Daniela is not only astoundingly beautiful, but smart, lethal, and on the right side. In other words, a perfect match for Jack.
And yet, he spurned her for me.
Because he loves me, and me alone.
So then, why am I here?
Aunt Phyllis thinks she’s being cute by coercing two of the dancers to manwich me between them. I pay them a hundred each to bother her instead. But before they make their move on her, I kiss her plump cheek and whisper, “Thank you, for the best gift ever!”
She wags a finger at me. “I don’t think you’re allowed to take the boys home with you!”
Ha! Never in a million years. To paraphrase Katy May, my heart wants to go home—
To Jack.
I come home to find Trisha already snug in her bed. The other kids are binging on Game of Thrones episodes. I’ve yet to break the news to them that by being kicked off the guest list of my engagement party, they missed seeing their favorite actors from the show in person: Peter Dinklage and Maisie Williams.
I wish I could have done the same.
Jack is not upstairs, but, from our bedroom window, I notice a dark figure out back, on one of the terrace chaises. He has it reclined almost all the way back, so that he can look up at the stars.
His head turns when he hears the back door open. When he sees that I’m the interloper, he smiles and sits up. “I wasn’t expecting you back so early.”
“Aunt Phyllis’s idea of a good time and mine are definitely two different things,” I assure him, as I ease down onto his lap. “Your ears must be burning, what with all the tributes you’ve gotten tonight.”
His lips feel warm on my forehead. “Oh, yeah? From whom?”
“Apparently every woman who’s ever set eyes on you: Umma, Katy May, Lady Dannie, Maria Dolores, Coquette—”
His jaw drops open. “What the hell? How did they—”
“In her attempt to plan my bachelorette party, Aunt Phyllis got ahold of the wrong little black book—yours.”
“Oh.” A second later, the seriousness of this sinks in. “But how did she hack it?”
“Your iPhone’s password isn’t all that hard to figure out. Ha! And when I think of all the times I wanted to read your texts, just to check up on crushes from any former girlfriends”—I lean back onto his chest—“well, it’s nice to know all those worries are for naught.”
He wraps his arms around me. “Oh, yeah? You mean, you’re not at all concerned about what may happen at my bachelor party at the Playboy Mansion tomorrow night?”
“After tonight, not in the least. Just do me a favor and delete any contact info a Bunny or two is bound to give you. I’d hate for Aunt Phyllis to invite them to some surprise anniversary party. The tributes for your chivalry are sure to make you blush.”
“I guess my title as Undercover Lover is retired, once and for all.” His laugh dissolves into a shrug. “More than likely, I’ll spend the whole night thinking about you…and Lee.”
“Let me give you something to think about instead.” I tilt my head up in order to find his lips with mine.
Yes, he is ready for me.
Chapter 13
What Your Invitations Say About You
Your wedding invitations are not just a reflection of your event’s theme, but the whole of your personality. Even more to the point, they are a statement of your mutually shared love. That being said, here are a few don’ts:
Don’t choose a crazy font. Or include emojis. Or for that matter, zany photos of you in silly costumes. You may find these ideas cute, but they’ll make the wrong statement to your guests. We’re marrying on a whim.
Don’t choose a paper stock of any hue that might be encountered on an acid trip. The goal is that the invitation is readable—that is, if you truly want the recipient to show up. (But if you’d really prefer they skip the event, by all means, make it something that can easily pass for junk mail.)
Don’t include pop culture references in your invitation. Ten years hence, y
ou’ll wonder, “What was I thinking?” or worse yet, “What the hell does that even mean?” Also, stay away from jokes. Phrases like, “After the vows, we’ll proceed to the elimination round,” and “Children welcomed, as long as they know how to mix a mean martini,” may make you giggle, but they also give the impression that your marriage is a joke.
In that regard, only time will tell.
I don’t miss high school in the least.
I’m struck with this thought as I walk the halls of Hilldale High in search of Mary’s fourth-period French class. High school hasn’t exactly been easy on Mary, considering all the family drama in her life during her two years here. And let’s not forget that she keenly felt Carl’s desertion from the time she was in the third grade.
