by Jane Heller
And no, I’m not being overly self-congratulatory. If it weren’t for me, she wouldn’t have gone after Tony in the first place, nor would she have garnered all that attention within the publishing industry. She owes me a lot, when you get right down to it. But am I keeping score? Please. I’m not that petty. What’s important here is that she and I are best friends, just the way we used to be. While we still have our little bones of contention, we’re there for each other. We really are.
For example, as soon as she and Tony set a date for their wedding, she asked me to be her maid of honor and I accepted. Talk about a long-overdue gig. And when the big event finally arrived, I couldn’t have been more excited if I’d been the bride myself. Well, in a manner of speaking.
“I wish you two had picked a place with some panache,” I said. Amy and I were standing in the back room of the steak restaurant in SoHo where she and Tony were getting married in an hour. The manager had done a fairly decent job of sprucing it up for the ceremony. There were a few rows of chairs, flowers at the ends of the aisles, and a makeshift altar at the far end of the room. But still. It smelled of slabs of beef, for God’s sake.
“We had our first date here,” she said, “so it has sentimental value for us. And the waiters treat Tony like their firstborn son. He’s comfortable here.”
“Maybe, but people get married at quaint country inns, not at steak joints.”
“Stuart and I were supposed to get married at a quaint country inn, and look how that worked out.”
“Point taken,” I said. “Besides, my job as maid of honor is not to criticize, just to help the bride prepare.”
“Then let’s prepare me already.”
I shut up about the restaurant—you can’t force people to have good taste—and concentrated on the crucial aspect of the wedding: what I was wearing. Well, okay, what she and I were wearing.
We carried our garment bags into the ladies’ room and undressed, dressed, then admired each other.
“You look beautiful,” said Amy.
You bet I did. I had chosen my own gown this time around, and it was smashing on me. It had a pale green silk top with matching—
Never mind. It was her night to shine.
“You look beautiful, too,” I said, and made a huge fuss over the Vera Wang number I’d found for her at Neiman Marcus. “The gown, the shoes, the bouquet. The whole enchilada.”
She smiled. She really was radiant and, thanks to my tireless efforts, downright chic. I envied her happiness almost as much as I envied that rock Tony had put on her finger.
“Are you nervous?” I asked.
“Maybe I should be, but I’m not,” she said, then giggled. “I can’t wait to get out there, say ‘ I do,’ and then party.”
“I’m up for the party, too,” I said, “although I have no idea if my date will be any fun.”
“You have a date? Since when?”
“Since last night. Forgive the short notice, but you told me I could bring someone.”
“Sure I did,” she said. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
“You know him, actually. He’s an accountant at L and T. He runs the Business Affairs department.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Michael Ollin?”
“That’s the one,” I said. “We met last week and I just started seeing him. He’s a hunk, isn’t he?”
“He’s a hunk all right.” She made a face. “A hunk of jerkiness. He calls women ‘bodilicious’ and cheats on his girlfriend.”
“The girlfriend’s history. He told me.”
“Oh, Tara.” She sighed. I felt one of her holier-than-thou lectures coming on. “Since the divorce, you’ve dated a string of men with absolutely no redeeming—”
Just then, there was a knock on the door. It was Tony.
“Time’s up,” he called out. “I’ll be waiting for you two at the altar in five minutes.”
Amy and I gave each other a hug and an air kiss (I can’t speak for her, but there was no way I was smudging my lipstick).
“I’m so glad you’re by my side tonight,” she said.
“I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” I replied.
We clasped hands, then hurried into the ceremony area.
She took her father’s arm, the keyboardist struck the chords of “The Wedding March,” and the show began.
I walked down the aisle first, toward Tony and his best man (he had asked his car mechanic to do the honors, of all things). I glanced at the guests as I moved along, nodding at each of them, the way Miss America nods at her well-wishers as she glides along the carpet after her crowning. There was Amy’s mother, of course. There was Amy’s tacky friend Connie and her husband, Murray, the abstract artist/insurance salesman. There was Michael Ollin, my handsome and, according to Amy, disreputable date. And there was Marianne, Amy’s therapist, who was now my therapist and was teaching me to deal with what she called my “grandiosity issues.” Over on the groom’s side sat Tony’s father, his mother, and his three stepmothers, as well as his friends, some of whom were New York City cops in uniform. It was a motley crew, in other words.
Once I’d reached the spot where I was supposed to stand, Amy and her father proceeded down the aisle. She beamed when she reached Tony, and the current of love that passed between them was unmistakable.
After the justice of the peace delivered his remarks and Amy and Tony recited their vows, it was time for the Kiss. My big moment. Well, okay, their big moment.
I stepped forward and lifted Amy’s veil for her. I was about to return to my corner, I swear I was, when it occurred to me that a maid of honor should have more to do. I mean, why rush off so damn fast, especially after all the time I spent on my makeup? There had to be other tasks for me to perform in front of those people, right?
I saw that a hair on the top of Amy’s head was sticking up, so I smoothed it. And then I saw that one of her earrings was twisted, so I straightened it. And then I saw that there was a wayward piece of string hanging from her bodice, so I gave it a little tug and pulled it off.
