by Elaine Viets
“You’re just having a case of bridal nerves,” Miguel Angel said. “The weather will be beautiful, and so will you. What could go wrong?”
“I guess we’ll find out on Saturday,” the bride said, and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
Chapter 2
The round bed was made for orgies. Surrounded by four white Roman columns, it had a mound of what looked like whipped cream in the center.
Honey, the bride who would spend tonight in that bed, lovingly stroked the creamy pile of taffeta on the white spread.
“What do you think of my wedding dress?” she asked.
“It’s lovely,” Helen said.
“It’s just like the dress Sarah Jessica Parker wore in Sex and the City,” Honey said.
Not quite, Helen thought. The dressmaker had skillfully added another poufed tier to hide Honey’s pregnancy.
“My wedding dress and veil cost twenty thousand dollars, not counting the diamonds,” Honey said. She wasn’t shy about mentioning prices. She’d gambled her savings to snag King.
Helen wondered how many other women had been on this round bed. King was a notorious womanizer. Gossip said King might forget a scandalous story if a woman was willing, but that was never reported in his blog. King had a taste for tarts, and not the kind from the bakery.
Society was amazed when King announced his engagement. His bride was a cut above the bosomy tramps he usually dated. Honey’s pregnancy had stayed out of the gossip columns—so far.
“King said nothing but the best for me,” Honey said, as she stroked her fabulous dress.
That’s what she was getting, if you measured everything by money. Honey’s wedding-day makeup and hair would cost about three thousand dollars. Her Dior heels were another eight hundred. Helen, who used to work at a bridal salon, estimated the cost of the wedding and lavish dinner at King’s waterfront palace on Hendin Island at close to a million dollars.
“Where are you going on your honeymoon?” Helen asked, to be polite.
“We’re spending tonight here,” Honey said, patting the bed. “Tomorrow, we’re flying to Paradise Island in King’s private jet. He got a good deal at Atlantis: an ocean-view suite for only eight hundred a day.”
“Is that all?” Helen asked, trying to keep out the sarcasm. That one-day room rate was almost what she made in a month.
“Well, that’s not bad, considering,” Honey said, as if she’d made her living carrying silver trays instead of bedpans. She checked her diamond watch. “It’s one thirty. Almost time for the photos before the wedding. Will you help me into my dress?”
Helen carefully lifted the creamy cloud of taffeta off the bed. Miguel Angel ducked out onto the bedroom balcony for a quick cigarette as Honey tossed her white lace peignoir over the dressing table chair. Her long strapless slip was embroidered with lace. Helen thought it was pretty enough to serve as a wedding dress, except that it didn’t hide King Junior.
Honey stepped into her wedding dress. Helen zipped it up and fastened the dozens of tiny hook-and-eye catches, then helped Honey arrange the poufed skirt. The expensive taffeta made a delicious rustling sound.
Honey handed her a distinctive Tiffany box. “Would you help with my necklace, please?”
“Very pretty,” Helen said.
“It’s a gift from King—double-drop diamonds in platinum.”
Helen figured the diamonds cost even more than the dress. She fastened the safety catch on the clasp and called, “We’re ready.”
Miguel Angel returned, trailing tobacco smoke like a fallen angel. Once again, Helen was startled by his good looks. He had thick, shiny black hair with a slight curl and dark eyes. His long lashes were the envy of his female clients. He was strong and slender, except for a belly that came and went, depending on his craving for Cuban sandwiches.
“Miguel, those cigarettes will kill you,” Honey said.
“Nobody gets out of this world alive,” he said. “And you are not a nurse anymore.”
“Will you put on my veil, Miguel Angel?” Honey asked.
He draped the bride’s smooth shoulders with his satin styling cape and began pinning the long tulle veil into her honey-colored hair. Miguel Angel’s black makeup case was open on the dressing table. Helen stood nearby, handing him hair brushes and pins, like an operating room nurse assisting a surgeon. Once the veil was in place, he added the crystal crown.
“Look, there’s Phoebe,” Honey said, pointing out the window.
