by Maddy Hunter
“Really?” She wrapped her arms around me again and squeezed, practically collapsing my lungs. “I’m so glad to hear you say that! There’s no one I trust more than you, Emily, so if you say it’s not going to happen, it simply won’t happen! I have your word on it, right?”
“You bet.” If I was wrong, what could she do? Sue me?
“Thank God that’s resolved. I have so many other issues screaming for my attention right now that I don’t have time to work in an apocalypse.” She checked her watch. “Let’s see, it’s seven hours earlier in New York, which would make it—what? Three in the afternoon? Perfect.” She dug her mobile phone out of her purse and punched in a string of numbers. “Wait’ll you hear all the fun stuff that happened at dinner, Emily. Those Hamlets people are a stitch. Who’d you sit with?”
“Competitive eaters. They finished their entrees in a two-minute dead heat and spent the rest of the meal accusing each other of cheating. On the upside, they’re both watching their calories, so I got their desserts. If they gain another ounce, they’ll get bumped up to a higher weight class with Dick ‘The Disposal’ Duffy, and no one has ever beaten Dick.”
Jackie broke into a wide grin as her party came on the line. “Hello, Mona? This is Jackie Thum calling from Helsinki. How are things at Hightower Books? Poor dear. I know you’re overworked. So, can you tell me how many books I’ve sold today? Uh-huh. Well, people keep asking, ‘How’s the book selling?’ so I thought—” She paused. “You gave me my own publicist. Shouldn’t you give me my own data entry person, so I can report accurate sales numbers whenever someone asks? I thought that would be one of the perks of working with an A-list publisher like Hightower.”
Thinking this conversation could take a while, I walked over to my suitcase and pulled out the wedding brochures I’d brought along for show and tell.
“Mona, do you know how stupid I sound when I tell people I don’t know how many books I’ve sold? Authors have a right to know these things. What? Of course I’ll consult my royalty statement…when it arrives six months from now! What am I supposed to do in the meantime? Can you at least let me access your sales computer so I can find the numbers for myself? I brought my laptop with me.”
I sat down opposite Jack, feeling all tingly as I flipped through the glossy pages in my wedding packet. This wedding was going to be so spectacular.
“All right, you have my number. Talk to the powers that be and get back to me. Now, tell me the good news. How many bestseller lists am I on?”
Her face stiffened as if it had been spray starched.
“Really? I don’t want to tell you your business, Mona, but it might help if you knew how many freaking books I’ve sold so you can pass the word on to the New York Times and USA Today. Excuse me for a moment, would you?”
She contorted her mouth into a silent scream and beat the phone against the bedcovers before returning it to her ear. “Last item of business. There’s a retirement community called the Hamlets on the Gulf coast of Florida, and I’ve been invited by the board president to do a book signing next month. She’d like to order five thousand books, so I’d appreciate it if you could start the ball rolling on your end. Yes, five thousand books, and she assures me she’ll sell every last one. I just met her and believe me, she’s a force to be reckoned with. Let me give you the name and number of the bookstore you need to contact to coordinate everything.”
“Five thousand books?” I marveled when she hung up. “Wow, that should land you on some sort of list.”
“It certainly should, which leads me to a prediction of my own. Stephen King may be the king of horror, but Jackie Thum is about to become the queen of romance.” She snapped her fingers. “Damn. I forgot to ask what kind of advertising they’re doing in the print media. Hightower is being extremely stingy with their advertising budget, Emily. Between you and me, I’ve noticed publishers aren’t really interested in splashing your photo all over the place unless you’re blond and morbidly anorexic.” Catching a reflection of herself in the dresser mirror, she stared critically. “What do you think I’d look like as a blond?”
Oh, God. “Hey, I have some good news for you. Etienne ordered your book and he says he’s dying to jump into it.”
“That was so nice of him!” She clapped her hands in a patty-cake gesture. “Emily, would you mind asking him to write a review on Amazon when he finishes? Just a line or two saying how much he enjoyed it.”
