by Adrianne Lee
“Now wash those eyes and get dressed, and do your makeup magic on that red nose. My body is craving caffeine and a stack of blueberry pancakes.”
She stopped the trek across the cabin toward the bathroom, a look of dread crinkling her face. “Not Cold Feet?”
Cold Feet Café is the best place in town to sit down with a cup of your favorite brew and contemplate whatever needs contemplating. It’s also Meg’s father’s business. I had another sinking feeling. “You didn’t tell your dad before you sent the invitation, did you?”
She bit her lower lip, hugging her bathrobe. “I know you said I should, but I thought he’d object.”
No shit, Sherlock. I suspected, though, she was mostly worried about hurting his feelings. That also worried me. Finn Reilly was the kind of big, strong guy who gave off the impression he could take on the world without blinking—unless you really looked at him and saw beyond the bluster. His quick smile never quite vanquished a dull pain in his eyes.
I had the niggling feeling something bad was brewing, and it wasn’t coffee. “Okay, then, Jitters and a blueberry muffin.”
While Meg dressed and fixed her hair and makeup, I sat on the bed lost in thought. It seemed such a short time ago that we’d graduated high school and took off to seek our fortunes in Hollywood. A couple of years in, she’d landed a job on a network sitcom as an assistant makeup artist and suggested they hire me as Key Wardrobe, the person in charge of what the actors wear each episode. Where had the time gone? In three days Meg would be married and—
“What are you ruminating about?” Meg said—all signs of a crying jag abolished by her incredible cosmetic finesse—pulling me back to the moment.
Just thinking how our lives are going to change forever once you say “I do,” my friend, but I couldn’t say that out loud. “Just thinking how much I really need some caffeine.”
She laughed as we stepped outside into the bright sunshine. We both wore jeans and sweatshirts. If this were a TV episode, I would have selected these outfits for “two young women eating at a small-town diner.” But there was more to it than dressing appropriately. Meg and I were minor celebrities in the hometown-girls-make-good spirit, one of us even marrying a big-name actor, and it was important not to appear to be putting on airs.
We linked hands as though holding tight to our friendship and started down the street. Meg said, “I’m so glad we’re here together.”
“To quote Dorothy,” I said, “there’s no place like home.”
That made us both laugh. Our hundred-year-old seaside town, located near Fox Island in Pierce County, had come into existence when logging and fishing were mainstays of Pacific Northwest industry. As their economy flourished, the city founders—strapping young bachelors—commissioned a slew of mail-order brides. So many marriages took place the first year this Washington State town was established, it became known as Weddingville.
And the name stuck.
More recently, the town began to flounder. Income was down across the board. With one exception. Blessing’s Bridal, the wedding-wear shop my mom and grandmother run. The city council met and discussed the dire situation and came up with a brilliant idea. Turn Front Street into something akin to an outlet mall—for weddings. A kind of one-stop-wedding-shopping experience, everything a bride, groom, or wedding planner could want in a single setting.
Local shopkeepers embraced the proposal, changing not only their merchandise accordingly, but also their storefronts. Jitters espresso stand became Pre-Wedding Jitters, Trudy’s Lingerie became Her Trousseau, Ring’s Jewelry became The Ring Bearer, Flora’s Flowers became The Flower Girl, and so on. Motels were given honeymoon suite makeovers, some more tacky than others. The old community church and several outdoor locales became wedding ceremony sites.
Yes, there truly is “no place like home.”
“Hey, this isn’t the way to Jitters. Unless… did it move?”
“It didn’t move. But you were right. I need to tell Dad.”
My appetite fled. “Are you sure?”
“No, but I’m doing it anyway.”
“Alrighty then.” We trekked the four blocks downhill to Front Street. “After breakfast let’s swing by Trudy’s and pick out a couple of lacy bits guaranteed to make yours one hot, sexy honeymoon.”
“Let’s see how my talk with Dad goes first,” Meg said, seeing right through my feeble attempt to keep her calm.
How did one tell the dad she adored that she’d invited the woman who’d run out on them fifteen years ago to her wedding? That the invitation was accepted? I shuddered inwardly. Big Finn Reilly was not going to take this well.
Cold Feet Café came into view. Perched on the waterside of Front Street, it shared the brick facade of many other buildings on this street. Cars angled into the curb, and the large windows revealed occupied booths and tables. “Oh God, Meg, the place is packed.”
“It’s just the usual breakfast crowd,” she said, not sounding worried but biting her bottom lip, a sure tell.
I tried not to imagine the emotional tornado that was about to level this small-town diner. And failed. “Maybe you should put this off until the café is—”
“No way. If I put this off any longer, I’ll explode.”
If she didn’t put this off, Big Finn might explode.
Meg swept inside with me on her heels. A bell over the door announced our arrival, but didn’t dent the medium-level chatter, the clatter of silverware on plates, or the confluence of delicious aromas. Several folks offered welcome home greetings and congratulations to Meg, which we responded to in kind.
The decor was a cheery red and white with splashes of chrome. My nervous gaze found Big Finn. He stood behind the counter at the far end, deep in conversation with one of the diners. His crisp apron showed breakfast stains. Taller than most by six inches, he stood out like a red-topped evergreen in a forest of baseball-capped saplings.