Miguel Angel’s assistant was flirting with a silver-haired gentleman. He was gazing deep into Phoebe’s cleavage, and he had lots to see. Phoebe wore a peacock blue dress with a plunging neckline. Even from this distance, Phoebe’s dress looked expensive. Helen wondered how she could afford it.
“Her blue dress looks like my bridesmaid dresses,” Honey said.
Miguel made a sound that was almost a growl.
“I hope you didn’t mind that I invited your assistant as a guest, Miguel,” Honey said. “I have so few gal pals.”
“I do not need her,” Miguel Angel said.
Helen thought she heard a flicker of malice in his statement. Helen suspected Phoebe might be trolling for a sugar daddy here. If she failed to find a rich man, and the ambitious Phoebe could last with Miguel Angel for a year, she’d be welcome at almost any salon.
Helen had no such ambitions and no cosmetology license. She survived on tips, minimum wage, and running the errands that Phoebe avoided. Helen was going to be a June bride, too. But Helen’s wedding to Phil, Helen’s private eye fiancé, would be nothing like this extravaganza.
Honey studied her face in the mirror with obvious satisfaction, then frowned. “I think my skin looks a little puffy underneath my right eye. Can you fix that?”
Miguel Angel touched the area with a soft camel-hair brush. Helen was sure there was no makeup on the brush, but the small gesture satisfied Honey.
“That’s better,” she said. “Let’s see. I have something new, my wedding dress. Something borrowed, a lace handkerchief from my sister, Melody. My garter is blue. Now all I need is something old.”
“There’s the groom,” Miguel Angel whispered in Helen’s ear, as he reached for more hairpins.
His words seemed to conjure up the man. King appeared in the bedroom doorway. He was definitely old—every inch of him. King was naked as a newborn, and not nearly as cute. His breasts were bigger than his bride’s, and his sagging chest was covered with a thatch of gray hair. It didn’t match the spiky black hair on his head. His manhood dangled under a white, waxy gut. It was definitely not king-sized. Helen wondered how much his rivals would pay to know King was hung like a hamster.
Helen winced and wished she hadn’t seen so much of the man. Sixty-one wasn’t old for some people, but King looked every year.
“Honey, you’re beautiful,” King said. His smile lit up the room. “Stand up, so I can see you.”
Miguel whipped off the cape and Honey obediently rose and did a pirouette.
“She’s got a great body,” King said. “She could have worked at my old strip club.”
Helen was appalled. King talked about Honey as if she were livestock. But the bride blushed prettily, as if the groom had given her a charming compliment.
“That’s how I started, you know,” King said. “I used to own my own strip club with a partner, Wyllis Drifford. Then I noticed how many celebrities hung around the strippers, and I tipped off a New York gossip columnist. Wyllis went apeshit and bought me out. He barred me from the club. I took the money and decided, Why go for peanuts when I can make big bucks with gossip?
“I parked my car down the street and watched the club. Three nights later, Ramona showed up drunk. She walked out at two in the morning kissing Amber, the club’s hottest stripper. Had her tongue down Amber’s throat. I snapped their photo, and my career was made. Amber got fired. She was supposed to be a babe, not a dyke. Nearly ruined Wyllis’ business. A few more scoops and I started a blog and got my own cable T
V show. Now I have six million readers—and probably six million enemies.”
He seemed proud of that.
The naked King wandered into the master bath, left the door open, and sat down on the toilet. The bathroom was mirrored. Helen turned her head away in disgust.
Miguel Angel threw down the thick roll brush he’d been holding. “No!” he shouted. “I do not have to put up with this. That man is a pig! He does not have enough manners to close the door. I am leaving.”
“It’s my house,” King said as he flushed the toilet. “I can do what I want.”
“So can I,” Miguel Angel said. “Good-bye.”
“No!” The bride grabbed Miguel Angel’s arm. “Please stay. I’ll double your fee.”
“It is not worth the money. Honey, you are beautiful. You are sweet. You do not have to marry this man.”
“But I do, Miguel Angel. I’m not getting any younger. I’m thirty-eight and I’m pregnant. This is my last chance. You don’t understand King. He’s a diamond in the rough. Please do it for me.”
Honey looked so sad, Miguel Angel agreed. “But only if he puts on some clothes,” the stylist said.