“I can ask him, but what if he says he’s not into writing reviews?”
“Forget the review, just tell him to give me five stars. That’s all that matters anyway.”
I held up an eight-by-ten photo. “What do you think?”
“Ohhhh.” She cupped her hands over her mouth, her eyes growing dewy. “Your wedding gown?”
“Yup. The latest offering by Windsor City’s very own wedding dress designer. He opened an elegant little shop next to Skaartvedt’s Roto-Rooter and Used Books on Main Street, and he designs and custom tailors all the gowns himself at rock-bottom prices. He’s giving Bunny’s Bridal Palace a real run for its money.” I handed her the photo and was touched when she blinked away more tears.
“It’s you, Emily. Strapless is so in. The beading is absolutely luscious. And look at that train. How long is it?”
“Twelve feet.”
“Twelve feet. Imagine.” She splayed her hand on her chest and sighed. “I didn’t have a train on my gown, but it was every girl’s dream: layer upon layer of pink organza. I looked like a controlled explosion in a cotton candy factory.” She handed the photo back and asked coyly, “Is there something you’d like to ask me, Emily?”
“Yeah. I’m going to wear my hair up, so what do you think will look better—drop pearls or studs?”
She sniffed delicately. “Wrong question. Try again.”
I flashed another eight-by-ten. “This is the restaurant where we’re having the reception. Ashgrove. It’s on the outskirts of town, brand new and very posh. Nana says it’s one of those places where they won’t let you inside unless you’re wearing a necktie and your best control-top panty hose. So the question is, which do you think guests would prefer—the prime rib or the filet mignon?”
“What about vegetarians?”
“Iowa exports all its vegetarians to California or New York, so we basically don’t have any.”
“Hel-loo? I’m a vegetarian.”
“Are you still doing that?”
She fluttered her hand. “Intermittently.”
“So what do you think?”
“Still not the right question.”
I narrowed my gaze. “How about you tell me the right question.”
“You have to guess.”
“NO!”
She fisted her hands on her hips and glowered. “I don’t remember your being this clueless when we were married, Emily. I’m waiting for you to ask me to be your matron of honor!”
“You are?” Uh-oh. “Um…there’s a good reason why I haven’t asked you, Jack.”
“I bet.”
Where were the earthquakes and flash fires when you really needed them? “I—uh, I already have a matron of honor. Maid of honor, actually.”
She clutched her chest as if the front closure on her Miracle bra had popped open and her breasts were in gravitational free fall. “You what?” she choked. “Go ahead. Twist the dagger a little deeper into my heart, why don’t you? I thought I was your best friend. Aren’t brides supposed to ask their best friends to stand up for them?”
“They are,” I hedged, treading lightly, “and you mean a lot to me, Jack, but Sharon and I have history.”
“We have history.”
“Yeah, but Sharon and I go all the way back to pre-school. We memorized the alphabet together. We rode tricycles together. We acted in our first high school play together.”
“We had sex together!”
“That doesn’t count. We were married.”
“Sex trumps the alphabet and tricycles. Ask
anyone.”
“It doesn’t. You can’t ask me to boot Sharon out of my wedding so you can take her place! That would be too tacky for words. Besides, she already has her dress.”
“I could wear her dress.”
“It’s a size two.”
“I could stop eating. I could do it, Emily. It would only be for a few months. Pleeease?”
I hung my head in frustration. “Jack, it’s going to be a very small wedding. A maid of honor and no bridesmaids.”
She pretended fascination with her tissue package before sticking her bottom lip out in a dejected pout. “So what color is Sharon’s dress?”
“Black. Since the Swiss are partial to black, we thought we’d do a black-and-white wedding.”
Her head shot up. “Black? I can’t wear black. It turns my skin the most hideous shade of green.” Pout sliding into a smile, she stood up and straightened her miniskirt. “Aren’t you lucky you found someone to stand in for me? I would have looked like the Grinch in all your wedding photos. Would you look at the time? Eh! I’ve gotta run.”
