Bettina LeBlanc, our resident baker at the Factory, always did have a soft spot for Ambrose. She couldn’t wait to bring him fresh-baked beignets, warm madeleines, and sugary pecan pies. I liked to tease him about it, only because Bettina had a long-standing membership in AARP, a half-dozen grandchildren, and a headful of dark hair that finally grayed.
I turned away from the car, and then I walked to the front door of my studio. Light poured through the cut-glass panes, which meant one of two things: Either Beatrice was still hard at work inside, or she’d forgotten to turn off the lights again. I sincerely hoped it was the former, because I wanted to hear all about the day’s events.
One turn of the doorknob, and I knew the answer. Beatrice stood across the room from me, behind a counter that held our cash register. She faced another woman, only this woman wore a burgundy cashmere sweater over her shoulders and matching riding boots. The visitor perched regally on one of our bar stools, her expensive leather boots about a foot above the floor.
“Hello?” I cautiously entered, since I didn’t expect to see a visitor at this late hour.
“You’re back.” Beatrice breathed the words, obviously relieved. “I didn’t think you’d come back today, but I’m so glad you did.”
The girl in front of her quickly swiveled around. “So, this must be the owner. It’s about time.” A stout girl with a broad forehead and wide-set brown eyes, she arched one eyebrow. “Do you always run this late?”
“I’m sorry. Did we have an appointment?” I hurried across the room, since I had no idea what she was talking about.
“I called your studio at lunchtime to make an appointment,” she said. “Now that I’m here, I must say your place looks a little more…um…cozy than I expected from your website.”
“Uh, thank you?” I extended my hand. “I’m Melissa DuBois. Feel free to call me Missy, though, since everyone else does. I’m sorry if you thought I’d be here for your appointment.”
“That is the normal protocol, isn’t it?” The girl sniffed as she returned my handshake. “I’m Sabine d’Aulnay. You’ve no doubt heard of my family.”
The name gave me pause. About a year ago, one of my clients staged an elaborate wedding on a restored riverboat. And not just any riverboat…a famous paddle-wheeler called the Riverboat Queen. Its ruby red paint and forest-green accents made it instantly recognizable to anyone who traveled down the Mississippi. And the captain, Christophe d’Aulnay, ran herd over a large and extended family that many considered royalty around these parts.
“Interesting,” I responded. “One of my clients rented your father’s boat for her wedding.”
“Technically, it’s a ship.” Sabine sniffed again.
“I guess I should’ve called you,” Beatrice said. “But I knew you’d be busy, so I thought I’d handle the appointment by myself.”
“That’s okay. We didn’t have great cell service down at Ruby’s place anyway. You might not have been able to reach—”
“This is all very well and good,” Sabine interrupted, “but can we please get back to my bridal appointment?”
I noticed she didn’t even bother to comment on Ruby’s passing, although she had to know about it. Everyone did. “Of course. I take it you’re getting married soon?”
“Why else would I be here? By the way…you come highly recommended. You must have a ton of family and friends.”
Uh-oh. That was the second backhanded compliment she’d paid me in only a few minutes. First, she referred to my studio as “cozy,” which no doubt meant “small,” and then she insinuated that only a friend or family member would give me a good review.
Now, I was no stranger to the backhanded compliment, since it was practically an art form here in the South. While a true compliment meant a genuine expression of praise, a backhanded one involved a thinly veiled insult softened by a sugary tone. Some of my favorites included “isn’t that special,” “I’ll pray for you,” and the ever-popular “bless your heart.”
To be honest, I only used a backhanded compliment when someone deserved it. Too bad Sabine d’Aulnay didn’t feel the same way.
“I’m so glad people referred you to me.” The best response was to take the high road. “I can give you dozens of references, if you’d like.”
“Well, isn’t that special. I wouldn’t need more than three or four.”
“Okay, then. So, you’re getting married.” I slid onto the bar stool next to hers, prepared to bite my tongue for as long as necessary. “Tell me what you’re looking for. Do you have anything special in mind?”
