Hannah gave a little laugh. “I’ll say—Liz is pushing forty, isn’t she?”
Carlotta squinted. “What does Liz have to do with Meg being pregnant?”
“Who’s Meg?”
Carlotta touched her forehead. “Wes’s girlfriend.”
Hannah’s mouth formed an “Oh” but no sound came out. Then she clamped her mouth shut as if she were waiting for Carlotta to figure out the riddle.
The realization hit Carlotta like a kick to the stomach. “Liz Fischer…is pregnant…with Wes’s baby?”
Hannah took a step back, then nodded.
She couldn’t talk…couldn’t think. In her mind, Wesley’s life unfurled in front of her—tied to a woman with whom he had nothing in common, obligated to a child he wasn’t prepared to father.
Father…oh, Jesus, when they saw Randolph, what would he think of this bit of news?
Or had Liz already told him in one of their meetings?
“Carlotta?” Hannah shook her. “Talk to me.”
“I…can’t.” She couldn’t breathe either. She leaned over and gripped her knees, gulping air.
“Easy there,” Hannah soothed. “It’s going to be okay.”
“No…it’s…not.”
“Yes, it is. This is Wesley’s life, not yours.”
She heard the words, knew it was true…so why did it feel as if her life had just been snatched away? This must be how a parent felt when their child did something irrevocable.
“It could be worse,” Hannah offered.
“How?” Carlotta managed to get out.
“Um…you could be pregnant?”
She had a point. Carlotta slowly straightened, then groaned. “I thought he was getting his act together. I thought things were…improving.”
“They are,” Hannah said. “Your dad is back—how amazing is that?”
“Amazingly frustrating.”
“For now…but not forever.”
Carlotta nodded, then took a deep breath. “You’re right.”
“You can’t tell Wesley you know. You need to let him tell you when he’s ready.”
She nodded again, although she still felt sick to her stomach. It would take her a while to absorb this new development.
“Let’s go out and do something,” Hannah urged. “If I have to wear this getup, I might as well get some use out of it.”
Hannah’s “getup” was a navy belted Akris shirtdress with leather lapels and a price tag that would make even Carlotta cough. Ditto for the Chloe slingback wedges.
“I’m starting to get used to this posh side of you,” Carlotta said.
“Don’t. This gig was something I got roped into by my sisters. As soon as it’s over, I’m back to the Hannah you know and fucking love.”
“Are you ever going to introduce me to your family?”
Hannah looked panicked. “Absolutely not. Promise me you won’t go near them.”
“Okay, relax.”
Hannah seemed flustered. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Do you have something in mind?”
“Something anti-wedding, please dear God.”
Carlotta snapped her fingers and dug in her purse until she came up with the brochure for the “After the Dress” art exhibit. “Anti-wedding and free booze.”
“Sounds good and bitter to me. Let’s go check it out.”
Chapter Eighteen
“IT’S A WEDDING GOWN GRAVEYARD,” Hannah whispered.
Carlotta nodded soberly. In the low light of the warehouse-turned-art-gallery in the industrial Atlanta west side, the row upon row of pale wedding gowns on headless mannequins did have the appearance of tombstones.
The “After the Dress” exhibit featured two hundred gowns from the 1950s and every decade since. Some of the dresses had been pristinely preserved, some were tinged with age and dark spots, some were drooping and dry-rotted. Next to each dress was a small white podium, the kind that might hold a guest book at a wedding, but instead, held a mini computer tablet with a “play” button on the touchscreen.
Carlotta touched the screen of the display nearest her, a tea-length white dress with a Peter Pan collar from the 1960s. On the screen an attractive gray-haired woman appeared, sitting in a chair against a plain background. Marva, age seventy-one, smiled briefly for the camera, then began to tell her story.
