That’s right, you got it. My mother must have wanted a girl real bad. Aunt Candy says that when I was born, there was a great sigh of relief. I was destined to be the little living doll the Blaine sisters and my grandmother had always wanted.
Surprise! Or maybe not. With three older brothers my tea set never made it past my sixth birthday, and my Barby wore permanent camo—jungle and desert. I was mad for toy trains and Tonka trucks. I built forts, tanks, and helicopters with my Lego set. By the time I was twelve, Mom and Aunt Candy had pretty much given up, not-so-secretly hoping that an interest in boys as something more than sparring partners would one day miraculously transform me into the girl child of their dreams.
Meanwhile, I was miserable. Since Dad’s accident—or whatever had happened to him—Logan and Jeff had turned disgustingly mature. The men of the family. Mom’s perfect helpers.
I hated it.
I really hated it.
So did Dad. He shut himself up with his computer and mostly didn’t even come out to eat. Mom served his meals on a tray and at least once a week engaged in tense, low-pitched battles with him about eating with the family. That, however, was before he got a look at my first-term report card. I heard him bellow, “Laine!” all the way in my bedroom at the far end of the house. With MTV going full blast.
As the youngest, and the longed-for girl for Mom, I’d escaped most of the lectures that pinned my brothers to the wall. But not now. I was screwed big time. And, yeah, wise ass fourteen-year-old that I was, I understood the expression in all its ramifications. The upshot of it was, five days a week after school, I reported to the once great Jordan Halliday, who’d had one of those If-I-tell-you, I’ll- have-to-kill-you jobs. And we didn’t just crack the books. Dad took me to fitness training, martial arts lessons, and rolled right along with me to the public firing range. And as if that wasn’t enough, I had private tutors in French and Spanish. Believe me, it’s tough to practice sullen teenage rebellion when you don’t have a minute to feel sorry for yourself.
And, besides, worry about me was getting Dad out of the house. He even condescended to try a couple of the specially designed machines at the fitness center. And we soon learned his disability didn’t extend to his eyes. He could shoot pretty good for an old guy in a wheelchair.
With fierce teenage insensitivity, I promised myself I’d practice until I could beat him. Turned out it was a good thing we lived so far out in the woods, because I practiced so hard we didn’t see a heron, egret, slow-circling buzzard, or even a feral pig for weeks. (Closer to town, I’d have been arrested after the first shot. Heaven forbid anybody should scare the tourists.)
On the day I put five of nine shots into the heart of my paper target and four more to the head, Dad slowly nodded. He reached down, folded up his metal foot rests. Then he levered himself to his feet. “HK,” he said, holding out his hand. I grabbed the MP-5 submachine gun and handed it to him. Watched him check the magazine, set it to manual. And then he put the HK to his shoulder and calmly shot perfect concentric rings around my two sets of shots.
There were so many grins, so much shouting, handshaking, and back-slapping at the firing range that day that, thank God, nobody seemed to notice my tears. I was growing up. They were tears of joy. Jordan Halliday lived again.
I mean, it’s no wonder I never seem to find the right man. With a gold standard like Dad, what’s a girl to do?
Dad never said, but I think that’s the day he decided to expand the family business, creating Holidays by Halliday, a sort of special events bonanza where people’s wildest dreams could come true. (The legal ones, that is.)
It took me a while to catch on, but that was also the day Mom started smiling at someone besides our clients. It took even longer for the bigger revelation to hit me. Dad had discovered he could do more than stand on his own two feet. After my stomach stopped clenching and I got through going, “Euw!” I thought it was pretty cool.
I went away to college, but only as far as Orlando, never getting too far away from the endless beaches, the seabreezes, swamps and alligators, or my new home town of Golden Beach as it attempted to cope with an overwhelming influx of people looking for a spot in the sun. By the time I graduated, Logan had also been swallowed up by the some secretive government acronym, so my return freed Jeff to do what he’d always wanted, a job as a Calusa County Deputy Sheriff. And, believe me, I had no regrets about returning to the family businesses. Troubleshooting for Fantascapes beats nine to five all to hell.
