Wedding Roulette

by Leandra Logan

  From a comfortable spot between the Mattson women, Gerald introduced the pair to the newcomers, explained the aunts’ longing for a night on the town. The Larkins and the Norquists were polite, but steam was practically coming out of their ears.

  “How nice to meet your relatives,” Norah told Krista. “You never even mentioned them at lunch today. Why, they could have come to my house. I would’ve shown them around afterward.”

  “I had no idea they were coming to town,” Krista replied.

  Norah was hardly convinced. “How quickly things happen. They’ve already gotten to know our Gerald.”

  As tensions thickened, Gerald proved anxious to depart. “If you’ll excuse me, I intend to escort Beverly and Rachel to their room. Good night.”

  Any thoughts of visiting the makeshift kitchen faded away as the trio strolled off. Krista felt bad to see that even the normally chipper Beth was pinning them with a hard look. She gave Michael points as he tried to distract Beth with a compliment to her pink cotton sweater and white pants.

  Allan clapped Michael on the back. “You hear the girls were talking shop this afternoon?”

  “Yes, I did,” Michael replied evenly. “I didn’t know that went on, never having had a girl of my own involved before.”

  “Krista’s involved now. A full-fledged member of our tribe. Why, her logo sketch was a riot!” Norah placed a hand to her stomach as if it ached to laugh. “Though we mustn’t make too much fun of Gerald’s baldness.”

  “I wasn’t making fun of him,” Krista began, only to catch Michael’s warning look.

  “Everyone knows you meant no harm, hon. Though I’d love to see that sketch.” Michael gazed around the group expectantly.

  Beth shrugged. “That’s up to Krista.”

  “But I don’t have it.”

  “Must have gotten tossed away,” Norah declared with a cluck of regret. “Sorry, Mikey.”

  “You wives always talk so openly about company business?”

  A discontented Randy was first to speak. “It’s the first Allan and I knew of it.”

  Allan nodded, none too happy. “Appears you have the only woman with any discretion, Mikey.”

  “I didn’t know anything to spill,” Krista protested.

  “But that is all changed,” Michael said, pulling her to his side. There was no mistaking the foursome’s interest. “I was going to surprise her tomorrow in the kitchen, but she got it out of me. I named my entry after Krista. It’s called Kris Pineapple Kringle.”

  “Isn’t he the greatest?” Krista enthused, cuddling up close to Michael.

  “ALL THIS SUBTERFUGE, it’s hard to keep up.” Michael had flopped onto the suite’s sofa some fifteen minutes later, tearing at the tie still choking his neck. “Do you find it hard to keep up?”

  If he only knew. Krista sat down beside him, kicking off her shoes. “You’re doing fine.”

  “That was a tense moment downstairs. Gerald sure was crafty, using your aunts as his getaway.”

  “Sorry you didn’t get down to the kitchen.”

  “It’s okay. There’ll be plenty of time spent down there. The first practice run is at eight tomorrow morning. Then there will be the second practice run the next morning, then the real thing the next.”

  “So, you feeling ready?”

  “I’ve prepared for six months, experimenting with measurements, ingredients.”

  He sat up straighter, looking inspired. “How would you like to see my recipe right now? You can review it while I fill out my entry form, see if you can make any suggestions.”

  Such a request was akin to asking a seamstress to pull a tooth, a pharmacist to rough up a house. She yawned at the prospect. “You want to tackle all that tonight?”

  “Might as well. I’m too keyed up to sleep.” He searched her face in confusion. “Something the matter? Thought you were dying to be involved.”

  It was true she had shown interest—in every angle of the competition save for the contents and measures of the recipe itself. She was a promoter, a player. But as it stood right now, the only measurement that currently sparked her interest was his broad muscled chest. She guessed it at approximately forty inches.

  There was no way she could give him any solid advice on his recipe. Still, her interest seemed most important to him. So what was one more bluff in this maze of smoke and mirrors? As long as she didn’t harm the recipe, what did it matter? Obviously Michael truly believed it to be perfect already. She forced her hands together in anticipation. “Bring it on.”