“I grew up in a sheltered Catholic home. I was a virgin when I married my husband at eighteen. I was so excited to wear this wedding dress, but I didn’t have a clue what to expect.” She shifted in her chair and her lips twitched downward. “My husband was an angry man who couldn’t keep a job and took all of his disappointment out on me. He was a pathological liar and he cheated on me. After a few years, I finally got the nerve to divorce him, which humiliated my family. I never remarried.” The woman shrugged her slight shoulders. “I don’t know why I kept the dress…I guess it was the best memory of my marriage. It’s such a nice dress.” Then the screen went blank.
A pang of sadness barbed through Carlotta at the woman’s matter-of-fact abridgment of her unsuccessful marriage.
“And on that note,” Hannah said dryly, “I’m hitting the bar. Can I get you something?”
“White wine,” Carlotta murmured. “Thanks.”
Her interest piqued, she walked among the displays and listened to a few more narratives while studying the corresponding dress. Not all the women told sad stories—some were still happily married, or widowed and mourning their husbands. Some had remarried after a disastrous first (or even second) marriage and had found happiness. But all of them spoke poignantly about how they had bought into the “promise of the dress” and felt duped afterward by their own naiveté.
Yet no matter what their marriage experience had been, all of these women had kept their wedding gowns. It spoke to the immense power of clothing, Carlotta mused, that a single garment—a few yards of pale fabric—could represent so much.
A well-dressed brunette holding a glass of red wine stopped next to Carlotta. “Interesting exhibit, huh?”
Carlotta nodded. “Very compelling.”
“That’s my dress over there.” The woman’s bleary eyes and careful gesture made Carlotta think the glass of wine wasn’t her first. “The ivory Vera Wang.”
“It’s lovely,” Carlotta said, noting the pristine condition.
“It is,” the woman agreed, then took a drink from her glass. “It was. I didn’t know it at the time, but while I was putting on that dress, my groom was screwing one of my bridesmaids.” She gave a shrill laugh.
Carlotta didn’t know what to say. “I—”
“It’s okay,” the woman cut in with an exaggerated shrug. “Men suck. You don’t see any men saving their tuxedos, do you?”
“I—”
“Nope. That’s kind of an overlooked red flag, don’t you think?”
“I—”
“We make ourselves crazy trying to find the perfect wedding gown, pay a king’s ransom for it, then starve ourselves to fit in it. Meanwhile, they rent the suit they’re going to wear on the most important day of their life. I mean, that kind of fucking says it all, don’t you think?”
Carlotta hesitated before answering, “I never thought about it, but you’re right.”
The woman used her pinkie finger to point at Carlotta. “You bet I’m right. Temporary, renting, cheating sons of bitches.”
Carlotta gave her a flat smile, then began to inch away. “I’m sorry your marriage didn’t work out.”
The woman guffawed and held up her left hand that sported a gigantic diamond and a gleaming gold band. “We’re celebrating our tenth anniversary next month.” She leaned in. “But don’t worry, I make him pay—every…single…day.” She drained her glass, then tottered off toward the bar, presumably, for a refill.
Carlotta stared after her, marveling over the dysfunctional glue of relationships. Was that how Valerie had felt—trapped in a marriage to an unfaithful man, blurring the sharp edges of her marriag
e with alcohol? She had asked herself a thousand times why her mother had gone on the run with Randolph. His indictment would’ve been the perfect excuse to end the marriage. Valerie could’ve stayed with her children…gotten sober…built a new life for herself. Had she loved Randolph that much…or had she, like the bitter brunette, stayed with him to punish him?
“Who was that?” Hannah asked, walking up to hand her a glass of white wine.
“A sadomasochist. There’s a lot of anger in here.”
“No kidding. In the bar line women were discussing ways to murder their exes like it was a game show.” She clinked her highball glass to Carlotta’s. “Cheers.”
Carlotta winced. “It’s a little depressing, don’t you think?”
Hannah scoffed. “Depressing is what we’ve witnessed at the Wedding Expo this week—women gorging themselves on the idea that a man and a white dress are going to make them happy.”
“Some married people are happy.”