I was about to check the skirt of the gown, when she leaned over and whispered, “Thanks, Tara, but I’ll take it from here.”
I smiled and went back to the sidelines like a good girl. But I’ve got to tell you: It was a kick strutting my stuff, you know?
About the Author
After nearly a decade of promoting bestselling authors for New York publishing houses, Jane Heller became a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author herself. Her 13 novels, nine of which have been sold to Hollywood for movies and television, are now entertaining readers around the world. She has also written a nonfiction book about her passion for baseball and the Yankees, as well as a survival guide for those caring for a loved one with a chronic or critical illness. Her new novel, Three Blonde Mice, a spinoff of her popular novel Princess Charming, will be published by Diversion in August 2016. Born and raised in Scarsdale, New York, Heller currently resides in New Preston, Connecticut, with her husband, Michael Forester.
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More from Jane Heller
Romance and murder are on the menu in USA Today bestselling author Jane Heller’s wild comic novel Three Blonde Mice. Three best friends go on a cooking excursion led by a famous chef, only to discover one of their classmates is very keen on practicing knife technique. They and eight other guests will learn how to cook farm-to-table meals at a chic farm-to-table retreat, with renowned TV/restaurant chef Jason Hill. Elaine is less than thrilled—especially because the program wasn’t supposed to include a surprise appearance by her former boyfriend, Simon, who’s still the love of her life but can’t commit to her. What’s more, after milking a cow and making cheese, she stumbles on evidence that one of her fellow agritourists is out to murder Chef Hill at the resort’s Bounty Fest finale. Three Blonde Mice serves up a crackling romance betwee
n Elaine and Simon, a twisty whodunit involving a screwball cast of suspects and a satire of current food fads and the farm-to-table chefs who perpetuate them.
Read on for an exclusive extended preview of Three Blonde Mice!
Prologue
The fingers hovered over the laptop’s keyboard, fidgeting and flexing, poised to begin typing. And then suddenly, propelled by the writer’s burst of inspiration or clarity of purpose, they were off, racing over the keys in a manic hurry. Within minutes, the following words appeared on the screen:
Dear Pudding,
Did you know I call you Pudding, by the way? No, of course not. The name came to me as I was watching your cooking video on YouTube. You were talking about how you’ve loved pudding since you were a kid—chocolate pudding, banana pudding, rice pudding, tapioca pudding, sticky date pudding with caramel sauce. I had this hilarious image of your body dissolving into a vat of thick, spongy, gelatinous pudding, sort of like the Killer Robot from Terminator 2 melting into liquid metal or the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man in Ghostbusters transforming into the gummy white goop that buries Manhattan. Listen to me carry on about movie villains. Too much time on my hands, I guess.
Anyway, I signed up to be a guest at the hotel’s Cultivate Our Bounty week just so I could get close to you, but since we won’t have quality time alone until the very end, I thought I should write a quick note to say how much I despise you.
Yes, despise you. Does it scare you to hear that? Are you shocked that someone doesn’t think you’re God’s greatest gift to the world? I’ll pretend to be your fan for the entire week, and you’ll probably buy my act, because you don’t have a clue. You walk around like you’re this important chef, someone whose passion in the kitchen we’re supposed to admire, but we both know you’re in it for the money and the ego. You’re all about having foodies slobber over you as a promoter of the farm-to-table movement—excuse me, the farm-to-fork movement. Or is it plough-to-plate, cow-to-kitchen, barn-to-bistro, or mulch-to-meal? I can’t keep track of your terminology anymore, can you? Bottom line: There’s only one movement you promote, and it’s your own.
You’re a fraud—100 percent con artist. You wouldn’t know authenticity if it hit you over the head with one of your overpriced cast iron skillets. You have the image of this do-gooder who’s all about the land and the farmer and the planet, when in fact you have no conscience, no remorse for your actions. Do you know how much those actions enrage me? Enrage me, as in pure, unprocessed, non-genetically modified rage. If you don’t get that, you will—as soon as it sinks in that your miserable life is nearly over. When that happens, your instinct will be to use this letter to protect yourself, but you won’t show it to anybody—not the police, not even the little toads who work for you, because you have too many secrets of your own and can’t risk the exposure. Pretty interesting predicament you’re in, wouldn’t you say?
I’m sorry about having to kill you on Saturday at the Bounty Fest thing. Not because you deserve to live—we’re all better off with you dead, believe me—but because killing isn’t something I do on a regular basis, and I really don’t want to get caught. There’s always the chance that some unlucky bastards could show up in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I’d have to take them out too. Still, while I’d rather not commit multiple murders, killing you will be so satisfying after what you did that I’ll just have to shrug off potential collateral damage. Besides, any idiots who fall for your Cultivate Our Bounty bullshit deserve whatever they get.
The fingers sagged over the keys, depleted after their flurry of activity, but eventually directed the cursor to the navigation bar, clicked “file,” then “print.” Seconds later, the Dear Pudding missive materialized on plain white paper, ready to be sent to its recipient or, perhaps, delivered in person.
