A Wedding to Die For

by Adrianne Lee

  “Yes.” This advertising opportunity was more than a few articles. It was an Internet broadcast associated with a national network. I’d viewed a couple of sample shows, and it looked like a good deal that might benefit Blessing’s Bridal as well as several other businesses in town.

  “Well, we just got an e-mail from TR Jones,” Billie said, setting her spoon on the saucer and ordering us each a warm, gooey cinnamon roll without asking if I wanted something else. I guessed the blueberry pancakes could wait for another day, but I raised an eyebrow at her selection.

  She had Type 2 diabetes and Mom watched like a hawk over every bite of sugar that went into her mouth. Billie hated being told she couldn’t do something and, even though it often led to disaster, like a broken wrist, she ignored what others thought was good for her and did whatever she damn-well pleased. Usually I admired that about her.

  But not when it came to her health. She ignored my raised brow, forked a bite of cinnamon roll, and sighed with pleasure. “He wants to do our interview today. Now, before you protest, I didn’t forget about Meg’s final fitting or your girls’ plans. So I figured early was better than later, get it over and done with, then you’ll have the rest of the day free.”

  She sounded as though she was doing me a favor, and her look said, “I’ve already set this up so please say yes.” She lifted her cup and peered over its rim. “Okay?”

  I thought about saying: Sure. Why not? Why should anything go according to my plans today? But I was not a martyr, and there was Meg to consider. She and Zelda still had their heads together discussing some last-minute details of the wedding or reception. And then she would talk to Big Finn. The cinnamon roll began to congeal in my stomach. Maid of honor duties aside, I couldn’t just desert my best friend in her hour of need.

  “What time did you tell him?”

  She glanced at the clock over the door. “Nine o’clock.”

  It was 8:30. Barely enough time for us to get back to Blessings Bridal and for me to change clothes to something more suitable for an interview.

  Billie gobbled down the last of her cinnamon roll as I pushed mine aside half eaten.

  I said, “I’ll have to tell Meg.”

  Billie’s cell phone rang. “Your mother,” she said. She answered, and the color drained from her face. “What? Are you sure?”

  She handed me the phone. “She wants to speak to you.”

  “Mom, is something wrong?”

  “Depends on your definition of right.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The people from the Internet are here with their cameras and lights and—”

  “Oh, no. Tell them I’ll be right there.”

  “It’s not them you need to concern yourself with. It’s her.”

  “Her?”

  “The woman writing the articles.”

  I swear I heard venom in Mom’s voice.

  I frowned. “I thought the reporter was a man, a TR Jones.”

  “That’s what she’s calling herself these days, but she’s still Tanya Reilly.”

  My mouth dropped open, and just as a hush fell over the café, I blurted out, “Meg’s mother?”

  From the end of the counter, I saw Big Finn’s head snap in my direction.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Would you look at that fancy car?” Billie said as we neared Blessing’s. Three blocks down from Cold Feet Café, the bridal shop has the town’s largest parking lot, with Front Street on one side and Puget Sound at the far edge. Morning sun brush-stroked the solid brick building like an artist’s watercolor painting. Once two lumber warehouses, the shop was now three stories of living and business space.

  A brand-new, low-slung Jaguar with California plates was parked near the front entrance, and the sight of it both excited me and filled me with dread. “Crap.”

  Billie eyed me curiously.

  “It’s Peter Wolfe’s car.”

  She stopped walking and gaped at me. “Peter Wolfe, the actor?”

  “Peter is Meg’s fiancé.”

  “Well, I’ll be. I knew she was engaged to some actor, but I had no idea he was the star of the sitcom you both work on.”

  “Promise you won’t tell your Bunko buddies until after the wedding. We are trying to keep this as low-key as possible.”

  She looked crestfallen. “Won’t they be surprised, though.”

  As surprised as I was to see his car here. “He’s not supposed to arrive until tomorrow,” I muttered. My already skipping pulse kicked into overdrive. Was he inside with Meg’s mom? I might actually throw up.

  Billie huffed as if out of breath. “I specifically told everyone that the groomsmen fittings are tomorrow, not today.”

