Sweet as Pie

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  Some motion beyond the display caught his eye. What on God’s green earth was that and why was Hyacinth allowing it?

  There was a woman on a little platform in front of a three-way mirror. Hyacinth and Brad—who’d kept Robbie in water the night of the festival—were hovering around. Hyacinth had a Professor McGonagall look going, all dressed in black, with a tight little bun—but that wasn’t what horrified Robbie. It was the bride.

  That dress absolutely did not belong on that woman.

  Robbie knew everything about weddings that was worth knowing, and not only because he’d been involved in his sisters’ weddings—six so far, and two to go. He’d seen hundreds, maybe thousands, of brides and he’d never encountered one in such a train wreck of a frock.

  She was wearing a straight dress with a dropped waist that was meant for a tall, very thin woman with not much up top or in the bum area. This bride had a lovely hourglass figure with a small waist that was made for a ball gown. Now that he thought about it, her shape wasn’t so different from Hyacinth’s. Hyacinth had to know this dress was all wrong, so why had she allowed the bride to try it on? Hyacinth smoothed the skirt, smiled, and said something to the bride when she ought to be hauling her back to the dressing room and getting her out of that dress. If his granny were here, she’d march right in there and tell Hyacinth that she was about to ruin this poor woman’s wedding day.

  Holy Family and all the wise men! Just when he thought it couldn’t get worse, Brad settled a jeweled band with feathers coming off it around the lass’s head. It suited the dress but, given that the dress didn’t suit the woman, they had no business encouraging her with that little bit of frippery. If somebody didn’t put a stop to this, Hyacinth was going to run herself out of business.

  He had to go in there. It was his duty as a wedding authority and citizen of the universe.

  * * *

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to try a ball gown? Or an empire? Both would be so lovely on you,” Hyacinth said to Daisy Dubois, who identified with Daisy Buchanan and was set on having a Gatsby-themed wedding but did not have the body for this dress. So far, Daisy had ignored Hyacinth’s subtle suggestions.

  Lois, mother of the bride, bit her lip and looked at the floor, probably wishing she’d never named her daughter Daisy. The four bridesmaids lined up on the sofa were no more enchanted with the dress than Lois. This had been going on so long that they had gone from sneaking peeks at their phones to blatantly scrolling and texting while they knocked back the cheap champagne that Hyacinth served.

  There was no chance any of them were going to be honest with Daisy. Hyacinth had been down this road enough times to know that there were two kinds of bridal posses: the overly vocal and critical ones, and the ones who made the consultant be the bad guy. This bunch was firmly in the latter category. Hyacinth would be the bad guy if it came to that, but everyone would be happier if Daisy wised up on her own.

  Daisy turned and pulled at the fabric around her hips. “Is it too small? It doesn’t feel right.”

  Hyacinth pretended to study the dress and waited a few beats to say what she already knew. “Not too small. A larger size would swallow your shoulders and waist. This is just the nature of a column dress.” Altering wouldn’t fix the problem. “Let’s try something with a flared skirt.” She had already pulled a half-dozen dresses that would be a dream on Daisy. “Maybe a trumpet?”

  “Would it have the Gatsby look?” Daisy asked.

  Hyacinth exchanged looks with Brad. They both knew there was no way to sell that.

  “To be honest, no,” Hyacinth said, “but it would show off your beautiful small waist.”

  “And we could do some accessories that would give the feel of the period.” You had to hand it to Brad. He always gave it the old college try.

  Lois nodded and the bridesmaids looked up from their phones, hopeful.

  “No,” Daisy said stubbornly. “I don’t want the feel. I want to look authentic. I want to try another drop waist.”

  They’d already been through this three times with three different dresses and there were only two more in the right price range. It wasn’t going to get better. What Hyacinth needed was that Wonder Woman golden lasso. It would go a long way in getting people to do what they ought to. But she didn’t have a magic rope and she was running out of options. Maybe it would be best to let Daisy try on the other two dresses and hope she saw the truth of the matter. If she didn’t, Hyacinth would have to be blunt—and maybe confess that she couldn’t help her.