Day One:
Monday, July 15
1
“Welcome. Welcome,” said the woman who was standing in the center of the room. Fifty-something years old, she had a weathered but pleasant-looking face and wore a Whitley-logoed T-shirt with a pair of blue jeans. Her gray hair was fashioned into two long, age-inappropriate braids. If she’d had a beard and mustache, she would have been the spitting image of Willie Nelson. “I’m Rebecca Kissel, Whitley’s executive director. I’m so pleased that you’ve chosen us for your agritourism experience and are here at our Welcome Happy Hour. We’ve got an exciting week planned for you, and the weather is supposed to cooperate, so I know it’ll be fun as well as educational. You’ll enjoy meeting our in-house staff as well as your fellow agritourists, but the highlight will be your interactions with the renowned farm-to-table master we’ve snagged for you: Chef Jason Hill, who personifies clean, sustainable food that’s as beautiful to look at as it is to eat. He’ll be your instructor this week as our artisan in residence and will preside over our Saturday Bounty Fest finale to which we invite our non-Cultivate-Our-Bounty guests as well as members of the community.”
She nodded at a long table set up across Whitley’s Harvest Room, a serene space that overlooked infinite pastures. It was painted in the palest yellow and decorated in a neutral palette of bleached oak flooring and oversized white-slipcovered chairs. There were also strategically placed white poufs—cubes that doubled as ottomans on top of which rested reading materials about the property’s rich agricultural history.
“Before you leave tonight,” she continued, “please stop by the hospitality table and pick up your personal earth-friendly, 100 percent recycled cotton Whitley tote bag. There’s one for each of our agritourists as well as one for Chef Hill—you’ll see your nametag pinned to your bag—and it contains maps of the property, a biography of Chef Hill, his recipes that you’ll be preparing, a copy of his latest cookbook, the schedule of events, and lots more. The tote bags are handy because you can repurpose them for the beach, for work, for groceries, for gardening, whatever you like.” She beamed, as if she were about to announce a cure for cancer. “You’ll really appreciate the bags after you’ve cooked with us this week. Just think how much fun it’ll be to bring your homemade fruit preserves, pickled vegetables, and raw nut balls to your friends and neighbors!”
“Speaking of nut balls, whose idea was this trip anyway?” I said to my best pals, Jackie Gault and Pat Kovecky, as we huddled together in a room full of strangers at the start of our week’s vacation. Well, more precisely it was a “haycation” because we were staying on a farm.
No, we weren’t camping out in some broken-down barn. Please. I’m a person who has standing appointments for twice-weekly blowouts. We’d booked the Cultivate Our Bounty package at Whitley Farm, a Relais & Chateaux resort in Litchfield, Connecticut. It boasted a restaurant headed by a James Beard Award nominee and guest cottages outfitted with four-poster king-size beds swathed in Frette linens and layers of down, and we were there to learn where our food comes from and take culinary classes so we’d be able to cook the stuff. We would be milking a cow and making cheese from that milk; selecting a grass-fed, pasture-raised chicken and then roasting it with herbs we picked in the garden; foraging among the weeds for elderberries, milkweed, and other oddities of nature and then turning them into edible menu items. From Whitley’s brochure: “Our goal is to increase understanding and appreciation of the land and the food it provides by giving our agritourists the opportunity to cultivate the bounty that sustains us while experiencing true farm-to-table cooking.”
“It was my idea,” said Jackie in her low, husky voice. “I thought the Three Blonde Mice deserved a week that didn’t involve a hit man and a wacko ex-husband.” She knocked back the last of her wine and heaved a grateful sigh, as if she’d been waiting all day for that glass. She preferred hardcore alcohol like bourbon and Scotch but would drink anything you put in front of her—too much of it lately, if you asked me. As for her “Three Blonde Mice” bit, it was the nursery rhyme nickname I’d given the three of us when we met seven years ago, and not because we were mousy. My hair was shoulder length and highlighted to a
near platinum blonde; Jackie’s was cut short and utilitarian like a punk boy’s, spiky and strawberry; Pat’s was a maze of tight frizzy curls—the color of oatmeal with glints of gray.
“I think it’ll be enlightening,” said Pat, after a decorous sip of her wine. She held her glass with her pinky extended like someone drinking tea out of one of those itsy bitsy china cups. “A nice change from last year’s trip, that’s for sure.”
“I’m counting on it,” said Jackie.
We took vacations together every year, and the last one was a disaster: a seven-day cruise to the Caribbean on an enormous floating hotel called the Princess Charming, during which Jackie’s ex-husband Peter had hired one of the other passengers to kill her on the ship. Yes, kill her. (The would-be hit man was in the dining room with us every night. At the 6:30 early-bird seating, if you can believe it.) On top of that, she and Peter had been partners in J&P Nursery, a landscaping and gardening center in Bedford, a New York suburb frequently referred to as one of the most posh hamlets in America. The nursery serviced the fifty-acre estates of Wall Street hedge fund managers who viewed themselves as country gentlemen and therefore bought a lot of topiary. But when Peter turned out to be a crook, a cad, and a creep, and was carted off to the big house, the business became Jackie’s responsibility.
Pat gave Jackie’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “We won’t let anything or anyone upset the apple tart this week, don’t you worry.”