She rushed to the luggage stand by the window. “Portia and her friends are probably waiting for me in the lobby. They’re the most enthusiastic people, Emily. They’re all fighting over who gets to host me when I fly down for my book signing. I’ve already decided that when Tom and I retire, we’re moving to the Hamlets. Everyone is so happy. Must be all that Florida sunshine. Or maybe all the pulp in the fresh-squeezed orange juice. That’s gotta keep everyone regular.”
She unzipped her suitcase and pondered the contents. “I might need help carrying these things to the lobby. Would the person who didn’t ask me to be the matron of honor at her wedding like to volunteer?”
Might as well get used to it now. I was never going to live this down. “Whatever!” I dragged my jet-lagged body across the room, doing a double take when I looked inside her suitcase. “This is what you call a few extra copies?”
She gnawed her lip self-consciously. “Okay, I might have gotten a little carried away.”
“A little carried away? Five books are a few extra copies. Six books, tops. How many have you crammed in here?”
“Seventy-five?”
“Were you planning to hand them out on street corners?”
She grabbed my arm in excitement. “Emily! That’s a great idea!”
I rolled my eyes before regarding her and her suitcase with sudden suspicion. “Where are your clothes?”
“Uhh, I know what I can do.” She zipped her suitcase back up and muscled it to the floor. “I’ll wheel the books down. That way I won’t have to bother you.”
“Did you pack your clothes in your carry-on luggage?”
“Don’t wait up for me,” she advised as she maneuvered her pullman toward the door. “The Hamlets folks might want autographs and a short bio.”
Why was I getting such a bad feeling about this?
Chasing behind her, I jerked open the closet door. “Hold it, Jack! The only clothes hanging up in here are mine. Where’s your leather bustier? Your white dress with the shoulder flounces? Your animal-print jeans?”
She turned slowly, her gaze withering. “I remember this attitude of yours from when we were married. You can be so…so—”
“You didn’t bring any clothes, did you?”
“I didn’t have to—you always pack enough to dress half of Africa. I thought we could share.”
“Jack!”
“Isn’t that what best friends do?”
“Not on trips abroad!”
“What else could I do? I had to pack my books! Global marketing, Emily. If I don’t hand-sell my book, who’s going to? I’ve never even heard from the publicist Hightower assigned me. I had to make a choice between clothing or career, and I chose career. And if you were in my shoes, I bet you’d make the same choice.”
I looked down at her shoes, my eyes widening with astonishment. “Are those Jimmy Choos?”
“Catalog knockoffs. Aren’t they adorable? They had your size, Emily. You want to borrow my catalog?”
I slid the closet door shut. “Did you at least bring your own underwear?”
“Duh? Your bras were too snug for me when I was a guy. Can you imagine how impossible they’d be now that I have breasts?”
She gave me a little finger wave and headed out the door. I retrieved a sympathy card from my travel documents and addressed the envelope to Jackie’s husband in New York. I wanted to remain a step ahead of the game, because if I found too many split seams, torn hems, or popped buttons in my brand-new and perfectly color-coordinated wardrobe, somebody on this trip was going to die.
And I knew who it would be.
CHAPTER 3
“Here’s the final tally,” Osmond Chelsvig announced the next morning, reading from his spiral notepad. “I got four votes saying it looks like the organ pipes at Holy Redeemer Church.”
At the conclusion of our three-hour city tour, Annika had dropped us off at the Kauppatori Market Square—a bustling fish and vegetable market set up on the cobbled stones of the inner harbor, with a view of massive government buildings painted the most unlikely shades of sky blue and lemon sorbet. Dining was alfresco, so my group had commandeered several umbrellaed tables and pushed them together, hoping to shield themselves from UV rays, and their prospective lunches from scavenging seagulls.
“I got four more saying it looks like the organ pipes at Good Shepherd Lutheran.”
We’d visited Sibelius Park earlier, awed by the twenty-four-ton sculpture built in honor of Finland’s most famous classical composer, Jean Sibelius. It was a massive abstraction of welded steel and vertical pipes and had prompted serious discussion about what other images it brought to mind.