  “Of course. Let’s get you back to the dressing room.” Hyacinth held out a hand to help Daisy from the pedestal when the bell above the door jingled.

  Hyacinth turned around, set to greet the newcomer, but she froze.

  Robbie McTavish. That was the last thing this room needed right now, though it was her own fault he was here. He’d left his grubby kilt and shoes in the dressing room the night of the fall festival and she had procrastinated about calling him. If only she had, she could have directed him to pick his things up on her schedule. Now, not only was he here in the middle of a difficult bridal appointment wearing a faded I heart New York T-shirt with yet another worn-out kilt, he had a chocolate ice cream cone the size of the Statue of Liberty’s torch.

  The disastrous fall festival cake notwithstanding, Hyacinth did not allow food in her store beyond the champagne and cheese straws she served clients. She had a little whimsical sign outside over a trash can that said, “Check Your Coffee at the Door! Someone’s Silk Dream Is Inside.” Apparently she needed to add ice cream to that sign.

  “Hey, Robbie,” Brad said.

  Robbie nodded. “Brad, my friend. You owe me a Mortal Kombat rematch.”

  “And you owe me a burger. I paid last time because you didn’t have your wallet.”

  Brad had befriended this soup sandwich of a man? That was news to her, but none of her business. They were just an unlikely pair.

  Robbie settled his eyes on Hyacinth. “And the lovely Hyacinth.” He gave a nod to Daisy and then to her entourage. “Ladies.”

  “You must be here for your shoes and kilt,” Hyacinth said. “I’ll get them for you.”

  Robbie looked surprised. “I left them here? I wondered where they got off to. I had to get new gutties.” He held up a glow-in-the-dark green running shoe. He had a scrape on his knee that needed some Neosporin and a bandage. It was when she was wondering idly how he’d hurt himself that she noticed his leg—and then the other one. They were chiseled, strong, and very attractive. How had she missed that before? “Do you like them?” She might have thought he was referring to his legs if he hadn’t pressed a button on the shoe, causing the soles to burst into a light show. “Fancy, huh?”

  “I didn’t know they made those for adults.” If he wasn’t here for his belongings, why was he here? Not that it mattered. Good legs or no, she had to get rid of him. Bridal parties were notoriously protective of their time. But when Hyacinth turned to gauge the mood of the room, Daisy and Lois were smiling so bright you could practically see moonbeams swirling around them, and the bridesmaids sat a little straighter and had put down their phones. One crossed her legs and another pushed her hair off her face.

  Okay, so he was hot. Annoying, but hot.

  “Excuse me a moment,” she said to the bridal party. “I’ll be right back.” She turned to Robbie. “Come with me. I’ll get your things.” Once they were out of earshot, she added with a hiss, “You need to take that ice cream and get out of here.”

  “What?” He licked the cone.

  “The ice cream. I don’t allow food in the store.”

  “What about the haunted house cake?” He continued following her as she turned the corner and advanced toward the counter—licking as he went.

  “That was different.” She turned around. “Stop right here. Stay clear of that dress display.”

&
nbsp; But she’d stopped too quickly and he’d been too hot on her heels. She knew what was going to happen by the look on his face before the huge scoop of chocolate sailed off the cone, over her shoulder, down the front of the new Rayna Kwan that she had put on display just this morning.

  His mouth formed an O.

  “Fuck,” she said. (She never said fuck. Never thought it, it seemed, unless this man was around.) But nothing called for bad words like eight thousand dollars’ worth of ruined beaded silk.

  “Holy Family and all the wise men,” he whispered, his brogue more pronounced.

  They were both frozen in time.

  He went into action first. “Sorry. I’ll fix it.” He removed the paper napkin from around his now empty cone and started to dab at the stain—and what a stain it was. There was a four-inch-wide band of chocolate from shoulder to waist—not unlike a royal sash—and splatters peppered down the front of the skirt.

  “Stop! You can’t fix it.”