  “Peter isn’t getting a tuxedo from us,” I explained. “He has his own. He attends so many red carpet events in L.A., it’s more practical to own than rent.”

  Billie frowned. “Then what is he doing here?”

  Good question. And if he and Meg’s mother had been introduced, if he realized who Tanya was, then all hell was breaking loose in the bridal shop.

  “Well, he can’t be here today, and that’s all there is to it.” Billie stomped her foot, indignation twisting her mouth. My grandmother was very old-fashioned and traditional, especially when it came to wedding superstitions. “Meg’s final fitting is in an hour. W-What if he sees her gown? That’s nothing but bad luck.”

  I’d happily be tasked with deterring bad luck superstitions rather than the looming calamity facing us. If it wasn’t already too late. “Look, you keep Meg’s mother busy while I get rid of Peter, okay?”

  She looked as taken aback as if I’d poked her with a pin. “Me?”

  “Yes, you.” The idea seemed to sour her mood even more, but I didn’t have time to wonder why. Not then.

  We entered the private side door. The business office and elevator to the living quarters Billie and Mom shared on the third level were here as well as the stockroom. Mom was not in the office, and when we started toward the stockroom, she rushed at us like an enraged wasp, face red, eyes glazed and murderous.

  I recoiled, not recognizing her at first. Susan Blessing was my rock, the queen of calm. She could take down a Bridezilla with a single raised eyebrow. She huffed, “I can’t deal with that bi—”

  She broke off. I don’t think I’d ever heard her swear. Or seen her this close to it. She shoved past us and out the exit door, leaving us gaping after her. I started to ask what the deal was between my mom and Meg’s, but Billie cut me off. “I’ll go after Susan. You handle that wretched woman and Meg’s fiancé. And make sure that groom doesn’t see his bride’s wedding gown.”

  Me? Handle them both? Oh, God. I nodded, reluctantly. I’d rather find my mother and learn the cause of her distress. I’d rather run off the end of the dock and into Puget Sound. I’d rather anything except what awaited in the salon. But I had to think of Meg. I wanted her wedding to be perfect. Or as perfect as possible under the circumstances.

  Not to mention, the paramount duty of a maid of honor is to keep the bride emotionally calm. Who was going to keep me calm?

  I bucked up, reminding myself that Peter had never met Tanya, and that Meg looked more like Big Finn than her mother. With my heart pounding and stomach pinching, I hurried through the stockroom full of racks of plastic-covered wedding gowns, past the dressing rooms and toward reception.

  The main salon reminded me of a charming New York brownstone, the walls plaster-boarded with patches of aged brick showing through. Original hardwood planking and high ceilings made the space seem larger than it was. Fresh roses scented the air. Mannequins in the newest bridal attire decorated the three huge display windows with others placed prominently throughout the showroom floor. On the right side, two red velvet loveseats served as the waiting area. I ignored the couple sitting there, my gaze flying to the other end of the room, over the display rack of brochures from the various businesses in town and beyond the Edwardian reception desk.

 
Nothing overturned. No blazing guns smoking the air. No loud voices. Despite this good omen, my nerves were wound tighter than corset laces. Peter hated Meg’s mother more than I did—if that were possible—for walking out on Meg when she was a kid. But since the reception area displayed no signs of an apocalypse, I could only assume the two had yet to introduce themselves. Could I be that lucky? Given Peter’s penchant for privacy, maybe…

  Or… another unnerving thought occurred to me. Had Meg failed not only to tell her father she’d invited Tanya to the wedding, but Peter as well?

  Of course she had. Oh, God, Meg, what were you thinking? This was a ticking emotional bomb that no amount of organization or smoothing of ruffled feathers could defuse. Only she wasn’t here to witness the fallout of her folly, to buffer the impact or spare innocent bystanders. Like me. The knot in my stomach grew melon-sized.

  But I’d worried for nothing. Peter was not in the reception area. Only Tanya Reilly Jones and her camera tech—a rangy, long-haired guy with a mustache and different colored eyes. One blue, one hazel. A compact shoulder camcorder at his feet. They sat on the loveseat, conferring with their heads together. I heard my mother’s name mentioned, and my dander flared. Whatever this woman had done to upset my usually easygoing mom was another checkmark against her. I’d never felt less like having a conversation with anyone.