  Krista moved over to the writing desk with him, pulling up an extra chair as he set his briefcase on top and fumbled with his key ring to unlock it.

  “So this briefcase is identical to the one the Larkins gave Randy Norquist.”

  “Yes.”

  “The same key opens both of them. Norah admitted as much today. Even offered Beth another key.”

  “Randy loses everything.” Unperturbed, he sat down and began riffling through a file folder of papers inside the case. He withdrew some blank contest forms and considered them.

  “You do realize that either couple probably could open your briefcase at any time?”

  “I wouldn’t like the idea of anyone going through my stuff,” he admitted. “But there would be nothing to gain.”

  “So your recipe never was in here? Even at home?”

  “No.” He looked amused. “Told you I am especially sensitive to contest security.”

  “I suppose everything will go off without a hitch.”

  “With your flair for drama, you’d love to catch someone in a compromising position!”

  At this point in time, with his tie askew, sleeves half rolled over sinewy arm and hair mussed, Michael himself was the one she’d most like to catch in a compromising position.

  As irritating as the aunts’ observations could be, they had a keen sense of her barometer. She was flushed and excited and having the time of her life—all because of one stressed-out executive. Making love to him in one of their garish bedrooms was becoming a clear and distinct goal. But the timing would have to be right. Would they ever both be in sync to appreciate such a magical moment?

  As he opened his wallet and bypassed the condom tucked inside to dig out a slip of paper, Krista was fairly sure he wasn’t considering it now. But had he brought the condom along just in case they were to hit it off? He didn’t strike her as the type to carry one around without a definite plan. One thing you could say about Michael was that he always had a plan.

  The idea that he might have been that attracted to her from the start pleased her to no end. Despite all his frustrations, he was aware of his desires and would in time act upon them.

  But it wasn’t to be tonight, she realized as he handed her a folded slip of paper. With reluctance she took hold of his precious recipe.

  “Take that over to a cozier place for a survey, while I fill out this form,” he directed huskily. “Somehow, I can’t concentrate with you…so close.”

  Krista did so, quite pleased with the compliment. Curling up in a chair she reached out to switch on a pole lamp. The ingredients on the paper, including flour, shortening, baking powder and eggs, might have made plaster of Paris for all she knew. As for the preparation—sifting dry ingredients, draining crushed pineapple, greasing pans—it was all gibberish to her.

  Eventually, mercifully, she fell fast asleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  Krista could hear her cell phone ringing as she was stepped out of the shower the following morning. Then the only sound was Michael’s rich baritone. Had he the nerve to answer her private line? Full of dismay, without a thought to the way she herself had invaded every corner of his life, she awkwardly wrapped a towel around her drippy body and dashed out.

  “Oh, Judy, you’re funny!”

  He was feeling that familiar with her Judy? Krista stopped cold in their living area to find him sauntering around in khaki pants and red DD polo shirt, his feet still bare, looking
incredibly sexy—and pleased. Suddenly she was overwhelmed with a foreign sense of possessiveness. Not that Judy in particular was any threat; it was a more general feeling.

  “She’s doing fine,” he went on to say. “Has everyone snowed and charmed.” He suddenly caught a glimpse of Krista in his peripheral vision. Whirling her way, his eyes lingered on her long damp body, wrapped tightly in a white towel. “Very charmed, in fact.”

  Krista sidled up close and he began to speak faster. “I’m sure it did arrive. A bellman just brought some kind of envelope to the door. She’s here now. Hang on.” He placed the phone in her hand. “It’s for you.”

  Flashing him an infuriated look, she held the small instrument to her ear. “Hi, Jude.”

  “Hmm, what a man to wake up to.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you must have gotten the recipe I faxed to the hotel office.”

  She jumped a little as Michael touched her bare shoulder and handed her a hotel envelope. The intimate gesture made her quiver beneath her towel. Daring to meet his gaze, she found there desire, humor and pleasure. It went far to erase any doubt that she was, after all, the center of his attention. Still, it would all take some getting used to. She was unaccustomed to anyone touching her cell phone, not to mention her damp shoulder, at this hour of the morning.