“Hey, kid.” Jeff strolled by with one of the stiletto-heeled bridesmaids tucked up in his arms. Best man for the wedding, he’d been one of the two SWAT team members up in the tower, making certain Marybeth was on the window ledge at the critical moment. I knew the details, of course, because of what I’d had to go through to convince Sheriff Purvis that Jeff wouldn’t let go until Jake took over.
If people had any idea what we had to do to make things look easy . . .
I picked up Marybeth’s satin slipper, whacked it gently against my palm to shake off the dust. I bit my lip. The white satin blurred as I shoved aside what had brought me here and, just for a moment, I tried to peer into the future. I’d had my share of opportunities to fulfill my own wedding fantasies, yet here I was. Once again the fairy godmother, never the bride. Truth was, if a guy showed signs of thinking cook, housekeeper, baby machine, I was off and running. That was for some day, but not today.
I fished a genuine lace-edged linen handkerchief out of my shiny blue alligator handbag and rubbed a stain near the slipper’s satin toe. I held it up to the strong Florida sun. Unless somebody got down and eyeballed it at ground level, it would do. I loped off after the guests who were making their way across the grass. Off to my right, I saw Flint Ramsay jogging toward the tent from the helo pad. I started to wave, my arm freezing in place—sort of like the Statue of Liberty holding up a shoe instead of a torch—as he drew to a halt, grinning down at a ditzy blonde in more skin than dress. Flashing her a broad grin, he clasped her firmly around the waist and whisked her toward the tent with her silly red heels skimming the ground, her mini skirt riding up to where the sun don’t shine. Well, hell!
If I’d been stupid enough to wear high heels to a wedding at the SWAT team training grounds, it could have been me.
I glared at the white satin slipper, reminded myself my presence here was partly business. Fantascapes’ honor was at stake. We could not allow a bride to proceed lop-sided down the aisle. Even if it meant ignoring Sergeant Flint Ramsay and his clinging vine wedding guest.
Maybe I should go to Peru, after all.
Chapter Two
“Morning,” I mumbled to my cousin Grady—Aunt Candy’s contribution to the male population—as I wandered into the Fantascapes offices the next day and headed straight for the coffee pot. Jessie has Saturdays off, holding down the fort on Mondays while Candy, Mom, and I are recovering from whatever weddings occupied our weekend. So my cousin was behind the reception desk, peering at Jess’s computer screen with what appeared to be considerable animosity.
The truth is, Grady is as myopic as he is good-natured and easy-going. And he only likes his own computer with all its bells and whistles. No matter that his is networked to Jessie’s, it’s just not the same.
When my brothers left home, it was understood that Grady and I would supply the hustle and muscle Fantascapes needed to compete with the big boys in the field of extra-special Special Events. But since my cousin’s strengths lie in spread sheets and hacking, guess who was left to provide the hustle and muscle. But, hey, Grady is likable, in a nerdish sort of way. On Saturday mornings when he mans the front desk, Candy makes him tie back the frizzy brown curls that usually halo his square face, sort of like Sponge Bob crossed with Albert Einstein. His eyes are a nice rich brown, but he hides them behind black-rimmed lenses so thick they’re almost impenetrable. Take my word for it, Grady cultivates the geek look. I’d like to think he’s pulling a Clark Kent, but every family has to ha
ve its black sheep, right? In our case Grady may be the only normal one we’ve got.
As I wandered back toward the front desk, sipping coffee with nearly every step—a-a-ah!—I examined my cousin with a still bleary, but professional eye. Fantascapes makes its money from high-end clients. No jeans and T-shirts at the front desk. This morning Grady was wearing a charcoal tweed suit, a pastel pink and white striped shirt and a black silk tie I’d given him for Christmas (ninety bucks, on sale). His fingernails, which tend to look chewed, were trimmed and buffed. I couldn’t see his shoes and socks, but I knew the former were shined to perfection and the socks matched, because Grady, like me, is a product of his environment, and perfection is the name of the game.
The rest of the week Grady could hide in his second-floor office, wearing anything he pleased, but he hadn’t spent twenty-four years as Candy Spangler’s son without knowing what put food on the table. With the sign at our black wrought iron gates promising to fulfill people’s dreams, we all had to look like genies who could handle anything that came our way. Not like roadkill left behind on our scramble to the top. Mom liked to say Fantascapes offered quality, even if we didn’t do the volume the big outfits managed.
