The debacle was witnessed by no less than two hundred and fifty of the most influential people in Marin County. I would never be able to hold my head up in Marin again. Not after the smirks and knowing looks. Not after watching my mother alternating between crying and mouthing: I knew this would happen.
It was none other than Carrie Eliot who saved me. She apparently had spoken at length with my grandmother Prue before the wedding, well, what else could they do while waiting for the groom? My sorority sisters ended up being worthless in a real crisis that didn’t involve the wrong nail color. They were shocked of course, but just mean enough to be pleased it was me, not them. I haven’t spoken to them since.
Carrie on the other hand, had nothing to lose. She was the girlfriend of a second cousin (mom searched high and low for guests) and said later that as she watched me stand at the empty altar, she could see the pain radiating from me like a furnace turned to high. She stood, glanced at Prue who nodded, and marched up to the front of the room.
“Come with me.” Carrie ignored the gaping crowd and calmly took me by the arm and led me through one of the back doors to the golf course.
Once in the open air, she grabbed my hand and dragged me around the side of the building to a tiny disreputable VW bug. She ripped off the veil and snatched the flowers out of my hand. She unceremoniously stuffed me into the passenger seat bundling the dress and train on top of me. It was so high, I couldn’t see over the excess fabric. She slammed the door on three quarters of the train and took off in a shriek of rubber. We were clear of the parking lot before anyone thought to rush out and check on where I had disappeared to.
She drove straight to Claim Jump.
And what did we do in Claim Jump? It was June (of course it was June, a June wedding, how cliche) and the Yuba was running high and cold. Carrie and I hiked into the quietest spots along the river we could find and alternately soaked in the cold rushing water and baked in the new summer sun. I lay naked on the heated rocks and let all the pain leach out of my pores. It was a poor woman’s spa program and as effective as anything at the Sonoma Mission Inn. But SMI is easier to get to. Carrie got poison oak rash and claimed she’d never forgive me. We drank too much cheap wine. We sampled some of my grandmother’s best weed. We slept in late.
I didn’t emerge for two weeks. I never asked what or whom Carrie was missing back home while she spent this time with me and she never volunteered. When we finally drove back to Sonoma County, we were fast friends and I was ready to conquer a different part of California.
I vowed never to return to Marin, and I don’t, except for dinners with mom and that one time I had to sell a house featuring a dead guy in the kitchen and bad art in the guest bath. But the house was an exception, I’m careful. The news of my horrible degrading wedding had not reached Sonoma County, frankly, no one up here cared. I could reconstruct my life the way I wanted, with the branding I wanted. And as a result I spent many, many years free of any reminders of the whole nasty episode. The bonus is that mom was so completely mortified; she doesn’t bring it up either.
And that is the long story explaining why Allison is throwing a shower with the Furies. That is why Allison is voluntarily wearing a bright red satin dress during what is often the hottest weather of the year, in an outdoor wedding in front of 500 of Carrie and Patrick’s most intimate friends - well Patrick’s anyway.
“Ben is different.” Carrie insisted, still holding my hands. “It will be all right.”
“You look like a fairy princess.” I said.
“Yes,” she brightened, “I do, don’t I?”
More like a fairy godmother in my world, but she knew that too.
“You may want to get in touch with Mark, just to bury the hatchet, so to speak.” She amended quickly.
“Not bury it into his skull?” I asked.
“Don’t talk that way,” she snapped. “I have enough trouble with that damn boy getting himself killed.”
She smoothed the skirt and the woman came with pins and scissors and made invisible adjustments.
“It’s perfect, thank you.”
“Come back one more time.” The woman shook her finger at Carrie as if Carrie were a kindergartner not to be trusted to bring home her parent permission slip.
Carrie tossed me a look, rolling her eyes. “Sure.”
The man who was supposed to take me away from all this, was preoccupied.
“How was Claim Jump?” We had a few moments together Friday evening. The patio was strewn with tables and piles of umbrellas. We sat at one of the few cleared tables. In twenty hours
the shower would, hopefully, be over.
“Debbie is riling up the locals with lawsuits and class action threats and has apparently disappeared. A hospice nurse with an abusive husband is also missing. My grandmother still can’t cook chicken and the new floor in the hallway is practical but a different color from the rest of the floor and I need two more bookcases. You Can’t Take it With You is playing at the theater. Grandma says hello and the bed is too big without you.”
He grinned, but his eyes looked tired and droopy.
“Have you been up late?”
“I can’t figure out why we are spending so much money on grapes, she should be finished with crush, but she is insisting on another round tomorrow. I contacted this Beth person, but she doesn’t want to talk with me, only O’Reilly.”
“During the shower.” I automatically said. Sorry, every point of my life had fallen into the category Before the Shower and After the Shower. I was looking forward to AFTER THE SHOWER phase of my life.
“Do you have an idea of why she needs more grapes?”
He shook his head. “I have to go down to the City. Can you stop by tomorrow before the shower?”
“But Emily needs me here.”
“Just first thing in the morning,” he begged. “Emily won’t even notice you’re missing.”