“Who?” Hannah said pointedly. “Who do we know who’s happily married?” She held up her fist, poised to count on her fingers. “There’s my mom and dad—oh no, wait—they despise each other. Then there are my two sisters and my brother—no, they have four divorces between them. Oh, but then there’s Peter Ashford—no, his wife was a closeted prostitute who ended their marriage by getting herself murdered.”
Carlotta gave her a wry look. “What about Tracey Tully Lowenstein?”
“She’s a witch and her husband is a creepy twat-doctor.”
“That doesn’t mean they aren’t happy. And hey—there’s Jolie Goodman. She and Beck Underwood are still happy and in love.”
Hannah harumped. “Okay, that’s one.” She raised her middle finger.
Carlotta laughed. “Did you ever think that happily married people might avoid people like us?”
But Hannah’s attention was snagged by something past Carlotta’s shoulder. Her finger went from vertical to horizontal. “Holy crap, there’s Coop!”
Carlotta turned and sure enough, even from the back and across the room, his tall, lean physique was unmistakable. Pleasure infused her chest. “What’s he doing here?”
Hannah was already moving in his direction. “I say we find out.”
Carlotta took a drink of her wine, letting Hannah clear a path to Coop, which she did, with flying elbows and violent knees.
“Excuse me…coming through…move, already, dammit.” When they reached him, he turned at the commotion and Hannah practically fell into him. “Hi, Coop!”
He caught her with a strong arm and a surprised smile. “Hello.” After he’d righted Hannah, he gave Carlotta a wink. “Didn’t expect to see you ladies here.”
“Likewise,” Carlotta said with an arched eyebrow. Dressed in dark slacks, a dove grey sport coat and white dress shirt, he looked ridiculously handsome. He was obviously on a date, and she had a good idea who Coop had accompanied.
“He’s with me.”
Carlotta turned and blinked to see not a certain curvy redheaded reporter, but June Moody standing there looking like a million dollars in a wide-leg black jumpsuit and flat jeweled sandals. “June! What a treat to see you, and how wonderful you look.”
“June is one of the guests of honor,” Coop supplied.
“One of the dresses is yours?”
June nodded and smiled. “The white crocheted baby doll dress.”
“With the yellow daisies around the trim?”
“That’s the one.”
Intrigued, Carlotta waved in the direction of the dress. “Will you tell me about it?”
June nodded and they left Coop and Hannah to walk back to the exhibit area. The girlish dress was beautifully preserved—the finely knitted cotton circles were snowy white. The full, swingy fabric fell from the neckline and landed mid-thigh. The pale yellow lining that hung a couple inches below the top layer rendered it more modest.
“It’s so you!” Carlotta exclaimed. “What year?”
“Nineteen seventy-five. I was a few sizes smaller back then.”
“Don’t be silly—you could still pull it off.” Carlotta gestured to the tablet. “Do you mind if I watch your interview?”
“That’s why it’s here.”
Carlotta pushed the button and June came on the screen, in the same chair as the others, against the same background. June introduced herself with a smile, then said, “My wedding dress was nontraditional for the time—it was short and it wasn’t solid white. My motherin-law didn’t know quite what to make of it, but I felt as if my dress represented who I was at the time—a bit of a free spirit.” Her eyes shone, as if she were remembering. “The man I married was like-minded. We got married because it seemed like a grand adventure.”
On the screen, June gave a little laugh, then her expression sobered a bit. “But after the wedding, we both changed. I got pregnant right away, and he took a sales job he didn’t like to cover the extra expenses. He was away much of the time, and I was lonely. We were blessed with a healthy son, but by that time, the writing was on the wall.” She shook her head, then lifted her hands. “The marriage lasted less than two years, but I still have the dress. I guess it represented hope for me…and I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it.” She gave the camera a wistful smile, then the screen went black.
Carlotta turned back to her friend, her heart squeezing for the disappointment she’d experienced. “You never remarried?”
“No.”
Carlotta had met June’s son Mitchell and knew things were tense between them. “Are you and Mitchell’s father still on good terms?”