“I take it the bride didn’t break her neck?” Grady ventured, turning to the Saturday comics in the local newspaper.
“The Sheriff is still wiping sweat from his brow, but Fantascapes triumphed again. Not a hitch.”
“Except for Jake and Marybeth.”
“Huh?” With only a few swallows of coffee, I was slow this morning. Hitched. Jake and Marybeth. Inwardly, I groaned—more at my own slow uptake than at the lameness of Grady’s joke.
“Did you go to the reception?”
“Mm-m.” I plopped down into one of the soft palm- and hibiscus-covered chairs in the reception area. “It was nice.” And I meant it, trite or not. I’d arranged for use of the rec hall owned by a proudly middle class civic association, the ones who maintained a ferry to take members across the Intracoastal to the beach. Maintaining a ferry is expensive. The ladies of the association were always glad to make extra money by putting on a wedding reception.
“I hear Cloud Ten played.”
“Four of them.” The pared-down version of the wedding band that provided music for most of Fantascapes’ Gulf Coast events was my present to the bride and groom.
“Cool.”
Truth was, the reception had been so downhome there were moments when my teeth ached. Except for the clusters of silk orange blossoms on each table, it was so far from the waterfront mansions and posh country clubs where most of our receptions were held that it was positively surreal. (I suppose I should mention we try to incorporate orange blossoms into all our weddings. Not only is it traditional, but they are the state flower of Florida. Unfortunately for this wedding, the bloom season was just past, and, besides, we hesitated to beg from the local groves, where every pristine white flower was supposed to grow into a fat, lucrative orange. So we kept a small mountain of white silk blossoms in our warehouse, even though they lacked the incredible fragrance of the real thing.)
Real blossoms or not, I never got attacked by wistful or wishful at high-end weddings. They were just business. Marybeth’s and Jake’s wedding was real. And when Flint Ramsay raised his head above the half dozen drooling females around him, including Ms. Red Mini, and looked at me across the length of the hall, the world went out of focus. Fantascapes. Responsibility. Laine Halliday, Troubleshooter. Everything went into meltdown. Which is a pretty strange thing to do when caught in the gaze of guy named Flint. I mean, what were his parents thinking?
I sure knew what I was thinking.
“Laine? Hey, Lainie? Did you have a good time?” Grady’s question inspired more memories.
Oh, yeah, I’d had a good time. When he saw me, Sergeant Flint Ramsay abandoned his admirers and headed straight for me. A power trip that still had me gliding on air, even as I ruthlessly tamped down the parts that wanted to jump up and down with glee in anticipation of our genuine date. Tonight.
“Laine!” Grady groaned.
“Sorry. Yes, I had a great time. A nice change of pace.”
“Good morning,” Grady enunciated in an entirely different tone of voice. I unslouched fast as Grady came out from behind his desk, hand extended. “Welcome to Fantascapes. How may we help you?”
It was the Russian bear. “Good morning, Mr. Kirichenko,” I burbled, popping to my feet like a Jack-in-the-Box, teetering precariously on the four-inch heels I had elected to wear this morning. (No trouble guessing why, right?) “I’d like you to meet our company treasurer, Grady Spangler. Grady, this is Viktor Kirichenko, who has just provided us with our newest challenge.” I ushered the bear to the Florida print sofa. “Grady, I’d appreciate your opinion,” I added. “Mr. Kirichenko’s request needs a good analytical mind.
“I’m glad you stopped by,” I told our newest client. “We were interrupted yesterday before I could pin down a few essential details. Like how tall is your bride, where is the wedding, and is there a door large enough to get the eggs through?” Viktor’s blank stare told me I’d left him behind somewhere around Grady’s introduction. “Sorry. Let’s start over.”
I leaned forward, speaking slowly. “How tall is your bride, Mr. Kirichenko?” He frowned, his eyebrows meeting in the center of his forehead. I stood up. “As tall as I am? Maybe shorter?” I pantomimed with my palm.
