The Unforgettable Queen of Diamonds

by Nellie K Neves

  “Hudson,” I can’t help the mom tone in my voice, “what’d you do?”

  “I went out with Jill Larsen.”

  “The Jill Larsen?”

  Hudson has had his eyes on one girl, and one girl only, since grade school. We live in a tiny town, I’ve always told him it was just a matter of time before Jill finally noticed him for more than a school buddy, but by the look of his face, she more than noticed him.

  “Yeah.” He shakes his head like he can’t believe it himself. “I asked her out yesterday. Dad said I could use the ‘Vette, and I just got back in.”

  Hot on the heels of juicy gossip, I ask, “Did you kiss her?”

  “I thought you said a gentleman doesn’t talk about it.”

  “There’s an unwritten exclusion for older sisters.”

  I expect him to come inside and spill the details like Vic would, but he hovers in the doorway instead. “Yeah I kissed her, and she kissed me back.”

  “How many times?” I cock an eyebrow to let him know that my motherly side will only accept one answer in this case.

  “Just once, creeper.”

  “And you’re going out again?”

  “Tomorrow, after school, and then this weekend to the movies.”

  “Sounds like you’re going to be picking up a shift on Friday to pay for it. The McKlintock wedding needs an extra hand or two.”

  He rolls his eyes and turns to leave. “Yeah fine. It’s not like dad will just give me the cash.”

  The kid has a point. Dad’s never been one to spoil us, even though he could.

  “Hey, Hudsie,” I call after him as he’s leaving. I wait for him to duck his head back in before I ask, “What gave you the guts to finally ask her?”

  His grin goes crooked with mischief. “You.”

  “Me?”

  The true intent of that grin becomes clear in an instant. “I figured if Roman could get you to notice him, I probably had a better shot than I thought. I mean, we all know I’m prettier than both of you.”

  I chuck a pillow from my bed at his head, but he’s gone, leaving only laughter where the pillow falls flat. I can’t stay mad long. He’s too precocious. Always has been.

  Bouncing my pencil against my notepad, I consider the long list of chores for the wedding on Friday. Besides being the music scout, I am the event coordinator for the ranch. Every wedding, birthday party, prom, and yes summer concert series, goes through me. The wedding Friday doesn’t have me worried. Music is booked, but the barn still needs to be cleared. The bride is bringing in flowers, Victoria is coming home to cater, and I’ll put Hudsie in charge of set up. He’ll probably grab a few guys from school to help out. Everyone knows dad pays well. I’ll get the décor up tomorrow and Friday morning. Everything should go off without a hitch, at least, that’s my plan. I live by the standard that if I write it down in my planner, then it’s law.

  My phone chirps beside me. It’s only then that I realize I have a voicemail. Setting my notebook aside, I press play on the message.

  “Hi, Kennedy. It’s Roman. I know it’s late. I’m sure you’re asleep. I was curious if you’d found any leads on new talent, or if you’d followed up with anyone from the club. To make this place viable, I need to sign some contracts around here, and I thought…I don’t know what I was thinking. Could you call me back? I’ll be up for a while or you could call tomo—”

  The automated robot lady cuts him off and asks if I’d like to keep the message or delete it. I didn’t think I’d hear from Roman, at least not this soon. He could be calling strictly for what he said—business, for our purely professional relationship. Or he could be calling for other reasons, the kind of reasons that made him linger on that goodbye the other night.

  I press his number on my phone before I can think about the repercussions or conclusions one might draw from a girl who’s willing to call a guy she barely knows late at night.

  He picks up on the second ring, because he’s been waiting for me.

  I manage to keep my squeal inside.

  But only just barely.

  “Kennedy?” His voice isn’t sleepy. It’s eager, as if he’s been hoping I’d call. My number must be in his phone. I need to slow down, stop jumping to conclusions before I go over the edge, but I fear it’s already too late.

  “Hi, Roman,” I say, pleased with myself that I’ve hidden every trace of anxiety away so I sound like a demure woman, not the giddy girl I feel like.

