Say Yes to the Death (5 page)

Poor Terra, I thought, feeling sorry for the girl. She seemed hardworking and earnest. I pondered talking to her and suggesting she start looking for another gig.

“So you'll bring the dress in the morning or do you want me to show up on your doorstep bright and early to retrieve it?” Olivia pressed, like it was life or death.

“I'll come to your office,” I agreed, because I didn't want to drag things out with her, not with regard to the bridesmaid's dress or the conversation. I turned on a heel, ready to head back to Mother, when Olivia grabbed my arm.

“Wait, Andy, I just wanted to say that I”—­she glanced toward the waiting senator and his wife again—­“that I can't always do what's right and I can't always please everyone, can I? I have to look out for myself and sometimes that makes me a little too—­” She stopped abruptly and pushed her lips together as if reconsidering.

Too
what
?

Bitchy? Annoying? Rude? Selfish?

Pick one, I mused, wondering if La Belle from Hell was about to say she was sorry.

I looked around to see if she was being dramatic for the camera, but I didn't spot the tattooed camera guy—­Pete, she'd called him—­who'd been hanging over her shoulder when she'd yelled at Millie earlier.

Finally, I prodded, “You've been a little too what, Olivia?”

She glanced around her and muttered, “Forget it. Go back to Cissy and put on your feed bag. Just don't get anything on the dress, or I'll bill you for the dry-­cleaning.”

The annoying smirk returned to her lips, and she let go of me, walking toward Senator and Mrs. Ryan.

For a long moment I stared after her, wondering if perhaps Olivia La Belle's heart wasn't two sizes too small after all. Had the guilt at her bad behavior finally gotten to her—­or almost gotten to her? Did she want to turn a new leaf and start making amends?

But then I shook away the thought.

I had no doubts she could play nice when it suited her. I would bet even Attila the Hun had his moments. But Olivia was a Mean Girl to the bone and, as any Hockaday grad worth her trust fund knew, that kind of mean was forever.

Chapter 6

B
y the time I made it back to Cissy, who'd taken her seat at Table #3, my stomach noisily groaned. I slid into the empty chair between my mother and an elderly man whose much younger blond and bejeweled wife kept nudging him awake. The cater-­waiters had begun serving the salad—­oh, yum, spinach with crumbled feta, cranberries, red onions, and raspberry vinaigrette!—­and I dug into my plate as fast as I could pick up a fork. I'd barely digested the fact that Cissy was sitting next to the former president until their conversation invaded my brain.

“I heard that you've taken up painting,” my mother was saying between nibbles of salad and sips of champagne. “Do you use those paint-­by-­number kits or just do it free-­hand?”

Lord have mercy.

I tried hard to tune out their conversation and was ever-­so-­grateful for the narcoleptic fellow on my left. No need to waste chitchat on him while he was snoring. Instead, I listened to the string quartet that had relocated to the patio. As they wrapped up a Beethoven sonata, they segued into a classy bit of fanfare, and I sat up straighter, seeing Olivia take center stage to introduce the bride and groom.

“It is my immense pleasure,” she said into a wireless microphone, her voice booming from hidden speakers, “to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Jeff W. Tripplehorn, Junior!”

I shook my head, thinking of poor little Iggy Tripplehorn. His only hope for avoiding getting teased big-­time was if Senator Ryan won the presidency and Iggy got Secret Service detail.

“Thank you so much for coming today,” I heard the bride and groom saying right and left as they meandered through the twenty-­odd tables, pausing now and then for hugs or air kisses.

Dusk had fallen, and the fairy lights winked around me like lightning bugs. Candelabra centerpieces had been lit upon the tables, and there was a soft golden glow all around. I found myself wishing Malone were with me instead of my mother. The atmosphere was rather romantic, and I got a flutter in my chest, imagining what my big day would be like. I wasn't a girl who'd spent her life cutting pictures of frothy white gowns or floral arrangements out of magazines. I didn't know what I wanted in terms of guests, food, or flowers. I wasn't my mother. I didn't have a detailed plan for everything. As I'd told Cissy earlier, Brian and I hadn't made any decisions. Whatever we ended up doing, we'd figure out together.

“Hey, Andy, thanks for everything,” Penny Ryan—­er, Tripplehorn—­said, bending low beside my chair. She squeezed my shoulder lightly. “You saved my ass today. Literally.”

I smiled and told her, “Consider it a wedding gift.”

As they walked away, my mother leaned over, pushing aside the giant butterfly on my shoulder to whisper, “I hope she's as over the moon about
my
gift. I got her the newest Dyson. Shelby said it's what she wanted most on her bridal registry, though God knows why. She could hire someone to sweep her rugs for her. I just don't understand kids these days.”

“You got her a vacuum cleaner?” I said and grinned. “That sucks.”

My mother frowned.

“It's a joke,” I explained, though clearly one lost on Mother.