I caught Meg’s arm. “Maybe you should consider saving your news until he isn’t so busy.”
She wasn’t swayed. “It’s rip off the bandage time.”
I gulped. A band tightened around my chest. I should go with her, but this was between Meg and her father. It was hard to stay where I was as Meg headed toward Big Finn. I felt like I was witnessing a train wreck in the making, yet unable to prevent it.
Halfway to her dad, Meg was stopped in her tracks by a woman with crayon yellow hair seated in one of the booths. “Oh, Meg, I was hoping to catch you here.”
Zelda Love, our local wedding planner, patted a folder on the table that looked more like an overstuffed sandwich with its ingredients about to escape from all sides.
I felt a tug on my sleeve. “Oh, Daryl Anne?”
I glanced down at three women seated in a booth. They were my grandmother’s age, her Bunko buddies. Velda Weeks had the flyaway gray hair of a fluffy dog and a grin like the Cheshire Cat about to lure Alice into trouble. “Sit, sit.”
She indicated the empty spot beside her. I complied, giving them all a warm smile. “How are you?”
“We’re more than a little curious,” Jeanette Corn, a throwback to the hippie generation, admitted, her thin face more animated than usual. I swear she’d never cut her long hair or worn a touch of makeup. “We hear Meg is getting married.”
I was pretty sure the whole town knew that by now.
“And she didn’t invite any of us,” Velda said, scowling her disapproval.
“I’m doing the cake,” Wanda Perroni, the owner of The Wedding Cakery, an Italian bakery, snipped as though that gave her a one-up on Velda and Jeanette. “The smallest one in many years, I can tell you.”
“What we want to know is who is this guy she’s marrying? Why is it so hush-hush?” Velda asked.
“He must be someone important is what I say,” Wanda said. “From Hollywood. A director or movie star. I’m right, aren’t I?”
“I’ll bet it’s George Clooney,” Velda said.
“He’s married, Velda,”
Wanda said. “It’s probably that guy who does those Mission Impossible movies. I hear he’s single and looking.”
“Meg can’t marry him. She’s Catholic,” Jeanette said. She sighed and did a pretend swoon. “I hope it’s that new James Bond. He’s a dreamboat.”
“I bet it’s someone from TV,” Velda said. “Like that sexy Shemar Moore on Criminal Minds who’s always flirting with that computer whiz Garcia and calling her Baby Girl. Does Meg’s fiancé call her Baby Girl?”
I sat in stunned silence. I wasn’t happy they knew Meg’s fiancé was an actor. We’d tried hard to keep that under wraps, but I admired their attempts to get me to spill the beans. TMZ had nothing on the gossips in this town. “Ladies, I can’t tell you anything. I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”
“I always thought Meg would marry Troy,” Jeanette said. Her friends agreed.
I needed to make an escape without more questions and without offending my gram’s friends. But how?
“Does Troy know Meg’s getting married?” Velda asked.
Behind me, the doorbell tinkled, and a familiar voice called, “Daryl Anne?”
I said a silent “Thank you, God” and exited the booth, reaching the door to greet my paternal grandmother. Wilhelmina Blessing—known to one and all as Billie—was tall and reed thin, her black hair twisted into its usual chignon, her blue eyes bright with excitement. She wore her favorite Chanel pantsuit, the right sleeve pushed up to accommodate the removable cast on her wrist.
She gave a few friendly waves, greeted her Bunko buddies, then steered me toward the counter. “Come on, I could use a cuppa.”
“Me too,” I said, glad for the company, even if adding caffeine to my already anxious nerves might not be such a great idea. I settled onto a stool beside her. “How’s the wrist this morning?”
“A little weak.” Billie did all the alterations for Blessing’s Bridal, and she’d taught me how to sew when I was old enough to hold a needle and thread it. Six weeks ago, she’d slipped and broken her wrist, bringing me home from Los Angeles earlier than planned to help out in the bridal shop. Although the doctor pronounced her all healed last week, she claimed she wasn’t taking chances. Thus the removable cast.
I suspected, however, it was a ploy to keep me home longer. Sadly, I was returning to L.A. the day after the wedding. I kissed her cheek, knowing how much I would miss doing that once I was back in California.
We ordered coffee, the old-fashioned kind, then she said, “You forgot to turn on your phone. I kept getting voice mail.”
“I’m sorry.” I’d turned off my phone when Meg was having her meltdown. I pulled it from my pocket, turned it on, noting a couple of missed calls from Gram, but nothing else that required my immediate attention. I stirred cream into my coffee. “What’s up? Is everything okay?”
“Fine. Better than fine.” She stirred artificial sweetener into her coffee. “Exciting even. You know that reporter who’s coming to interview everyone in town for that series of articles?”
“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.
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Contents
COVER
TITLE PAGE
WELCOME
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THANK YOU
ALSO BY ADRIANNE LEE
AN EXCERPT FROM A WEDDING TO DIE FOR
NEWSLETTERS
COPYRIGHT
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Adrianne Lee
Excerpt from A Wedding to Die For copyright © 2015 by Adrianne Lee
Cover design copyright © by Elizabeth Turner
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Forever Yours
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First ebook edition: November 2015
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ISBN 978-1-4555-7418-6
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