“As a matter of fact…” She reached into an enormous Louis Vuitton she’d placed on her lap. “I know exactly what I want.” Out came a dozen glossy magazine pages, which she spooled onto the counter like a colorful quilt.
“Wow. You have quite a collection there.”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.” She reached for a certain photo, a half-page ad from Tiffany that showed a diamond tiara inlaid with scores of pale blue stones.
“That’s beautiful. There must ten carats’ worth of diamonds in there.”
“Twelve carats, to be exact. It’s something I’m having my jeweler copy. I need you to come up with the rest of the veil, though. Do you think you can do that?”
“Of course.” It’d be quite simple, actually. A bit of Chantilly lace, a trim of seed pearls, and voilà! The diamonds would pop like starbursts.
“By the way,” Sabine said. “Tell me something. Have you ever worked on a veil of this…uh…quality before?”
By quality, she no doubt meant “expense,” so I nodded. “As a matter of fact, I have. I’ve done some very high-profile weddings over the years, and some very custom pieces.”
“It’s true.” Beatrice jumped in to defend me, like I knew she would. “She made a veil for the governor’s daughter, and she made a gorgeous fascinator for a local newscaster. A lady by the name of Stormie Lanai.”
“A newscaster?” Sabine crinkled her nose. “You don’t mean that girl who works at KATC, do you? I’m sure she had a nice little affair, but hardly the type of wedding I’m talking about.”
Nice little affair? I almost laughed, but I stopped short when I realized she wasn’t kidding. Stormie Lanai, who possessed one of the largest egos I’d ever encountered, would never call her wedding a “nice little affair.” She was the one who’d asked for a replica of Princess Diana’s veil, for heaven’s sake. Come to think of it, it’d be fun to put someone like Stormie Lanai in the same room as Sabine d’Aulnay and watch the fireworks go off.
“Well, I’ve worked for a few more clients you might recognize. I also designed a veil for the Solomon family out of Baton Rouge.”
“Hmpf. And look how that turned out,” Sabine said.
To be fair, that wedding did end up with a murder trial, after someone killed the poor bride the night before her nuptials. But that had nothing to do with the beautiful, cathedral-length veil I created for the occasion. It wasn’t my fault the Solomon family had more enemies than you could shake a stick at.
“What I meant to say was I’ve worked for several high-profile clients over the years. Only I prefer not to talk about them, since they appreciate their privacy. You understand, I’m sure.”
“Of course. Completely.” She’d softened her tone, now that I’d appealed to her vanity. “It’s not easy to be well-known around here. Trust me. It may look like fun and games on the outside, but on the inside, it’s a lot of work. People expect certain things from you.”
“Um-hm.”
“And just to be clear,” she said. “With this type of budget, you need to provide a certain level of service. If you haven’t noticed…money’s no object. I’d want you to be on call twenty-four-seven.”
No doubt. While part of me wanted to end this appointment right then and there, and escort Sabine from my stud
io, another part—the practical part—couldn’t do it. After all, I had bills to pay, an employee to compensate, and supplies to pay for, like a new door.
Just because I owned a business, it didn’t give me carte blanche to do anything I wanted. In fact, quite often the opposite. Sometimes I had to do things I’d rather not do, all in the service of the greater good. I’d tried to explain that to Hollis during our business lesson this morning, although it was anyone’s guess whether he understood the concept.
“Of course,” I said. “I always try to provide the best service to all my clients.”
Apparently satisfied with my answer, Sabine began to shuffle through the puddle of magazine clips again. Once she found what she was looking for, she thrust it under my nose.
It was an ad for the Louisiana Art & Science Museum, which touted a new exhibit based on the movie Gone with the Wind.
“This is what I have in mind for my bridesmaids,” she said. “There will be twenty of them. Whaddya think?”
The glossy ad showed costumes and props from the movie, including a hat Scarlett O’Hara wore at the start of it. The straw hat featured an enormous brim that extended at least twenty-two inches around. A thick velvet ribbon cinched the material together under the chin.