  “I’ll pay for it.” He scooped up the ice cream from the floor and stood looking at it melting in his hand.

  She grabbed the small trash can behind the counter and held it out to him. “Here,” she said wearily.

  He looked at the ice cream mournfully before he dropped it in. “I’ll pay for it,” he repeated as he wiped his hands on his kilt.

  “I just put that out so it would be ready for an appointment I have on Black Friday.” After numerous conversations with Connie Millwood about what she was looking for, and many hours of searching, Hyacinth had deemed this perfect for her. “The bride is coming from Georgia for the appointment.”

  “Did she ask for this dress?” He pointed at the ruined gown. “This particular one?”

  “No...” she had to admit. But it had everything she wanted—the corset bodice, sweetheart neckline, mermaid skirt, crystal embellishments, and all the rest... Now it was a chocolate mess.

  Robbie McTavish had the audacity to smile. “No problem, then. There can be another. And, as I said, I’ll pay. I promise I can afford it.”

  “Not the point. Do you have any idea how much time and effort I put into finding a dress that fit this particular bride’s body type, vision, and budget? How many hours I spend finding the perfect thing for every bride who walks through my door? You can’t put a price on that.”

  “Well.” He gave a backward glance to where Brad was helping Daisy onto the platform in yet another unflattering flapper dress. Robbie looked at her and raised an eyebrow. “That right there is indeed a product of genius.”

  The burning bush that was her head burned brighter—though to be fair, this might not have been the best time to point out her styling skills.

  “You need to leave. Now. Out the back door. You’ve done enough here.”

  But did he do that? Of course not. He shrugged, threw a smile over his shoulder, and advanced on the bride. Hyacinth had to practically run to keep up with him.

  “Lass, aren’t you a vision. You’re getting married. I fair love brides.”

  Daisy blushed. “I am. In eight months. It’s going to be a Gatsby-themed wedding. I want it to be like the party in the movie—the one with Leo DiCaprio. I love that movie.”

  “Aye.” Robbie nodded. “So do I.”

  Hyacinth would bet every inch of lace in the place that he’d never seen it.

  “You want to look like Daisy? A flapper girl?” Robbie asked.

  All right. Maybe she would have lost her lace, but she had trouble trusting haphazard people—and she knew haphazard—had cut her teeth on turned-off electricity, lost keys, and chronic, habitual tardiness. But no more. She’d fought to stay away from chaos all her life—fought hard—and now it had invaded her ordered little pristine world in the form of red hair, a faded kilt, and neon flashing shoes. And good legs.

  Her heart raced.

  The bride of the moment, however, had no sense that chaos was swirling about her. “My name is Daisy.” She blushed some more.

  “Ah, a beautiful name. Did you know it’s sometimes a nickname for Margaret?”

  “No. I’m just plain Daisy—named for my grandmother.”

  “Never just plain. You could never be that.”

  He was getting more Scottish by the second and Daisy was eating it with a spoon. Hyacinth’s heart raced even more. She’d lost control and had no idea how to recapture it. But she had to try.

  “My name is Robbie, named for my grandda.” His attention was fully on Daisy.

  “You’re from Scotland.” Daisy stated the obvious.

  “Aye. My family has a wedding business. Our ancestral castle’s the most popular spot for hitching in the whole of the country. We’ve had more weddings than Gretna Green.” That was interesting, but was the mayor of Haphazard City telling the truth this time? He had no reason to lie, but neither had her dad had a reason to say he’d played guitar with Eric Clapton. “I’ve seen more brides than stars in the sky, but none more bonnie than you.” He reached out like he was going to take Daisy’s hands in his—hands he had not washed.

  Chocolate hands! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

  One ruined dress was one too many. She would be damned if there were going to be two. She grabbed the champagne bottle from the bucket on the table, tore off the damp cloth napkin, and slapped it in Robbie’s hand.

  “Ice cream,” she said as if that explained everything. She scrubbed first one hand and then the other. It was impossible to ignore that his hands were big, strong, and warm. But she didn’t care about any of that. She only cared that they were clean before they touched another thing in her shop.

