“Aw, go on.” He nodded at the watch on his wrist. “I mean it. You need to go. It’s almost five.”
I yelped and turned away from him. Beatrice already stood on the other side of the room, and she was about to disappear through a doorway to the bride’s suite. Meanwhile, my elderly escort waited for me by a huge flower urn busting with Stargazer lilies.
“Thanks again!” I yelled, as I dashed away.
In my haste, I nearly collided with a round table by the exit. Luckily, I skidded to a stop just in time, and the dress swooshed against the table’s edge. On it, Bettina had balanced a perfect reproduction of my wedding cake, only she’d constructed this one of Styrofoam and chicken wire instead of flour and egg whites. The faux cake soared four feet tall and it held five different layers of beautiful designs. She must’ve constructed the model to help her plan the final product, or she wanted to create a “dummy cake” to display in her bakery later.
One time, Bettina explained how and why she created models of her elaborate cake designs. Every time clients stepped into her bakery at the Factory, they invariably drifted over to a gleaming display case, and she wanted the products inside to remain fresh for months, if not years.
These samples had to withstand both changes in the temperature and the invariable ravages of time. Instead of spongy cake under the frosting, Bettina placed blocks of Styrofoam, which she first cut into specific shapes. Then she iced the blocks using a modified recipe for the frosting, or even spackle, if she planned to keep the dummy cake for several years.
Finally, she stayed away from bright colors for the frosting, which would fade under the fluorescent lights, and stuck to neutrals like beige or cream.
Amazing how many details Bettina had taught me about cake making since she introduced herself as a new tenant in the Factory way back in 2016.
“It’s so beautiful!” I sputtered.
Whatever doubts I’d had about a cake for the reception instantly evaporated. Bettina had outdone herself, and I’d seen some pretty incredible cakes from her in the past.
For this one, she’d separated the two sides with black and white “dummy” frosting. Or, to be more accurate, with colors to represent vanilla and chocolate frosting. Instead of icing a straight line down the middle to separate the two sides, she gently curved a ribbon of silver fondant between them.
On one side—the bride’s—she iced fake vanilla frosting into edible roses that stairstepped down the cake. Somehow, she managed to trim the bottom layer with delicate white lace frosting, which looked opaque against the cake. As the pièce de résistance, she balanced a woman’s fascinator at the very top, with a delicate net veil that mirrored the cake’s border.
For the groom’s side, she repeated the lace border, but with chocolate “frosting.” She also added some brown leaves to give it a more masculine touch than the bride’s roses. Finally, she placed a top hat on the groom’s side, which she tilted to one side.
Even the model looked far too pretty to eat. I made a mental note to give the photographer plenty of time to capture shots of Bettina’s creation before we served it to our guests, so we could preserve it for all time.
I finally tore myself away from Bettina’s model, and then I continued to the bride’s suite. Once Beatrice had helped me into my gown, the photographer took a few pictures, with just the two of us, and then I tried to remain calm as I waited for Lance to come and get me.
Being an orphan, and an only child at that, I didn’t have an immediate family member to walk me down the aisle. What I did have was a best friend in Lance, and I didn’t want anyone but him beside me when I made the trek to the altar.
He arrived a few minutes later, wearing his policeman dress blues. With a starched shirt trimmed with gold epaulets and tons of braid, he looked especially regal—not to mention highly uncomfortable.
I straightened his tie a smidge. “You clean up well, but I bet you’d rather be in your khakis, right?”
“Don’t you know it. These pants don’t have any pockets to speak of.”
He playfully patted his pants’ pockets, which lay flat against his legs. “By the way…you clean up well, too. You look like a Disney princess.”
He must’ve misread the look on my face, because he immediately added, “And that’s a good thing. Like you’re going to a ball or something.”
“Or something.” I smiled broadly. “My new husband designed it.”
“I would’ve put my money on a cast of cartoon mice and a fairy godmother. Are you ready for this?”
“Definitely.”
I threaded my arm through his, and we left the bride’s room. A low murmur greeted us as we stepped into the church’s foyer, behind the closed doors of the sanctuary. Although I had no idea how many people waited for us on the other side, I guessed the crowd to be about two hundred or so. Thankfully, my wonderful maid of honor had handled the guest list, which freed me up to worry about the music, menu, and whatnot.
Beatrice took her place at the front of our little procession, and the doors whisked open. Everything blurred in my periphery as Lance and I marched down the aisle. Every once in a while, a face beamed back at me that I couldn’t help but notice.
I first noticed Ivy Solomon, a longtime friend who lived in Baton Rouge. Somehow, Ivy managed to keep her wits about her, even after several tragedies upended her world. I wasn’t surprised to see Ivy wearing a classic St. John suit and one of my fascinators, since she possessed a gracious style and a keen sense of loyalty.
A few rows up, I spotted Stormie Lanai, who teetered uncertainly on her heels, now that she was halfway through the pregnancy. Although Stormie and I shared a rocky past, we put all that behind us once and for all a few weeks ago. I told her how much I admired her for putting her family first, and she admitted she envied me because of my studio. In the end, we were more alike than different, so we agreed to let bygones be bygones.
Finally, I noticed Waunzy Boudin, who sat in the second row. Waunzy chaired the Bleu Bayou Historical Society, and she knew the antebellum homes around here like the back of her hand. Waunzy grinned at me as I passed, her face collapsing into a patchwork of wrinkles under the brim of her yellow sunbonnet.
At last I reached the altar, where my handsome groom stood waiting.
“Funny to see you here,” he whispered, as Lance slipped my hand into his.
Then Lance moved aside, to join the line of groomsmen by the altar.
One look at Ambrose’s Tiffany-blue eyes, and I lost all track of time. I only snapped to attention when I felt the pastor’s gaze fall on me, and I realized it was my turn to say something.
“You know,” I began, “today is the day I’ve chosen to be your wife. And I will choose you again tomorrow, and all the days after that.”
At that point, Ambrose’s eyes grew misty and his hand tightened around mine. I opened my mouth again to speak, when something buzzed just over Ambrose’s shoulder, near where the groomsmen stood.
In a flash, I recognized the sound, and the look of horror that crossed Lance’s face only confirmed it.
Sure enough, he jammed his hand into the pocket of his dress blues and discreetly pulled out his cell. When he stared at it, it was evident that it was police headquarters calling him about yet another murder, because no one ever called Lance with good news. And although this was not the time, nor the place, for things like police business, it couldn’t be helped.
He shot me an apologetic glance, but I only shook my head and smiled. While he tiptoed away and disappeared into a side room, I returned my attention to Ambrose.
For once, Lance would have to handle this one on his own. I had more important things to worry about at the moment.
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What the Hatmaker Heard Page 20