“What song did Annika say this Sibelius fella wrote?” Bernice called out.
“It isn’t a song,” Tilly Hovick informed her, sounding like the anthropology professor she’d once been. “It’s a symphonic poem: Finlandia.”
“Never heard of it,” said Bernice. “Which chart is it on? Country or pop?”
“I got two votes saying it looks like the tail pipes Clarence Peavey chained together and stuck out in his cabbage patch to scare the crows.”
In the harbor, a tour boat pulled away from the quay, filling the air with diesel fumes that completely overpowered the smell of fresh fish, salt air, and bodies baking in the ninety-three-degree heat. The unexpected spike in the temperature was unbearable. Even the cobblestones were steaming.
“One person says it looks like a phone booth that got run through a shredder, and the final vote says, ‘Who cares what it looks like? It’s the dumbest-looking thing I’ve ever seen.’” Osmond repocketed his notepad. “That’d be Bernice.”
“How do you know it’s me?” Bernice objected. “How do you know it wasn’t George? Or Marion?”
“I recognized your handwriting.”
“Can I have your attention?” I asked, standing up so everyone could see me. “I don’t think any of us expected it to be this hot, so be sure to pick up extra bottles of water and stay hydrated. After lunch, you might like to take a boat tour of the harbor. That would cool you off. Or you could sit under a shady tree and listen to a concert in Esplanade park.” I pointed west. “Just beyond the tram tracks. Or you could shop in the stores along the boulevard, which might be air-conditioned. I’ve marked on your maps where the hotel is, so you shouldn’t have any problem finding it. Any questions?”
Alice Tjarks raised her hand. “Is a waitress going to come to the table, or is this self-serve?”
“Self-serve all the way,” I said. “Wander around the food stalls, grab yourself some reindeer sausage or bear pâté, and bring it back here to eat.”
Twelve sets of eyes regarded me uncomfortably.
“What?” I teased. “Not tempted by the bear pâté? How about grilled liver with mashed potatoes and bacon? I hear that’s a Finnish specialty: reindeer liver, elk liver. Finns love red meat.”
Twelve sets of f
eet remained eerily still, which prompted a horrible thought. “You haven’t gone vegetarian on me, have you? You don’t want to do that. Not in Finland. You’ll be heading down the path to starvation.”
“If we leave, someone might take our tables,” Dick Teig finally spoke up.
Grunts of assent. Heads bobbing.
“C’mon, guys, this isn’t a problem,” I cried. “Six of you can save chairs while the other six get their food, hen you can switch. You do it every week for the lunch buffet at the casino.”
More uncomfortable looks. Discreet scratching. No stampeding.
“What!”
“That’ll give the six people who get their food first an unfair advantage,” complained Dick Stolee.
“They can scarf down their meals and be out of here before any of us,” said Lucille Rassmuson. “It’s not fair to give some such a big head start.”
“Smells like favoritism to me,” said Grace Stolee.
I stared at them in exasperation. “You can’t promise to wait for each other?”
“We could all promise,” Helen Teig fussed, “but a lot of good it would do.” She arched a crookedly drawn eyebrow. “If you know what I mean.”
All eyes riveted on Bernice.
Bernice blew everyone off with a flick of her hand. “If you keep ragging on me like this, I’m going to report you to Mr. Erickson and have you all banned from the next trip. I can do it, too. Erickson and I have gotten pret-ty chummy since his wife left him. He’s like putty in my hands, so you better be nice to me.” She flashed a smug smile. “Bernice and the bank president. Sounds like a movie starring Sandra Dee, doesn’t it?”
“That’s really low of you to take advantage of a man with cataracts,” Dick Teig scolded.
“If you’re putting out for him, I hope you’re taking precautions,” advised Margi. “Olle Erickson certainly doesn’t want to father any unplanned children at his age.”
Alice raised her hand. “Excuse me, Emily, but how are we going to decide who gets their food first?”
“Secret ballot,” said Osmond. “We always decide things by secret ballot.”
