Twice Told Tail

by Ali Brandon

  “I’ve already got my train ticket,” he reminded her. “Don’t worry, it should be, you know, fun. And I’m looking forward to meeting my new stepbrothers. Pop even said I can bring Roma with me,” he added, referring to the tiny gray-and-white Italian greyhound he’d adopted earlier that year.

  Despite Robert’s upbeat attitude, Darla wasn’t quite convinced. She knew that the youth’s parents had been divorced for several years, ever since Robert’s mother had abandoned her husband and son to move to California. And while the elder Gilmore had fulfilled his parental obligation as far as providing food and shelter, he had remained pretty well absent from Robert’s life throughout his high school years. The absence had turned to outright estrangement when he’d kicked the teen out of his house the day he had turned eighteen. Robert had been left virtually homeless until Darla hired him and arranged for him to live in the garden apartment belonging to her elderly neighbors, the Plinskis.

  But just two weeks ago, Mr. Gilmore had called his son out of the blue to inform him he’d gotten remarried over the summer. He’d invited Robert to a Thanksgiving reunion of sorts so that he could meet his new stepfamily. Though wary at first, Robert had grown increasingly excited over the past few days at the prospect of potentially healing what was more than a yearlong family breach, especially since his father had also confessed that Robert had a new half brother due in the spring.

  “Fingers crossed,” Darla told him with a smile. “And don’t worry, there should be plenty of leftovers to carry over into Black Friday, when you get back. With luck, that’s going to be our busiest day this year!”

  “Ugh, don’t even mention Black Friday,” came a woman’s voice drifting up the stairway.

  Robert and Darla turned to see Jake Martelli headed toward them. Though the temperature was in the forties outside, her only concession to the chilly weather was the bulky black knit sweater she wore with tight jeans and her ubiquitous Doc Martens . . . this pair bright red in anticipation of the upcoming holiday season. Not that a coat was necessary, since Jake was Darla’s tenant. The trip from her place was a matter of running up the steps from her garden apartment below the brownstone and into the bookstore’s front door.

  A dusting of snow left over from the day’s brief flurry clung to her curly black hair, so that for a moment her appearance echoed Hamlet’s earlier frosty look. Then the loft’s warmer temperature abruptly melted the flakes while she flung herself into the bistro chair next to Darla’s.

  “Hi, Robert,” she said, giving the youth a wave. “Any chance you can get me a caramel latte?”

  “Sure, Ms. Jake.”

  While Robert scooted behind the counter to fill her order, the PI turned to Darla.

  “Bad news, kid,” she said with a moan. “I just got an email from Ma. She decided—and I quote—there’s too many old geezers wandering around Fort Lauderdale right now, so she’s booked a flight to come stay with me for the Thanksgiving holiday.”

  “Nattie’s coming up for a visit? That’s great,” Darla replied, genuinely pleased.

  She glanced over at Hamlet, who had finished off the foam and was tidying his whiskers, licking one big paw and rhythmically swiping it across his face. She’d met Jake’s mother, Natalia Martelli, when she, Jake, and Hamlet had traveled to Florida as guests of the Feline Association of America’s championship cat show. The invitation had come when Hamlet’s Karate Kitty video—the one set to music showing him performing martial arts moves—had gone viral.

  The trip had served a dual purpose, keeping Hamlet out of the way while the coffee bar was being installed as well as figuratively cashing in on his temporary celebrity. They’d stayed much of the time at Nattie’s Fort Lauderdale condo, where the woman had lived the past few years after a lifetime spent in New Jersey. Nattie had served as their tour guide and driver . . . not to mention being the unintended focus of some rather dastardly happenings related to the cat show.

  Darla smiled ruefully at the memory. Seventy years old, and with flaming red hair that—unlike Darla’s natural auburn—came straight from a bottle, the elderly woman was what Darla’s father would have called “a pistol.” And while the Amazonian Jake and her five-foot-nothing mother were total opposites in appearance, they were more alike in attitude and manner than either woman would admit.

  “And she’s already told me that she wants to be out the door at six a.m. the Friday after Thanksgiving to hit all the big sales,” Jake said, hand to forehead. “She even sent me a list of the stores already mapped out. Can’t I tell her I need to help you out in the bookstore, or something?”