  As I struggled for composure, fifteen-year-old images tracked through my mind like a yellowed newsreel, recalling Tanya as a curvaceous brunette with bright brown eyes, a pretty face, and a loud laugh that squeezed like a vice. I knew, when she looked directly at me, I would see changes—age lines, weight gain, gray hairs? Warts, if karma prevailed.

  Okay, scratch weight gain. She was thin, Hollywood-starlet thin, that kind of bobble-head thin. I supposed Internet video also put ten pounds on a person, but I hoped the loss of her voluptuous figure was due to guilt.

  I interrupted their conversation. “I was expecting the usual interviewer from your show.”

  “I’m the producer of the show,” Tanya said, staring at something on her phone, “but since this is my old stomping ground, I decided to handle the Weddingville interviews myself while I’m here for the wedding.”

  The guy beside her said, “Two birds with one stone.”

  Tanya lifted her head then, her eyes widening at the sight of me. Or maybe I just thought they’d widened. Now that I could see her face full on, I realized she had none of the age-defining wrinkles I’d expected. In fact, her skin was so tight that I doubted it could express any serious emotion. And when she stood, I corrected my original assessment. She hadn’t lost any curves, although I suspected some curves were not natural. “My God, Daryl Anne Blessing. Why, you look so much like your father, Daryl, it just takes my breath.”

  Though this wasn’t the first time I’d heard that, it was the first time the comparison to my late father sent a shiver down my spine. Why? And why did Meg’s mother remember my father so vividly after fifteen years—when I could barely recall his face? Did it have anything to do with why my mother was so upset?

  “Daryl was such a darling man,” Tanya said, and I realized what had bothered me was the way she’d said Dad’s name. As soft as a caress. I narrowed my eyes, giving her the opportunity to expand on that, but she began glancing away, twisting a ring on her pinkie finger. She changed the subject. “I appreciate your moving this interview up to this morning, especially since I know you weren’t expecting us until tomorrow.”

  I bit my tongue to keep from saying, “We weren’t expecting you at all.” I also took a deep breath. I wanted to tell this woman what she could do with herself, wanted it so much I had to dig my fingernails into my palms to stop myself. I’d seen what bad press could do to lives, to businesses. Besides Meg, I had to consider how my actions might affect Mom and Billie, and this shop. I took a deep breath, gesturing to my outfit. “As you can see, I’m hardly interview-ready.”

  Tanya tilted her head, raking a gaze over me. “You look fine. And besides, I think your mother would prefer we do this and leave as quickly as possible.”

  The look on my sweet mother’s face flashed through my mind, and my normally slow temper flashed like lightning. Indignation for Mom, and for Meg, took over my better judgment, and I blurted out, “You should probably expect a similar or somewhat worse reaction when others discover you’re in town.”

  My bluntness brought Tanya standing a little straighter in her spiked heels. “Sticks and stones…”

  I could tell the bravado was just that, and the unexpected vulnerability it exposed killed my mean-girl comeback. I’d spent so many years angry with this woman that I’d never even considered that she might have a different version of the past than the one I’d always heard. I shoved my hand through my hair and caught the lanky camera guy leaning in closer, hanging on our every word. I’d met a few of his type, one step above a paparazzo, always keying in on anything that he might sell to a gossip outlet. At the moment, he wasn’t my problem. I didn’t care what he thought.

  Or what Tanya thought, I realized, surprising myself. “If you hurt Meg again,” I said in a voice that chilled even me, “I will come after you.”

  Camera-guy glanced at his boss, waiting for her response. Tanya studied me for a few seconds, then said, “I’m glad Meg has a friend like you.” She exhaled loudly. “Come on, Kramer, hike that camera to your shoulder, and let’s get this interview started.”

  I caught my image in the camera lens and startled. I was not going to be coerced into an interview—that would be on the World Wide Web—wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, my short hair standing up in all the wrong places.