  “Thanks for calling me back. I know it’s late. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No, not at all. I was finalizing details for a wedding this weekend.”

  “At the ranch? Will you have a live band?”

  “Booker Jennings. We saw him at the club. He plays with a couple other guys when they do receptions.” Bravery takes the wheel for a second. “You should come. It’ll give you a second chance to hear him, and in a different environment.”

  “I should,” Roman says. “Are you sure it’s okay? I don’t want an angry bride on my hands.”

  “I’ll keep you with me all night,” I say, only half teasing. “Vic always makes too much food anyway. It’ll be fine.”

  “Okay. That sounds great.”

  “I’ll see you then?”

  “Absolutely.”

  When I hang up the phone, I can’t help but notice my smile in the mirror against the wall. It’s rather reminiscent of Hudson’s.

  I don’t think I did a bad thing either. At least not that bad.

  Chapter 5

  Kennedy

  “That string is blinking, Hudson. You’ve got to sort that out,” I yell up at my younger brother from where he’s perched in the rafters. It takes all my self-control to call him by his real name, not his nickname. With half the football team helping out with set up, Hudsie would kill me if I gave them ammunition to tease him.

  I glance around the barn. The bride, Trina, wants every surface covered in twinkle lights. I called an audible and added some glowing spheres to the count, knowing there aren’t enough lights in all of the North Pole to illuminate the whole barn without some help. Thus far, she hasn’t complained, but like most of the brides I work with, that hasn’t stopped her from bossing around every person within the sound of her raised voice.

  They’re an interesting sort, brides, I mean. Enough rage to be a dictator in a small war-torn country. Overabounding in entitlement, at levels rivaling even the most rotten toddlers. Yet, strangely more emotionally fragile than a five- foot house of cards. I once saw one of the brides crumble over the shade of her roses, bubble gum pink instead of blush toned.

  Trina is no different. I’ve watched her scream at Vic for using too much salt in the appetizers, cry when she heard the sound test from Booker and his band, and then nearly pass out from sheer starvation, because, heaven forbid, she might not fit into her size two wedding dress.

  After working with brides for years, not much can rattle me anymore. They’re a bit like a thunderstorm, brewing in the distance, threatening destruction, but even the most ferocious typically blow out in an hour or two. Bouquets are forgotten. The flavor of the cake is a distant memory, and all that is left is a stack of pictures and a hefty bill.

  If I ever get married, it won’t be like this, a circus of people and lights and chaos. It’ll be about me and him. Maybe our families if they’re playing nice. I think our trellis in the south pasture would be a nice backdrop, maybe a few sunflowers in a bouquet, and a white sundress with bare feet. Some quiet to balance out the cacophony of weddings I’ve endured over the years.

  “I didn’t even use salt this time!”

  Victoria drops the plate on the barn floor, sending her shrimp wonton cups flying in four different directions.

  “I can taste it!” Trina yells back at her. “You’re covering the shrimp in salt and mark my words, if you kill my dear aunt Trudy, I will sue you for everything you have!”

  If I had a nickel for every lawsuit, or dear aunt Trudy for that matter…
>
  I move to intercept Victoria before she unleashes on the bride. My sister is tough, even more so because of her rebellious years, but these days she’s typically a kitten. Until it comes to her food. She’ll take a head off for insulting her food or cooking ability.

  “Hey Vic, what about that crostini you showed me. Has Trina tried it?”

  Her rage turns on me, made more severe by her tight bun pulling back her auburn hair that usually softens her face. “You expect me to feed her something else?”

  “That is your job,” I say, hoping to remind her.

  “Fine.” She whirls on her boot and stalks away.

  “She’s a nuisance,” Trina mumbles once Vic is gone. “I don’t know how you’re related.”

  “Yen and Yang,” I tell her, but it’s only to appease her. To point it’s true, but not entirely. While I look like Mom, Vic looks like Dad, but we both have the same auburn hair. We’re both focused, determined, driven and single-minded, though centered on different goals. My temper is every bit as strong as Victoria’s. The only difference is that I’ve learned to control it.