  “Sorry, no way am I going to be party to sabotaging a mother/daughter outing,” Darla shot back, grinning. “You’re just going to have to suck it up and spend time with her.”

  “Well, next year I’ll be smart like you and plan my family vacation for the dead of summer, when nothing’s going on and we can just bake on the beach.”

  Darla nodded. She’d finally managed her long-awaited trip back to Dallas to see her parents and siblings in August. And while she would have preferred a spring get-together—nothing was better than a drive through the Texas countryside during bluebonnet season—the end of summer was a slow time for the store. But that had meant she’d spent a lot of time sweltering in hundred-degree-plus weather, one thing she didn’t miss now that she was for all intents and purposes a Brooklynite.

  Except when it was forty degrees outside!

  “You’ll have fun,” Darla assured her. “And I hope she’ll want to join us for our old-fashioned Thanksgiving.”

  “She’ll love it. But just be forewarned that she’ll probably do the little-old-Italian-lady thing and bring a big dish of her traditional Thanksgiving lasagna.”

  “No problem. Nattie’s a fantastic cook. But speaking of traditional . . .”

  While Robert brought over Jake’s latte and she began sipping her drink, Darla related her earlier phone call with Connie concerning the disastrous dress.

  “I just hope she finds something she likes over at Davina’s,” she finished. “If she doesn’t get a new dress, and soon, I have a feeling good old Fi is going to be in for a rough time.”

  The PI grinned a little at Darla’s usurping of Connie’s nickname for Reese before she shrugged.

  “Actually, she’s been less of a bridezilla than I expected,” the woman observed. “I mean, that whole twelve-bridesmaids thing is a bit over the top, but you’ve gotta take into account all the sisters and cousins a good Catholic girl like her has. She could have had twice as many and still have female relatives to spare.”

  As Darla laughed at that, Jake added, “And my friend—the one who’s Connie’s cousin’s mother-in-law—texted me a picture of the bridesmaids’ dress. She let the girls pick it out, and it’s really cute. Cocktail length and red with a great wrap waist. And according to Reese, she’s even made a list of all the guests’ dietary restrictions for the caterers. You know, so none of the vegan–celiac–paleo–lactose intolerant types can complain about the food.”

  Darla nodded, still puzzling over the cousin’s mother-in-law friend of Jake, when her cell phone gave off a little New Age riff that was her current ringtone. She glanced at the caller ID and groaned. “Speaking of the bride, guess who’s calling? I guess that means Connie couldn’t get into Davina’s, after all. So I’m going to have to listen to another round of her dress woes.”

  “Let it go to voice mail,” Jake advised with a grin.

  Darla shrugged as the cell kept ringing. “She’ll just call back. Better get it over with now.” Ignoring Jake’s warning shake of her head, she answered the phone with a cautious, “Hi, Connie. Anything wrong?”

  “Darla, you gotta help me!”

  She winced at the familiar strident, nasal tones. Connie dress disaster, Part Two. “Connie, I’m sorry, but I’ve got a store to run. I really can’t—”

  “
You was right,” Connie cut her short, sounding surprisingly upbeat. “The guy at the shop—his name is Daniel—said he had a cancellation at two, so he said to come in. I’m so excited. I just know they’ll have the right dress for me.”

  “That’s great,” Darla replied, hoping the other woman didn’t hear the sigh of relief in her voice. With luck, this would be the one and only Connie pre-wedding disaster to involve her. “Be sure you text me and Jake a picture of the dress you decide on.”

  “Oh, you’ll get to see it in person,” Connie cheerfully shot back. “I can’t make such an important decision like this alone. Fi will be by at quarter to two and pick you up so you can help me choose.”

  TWO

  “So, kid, what do you think?”

  Jake stood on a wide wooden platform before a gilt-framed, trifold mirror, preening at her reflection as she held a poufy wedding gown beneath her chin. Turning to Darla, who was perched atop a nearby white wicker settee, she said, “It makes a statement, doesn’t it?”

  “It makes a statement, all right,” Darla conceded, putting down the inch-thick bridal magazine she’d been idly flipping through, “but not one I’d want to hear.”