“Oh, thanks.”
But he knew I’d do it.
The early morning sun shadowed the valley and illuminated the tops of the surrounding hills. The grape leaves had turned into fields of gold or red. The drive down the road to the winery was lovely – but as soon as I pulled into the parking lot, I was assaulted by rattles, bangs and general commotion all from the rear of the winery.
An 8 ½ by 11 piece of paper tapped to the window of the tasting room announced the winery was temporarily closed for crush. I rattled the doors anyway. Locked. I quickly scooted around to the back.
I didn’t see Cassandra, but I did see Beth. Dressed in jeans and bright white running shoes, Beth seemed more interested in the workings of a winery than the papers strewn around the office desk. I watched her from the shadows. She squinted at the three by five cards taped to the barrel ends. She shook her head, made a note.
One more big truck filled with grapes rumbled up to the crush pad. The stemmer crusher ground to life. There was a shout and I saw a flash of Cassandra’s lithe figure as she climbed up the catwalk. Okay. Everything was fine.
Five motorcycles passed me as I headed back up the hill to Emily’s house. Morning ride. Usually they waited for the wineries to be open, but they could be driving up to the top of the valley, then drink their way down. I’ve done that myself.
The set up for the shower of the century was in full swing by the time I returned from my jaunt as a secret agent. I had read nothing in the paper about Trisha Gault, either her recovery or what really happened. Patricia was no help, I thought she’d at least follow Fred’s story, but Patricia liked murder, not accidents.
Carrie was already on site, floating from one table to the next but not really doing much. The Furies had yet to arrive. One small tiny ray of sunshine in what I knew would be a difficult day. Seven hours to go, maybe eight.
I immediately applied myself to the work of appearing busy. Carrie trailed behind me as I randomly adjusted a flower arrangement here, and aligned a silver place setting over there. Carrie was at loose ends herself but we
both knew that hanging around at Emily’s house was better than sitting around the grand living room of Patrick’s house staring at her sisters-in-law to be.
The caterers and our famous chef arrived in a convoy. Emily greeted them and after only a few minutes hesitation, allowed them in. Carrie and I watched for a minute or two and then cautiously backed away from the whole scene.
“No, the kitchen is over there, yes, the counter with the oven.”
“This place is adorable.” Rod Nelson swept into the 10,000 foot home. He was clad in the expected bright colored baggy pants patterned with chili peppers topped with a white chef’s jacket. His thin hair was scraped back in a ponytail. He was only 5 foot 6. He looked bigger on TV. The rest of his crew were taller and better looking, which was an odd choice for a star, they usually preferred to be followed by decidedly lesser mortals, kudos for Rod’s self-esteem.
“We should film here!” he crowed, delighted.
“Over my dead body,” Emily announced grimly. I smiled, she probably wasn’t even kidding.
The noise from the caterer set up was deafening. Rod issued orders that were called down the chain of syncopates as if they were performing a comedy routine. The covered stainless serving pieces clattered, the metallic sounds echoed around the tile floor and tile backsplash. I wasn’t sure if the man was cooking here or just warming and I didn’t want to risk stepping into the scene to find out. Emily had disappeared to change her outfit.
“I could buy a house and a car with this ring.” Carrie stood in the center of the patio and stared at her coveted prize. “But I will never have to. I don’t have to do anything. For the rest of my life.”
She was right, but now was not the time for a career discussion. To distract her, I described my early morning visit to Prophesy Estates. “This Beth seems suspicious about something. I wonder if it’s the paper work. You know that will bring you down faster than a hundred tumbling cases of wine. I watched her with Mark and Peter. But you know, she wasn’t really looking at Mark, it was more like she was casing him. He invested in the winery as well, did you know that?”
Carrie toyed with one of the elaborately patterned knives positioned – like every knife - exactly two inches from the edge of the exquisitely appointed head table.
“Why bother with Mark?” I continued my monologue. I had a lot of material. If this subject didn’t distract her, I was ready to launch into the whole Claim Jump saga.
“We could break into the winery.” Carrie suggested with a straight face.
“And what good would that do?” I glanced at my watch. I should change into my appropriate bridal shower costume pretty soon.
“You know, go through the paper work, no one would notice, the office is a mess. We can find out what Cassandra isn’t telling O’Reilly and Ben. Because.” She set the knife back and ran her hand over the top of the bright pink and fuchsia mums gathered in the center of the table. “Because she is hiding something. I’m surprised you didn’t notice.”
“I thought she was hiding her attraction to Ben.”
“She’s not hiding that at all.” Carrie confirmed.
I examined my manicure, it remained as perfect as fifteen minutes ago when I checked it last. When you are showing off your engagement ring, the nails must look lovely as well. I glanced at my friend’s hands. Her nails were trim but too short.
“You’ve been biting your nails.”
She hid her hands behind her back. “No, they are just short.”
“Sure, you decided to trim them to the quick because of all the heavy lifting and outdoor work you do.”
The sun moved to the top of the second floor and started to flood the patio in light. We didn’t have much more quiet time before the guests arrived.