  I spend the next twenty minutes finalizing the rest of the details and timeline for the following day. I stick around when the appetizer plate, complete with pomegranate and goat cheese crostini, slams down in front of her. Approval is given and with great joy in my heart I escort Trina back to her car.

  Watching the car vanish down the driveway, Victoria stops next to me. “She’s the worst one yet.”

  “You can stand a little less salt, Vic.” I smirk. “Think of dear Aunt Trudy.”

  It breaks her resolve for anger, and she melts into a wicked snicker. I follow her back to the kitchen, more than happy to play taste tester for her while she finishes her prep work. She’s living in town these days, her own apartment away from the ranch, not that any of us have ever seen it. Vic loves her secrets.

  I miss when she was only one door down. Dad even built a cottage out back, hoping one of us would take it. I’m too much of a homebody, and she’s too much of a gypsy.

  “I heard you’ve got a guest coming tomorrow night.” Victoria acts as though her focus is on the piped frosting for the cake, but I know a fishing expedition when I hear one.

  “Who told? Hudsie?”

  “Dad.”

  How’d he know?”

  She rolls her eyes. “The man knows everything. It shouldn’t surprise you.” She pauses to examine her work and pipe a bit of frosting onto her finger. “But Hudsie did tell me he’s a bit of a nerd, decent looking, but a nerd.”

  “Roman doesn’t look like a nerd. He’s gorge—” I stop myself. “He’s fine, I guess.”

  “Look, it’s cool if you’re into nerds. They’re not my type, but if he makes your heart flutter…” She bats her eyes like a smitten schoolgirl until she can’t keep her snarky giggle to herself. “Come on, tell me about him.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. It’s all work related.”

  Her left eyebrow twitches. “Fine. I’ll figure it out myself.”

  Conversation moves on to other topics, but Roman has a way of weaseling beneath my skin. No, there isn’t much about a wedding or a bride that can get to me anymore, but Roman, Roman is trouble.

  ✽✽✽

  Roman

  I can wait five minutes for mom to make it to the door, or I can walk right in and she can scold me for giving her a heart attack. It’s the same dilemma I face every time I’m at her door. I jiggle the handle. It gives way, and I take my chances.

  “Ma? It’s me, Roman. Don’t shoot me or anything.”

  It’s best to make her laugh. The idea that the five-foot nothing would ever handle a gun is beyond a joke. I still enjoy teasing her about her Italian mobster heritage.

  “In the kitchen, sweetheart.”

  Her cheerful mood sets me on edge. She’s up to something.

  I take the twelve steps through the small house to the arched entry of the kitchen. But it’s not dad at the table with her.

  It’s her trap.

  Blonde hair stretches the length of her back, slinky like spun silk. She shifts and her hair moves with her, swashing like an ocean wave. Crisp blue eyes catch mine from the instant I step into the room. She not only looks at me, but peers into my heart as if looking for flaws.

  Mom knows how to pick them. Too bad it never ends well for me. Last week, it was the swim instructor. A few days before that, Dad’s nutritionist. Both were attractive women. Both appeared interested at first, but I find I lack the wow factor to keep their attention. Both interactions ended after no more than four minutes. I’d like to say it’s the first time it’s happened, but I can’t. I count three sandwiches on the counter, properly plated, each with their own bag of chips and a drink to match. Mom has been busy getting ready for this little setup.

  “Roman,” the triumph in my mom’s voice is like a gladiator standing over his victim, “so glad you could make it for lunch. This is Charlotte, your father’s occupational therapist. I’ve been telling her all about you.”

  My nerves pull tight. Number one issue, my mom doesn’t know me, not really. She thinks I work as an accountant at a tech firm. She doesn’t know I went to Quantico, the training center for FBI agents, six years ago. She doesn’t know I dread either of my parents finding out who I really am. Number two, what she does know about me is mostly embarrassing.

  It takes all of ten seconds to see the photo album open on the window ledge behind her. It’s open to the picture of me playing in the mud, naked.

