by Adrianne Lee
Food had once been an issue, one she’d overcome. Now, Livia ate only to sustain life, and hated that she couldn’t make her parents and seven siblings see the importance of that. Charlie and Bev Kingston were overweight, they’d given birth to, and raised, eight overweight children, all of whom continued the tradition to this day. All except Livia.
She started the shower, grabbed a towel and face-cloth, and stepped beneath the warm water. In grade school, classmates had teased her unrelentingly. She’d felt ashamed. Of herself. Of her whole family. She knew her brothers and sisters were also being tormented. They had to have been. But she couldn’t bring herself to ask or to share her own hateful experiences with them.
She remembered well the day it all changed. The day she took control of her life. It had been the week before her eleventh birthday. She’d handed out invitations to the party her mother was throwing for her, then later in the lavatory, she’d overheard two girls she thought were her friends laughing about “Lumpy Livia” eating the whole cake herself. It was the deepest cut. Even now, it pained her to remember.
She had, however, turned that negative into a positive. She’d determined to lose the weight and never gain it back. But she’d gotten no support at home. She’d informed her mother that in future she’d be having only salads and fresh fruit for her meals. Mom had patted her hand condescendingly and told her that was such a nice idea, but with ten mouths to feed, she had no time and no money to make separate meals for everyone. Livia would have to eat what everyone else ate…or go without.
Livia knew girls who “went without,” bone-thin wraiths who were starving themselves to death. She wasn’t about to lose her health along with the weight, but her mother’s suggestion held some merit. She wouldn’t go without, but she would eat less. Every day, a little less.
Soon the weight began to go.
To hasten it along, she’d begun running up and down the stairs until her father complained she’d wear down the risers. She’d taken to the concrete steps on the back porch, teaching herself the benefits of aerobics. The weight had come off slowly, but it had come off and every pound shed had encouraged her to lose another. The heady sense of control it gave her was delicious, all she needed to sustain her.
She didn’t consider herself a control freak, Livia thought, shampooing. Bridget had accused her of it though. What she was, was fussy. At work, and in her personal life, she wanted everything “just so.” It was the only way she could ensure there would be no mistakes, no last-minute disasters. Like the disaster in her nightmare. That was why she’d kept her finger on the pulse of every aspect of her wedding arrangements.
Well, all except one.
The one arrangement that seemed to be causing her the most problems now.
She’d wanted her future mother-in-law to feel part of the wedding in some big way and had been delighted when Sookie Rayburn suggested she’d like to handle the one aspect of the wedding Livia had dreaded dealing with: the food. Sookie, the consummate gala thrower, had planned hundreds of fetes and knew exactly what the Rayburn wedding guests would expect.
She had given Sookie free rein to chose anything she liked, including the cake. Livia especially didn’t want to select a cake. She reached for the tangerine body scrub and loofa, pushing back the old hurts. She hadn’t touched cake since she was eleven. Was dreading that traditional piece being finger-fed her by her groom. Didn’t care if it was the lightest white or the darkest chocolate. Cake represented the old Livia. She avoided it like a plague. But she denied herself nothing else, just kept the portions limited. Small.
She stepped from the shower, wrapped a towel around her short streaked-blond hair and dried off with a second towel. She returned to the sink, to the mirror. Instead of her usual morning peakedness, there was a pink blush to her cheeks. Her nerves, no doubt.
The scents of cinnamon and coffee hit her again, the teasing aromas wafting from the kitchen via the heater vent. Her mother had obviously gone all out, making French toast and sausage for her brood, several of whom had arrived yesterday and were crowded into the five other bedrooms on the upper level.
She glanced at the clock. Nearly eight. The ceremony was at two. She had tons to do yet. She went to her closet and pulled out some jeans and a sweatshirt. Later she’d luxuriate in a bubble bath and dally over the other pre-wedding preparations. For now, she wanted to eat, wanted the company of her raucous family whose incessant chatter usually drove her crazy, but today would bolster her confidence, chase off her jitters.