When I reach the right door, I wave to Mademoiselle Lynch, then point to my eldest child.
Mary looks up as her name is called. She follows her teacher’s glance in my direction. Her surprised stare is quickly replaced by a curious grin when I beckon her forward with a smile.
She grabs her books and heads to the door.
I have the perfect reason to coerce my daughter into playing hooky:
I need her help in picking out my wedding gown.
While we’re at it, we’ll choose her dress too.
Afterward, I’ll explain why I have to allow Babette to take Mary’s place as my matron of honor.
“What’s up?” she asks.
“We’re going shopping.” I give her a knowing wink. “Dresses for the wedding.”
“But I thought Chantal had something in mind for you—and me too, for that matter.” She winces at the thought. Can’t say I blame her.
“I don’t think it’s a decision she should make for us. Do you agree?”
“Heck, yeah!” Realizing she may have said it too loud, she looks furtively behind her. Thank goodness, Mademoiselle Lynch is too busy writing common phrases on the blackboard to hear her.
“Good. And afterward, we’ll pick up pizza for dinner.”
She shakes her head. “No way! From now until the wedding, we’re eating rabbit food and that’s it.”
That’s my girl. Always practical.
We giggle as we run down the hall.
I don’t believe for one moment that it will mitigate her disappointment in being replaced by Babette as my matron of honor, but at this point I’m looking for shared memories.
Let this be the next of many to come.
“Oh, Mom.” Mary’s voice is barely a whisper. “It’s the one.”
My eyes have been on her since I summoned her into my dressing room at the Hilldale Bridal Shoppe; I follow her eyes to my image in the full-length mirror.
The dress is sleeveless, with a sheer back and scoop neckline made of illusion attached to a strapless silk silhouette that encases my body like a glove. The gown flares out to a trumpet hem and a short train.
Simple. Elegant.
“Perfect,” Mary declares, as if she’s read my mind.
“You haven’t done so badly yourself,” I point out.
She nods, still in awe that I’ve approved the dress she has chosen: a tea-length Rebecca Taylor ball gown. Strapless, with a smock-waist and a peekaboo black tulle hem, its silver brocade bodice is overprinted with flowers of fuchsia, pink, and black, like a Monet watercolor come to life.
“I’m glad you like it, Mom. I had Emma text me the gown she chose. I loved it so much that I asked her if she didn’t mind if I got it too. She said ‘Go for it, Chantal can be mad at both of us.’” Mary laughs as she does a full turn in front of the mirror. Her head shifts to watch its flow from all angles. “The only difference is that the background of her dress is fuchsia. That way, the guests can tell that I’m clearly the maid of honor.”
At the mention of Chantal, I look down to the ground. Babette will throw a hissy fit when she sees we’ve all chosen our gowns without her approval. Whereas I couldn’t care less, I still have to come clean with Mary about Babette. “We better change and get the sales clerk to ring these up.”
After she unzips me, she kisses my cheek. “For once, I feel as if our family is normal.”
If only it were true.
“After dinner, let’s play dress-up!” A mouthful of pizza won’t deter Trisha from making her case as to how we should spend the rest of the evening. “We can all wear our wedding dresses! We can have a wedding fashion show!”
“I’m not playing,” Aunt Phyllis pouts. “Fräulein Stormtrooper—a.k.a., Chantal—did a bait and switch on me!” She holds up a drab gray chiffon gown—nothing at all like the bright red Bob Mackie knock-off in the wedding planner’s PowerPoint presentation. “It makes me look washed out,” Aunt Phyllis opines. “I’ll look like my grandmother at her wake!”
I put down my forkful of salad. “I grant you permission to choose any dress you like.” Sure, why the hell not? Freedom from tyranny is what this country was founded on.
“I’ll help you pick it out,” Trisha offers. “The stores stay open until nine. Why don’t we go right after we finish dinner, since the boys are at the Bunny House.”
“Hey, pipsqueak!” Jeff shouts from the great room. “We’re not boys. We’re men. I’m a man too, remember? And I’m right here.”