  “I’ll just take a look inside the envelope, make sure it’s the right fax,” she told Judy.

  “Dashed right over to the aunts’ house last night,” Judy reported in her usual bulletlike delivery. “Got chased by the tiniest dog I’ve ever seen.”

  Krista chuckled, working to loosen the envelope flap with her free hand. “Oh, I’ve had to handle that brute once or twice myself. He had the nerve to nip me once. In a very tender spot.”

  “Luckily, I got inside before that happened.”

  “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

  “Hey, is Ms. Big actually messing with that incredible man?”

  “Well, you know.”

  “I do know. Thought you’d outgrown the game after college.”

  “I’ve discovered I’m still a player.” Krista flinched as Michael took back the envelope.

  “I can either open this or hold up your towel,” he murmured.

  “Hmm,” Judy broke in, “sounds like you do have this taming game down very well, indeed.”

  Michael opened the paper with some curiosity—not to mention amusement, Krista couldn’t help noting. “So you had no trouble finding the recipe?” she asked Judy, trying to regain her composure.

  “Went directly for the cupboard you specified. You steered me wrong on the teak chest, though. The only box inside was a cardboard one dating back to the seventies, that once contained earth shoes.”

  Krista’s eyes rolled. So much for the carved wooden antiquity. It was no mystery as to why the aunts’ column was far too often larger than life.

  “Among receipts for oil changes and take-out food, and recipes for cocktails and hamburger pie, I found one recipe for pineapple upside-down cake, clipped off a Readiquick box.”

  Michael was holding the fax open for her inspection. She glanced at the list of ingredients, picking up maraschino cherries, pineapple rings and sugar before averting her eyes. “I’m afraid I was too young at the time to recall details. But this must be it. Thanks.” Krista pushed the disconnect button.

  Michael thrust the paper at her. “I have to get ready.”

  “Why are you smirking?”

  “After all the fuss, I guess I expected the recipe to be a bit more advanced.”

  “So this is an easy one?”

  “Simple as they come.” He disappeared into his bedroom.

  She followed, studying the recipe. “What is this—this Readiquick?”

  Michael grabbed a pair of socks from the dresser drawer and sat on the bed to put them on. “You know.”

  “I don’t.”

  “It’s an all-purpose baking mix. Makes preparing anything from pancakes to biscuits a whole lot easier.”

  “How will the ingredients for the contest be handled?”

  “Each contestant was required to submit a list of desired supplies. Those supplies will be reserved in a designated spot, I imagine.”

  Her soft forehead furrowed. “So, you think Readiquick will be downstairs?”

  His smile was fond but patronizing. “Certainly not. All the contest entries must be made from scratch.” He rose from the bed and breezed by her through the doorway. “You better get ready. Most of the others have probably been down there a long while, the ones using yeast, anyway.”

  She tightened her towel and skipped after him. “Exactly what is in this mix?”

  He moved to the desk to cram papers into his briefcase. “Oh, flour, baking soda, some oil, I imagine.”

  “Things the aunts can get hold of, right?”

  “Yes. Any decent cook can make the required substitutions.”

  “Would you be willing to make the required substitutions?”

  “Can’t they do it?”

  “Please, just do it. The cake seems to mean a lot to Gerald. I suppose with his wife gone, he misses her old recipes a lot.”

  “You sure have the knack for considering everyone’s feelings all at the same time.” On a gentler note he snatched the paper away from her, set it on the desk and began to scribble. “If your aunts substitute these ingredients for Readiquick, they should be fine.”

  “You’re putting down exact proportions?”

  He paused to inspect her proportions with a rueful look. “I can’t think with you in that state. Get ready while I do some calculations.”

  Krista scooted to her bedroom to dress. In her initial rush she had apparently missed it. On her bed lay a women’s red Decadent Delights polo shirt, as well as a convention badge bearing her name.