She glanced at the closet door again and felt as though something were missing. It didn’t dawn on her until she stepped into her fuzzy slippers. Her wedding gown. For the past four weeks it had hung on that door, a plastic dust cover over it. Her mother must have taken it to press out last-minute wrinkles.
She hurried into the hallway, surprised not to run into at least one of her siblings. All along the corridor the doors were closed. She caught no expected conversation coming from within the rooms. Livia frowned. Were they all already downstairs?
But no chatter rose to greet her as she descended to the kitchen, and Livia wrestled the disquiet tickling her brain as she followed her nose to the source of delicious and tempting smells. She was surprised to find her father alone at the huge table. Had she beat the others down here? She must have.
Charlie Kingston’s bald head leaned over the morning newspaper, his half glasses resting on the tip of his nose. His round belly butted the edge of the table as he dug into his coffee and a stack of French toast and sausage.
Her mother, as pudgy as her father, stood at the stove, her favorite place in the kitchen, wearing a stained apron over a green-and-blue polyester pants outfit. Her cap of curly brown hair was laced with gray threads, each earned, she boasted, from one antic or other pulled by her children over the years.
She beamed at Livia, her blue eyes twinkling. “Morning, Livie. It’s so wonderful having someone here to cook for besides your father.”
“Then you must be in seventh heaven this morning,” Livia said, thinking of Ted and Terry, the twins; Chad and Matt, her younger brothers; and Sierra, her oldest sister. All had arrived last night, along with Ted and Chad’s girlfriends. Only Bridget lived in town, and she would be here before noon.
Livia helped herself to a cup of coffee. “Do you want me to put out the other mugs?”
“Why, whomever for?” her mother asked, her eyes narrowed in confusion.
Livia frowned, wondering if her ever-sharp mother was losing it, until she glanced at the table and felt a wave of dread. It was set for three. It struck her then that the house was eerily quiet, not from a houseful of sleeping siblings, but because there was no one else there except she and her parents.
Why? Where were they? Her mouth dried at the unthinkable answer that occurred to her. She pulled out a chair and dropped into it, fiercely ignoring the quickened beat of her heart, the uneasy flutter in her belly. “Mom, did you take my gown from my closet door this morning?”
“Your gown?”
“My wedding gown.”
“Your wedding gown?”
Lord, she thought, Mom is repeating what I say—as I did with the Processor in my nightmare.
Her mother blinked, her chubby face flinching. “The same wedding gown we’re shopping for today?”
“Today? No. I bought it weeks ago.”
“You did?” Her mother gaped. “Then why are we meeting Bridget at the Bread and Brew in an hour?”
“But I…” Ice washed Livia’s veins.
“Do you have a fever, dear?” Bev felt Livia’s forehead.
“I’m not sick.” Livia pulled back from her mother’s look of alarm.
Bev blew out an aggravated breath. “I’ve been in and out of your room this past month and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of a wedding dress hanging on your closet door.”
“Maybe she stuck it in the closet,” her father suggested, stuffing another huge bite into his mouth. “What’s it look lik
e?”
“Like a wedding dress, of course. White satin…” Livia said on a rush of fear, but she couldn’t continue. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried picturing the dress she’d chosen to be wed in. Nothing. Not one single memory of it.
She gripped her coffee mug with both hands to keep them from trembling. Her mouth had gone as dry as the napkins tucked beneath her father’s chins. Somehow she found the courage to ask, “What’s today’s date, Dad?”
He glanced up from his paper. “Are you serious?”
Her mother levered cinnamon-swirled French toast slices onto her plate, eyeing her with fresh concern. “You’re starting to scare me, Livie. Please, eat. It will make you feel better.”
“I’ll have a few more of those, Mama.”
“Of course, Daddy-kins.” Her mom kissed her dad’s forehead and scooped more of the steaming bread onto his plate, killing him with kindness and cholesterol and insuring, if not a heart attack, a severe case of diabetes.