Honey kissed King’s cheek. “Sweetheart, you have to get dressed for the ceremony,” she said. “Why not do it now?”
King went into his dressing room to change.
A cheerful Latina in black pants, sensible shoes and a white blouse stood in the bedroom doorway. She held a video camera. “Are you ready for your pictures?” she asked. “My name is Mireya. I am photographer Marco Antonio’s assistant. I’d like to start with you preparing for your wedding. Do you want your maid of honor in the photo?”
“That’s my sister, Melody,” Honey said. “She’s outside. I’ll call her cell phone. Do you need to get your camera?”
“No, this takes still shots and video.” Mireya started shooting the bride at her dressing table. Helen stepped out into the hall so her reflection wouldn’t show in the mirror.
“She’s a great-looking girl, isn’t she?” a man said. King had crept up behind Mireya. He was wearing the ugliest tux Helen had seen since her high school prom. It was black with brown lapels. The cut seemed expensive. He wore a brown bow tie and shiny brown shoes. He was drinking straight from a bourbon bottle like an aging rock star.
“I own all this, and that yacht out there,” King said. He made a sweeping gesture to include the spectacular view of the water outside the hall windows—and the huge swimming pool. Below them was a living room covered with acres of white carpet. It had a mirrored fireplace, a black lacquer television cabinet trimmed with gold, black leather couches flanked by gold-and-black end tables, and a pool table.
“I live on Hendin Island, the richest real estate in Fort Lauderdale,” he said.
“That’s nice,” Helen said.
“With my TV show and gossip blog, I’m raking in the money.”
“Good for you,” Helen said.
“It will mean more when I have a son. Don’t get me wrong, I love my daughter. Cassie’s a great kid. But sons are special.” He took a big gulp of bourbon. “Do me a favor and get your boss, will you? I have to ask him something.”
“Sure,” Helen said, eager to escape.
In Honey’s dressing room, a blonde in a peacock blue dress was fluffing the bride’s veil. That must be the maid of honor, Helen thought. Melody looked like her sister, only older and tougher. Her dress was almost a duplicate of Phoebe’s.
The Latina photographer snapped pictures and issued instructions: “Turn your head this way. Melody, please lower your arm. You’re blocking my view of the bride.”
“Miguel Angel, the hair at the back of my neck won’t stay in place,” Honey said. Mireya stopped taking pictures.
“It’s okay,” Honey told her. “Take his picture. Miguel is an important part of my wedding.”
Miguel Angel trimmed a millimeter off one lock. He had his long scissors in his right hand when Helen said, “The groom would like to speak with you.”
“Go talk to him, please,” Honey said, patting Miguel Angel’s arm. “I’m sure King wants to apologize.”
Miguel Angel reluctantly left the room. “You wish to see me?” he asked King.
“Yeah, sorry I blew up at you in there, buddy.” King slapped him on the back. “Nerves, I guess.”
Nerves? Helen wondered. She made no effort to hide that she was listening. So were Honey, Melody and Mireya.
“I wanted to make deal with you,” King said. “You get the big celebrities in your salon. You give me a little information, and I’ll make it worth your while.”
“No,” Miguel Angel said. “I’ve told you this before. I don’t need your money.”
“Everyone needs money,” King said.
“If my clients do not feel safe, they will go somewhere else.” Miguel Angel’s eyes narrowed and his voice was a hissing whisper. He was about to explode. “I kept Honey’s secret. I didn’t tell your competitors that King Junior is a bastard, like his father. The boy’s problem is an accident of birth. You are a self-made man.”
King’s beefy arm reached out and grabbed the stylist by the throat. “Listen, you Cuban cocksucker. I’ve got friends in the city and state government. I can have that salon of yours closed down for so many violations, your dyed head will spin. Got it?”
Miguel Angel nodded, then shook off King’s arm and whipped the scissor points into the man’s neck. The stylist’s arms were ropes of muscle from years of wielding heavy dryers and wrestling with unruly hair. “And I can kill you, you fat, lazy American. No one will care.”
“Stop!” the bride ran out and forced her way between the two men. “This is my wedding day. Behave. Both of you.” Tears brimmed in her eyes.