“Ha ha,” Cissy replied stiffly and gave me a look that I interpreted as,
How on earth did I spawn you?

Well, my father would have laughed, I thought, and I grabbed the glass of bubbly near my plate. He'd shared my sense of humor.

“Down the hatch,” I murmured and took a long chug that ended up draining my flute. It was sweet and dry, and it hit the spot.

I glanced across the table at Lester Dickens, who smiled and winked.

Yuck. His grin caused the champagne to curdle in my stomach.

The newlyweds finished making the rounds, and I watched the groom escort his bride back to their private table, pulling out her chair. I saw his hand graze her belly as she settled down, and he planted a kiss on her head. What a sweet and gentle gesture. I felt a lump grow in my throat. As I cleared it away, I woke up the sleeping octogenarian to my left.

“Yes, dear, whatever you say, dear,” he murmured before his eyes quickly closed again.

I glanced at the heavily made-­up blonde on his other side, sure that her attraction to him had not been his sparkling personality. Did trophy wives marry for anything but money?

Senator Ryan detoured to our table, making a beeline toward the ex-­president and former first lady. He was a nice-­looking man with sandy-­colored hair going gray at the temples, kept short to remind voters of his long-­ago stint in the military. He had craggy features, wide-­set blue eyes, and an “aw, shucks” grin. I knew my mother and the rest of the Highland Park matrons were totally smitten. Even the normally sensible Sandy Beck had remarked on more than one occasion before the last elections, “I don't care what the man's selling, I'm buying!”

I wasn't so convinced. Seemed to me that most elected officials these days said one thing and did another. Kind of like the social climbers I'd known at prep school. Come to think of it, more than a few of those girls had ended up as arm candy for politicians, and one had made a run for mayor of Highland Park.

“Shelby and I so appreciate ya'll coming to celebrate Penny's marriage with us,” Vernon Ryan said to the rest of the table after making small-­talk with the former president. But the senator's smile didn't reach his eyes. He looked flushed and dabbed at the sweat on his brow with a pressed handkerchief.

“Vernon, you must be relieved now that the knot is tied and you've got a legitimate grandbaby on the way,” my mother said in her typical unabashed way.

Senator Ryan nodded as he shoved the hankie into his breast pocket. “Yes, we're thrilled,” he murmured. “Good to see you again, Cissy.”

But he didn't appear thrilled, more like wrung out, I mused, and I wondered if he was worried about the press getting wind of Penny's condition. I wasn't sure if his fans—­er, his constituents—­would care now that the knot was tied, as my mother had put it. People seemed to have greater tolerance for “mistakes” made by the children of public figures as opposed to the sins of their fathers.

Before Vernon Ryan retreated to join his wife—­who was giving him a “hurry up” look—­Lester Dickens reached out to catch his arm.

“Congratulations, Vern, old boy,” Dickens said in his folksy twang. “Now you can put all this cockamamie wedding crap behind ya—­and I mean
all
of it—­and get your head back into the game. We'll talk soon, right? 'Cause we've got a lot of work to do before November.”

“Sure thing, Les,” the senator said, giving Dickens a tight smile before he moseyed off to the missus and settled down beside her.

“Damned fool,” I heard Lester Dickens mutter as he stared at the senator's retreating back. When he turned his head and caught me watching him, he reached for the bread basket, snatched up a roll, and viciously buttered it. “A man can't reach his full potential when he's distracted by women and babies,” he said, shaking his head.

“Les, it was so kind of you to offer up your home for the wedding,” the former first lady remarked to the oilman, clearly attempting to engage him. “The grounds are remarkable. Is it still on the market?”

Dickens set down the roll on his bread plate and dusted off his hands. “Yes, ma'am, it is, and I'd sure like to get her off my hands. You happen to know anyone interested in a prime piece of real estate?”

“Sorry.” The first lady politely shook her head.

I was tempted to suggest to Mr. Dickens that adding a few bathrooms to his mansion might help speed up a sale, but I kept my trap shut.

Then out of the blue my mother declared, “Well, I know someone on the market for a family home.”

I turned to her, wondering which of her friends was on a house hunt.

“Andrea and her fiancé need to find a place to live,” she said, reaching over to pat my cheek. “And they'll need plenty of space to expand their family. Isn't that right, sweetie?”

My empty salad plate rattled as I dropped my fork.

“Mother,”
I said under my breath. She couldn't be serious. Had she mixed champagne and Xanax?

“Well, Cissy honey, if you want a tour of the place, I'll give you one myself,” Dickens said with a wolfish grin. “Just give me a call whenever you want to see it.”

“Oh, um, that's so thoughtful of you, Les,” Cissy replied, giving him as fake a smile as I'd ever seen. “Although I think I'd like Andrea livin' in Highland Park so she can be close to me. I want to help out with my grandbabies.”

“For Pete's sake,” I muttered as the chatter at the table hushed and all eyes fell upon us. “You have no grandbabies,” I reminded her. Like, I could ever imagine her changing a diaper or burping an infant.