“Nichevo.” Viktor spread his ham-like hands, shrugged. “Two meters,” he said. “Not how tall bride, but need room to breathe, no?” He wanted the width oversize as well. Grady muttered something about the eggs being big enough to fit Santa Claus. Or hatch a Brontosaurus. I frowned at him and went on to Question Two.
The wedding would be at a “big club, Kirichenko told me. “Very big club.”
“We’re talking a whale of an egg too,” Grady said. Viktor stared at him in polite inquiry.
“Very big egg,” I said, spreading out my arms as far as they would go. “Heavy, hard to move. Is there a door at the club big enough—”
“Ah!” Viktor’s dark eyes lit up. “Da, da! Big door.” He spread his arms as well. A lamp tilted . . . Grady grabbed it, set it back in place, gently patting the shade to upright perfection.
“Now . . . how does it work?” I mused, trying to visualize the problem.
Silence. “Maybe a hole in the back?” Grady suggested. “The bride just walks in.”
Mr. Kirichenko said something that was definitely not the Russian equivalent of “Good idea.”
“Sorry,” Grady muttered.
The whole mass—four layers and a bride—had to be moved into place under the fascinated gaze of the wedding guests or else the bride had to be in the egg way ahead of time. I mean, layered eggs big enough for an oversize human were prohibitively unwieldy. I pictured a forklift lumbering up the aisle.
And yet . . . Viktor’s dream was so romantic. I could see the ornate Fabergé-style egg sitting there beside the Eastern Orthodox priest in his colorful robes and miter. Viktor steps forward, swings open some kind of door. The wedding guests draw deep breaths, preparing to oo and ah . . . and discover an equally ornate egg in a different color underneath. Ragged sighs of disappointment, rapidly transforming to appreciation as the guests catch on. Unique. Glorious. Wonderful! And the great unfolding continues, the second egg opening to reveal the third; the third egg , to reveal the fourth. And the fourth—while the guests hold their collective breath—at last reveals the bride. Who steps out of the egg to take Viktor’s hand and be led under the wedding canopy. By now everyone is enraptured, caught up in the ultimate romantic gesture.
“We’ll find a way,” I promised recklessly. “We’ll probably have to keep the guests out until the last minute, put the bride in the egg just before the wedding. What’s her name, Mr. Kirichenko? I don’t believe you’ve said.”
“Don’t know,” he told us cheerfully. “Family send nice girl from Odessa. Still looking.”
“
You’re doing this for some girl you don’t even know,” Grady blurted out. I shushed him.
“For me,” Viktor said simply. “Is my wedding, no?”
Sure it was. Mentally, I hit myself upside the head for being a reverse chauvinist. Who said a guy couldn’t dream of a fantasy wedding? Even if he looked like a big brown bear.
There was one sure thing about four-inch heels, I decided as I wobbled back to the office with take-out from the café at the end of the hall. The blasted things made me feel weak and helpless. That might be the way Jeff and Flint Ramsay liked their women, but it wasn’t Laine Halliday. Too hard to get strappy little stilettos off fast enough to kick butt. Not that I’d had much need for all those martial arts lessons Dad sprang for, but they gave a girl confidence. Sure, we’ve had a few wedding receptions go downhill fast, but all I’d ever had to do was dial 911 and hustle the bride and groom into a getaway car as the crockery shattered around us. Then again, things tended to get more serious when I had to deal with the problems Dad’s clients encountered on their fantasy adventure vacations. Many were like yesterday’s frantic call from Peru, but sometimes it took a bit more than Think fast, give orders with confidence, grit teeth . . . and smile.
I had an odd premonition that Flint Ramsay wouldn’t approve of anything but the smile. Like Jake’s and Marybeth’s fantasy, girls were for rescuing. Screaming. Crying. And wouldn’t know an HK MP-5 if it knocked them over with the recoil.
In the end, for my date with Flint I wore slinky black slacks and a mandarin tunic I’d bought the last time I was in Hong Kong—royal blue silk embroidered in red. Too much? Well, hell, I like living on the edge. My shoes were wispy black sandals with two-inch heels. So there, Red Mini. I don’t need to be a clinging vine to captivate Sergeant Flint Ramsay.
Orange Blossoms & Mayhem (Fantascapes) Page 2