“Dad, the date?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Her father groaned, his expression sympathetic. “You’ve just got a bad case of the pre-nup heebie-jeebies, princess. If you ate more your stomach wouldn’t always be in knots. So dig into your mama’s grub and all that ails you will be cured.”
But Livia had lost her appetite. She took a sip of coffee, her gaze moving to the banner across the top of the newspaper. The coffee landed in her stomach like a block of ice, and she felt an odd, electric tingling around her neck. February 1. No. It couldn’t be true. That would mean… No. It had been a dream. A nightmare. She hadn’t really died and been given a chance to relive the month of February.
Or had she?
She started to rise, but her legs were boneless and she sank back onto her chair. Her mother took her own place at the table. “Oh, Livie, you’re not eating. Your food is getting cold.”
Not as cold, Livia would bet, as the blood flowing through her veins. Not as cold as something touching the flesh between her breasts—in the very spot she’d looked earlier for the bullet wound. The thought brought her hand to her chest. There was a solid lump beneath her sweatshirt. With a jolt, she realized that whatever the lump was it hung on a chain around her neck.
She hadn’t put on any jewelry.
She caught hold of the chain and pulled the object from beneath her shirt, gripping it in her palm, her curled fingers all that kept her from collapsing in a pile of trembling nerves. The object dug into her flesh. She opened her fist, knowing what she would see.
The bullet.
But on her hand lay a small hourglass made of solid gold, filled with something that looked, not like sand, but sparkly dust. Stardust? Her throat tightened. There were twenty-seven teeny demarcations on the bottom glass. The dust moved incredibly slow. But it had started to fill to the halfway mark of the twenty-seven.
“What a lovely necklace, dear,” her mother exclaimed. “A wedding gift from Reese?”
“Yes, a wedding gift.” Livia felt as though her heart were a stone inside her chest. Here was proof positive that the nightmare hadn’t been a dream, but reality. A shudder racked the length of her, sobering her as if she’d single-handedly finished off a whole pot of coffee.
If the hourglass was what it appeared to be, she had less than twenty-seven days. She could not waste another minute in denial. She had to figure out what she was going to do. How she was going to permanently avoid her wedding caterer, when he was catering her wedding.
She stared at the food on her plate, shutting out her parents’ chatter, her mind racing for a solution, a direction, a plan. And then she had it. She knew exactly what she would do. It was so simple. An easy fix. Livia heard herself laugh. Her parents looked at her as though expecting her to explain the joke. She grimaced and another nervous laugh escaped. “It’s nothing, really. Something someone told me at work yesterday.”
She excused herself and hurried to the telephone. Sookie Rayburn gave her the name and number she wanted and minutes later she had dialed. The ringing was interrupted by a husky male voice. “Good morning, Cupid’s Catering.”
Livia inhaled a bracing breath. “I’d like to speak to Mark Everett, please. This is Livia Kingston.”
There was a nerve-racking pause. “Ms. Kingston. This is Mark Everett. It’s nice to finally speak to you. I’m looking forward to meeting you. What might I do for you this morning?”
“I am afraid that I’m not going to have the opportunity to meet you anytime soon, Mr. Everett.” It was a struggle, but she kept her voice level, barely holding at bay the emotions eating her gut. She was speaking to a man she knew would be dead in twenty-seven days. “I’m afraid we won’t be needing your services for our wedding. I realize this is short notice, but you’ll be compensated for any out-of-pocket money or inconvenience this causes you.”
“You’re firing me?” He sounded so incredulous it tightened the knot in her chest.
“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way. I mean, you needn’t take offense. This isn’t personal or anything.” What it was, was the quickest, easiest solution. If she wanted to avoid being shot at the end of the month, then she had to get this wedding caterer out of her life—thereby eliminating all possibility of showing up wherever it was that she’d been when she’d taken a bullet meant for him.
She clutched the hourglass to her heart and felt the tension in her chest break; she could breathe again. “Yes, Mr. Everett, you are fired.”
“The hell I am.”