  From here on in, Krista had the power to enter any convention activity she wished, starting with today’s all-important practice session. There was no mistaking the level of compliment behind the symbol. No longer a mere ornamental wife on his arm, Michael was taking her on the inside, a full partner, along for the dream. Everything would be perfect if he could come to see that she was the kind of wife he had needed all along.

  A small crowd was milling around the basement entrance to Gerald Stewart’s test kitchen. Two security guards were flanking the double doors, one checking convention badges against a list of contestants, the other handing out clipboards boasting several papers, a workstation assignment on top. The procedure was fairly swift, though thorough. Clipboard in hand, Michael eased Krista through the door.

  The stations were set up against the three walls, partitioned into medium-size cubicles. The fourth wall was reserved for a large, heavily manned booth with an Ingredients sign overhead. The air was humming with noise and tension, and a cloying smell of frying oil.

  “Which station are we looking for?”

  “Station seven. Over there to the right.”

  Krista stood by while Michael inspected their station, opening the oven, testing the freestanding sink for running water. There was plenty of counter space; a rack held a variety of pots and pans, as well as the deep fryer, which he promptly set aside. Smacking his clipboard to the counter with nervous energy, he went over the papers. Krista noted that one paper was a copy of his entry form, another a set of kitchen rules.

  “So, where is this special recipe?”

  He tapped his temple. “Up here. Only kept that paper in my wallet to show you, honey.”

  The endearment was no sooner out of his mouth than Gerald and the aunts were crushing their way into the station.

  “How are the ‘honeys’ doing?” Rachel chirped.

  “Very well,” Krista said, allowing a doting Gerald to kiss her cheek.

  “That shirt looks splendid on you,” he said. “You are a natural.”

  Michael intervened with a “Good morning, sir!”

  Gerald nodded at him, then referred back to Krista. “I tried t
o get my honeys working on my special cake some thirty minutes ago, before the mad rush, but they say they don’t have their recipe yet.”

  “All taken care of.” Krista delved into her pants pocket and handed Beverly the fax, folded in a neat square.

  Gerald beamed. “There, you see. Now it’s time to get busy.” He excused himself and wandered off.

  Beverly was scanning the recipe with pursed lips. “Why is Readiquick circled?”

  “Because they don’t have it at the booth.” She gestured impatiently to the paper. “See where Michael noted some substitutions, up here in the corner.”

  Rachel’s eyes were as wide as a child’s. “But we’ve used Readiquick in just about everything we’ve ever bothered to make.”

  “It is the miracle food,” Beverly stated decidedly. “Everyone knows that! No fuss, no muss, no measuring, save for a cup.”

  Krista turned to see if Michael was smugly amused by the supposed chefs making such an admission, but he was busy adjusting the oven racks. He had every right, she knew, to feel the aunts were only in the way, like two busy bees buzzing in his ear. “I hate to be rude,” she said in a firm tone seldom tested on the aunts, “but will you two kindly scram.”

  Beverly’s heavy bosom rose. “Very well, Krista. If you’re ready.”

  Michael was tuning in enough to catch this request. “Hang on, she is supposed to be helping me.”

  “Michael is right,” she agreed. “I belong here. But I suppose I can pop in and check on you,” she relented under the aunts’ terrified glares. “Where are you located?”

  “We have a deluxe station,” Beverly bragged, “right beside the booth marked Ingredients.”

  Krista noted Michael’s stiff shoulders loosen some, once they were alone. “Before we begin, I have something to show you.” With great care he lifted his briefcase onto the counter, opened it and removed two four baking pans. Each pan was stamped with a deep-set ring. “I had these made special by a toolmaker I know back in Chicago. The bottom of each ring is machined level, to give the top of my doughnuts a flat top to better hold crushed pineapple.” Her ignorance must have been evident behind her smile because he went on to explain that most doughnuts would be blended with yeast, allowed to rise and then deep-fried. “Ours will be baked, you see. Similar to the coffee cake method your aunts are using.”