“I don't have any yet, but I'm sure it won't be long now. Tick tock, tick tock,” she said, doing her best clock impression.

“Brian and I are fine with my condo,” I told her, wishing she'd knock it off.

But Mother was winding up, not down. “Honestly, Andrea, you can't live in that tiny condo forever or in Malone's ratty apartment. There's not room for a nursery, much less for the nanny.”

“What nanny?” I said, hoping to God she hadn't already hired someone merely in anticipation of my producing offspring.

Cissy let out a weighty sigh. “Surely you don't intend to try to raise children without live-­in help,” she said as the cater-­waiters reappeared to remove salad plates and set down the entrée. “I could hardly have handled you without Sandy full-­time. It takes a village to raise a child, or at least a lot of hired help, don't you agree?” she asked, cocking her head and glancing pointedly toward the other women at our table.

I noticed the former first lady took that moment to pat her mouth with a napkin, though I hadn't seen her eat a bite from her plate.

The blonde with all the bangles chortled and wiggled bejeweled fingers in the air. “I would've loved to pop out a few rug rats of my own but Herbert already had five grown ones and grandkids. So he bought me a pair of Pekinese pups and a live-­in groomer to go with 'em. That's kind of like a nanny, wouldn't you say?” She nudged her cotton-­haired husband awake. “Herb, come alive! We're at a party.”

He snorted and opened his eyes. Nodding, he replied, “Whatever you say, dear.” Then his chin dropped to his chest and the snoring resumed.

“Women and dogs,” Lester Dickens remarked with a grunt, shaking his head.

The chatter at the table resumed, and I sighed with relief that no one was paying the least attention to us as my mother leaned over and loudly whispered, “Oh, yes, a pet groomer is
just
like a nanny.”

When I shushed her, she rolled her eyes, putting a hand up to her mouth and hissing behind it, “She's wife number three and a half. One marriage was annulled so that only counts half as much.”

“You don't say,” I whispered back and leaned nearer so that Mother's hair brushed my cheek. I inhaled a familiar mix of Joy perfume and Aqua Net. “FYI, I am all weddinged out. So I'll stay for cake but then we're leaving.”

She drew away. “But you're having fun.”

“No,
you're
having fun.”

“You don't want to stick around for dancing? Shelby said they flew in some big-­name singer I've never heard of.” Cissy tapped her chin. “I'm told his wife's a pop star, too, and they named their baby after a primary color.”

Dear Lord.

Even if Shelby and Vern had booked Bon Jovi, I'm not sure I would have wanted to stick around, although I would have been tempted. I was a diehard fan of '80s rock.

“No, thanks, I don't want to stay to hear the wedding singer,” I told Mother. Who would I dance with, besides? The former president? Lester Dickens? Blondie's snoozing hubby?

“I heard the singer and his entourage are arriving by helicopter,” Cissy added, as if that would change my mind. “Good thing there's a landing pad on the roof of the house. That's how Les gets around town. He doesn't like traffic.”

I glanced across the table at the oilman and decided some people just had too much money and too little sense. So Lester Dickens's house for sale had a helipad and, like, two bathrooms? That was what I'd call having your priorities in disorder.

“Watch my lips,” I told Mother. “I do not want to stay,” I said, enunciating every word in case I'd been speaking in a tongue that she didn't understand.

“Spoilsport,” Cissy replied and set her face in a sad little moue.

“I could take a cab,” I told her, and she clicked tongue against teeth.

“And pay with what? Life Savers?”

She was right. I hadn't brought along any cash. Silly me.

“All right, we'll leave early,” she said reluctantly, “but not until after the cake's cut.”

“Deal,” I replied. Once I had a piece of Millie's gorgeous seven-­layer creation—­and told Olivia how absolutely divine it was—­I would be more than ready to escape. I had no intention of staying until the bride tossed her bouquet. I didn't need to catch it. I already had Malone.

I'd just finished devouring the herb-­crusted Chilean sea bass with champagne sauce when I heard the chime of silverware tapping crystal. Then Olivia's voice boomed through the microphone again. “Ladies and gentleman, it's time for another sweet moment,” she said in her honeyed drawl, and she waved her arm at the circular table that held Millie's towering, flower-­encrusted seven-­tiered confection. “The bride and groom will now cut the cake!”

I had to shift position to see around a few large hats. As I did, I spotted Pete in his dark garb with his shoulder-­camera, lurking in the background.

The sleek silver knife that Olivia had brandished at Millie earlier now glinted in the glow of candlelight as the newlyweds raised it, hand in hand, to cut through the first and largest layer. Before they lowered the knife, I saw Olivia motion Pete closer. Penny and Jeff hesitated for a moment, as if they realized they were about to vandalize a piece of art. Truthfully, it was a crime they had to cut it up. Millie's cake was a thing of beauty.