  Tanya was grinning at me with something akin to delight, enjoying my discomfort. In that moment, I wanted to strangle her. But that would mean jail and a mug shot, and this ugly image on my record. Forever. Not to mention, it would ruin Meg’s wedding. I closed my eyes and reeled in the anger as I might a cloth measuring tape, coiling it into a neat little ball until it was soft and pliable. Controllable.

  For Meg’s sake, I would be civil to this woman, even if it killed me.

  And it just might.

  “Turn off the camera, Kramer,” I said, using the voice I reserved for actors who thought they could rifle through the rack of cast clothing I’d assigned and grab whatever outfit caught their eye, instead of what I’d chosen for their upcoming scenes. He ignored me like any good paparazzi would. I directed a glare at Tanya. “Ms. Jones, exactly what is your intent for this Internet piece? Are you doing a documentary or a docudrama?”

  “What?” The innocence in her wide eyes was as fake as her hair extensions.

  I raised my voice and stared directly at the camera. “If you’re really here to mend fences with your daughter, Ms. Jones, casting her maid of honor in a bad light on the Internet isn’t going to work in your favor.”

  Tanya blanched. “Kramer, cut.”

  The green light on the camera blinked off, and Kramer relaxed like a starch-free petticoat.

  “And delete the footage,” I told him, glad to see him comply. I directed my next words to Tanya, using as sugary a tone as I could manage. “I have so many wedding details to see to today. I would really appreciate if we could do this interview tomorrow, as we’d originally scheduled, at ten a.m.”

  Tanya clearly didn’t like someone else taking charge, but she nodded. “Ten sharp.”

  “Good. Meanwhile, I’m sure Meg will be glad to know you’re in town.” Even if Big Finn wouldn’t be. “Why don’t I give her a call and let her know?”

  I reached into my pocket for my cell, but Tanya stopped me. “She knows.”

  Sure she does. And soon everyone else will too. I didn’t need any more potential disasters rearing their ugly heads. Like the blow-up that is bound to happen at the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night when Peter meets the mother who abandoned his bride-to-be. Like the aftershocks when Big Red comes face to face with his ex. Not to mention whatever secret resentment my mom holds against this
woman.

  Like Scarlett, I decided to think about that tomorrow. Right now, I needed these two gone. I stepped back, gesturing toward the door. The opening door.

  Peter Wolfe walked into the shop. Always fearing recognition and the ensuing fan adoration that usually accompanied it, he’d hidden his famous face behind huge sunglasses and a low-slung fedora. As if that would fool the two media idiots already standing in the reception area. My throat closed.

  I rushed to him, blocking his view of Tanya and Kramer as best I could, given that he towered over me by six or more inches. I spoke in a low voice. “What are you doing here? We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

  “Ah, Daryl Anne,” he said, giving me a boyish grin that was too practiced for my tastes. “From what little I’ve seen of this town, it’s everything you and my fiancée claimed.”

  By which he meant: perfect for their secret wedding. Not that their getting married was secret, just the where and the when.

  “Where is my fiancée, by the way?” he asked, speaking too loudly, his resonate voice carrying like a familiar song throughout the salon. “She’s not answering her cell.”

  I felt Tanya and Kramer’s gazes like hot pokers in my back. My pulse roared in my ears. I was pretty sure that by now, Meg was breaking the news to Big Finn about the newest addition to the guest list and not worrying about missed texts or phone calls. I couldn’t figure out how to say that without eliciting World War III.

  From the corner of my eye, I caught movement, the camcorder going to Kramer’s shoulder, and knew his star-hunter nose had sniffed out the celebrity hidden in a flimsy disguise. I spun to see the record light glowing green. Kramer said, “Hey, Peter, what are you doing in Weddingville?”

  My heart literally stopped beating.

  “What the hell?” Peter said, his mouth twisting as he jerked toward Kramer. His fists balled. I realized he was about to pull an Alex Baldwin or Kanye West on the photographer. “Shit. I knew it was too good to be true. You promised there wouldn’t be any paparazzi in this little village, Daryl Anne. Otherwise I wouldn’t have agreed to hold the wedding here.”