“It’s pretty,” I offered. “But have you thought about your wedding photos?”
“My wedding photos? Why would I worry about those?”
“Because when you have a hat brim that big, you need to put space between your bridesmaids. It also means a wide-angled camera lens. Even then, the photographer might not be able to fit everyone into one shot.”
“Look.” Sabine brusquely snatched the picture away. “If I wanted your opinion, I would’ve asked for it.”
Funny, but you did ask for my opinion. “I just think you should know what you’re up against.”
“Yes, well. Let’s leave that to my photographer. Now…can you make my girls a hat like that, or not?”
“I don’t see why not. Beatrice, do we still have that green velvet from the Boudreaux’s—”
“Oh no,” Sabine quickly interjected, “nothing from someone else’s wedding. Everything has to be brand new. I will not take someone else’s leftovers. And, in case I haven’t made myself clear, money is no object.”
Crystal clear. However much I longed to say that, though, those imaginary bills kept dancing in front of my eyes.
“I understand. But, in that case, the process may take a little more time. We’ll have to import all the straw. I’m glad your father has a large budget, because that much parabuntal straw could get expensive.”
“My father? What does my father have to do with this? It’s the bridesmaids’ responsibility to pay for their outfits. Emily Post says so.”
“You’re right. That’s the way it used to be. But not everyone follows Emily Post nowadays.”
“Well, I do,” she snapped. “And Emily Post says it’s up to the bridesmaids to pay for their own dresses and hats.”
Now, I know Emily Post’s Wedding Etiquette backward and forward, and I could probably quote entire passages, if asked. But I also knew today’s brides tended to bend the rules, if not break them altogether. And one of those rules involved who paid for the bridesmaids’ clothes. Sometimes the wedding party would, but often a bride treated her friends out of the goodness of her heart.
“I just wanted you to be aware of the cost,” I said. “For the sake of your friends.”
“Here’s the thing.” Sabine slowly rose from the bar stools, apparently ready to end our conversation. “If we’re going to work together, you can’t question every little decision I make. To be perfectly frank…it’s none of your business. Now, do we have an understanding, or don’t we?”
“Of course. It’s just—”
“Just nothing.” Sabine clearly had tired of me. “My bridesmaids can afford your services. If they couldn’t, they wouldn’t be my friends in the first place.”
“Okay, then.” Beatrice did her best to break the tension. “Missy usually does the bride’s veil first. Would you like to schedule a fitting, Miss d’Aulnay? That’s normally how we kick things off.”
“Certainly, but I can only meet in the afternoons. I’ve got doubles matches in the morning.”
“No problem.” Beatrice quickly slid over to the store’s calendar and flipped it open. “How about Monday afternoon? Would that work for you?”
“Yes, that should be fine,” Sabine said. “But we usually have brunch afterward. Can’t miss that. It lasts until two.”
“Two thirty it is.” Beatrice quickly scribbled a note on the calendar.
“You might need these.” Sabine handed me the two advertisements. “The first one’s from Tiffany. Anyone can see that. The second is for some silly museum I’ve never heard of.”
I peeked at the second ad, which featured the memorabilia from Gone with the Wind, including Scarlett’s oversized hat. Sabine had never heard of the Louisiana Art & Science Museum? Not only did she make Stormie Lanai look like a saint—which wasn’t easy—but she’d never visited one of the largest and most prestigious museums in all of Louisiana.
If ever a moment called for a “bless your heart,” this was it. Too bad those blasted visions of overdue bills kept me from saying just that.
Chapter 6
The moment Sabine swooped out of Crowning Glory, I turned to Beatrice. “Gracious light! What in the world was that?”
“That was Sabine d’Aulnay. Her whole family’s like that.”
“Bless their hearts.” Whew. It feels good to finally say it.
“Well, if you think she’s bad, you should meet her mother.” Beatrice rolled her eyes. “The apple didn’t fall far from the tree in that family.”