  She gave the dress that Jake was displaying a considering look. As far as wedding gowns went, this one fell into the category the bridal magazine termed “ball gown.” Its skirt was a flurry of layered white tulle that cascaded from a tight, white lace bodice into a bell-like silhouette. A wide sash of white satin between skirt and bodice was meant to emphasize a tiny waistline, as was the cabbage-sized white satin rose pinned atop that band. The scooped neckline was trimmed with similar but much smaller white satin roses from shoulder to shoulder, ending in a tulle explosion of capped sleeves.

  Darla suppressed a smile as she glanced across the room. Another bride’s entourage—three giggling, midtwenties blondes who likely were sisters or BFFs, accompanied by a trim, middle-aged woman whose hair was an even brighter shade of platinum and likely was the mom—were staring at Jake’s impromptu fashion show. Darla didn’t blame them.

  Her smile broadened. The style Jake had chosen was better suited to a girl in her early twenties than a fifty-year-old woman. It didn’t help that the padded hanger still attached to the gown made it look like Jake was reenacting the iconic Carol Burnett Show skit parodying Gone with the Wind. The only saving grace lay in the fact that it was cut for a bride a good eight inches shorter than Jake’s six-foot height. Her Doc Martens peeped from beneath the gown’s ruffled hem to add a refreshing bit of bad-girl vibe to the ensemble.

  Too bad Reese hasn’t stuck around to see this.

  “Yep, a statement,” Darla repeated, “but it doesn’t say ‘you,’ know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, you’re right.”

  Grinning, Jake strode off the platform and rehung the tulle confection on an intricate wrought iron hook alongside another dozen or so gowns on display at Davina’s Bridal Boutique. Darla merely shook her head and settled back in her seat.

  It had been years since she had set foot in a bridal salon. Davina’s was far more luxurious than the suburban Dallas store where she’d shopped for her own wedding gown.

  Thick carpeting in a muted rose shade spread underfoot in the seating area where she and Jake waited, with the remainder of the floors a placid white-washed wood. Oversized framed photographs of blushing brides and luxurious bouquets stood out against walls hung with a soothing, monochromatic floral print: white flowers over a cream background. Three oversized crystal chandeliers added light and sparkle to the place, while faint strains of classical music drifted from a hidden speaker.

  More like a spa than retail, Darla told herself, wondering if Pettistone’s could do with a chandelier or two. The only real concession the place made to being a retail outlet was the discreet sign near the front that said, “We Offer 6 Months Credit Same as Cash.”

  Jake, meanwhile, had resumed her seat on the matching wicker settee across from Darla’s. Propping her Doc Martens on the footstool in front of her, she observed, “Guess it’s a good thing Connie is the one getting married, and not me. And I still don’t know how you roped me into dress shopping with you two.”

  “Roped you?” Darla replied, giving her friend a disbelieving look. “I’m the one Connie shanghaied. You volunteered to come along.”

  Jake gave a cheerful shrug, lifting the complimentary glass of champagne that had been pressed into her hand as they first entered the bridal shop. “Okay, guilty. I didn’t have any clients scheduled, so I thought it might be fun to do something girly for a change.”

  Gesturing to the plate of pink-iced petits fours on the glass-topped table between them, she added, “I’ve seen those wedding dress shows, and all the high-class places offer refreshments. You think I’m going to pass up free bubbly and little cake thingies? No way.”

  Darla suppressed a sigh. Actually, no way had been her own first thought when Connie had informed her that the two of them were going wedding dress shopping together. While Jake had listened in amused interest, Darla had promptly launched into a protest, reminding the woman she worked for a living and couldn’t just go gallivanting off to look at dresses. Connie had countered just as quickly, bringing out the big guns in the person of her fiancé.

  “Hi, Darla.” She’d heard Reese’s familiar voice as Connie apparently handed over the phone to him. “Hold on a sec.”

  She held as she heard him say in a muffled aside, “Hey, Conn, run upstairs and grab my tweed overcoat out of the bedroom closet, would you?”