I reply, “Are you upset because you couldn’t go?”
He walks over to the doorway. “Nah. I’m not attracted to bimbos anyway. Besides, I hacked the mansion’s security cam. It’s just as good as being there.” He wiggles his brows mischievously.
“That’s my boy.” I will, of course, be monitoring his monitoring—you know, for errant nip slips. On a screen the size of his computer, I imagine it would resemble the release of the Hindenburg. Oh, the womanity.
Darn it, I’ll have to pass. In thirty minutes, I have a date with destiny.
Well, with Lee. And it’s not really a date…
At least, I don’t think it is.
Oh. Hell.
“I’ll go too,” Mary pipes up. “Besides, you can help me with the bridesmaids’ presents.”
“Just the bridesmaids get presents?” Trisha asks. “Can’t I get a present too?”
“Sure.” Mary tousles her younger sister’s hair. “You’re part of the bridal party, aren’t you, silly?”
“But Mommy’s the bride. Shouldn’t she pick them out?”
“She’s too busy between now and the wedding. Besides, that’s the job of her maid of honor, so I get to do it.”
Trisha shakes her head adamantly. “No you’re not. Mrs. Chiffray is Mommy’s maid of honor.”
First, Mary laughs at the thought of that. But, when she sees the sullen look on my face, she stops cold. “Is it true?”
“Yes.” The frustration of it all has me shaking my head. “She insisted. And considering all that has to be done between now and then, I thought it would be foolish to look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“But…you asked me first!” Mary’s bottom lip trembles from her anger.
“I know, Mary. But you see, Babette has been so instrumental in the planning—”
“She’s not important to you. I am!” Tears glisten in her eyes. “At least, that’s what you told me.”
“And you are. It’s just that—”
“Look, I get it. She’s the queen bee. No matter how mean she is, or how selfish, all she has to do is snap her fingers, and everyone is at her beck and call—even you.” Her eyes open wide. “My God—it’s just like high school!”
Disgusted at the thought, she bolts up the stairs.
Trisha stares after her. “Does that mean there’s no fashion show?”
Aunt Phyllis shapes her mouth into a hard smile. “No, but there’s ice cream. Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia.” She takes my youngest’s hand in order to guide her toward the kitchen.
When they pass me, Phyllis hisses, “Fix this.”
I tread up the stairs to Mary’s bedroom door.
No matter how hard I knock, or how much I plea, the only thing she has to say
to me is, “Go away!”
I don’t want to leave, and really, I shouldn’t leave. But I’ve just been texted from Lee:
A car is waiting outside for you.
There’s a definite upside to proving that either POTUS or FLOTUS are part of a vast web of terrorism: both will be detained at Club Fed, and therefore unable to attend my wedding.
I grab my purse and go.
My trail of tears will dry in the thirty or so minutes it takes to get to Balboa Island.
I hope.
Chapter 14
Tossing the Wedding Garter
In the history of weddings and marriage, the “garter toss” is a centuries-old tradition. When given to witnesses, it signified the consummation of the marriage.
In most cases, the hope was that the bride was a virgin. (During the Middle Ages, this was assured by a metal contraption known as a “chastity belt,” to which only a father or husband held the key. Today, even non-virgins wear them as well. They are no longer made of metal, but spandex, and go by the name of “Spanx.”)
If today’s bride (virgin or not) tosses a garter, it takes place sometime during the wedding reception. Usually she’s a bit tipsy, which is why she giggles, as opposed to blushes, when her new husband scurries under her dress in search of it, only to emerge victorious, the garter between his teeth.
Despite the fact that it’s easier than apple bobbing, and much more fun (for the groom, at least), over time, the tradition has lost its luster. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that today’s bride isn’t so keen about being mauled under her very expensive designer gown. Go figure.
Besides, if the groom is going to sink his teeth into anything, perhaps he should wait until their honeymoon night. That way they avoid shocking their guests—including the bride’s very protective father and brothers.
Especially if the invitations read “Concealed carry optional. Judicious marksmanship appreciated.”