  I was three.

  Perfect.

  I cross the room and plant a kiss on my mother’s forehead. With smooth hands, I slide the album shut and set it on the counter out of sight. Reminding myself that I’ve faced worse than this, I steel my nerves and face Charlotte.

  “Don’t believe everything she tells you. I’ve grown up a bit since those pictures were taken.”

  Charlotte glances my way. She gives a quick smile and gathers her keys from the table. “Well, you are taller,” she says, leaving me wondering if that’s the only redeeming quality she’s found in me.

  Once again, mom oversold me. If my younger brother were here, the whole situation would be reversed. She’d be steaming to get her claws in him, not rising to her feet to leave.

  “You’re my dad’s therapist?” Small talk feels meaningless, Like the others, I assume she’s made her decision, but I also see no point in being rude and calling it for what it was—a thirteen second blind date that failed. At least, that’s my impression. If she were interested, she’d stay and have the lunch mom obviously made for the three of us, but she’s moving like she means to get on with her life.

  “Occupational,” she says. “Your father is a real teddy bear. I love working with him.” It’s all business now. She’s perfectly polite, but not interested.

  “Roman is just like his father,” mom says, oblivious to the way Charlotte is edging her way out of the room. “He’s always been my snuggle bunny, but then he’s also as smart as they come. He’s a bookkeeper.”

  “What a combination.” Charlotte humors Mom, but I feel as though I’m back in high school trying to talk with one of the popular girls. Or maybe a bit like a zoo animal. I should do some tricks to keep her interested, but I’m not one to jump through hoops.

  “I made you a sandwich, Roman. Grab a chair and eat with us.”

  “Actually, Sylvia, I have to go. I have another appointment.” Charlotte shifts toward the doorway, twirling her keys in her hand. I know that trick well, a sign that she can’t wait to leave. Most of my blind dates end this way. “Tell Gio to keep up on his exercises. I’ll check in on Monday.”

  “Nice to meet you, Roman. I’ll see you next week, Sylvia.”

  I close my eyes once she’s around the corner, but don’t exhale until the door shuts and she’s gone.

  “Isn’t she great?”

  Mom’s voice brings me back to life. I rub my palm over my face to hide my embarrassment over mo
m’s latest matchmaking failure. One deep breath in, and I compartmentalize the whole ordeal.

  “She’s something.” I snag the plate with my Rueben from the counter and pull out the seat across from her. “I’m not sure she’s my type.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be so picky.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be so nosey.”

  “The Lord gave us all talents, dear. I’m just perfecting mine.”

  I roll my eyes before I take a bite of my sandwich. “I don’t think she was interested, mom.”

  “She’s thirty-one, and looking for a successful, independent man. That sounds like my Roman to me.” She’s always seen more in me than anyone else. I guess that’s what unconditional love will do for a person.

  “Ma, you’re meddling.”

  “I’m being your mother. Come over tomorrow. You can meet Kelley, she’s the aerobics instructor at the senior center. Very fit, very slender.”

  “I told you. I can do this on my own.”

  Her mouth puckers into a frown. “Really? Then where are those grandchildren of mine? You don’t even date, Roman. All you do is work, work, work.”

  “I have a date this weekend.” The words fall out before I can stop them. The wedding with Kennedy isn’t a date, it’s part of my cover. It’s work. It’s trying to figure out who Dale was working with to launder the money. With most of his dealings coming from the Cartwright family, I’d be stupid not to check it out, talk with her father, and if I happen to catch a slow dance with Kennedy…

  I stop myself. It’s not a date. Maybe if I keep repeating it, I’ll believe the lie.

  “Who is she?” Mom drops her sandwich and leans forward. “How long has this been going on?”

  “It’s new,” I tell her. “We just met. She’s invited me to an event, and I’m meeting her there.”

  “You really like her, don’t you?”

  “I told you, we just met. Why would you think—”

  “Because your cheeks glow red when you talk about her, just like they used to when you talked about Mallory Monroe.”