“Then I’m glad her momma didn’t come with her to the appointment.”
“She will. She will. I’ll bet you anything Mrs. d’Aulnay will be at the very next one. She’ll barrel through that front door and act like she’s the one getting married, not one of her daughters.”
“One of her daughters?” Horror tinged my voice. “You mean there’s more than one?” While I’d heard about Christophe d’Aulnay through my former client, I didn’t really know much about his family, like the number of daughters versus sons.
“Unfortunately, the family has five daughters. That’s four more bridezillas we’ll have to deal with at some point.”
“Now I’m depressed.” I wanted to lay my head on the counter, but I was afraid I’d fall asleep and be forced to spend the night in the studio.
“Just look at it this way. At least they pay well. That’s something.”
“That’s the only thing.” I straightened even more, determined to stay awake. “Did you notice something else? She didn’t even bother to ask me about Hollis when I said I went out to Ruby’s house today. She could’ve at least asked about the boy.”
“Good point. That bothered me too. Speaking of which…how’s Hollis holding up?”
“Not so good. We ran into someone at the house who really upset him. It was a riverboat captain by the name of Gaudet.”
Recognition flickered across her face. “You must mean Remy Gaudet. He runs an airboat tour over the river.”
“Well, Hollis didn’t like him one bit. They almost got into a fistfight.”
“A fistfight? That doesn’t sound like Hollis. ’Course, I shouldn’t be surprised. A lot of people around here don’t like Captain Gaudet. Everyone thinks he’s crooked.”
“Crooked? How so?”
“They say he plays politics to keep anyone else from getting a tour operator’s license.”
“Do you think that’s true?” While I’d run into my fair share of small-town politics with the hat studio, I didn’t expect to hear politics and swamp boat tours mentioned in the same breath.
“Sure. Believe it or not, swa
mp tours can make a lot of money around here. It’s one of the few businesses that run year-round. Of course, you have to operate more than one boat to really make the big bucks.”
“Maybe that’s why Hollis got so upset. He accused Captain Remy of trying to get his hands on Ruby’s dock so he could run another tour.”
Beatrice casually flipped the appointment book closed. “He’s probably right.”
“I’m just glad I got Hollis away from him. Speaking of which…” I withdrew the cell from my pocket again and checked the screen. “It’s almost seven. Ambrose took Hollis back to our house. Could you lock up the studio for me? I’d like to join them.”
“No problem.” She slid the calendar back under the cash register. “Everything else can wait until tomorrow.”
“So, there were no more disasters? Other than Sabine d’Aulnay, that is.”
“Nope. Not one.”
Beatrice looked confident, so I pocketed the cell and turned to leave. “Great. Thanks for locking up. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I made my way through the studio and stepped outside. Once I closed the door, I shuffled through the dark parking lot until I reached my Volkswagen.
The Bug waited patiently for me under the glow of an old-fashioned streetlamp, the car’s paint dulled by weather and time. I’d nicknamed my Beetle Ringo when I first got it, after another—more famous—Beatle, and I loved to cruise through town with the convertible top down and a Harry Connick Jr. CD cranked up.
There was no chance of that tonight, though, since the soft breeze I’d enjoyed on the bayou had cooled once the sun set. Instead, I stepped into Ringo and drove away from the parking lot with the ragtop locked firmly in place.
I passed several local businesses as I cruised through town, including Miss Odilia’s Southern Eatery, one of my favorite restaurants, and Dippin’ Donuts, another of my go-to spots. Although I had a great relationship with Odilia LaPorte, who also happened to be Lance’s mother, the same couldn’t be said of my relationship with the owner of Dippin’ Donuts.
Grady Sebastien, who owned the bakery, had asked me out in early August, and I foolishly said yes. But only because I’d gotten into a spat with Ambrose, and I wasn’t wearing a one-carat diamond engagement ring on my finger at the time.
All Hats on Deck Page 5