“Okay, here’s what we’ll do; ask Chris Conner to find out.” I focused on Carrie’s poor hands carrying the heavy weight of the diamond ring. “Not in so many words,” I amended. I didn’t want to go on record or anything.
Her eyes widened and her face began to relax in a smile. “Oh my GOD, you are a genius. And it won’t be you who broke the story, it will Chris Connor, and Ben won’t be mad at you.”
“And we’ll have our answer and can move forward and enjoy the wedding with a clear conscious.” Well, someone will have a clear conscious, I think it’s too late for me, on so many levels.
I pulled out my phone and hit Chris’ number. No, I’m not that special, everyone has her number.
She picked up immediately and I explained most of what I had in mind.
“Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” Chris retorted. “Fred’s family is not pressing charges, the police closed the case as an accident.”
“What about Trisha Gault? She was there. Why?”
“Guest?” She hazarded.
“She didn’t approve of Cassandra taking over the old Von Graffen place, that much I know. Why else? You know, it’s never just one thing.”
“Maybe I’ll look into it,” she was reluctant, but she loved a reason to investigate anything. “Trisha is still in the hospital. I can’t get in to see her.” She was already debating the points of the story and her magnificent role in the coming expose.
“Make sure you give me credit for the lead,” I kept my tone as severe as I could.
“Oh, yeah, sure,” I heard the sound of a keyboard being abused as she signed off.
“I thought you wanted to stay out of it,” Carrie pushed a flower arrangement an inch to the left, studied it and then pushed it back again.
“The surest way to convince her to ignore me is for me to ask for credit.”
Carrie nodded. Considered my comment for a minute, then frowned. “Is that okay, to use people like this? I mean, isn’t it like she’s working for us, doing our work?”
“We must delegate,” I stated flatly. “We are busy, there are gifts to open and people to greet in less than two hours. Let Chris Conner break into the winery in the dead of night, let her figure out how to disarm the alarm, and avoid the police and possibly guard dogs.”
“That sounds like more fun,” Carrie said mournfully.
She did look a little droopy. She had arrived wearing baggy jeans and her hair simply pulled back into a severe ponytail, she wore no make up at all, which wasn’t terrible, Carrie had good natural color, but still, a little blush wouldn’t have hurt.
“You aren’t doing your bridezilla thing very well today. You need to get wrapped up in this more.” I chided her, but I also knew her well. She’d rather give all the money spent on food, drinks and tents to the homeless. Or to the Forgotten Felines, still a favorite charity of hers. That’s who she is: a rescuer of feral cats, not the doyen of extravagant public events.
“You could elope and be married by Elvis in Las Vegas,” I suggested, just to break her concentration.
“Oh don’t be silly, who does that anymore?”
I glanced at my watch and glanced at the blue sky above us. The sun was full over the building. The patio is marvelously warm in the winter, but can become quite hot in the late fall; Emily wanted to keep the guests in the courtyard and not overrunning her house. Our goal was for the shower to end at four to avoid the worst of the late afternoon heat. If all went well, the increasing heat would actually help drive out the guests. Emily and shared a very bad attitude.
“Why don’t the Furies have babies?” I herded Carrie upstairs to Ben’s apartment where our official wedding shower outfits waited.
“They don’t want babies. They don’t want husbands. They have a perfectly good time just the two of them.” She drew in a breath. “I can’t figure it out.”
“Well, then don’t. Can you and Patrick live somewhere not on the family compound?” I pulled my pink dress over my head and shoved my feet into platform, rose patterned Madden shoes.
“Like what you and Ben are doing?” Carrie turned and I zipped her into her cobalt blue dress, silk with an irregular hem. She wore flat sandals so I towered over her.
I was not l
iving with Prue. I was living down the hill and across a number of streets; totally different thing, we just share a town. “Why don’t you buy Penny Master’s house?” I took the offensive.
“Ewwww, Penny died in that house.” Carrie preceded me back down to the patio. Getting dressed only used up a few minutes. Now I had to think of something else to distract her.
The sounds in the kitchen escalated. I prevented Carrie from plunging into the fray of the kitchen and kept her and her pretty dress safe from damage. For something useful to do, I cranked open the first table umbrella, it squeaked and protested. Where had I rented these?
“Technically it was off the balcony,” I corrected. The second umbrella crank jammed and pinched my thumb.
“Hmmm, still.” She walked over to an umbrella and cranked it open with one hand. She easily secured it and moved on to the next one. Maybe there was a technique I was unaware of.
“Come on, killer views, get away from the family. No cell coverage. Think about it.” I tried to open a third umbrella but this one stuck, just like the other two. I worked hard not to chip my nails in the effort.
“Then I’d have to deal with you.” Carrie quickly unfurled three umbrellas to my next one.
“But of course.”
She walked off to open the umbrellas on the far two tables. “That still doesn’t answer the question.”
“What can anyone bring to the relationship but themselves?” The umbrella stuck, I abandoned the crank and pulled on the edges of the canvas to loosen it. That worked, it opened up so suddenly, I lost my grip.
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 04 - Trash Out Page 15