Miguel Angel and King backed off. Helen saw a small dot of blood where Miguel’s scissors had pierced King’s neck. Mireya still had her camera running.
“Honey, I apologize for what I said about your baby,” Miguel Angel said. “I lost my temper. No child is to blame for his father.”
“Uh!” Honey said. She was whiter than her dress.
“What’s the matter?” King was suddenly frightened.
“The baby kicked me,” Honey said. “I think we’ve upset your son with our fighting.”
“Sit down, sweetheart,” King said, and led her to a chair. “What can I get you?”
“Just let me sit for a minute,” Honey said. Tears leaked down her face.
King dropped to his knees and threw his arms around her. “Oh, baby, I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Helen wasn’t sure if he was talking to his bride or his son.
King kissed Honey gently. “I love you. What can I do?”
“Please see to our guests while Mireya finishes the pictures up here,” Honey said.
The groom picked up the bourbon bottle and lurched downstairs. Melody carried in a glass of water. “Drink this, sis,” she said. “Everyone gets on edge at a wedding. It doesn’t mean a thing.”
Helen and Miguel Angel slipped out to the balcony, where the stylist fired up another cigarette. “Why is Honey marrying that man?” Helen asked. “Nurses make a decent living.”
“Not enough to live on Hendin Island,” Miguel Angel said. “She wants a baby, and she’s nearly forty. King is supposed to be worth ninety million dollars. She likes money so much she’s willing to put up with that drunken druggie.”
“He’s using drugs?” Helen asked.
“That’s not powdered sugar on his nose.”
“But he’s drinking heavily,” Helen said. “And he just had a heart attack.”
“Maybe she thinks he won’t live long,” Miguel Angel said. “I hope so, for her sake.”
Chapter 3
The afternoon sun gilded the bride’s taffeta wedding gown and turned her nose into an oil slick.
“My nose is shiny,” Honey wailed. “I can feel it.”
Miguel Angel patted it with a sponge to keep Honey’s complexion photo ready.
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br /> “Why don’t you use powder?” Honey asked.
“It makes your face look dry and old,” Miguel said. “Brides are supposed to look dewy.”
Honey shut up at the mention of the O-word. The bride showed no trace of her recent tears, no sign that her future husband had threatened to kill her hairstylist, or that her baby had been kicking up a storm. Hollywood has lost a great actress, Helen thought.
She guarded the makeup case and tried not to look bored. She was stuck doing Phoebe’s job. Again. Worse, she had to watch Honey’s “gal pal” flirt outrageously with a man who looked like a dissipated grandfather. Helen thought he might be a former TV host who’d had DUI problems.
“You’re funny,” Phoebe said, and giggled. The white-haired man puffed out his scrawny chest and put his hand on Phoebe’s nearly bare shoulder. It inched toward her breast.
Mireya, the photographer’s assistant, crawled along the pink pavers on the terrace, moving pots of pink impatiens away from the bride’s skirt. Her brown curls shone in the sun.
“Look this way, Honey,” the photographer, Marco Antonio, said. “Tilt your chin up.”
Honey tilted.
An inhuman screech rent the air. Mireya nearly dropped a pot of flowers.
“It’s okay,” Honey said, chin still tilted at an unnatural angle. “It’s one of King’s peacocks. It’s mating season.”
The gaudy bird strutted in front of the bride and fanned its fabulous tail, screeching again, hoping to impress a dun-colored peahen six feet away.
“Beautiful,” the photographer said. “Hold still. Nobody move.” Marco Antonio dropped to his knees as if he were worshiping the bride and the bird, and clicked his camera.
Helen thought of her mother’s favorite saying: “The most beautiful things in the world are the most useless, peacocks and lilies.” Later, Helen learned that quote was from John Ruskin. She never thought beauty was useless. Honey’s good looks got her this peacock palace—and her ugly groom.
Honey waited until the photographer finished, then said, “King loves those peacocks. He read somewhere that the old-time estates had them. He bought three peacocks and three peahens. The hens are drab and dowdy. Peacocks are noisy, bad-tempered birds, and they wake me up every morning during mating season.”