  But then...but then...he circled her palm with his thumb. Slowly. And her body betrayed her by wanting him to do it again. And her body betrayed her again by raising her face to look at his. He dropped his eyelids to half-mast and smiled like he had a secret. Her stomach turned over. And no wonder. She hadn’t had sex in nearly two years, hadn’t been touched by a man except in passing in nearly as long.

  And he squeezed her hand—but she would not let her body betray her again and squeeze back. Hell, no. She couldn’t control everything—or really, maybe much of anything—but she could control this.

  She jerked her hands away.

  The silence in the room was deafening. Clearly they all thought she’d lost her mind. Well, let them think it. They weren’t the guardians of thousands of dollars’ worth of silk, satin, and lace.

  “Thank you, lass.” There was an edge of laughter in his voice. “It’s been a while since I’ve needed someone to clean me up.”

  Before she could suggest that he run along now, he took right up where he’d left off with Daisy. This time, he succeeded in taking her hands, and he spread them wide as if to get a better look at her. Someone from the bridesmaid gallery sighed.

  And all Hyacinth could do was stand there clutching a chocolate-stained napkin and watch it happen.

  Daisy smiled at him like he’d been invented for her alone. Best case, he was going to convince her that dress had been made for her. Worst case, she was going to throw her engagement ring against the wall and follow him to the ends of the earth. And it would be preserved for posterity because one of the bridesmaids seemed to be videoing now. Hyacinth vaguely wondered how long that had been going on.

  “There was a Scottish queen called Margaret—Margaret Tudor, wife of James IV of Scotland. She was Henry VIII’s sister. Her marriage was a love match and James called her Daisy.”

  “Oh...” Daisy put her hand to her heart. More lies and Daisy was eating it up.

  “She was a princess when she got married. Every girl ought to be a princess at her wedding, don’t you think?”

  Daisy nodded wide-eyed.

  “I know you’re going to get married in that flapper dress—and it looks wonderful. It truly does. But you know what I’d love? To see you in a real princess dress. Would you
like to try one on, for fun?”

  “Well...” Daisy cocked her head to the side and chewed on her bottom lip. It was all too obvious she wasn’t going to tell him no. Hyacinth suspected that few did.

  “Hyacinth won’t mind, will you, Hyacinth?” Robbie gave her a crooked smile.

  “Not at all.” What else could she say? Besides, maybe this little development would turn things around. Here was the chance to get Daisy in the ivory A-line with a tiered skirt and portrait back. But she had to get rid of him, without sounding like a bitch in front of these people. She bit her lip and tried hard to channel her classy friend Ava Grace. “I know of just the thing. But I can take it from here, Robbie. I know you are a busy, busy man. Thank you oh-so-much for your assistance. Daisy, come with me.” Hyacinth held out her hand. “Goodbye, Robbie.”

  “But Robbie wants to see me look like a princess.”

  Mother of pearl. This was the biggest nightmare in Nightmare City.

  “Yes, Hyacinth. I never miss a chance for a princess sighting. I go to Disney World twice a year for that particular pleasure.”

  Every woman in the place burst into delighted laughter. And so did Brad. Traitor.

  “Of course,” Hyacinth acquiesced through gritted teeth. No getting rid of him yet. “Daisy?” She held out her hand again. “Let’s see what we can find.”

  “Brilliant!” And before Hyacinth could stop him, Robbie went tearing around the showroom flipping through dresses. “I’ll find something.”

  Lois and the bridesmaids chattered and giggled. Hyacinth picked up a word here and there—charming, so funny, isn’t he the sweetest?

  She stomped off after Robbie. “Stop it,” she called. “That’s the ball gown section. Daisy has made clear she will not have a ball gown. I’ve tried!”

  By now she’d caught up with him and she was close enough for him to whisper. “Daisy doesn’t know what she wants. She only thinks she does.” And he continued to flip through the dresses.