  Then, coming back onto the line, he’d spoken softly and quickly. “Look, Red, I’d consider it a major favor if you’d go shopping with Connie . . . just for a couple of hours, okay? She’s driving me crazy with this whole dress thing. All the ones in the magazines I told her I thought were fine, she hated, so she doesn’t want me going with her. Not that I want to, anyhow. You know, the whole ‘bad luck for the groom to see the dress before the wedding’ thing.”

  “Can’t her mom go along?” Darla had countered, suspicious that Reese had lapsed into his old nickname for her—the one he’d quit using once he got engaged.

  “Mrs. Capello is, to quote her, f’ing PO’d that her daughter destroyed a dress that cost more than Mrs. C.’s living room furniture.”

  Darla had winced at that. Praying that the mother of the bride owned IKEA and nothing more high-end, she asked, “What about her bridesmaid posse, then? Why doesn’t she take some of them along?”

  “Not gonna happen,” was his flat reply. “Right now, they’re all ticked off at each other because of some stupid argument over the bachelorette party. Connie’s afraid they’ll talk her into—and, again, I quote—a butt-ugly dress that’ll make her look like the Queen of the Cows.”

  Darla couldn’t help a reflexive snicker, though she asked in concern, “But what about the wedding, if everyone is mad? Are they all going to leave her standing at the altar by herself?”

  “Hey, I’ll be there,” Reese had reminded her. “Besides, the girls are all her sisters and her cousins. Take my word for it, they’ll be over it in another couple of days. And her ma will come around, too. But in the meantime, it’s wedding dress this, and wedding dress that. I can’t take much more of it.”

  He paused, then lowered his voice further, obviously expecting Connie to return with the coat at any moment. “Look, I’ll even give her my credit card so she can take you out for an early happy hour afterward. C’mon, Red, for old times’ sake?”

  Darla had hesitated, weakening as the desperation in his voice made her wonder if she was being a bad sport. Since the announcement back in July, the best she could say was that she had been polite about her friend’s upcoming nuptials. Maybe it was time she showed a little more enthusiasm for his and Connie’s big day. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t have both Robert and James to cover the store after lunch.

  “Sure, sounds like fun,�
� she’d brightly lied. “See you at one forty-five.”

  Her agreement had earned her a heartfelt I owe you one, Red from Reese and a muffled chuckle from Jake as her friend had correctly interpreted the one-sided conversation she’d heard as capitulation. To Darla’s surprise, however, the PI had arrived back at the bookstore just as Connie and Reese pulled up to the curb. After a quick consultation out on the recently shoveled stoop, the consensus had been that Jake should join the official dress hunt. At the time, she couldn’t guess why the PI would have raised her hand for this kind of mission, but the free-booze thing did explain it.

  Darla looked at the dwindling level of champagne in her own glass and said, “We’re on, what, gown number five now, and Connie still hasn’t found the one yet? Ugh, I’m going to need a refill.”

  “Here you go, dearie,” a man’s soothing voice beside her said as an open champagne bottle made a miraculous appearance. “This should take the edge off.”

  Darla turned to see the portly, middle-aged man who earlier had introduced himself to them. His name was Daniel Lawson, and he was one of the bridal shop’s two owners. The “Da” in Davina, he’d explained with a chuckle.

  A cloud of expensive—meaning it didn’t smell like spicy chemicals—body spray clung to him, and he was quite dapper in black tuxedo pants and a pleated white shirt. He wore his bleached blond hair like a short spiky crown in contrast to his exuberant black eyebrows. All he needed was a neatly trimmed mustache and beard, Darla had told herself, and he could be the big brother of that cooking show host who specialized in finding hole-in-the-wall restaurants.

  A bubbly stream of sparkling wine rapidly poured into her glass as Daniel added with a confidential air, “Believe me, I understand. Sometimes it’s a bit much, putting up with all this bridal hullabaloo when one isn’t engaged or married oneself.”

  “Oh, I like weddings just fine,” Darla protested, unsure whether to be offended over his assumption that she wasn’t wedding material, or embarrassed that her lack of enthusiasm was that obvious. “And I’m divorced, so I’ve been through my own bridal hullabaloo. It’s just that I had to take time from work to do this, and it’s dragging on longer than I thought it would.”