June averted her gaze. “No. Actually, he dropped out of our lives when Mitchell was still a baby. I went back to my maiden name, and changed Mitchell’s name to Moody, too.”
So he had abandoned them, and June had been a single, self-supporting mother. And Mitchell Moody had daddy problems.
Although that was sort of the pot calling the kettle black.
“He wasn’t a bad man,” June said. “He seemed crazy about Mitchell—I never thought he’d leave us.” Hurt flashed over her face, then she recovered. “But some people just aren’t up to the challenge of parenting.”
“So true,” Carlotta said, feeling ill. She’d managed to go an entire ten minutes without thinking about the fact that Wesley was going to have a baby.
With Liz Fischer.
June suddenly looked stricken. “I’m so sorry, Carlotta. I didn’t mean to imply anything about your parents.”
“I didn’t take it that way,” Carlotta assured her.
“I saw how you reacted.”
Carlotta sighed. “It’s…not that.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
She shook her head.
“Okay. Have you talked to your father yet?”
“No. But soon, hopefully.”
June clasped her hands. “You’ve been through so much.”
“So have you,” Carlotta returned.
June smiled and nodded. “And we’re still kicking.”
Carlotta’s heart swelled with fondness for the woman who had taken her under her wing. She conjured up a smile that belied her inner turmoil. “Yes, we are.”
Coop walked up, with Hannah on his heels. “Hey, sorry to interrupt, but June, I got a work call—I have to leave.”
“Go,” June said with a wave. “I’ll get a taxi home.”
“Take us with you!” Hannah pleaded with Coop.
“I don’t think this is an appropriate place for you and Carlotta to be.”
He might as well have plugged Hannah into a socket. “Where is it?”
“Outside the Clermont Lounge.”
“The strip club? Oh, now we have to go,” Hannah said.
Coop smothered a smile, then glanced at Carlotta. “I couldn’t reach Wes. Are you up for it?”
She spent a half second worrying where Wes was, then reminded herself there really wasn’t much more trouble he could get himself into. “Sure.”
/>
“I need to pick up the van,” Coop said. “You and Hannah get some food in you, and I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes.”
Chapter Nineteen
THE CLERMONT LOUNGE was located in the basement of the Clermont Motor Hotel, which squatted on a seedy stretch of the rapidly gentrifying Ponce de Leon Avenue. Three APD cruisers, a vehicle from the Medical Examiner’s office, and an unmarked Crown Victoria in the parking lot sported flashing blue lights. Between patrons, neighbors, bums, and lookey-loos on their way to Home Depot and Whole Foods, there was a bona fide traffic jam of cars and pedestrians.
But Hannah honked and cursed her way through the street—an advantage of having the top down was there was nothing separating a wild-eyed, flailing Hannah from the car next to them. The drivers all caved and let them pass. After she wedged the Audi into a pseudo parking spot, she brought out the elbows and knees and hacked their way through the crowd, holding her morgue ID high and yelling, “Body movers, coming through! If you’re alive, get the hell out of the way.”
Coop was waiting for them at the back of the transport van. “Nice,” he said dryly, handing them scrubs.
“Hey, we got through,” Hannah said, pulling on the scrubs on the spot. “What’s the deal-e-o?”
“The situation,” Coop corrected, “is two people were mugged in the parking lot and shot at close range. I’m waiting for the police to give me the go-ahead.”
Carlotta stepped between the open rear doors of the van to pull the scrubs over her clothing in as much privacy as one could get at a crime scene. Coop discreetly stepped with his back to her to offer himself as a shield.
“I called Wes again,” Coop said over his shoulder. “Has he gone off the grid?”
“I think he’s just busy with his two other jobs,” she offered.
“You doing okay?”
“Hanging in there,” she said with forced cheer.
“Still working at the Wedding Expo?”
“For a few more days.” She gave a little laugh. “It’s a little overwhelming. Hannah and I decided to take in the art exhibit for the other side of the story, so to speak.”
7 Brides for 7 Bodies Page 15