Chapter Two
CONTRITION TART
Ingredients: Pasty crust top and bottom
Filling: Minced crow
Serves: 1
Like hell you’re going to fire me, lady. Nobody fired Mark Everett. Certainly not the fiancée of Reese Rayburn. Mark’s gut twisted, and he couldn’t seem to push the air from his lungs. He had to cater the Kingston/Rayburn wedding. His life depended on it. “You aren’t serious.”
“Oh, but I am,” the woman said coolly.
Mark cautioned himself against the hot string of curse words that sprang to mind. Through clenched teeth, he said, “Why are you firing me?”
“I said this isn’t personal, Mr. Everett.”
“Like hell it’s not. I take being fired damned personal. So tell me why.”
“I said you’d be well compensat—”
“I don’t want to be compensated. I want this job. I have a contract signed by Sookie Rayburn and you.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“As you said, Ms. Kingston, this isn’t personal. I’m building a reputation, a business. Word of mouth is important in this community.” His was a three-person operation at the moment. But his two partners weren’t the main source of his concern. “Rumors could destroy me if it gets out I’ve been fired from the biggest, most publicized wedding of the year.”
“No, no, no. This will remain between the two of us.”
Huh? Was this woman a complete flake? Mark raked his hand across his trim black hair. What was he saying? Of course, she was a flake. Knowing Reese, this little gold digger had an IQ of sixty and a Playboy-model body, all silicone and liposuction. “The two of us? Aren’t you forgetting Sookie Rayburn?”
“Well, she will have to be told, of course.”
“Of course. Trust me, word will spread like melted butter.”
“All the same—”
“All the same, I expect my clients to honor their contracts, especially a contract this large.”
“Are you threatening me, Mr. Everett?”
She sounded genuinely afraid and Mark wondered if he’d used his prison voice. Damn. He took a breath, mentally stepping back a notch. “I’m not making a threat, just a promise. Fire me and I’ll sue you and the Rayburns.”
“Sue?” The word seemed to choke from her, as though litigation was a foreign concept.
“You’ve heard of being sued? My lawyer talks to your lawyer, the newspapers write it up, the judge decides to give me all your money.” As if Mark wan
ted anything more to do with judges or juries. He’d had his fill of that crap. There was only one reason he’d willingly face another judge and it sure wasn’t for catering the wedding of a bimbo stupid enough to marry Reese Rayburn.
“No. You can’t sue me. Or the Rayburns. They’d be horrified.”
“Yes, they would.” And I would probably lose completely any chance of my business taking hold in this community. Consumers didn’t frequent establishments whose proprietors sued their customers. He braced for just such a retort from her, but none came. “Don’t wait too long. I have food to order. Or my lawyer to call.”
She hung up. The phone banging in his ear.
Mark replaced the receiver, his fist white-knuckled on the handset. What the hell was he going to do now? This stupid Kingston woman could ruin everything. What if she called back and told him to go ahead and sue? God, he couldn’t risk that. If she hadn’t taken him by surprise, he’d have used better judgment. Held his temper. Too much was at stake for him to allow his emotions to cost him the prize.
He inhaled, plowed both hands through his hair; his belly churned. He needed to calm down, regroup, find this Kingston woman, talk some sense into her, figure out what had made her decide to fire him, then fix the problem.
“A problem, Big E?” Candee, one of his two partners, was eyeing him curiously, his Asian eyes slits in his pockmarked face.
“A minor glitch.” Mark clasped his shoulder reassuringly. His confidence started to return, his calm. “But nothing I can’t handle.”
If he couldn’t woo the Kingston bimbo with charm, then he’d ply her with his culinary talents. Mark smiled to himself. “Oh, yeah, I’ll seduce her with food.”
THE BREAD AND BREW occupied an end space in a busy strip mall in Issaquah, Washington, and did a brisk business, even on rainy northwest mornings like this one. The decor favored shades of pastel rose and earthy greens and conveyed a parlor atmosphere, where customers could relax in settings of grouped high-back chairs, or on twin love seats next to a marble-faced gas fireplace. Other, more traditional tables occupied the space near the picture windows.