Your Coffin or Mine? (24 page)

“No, no. Absolutely not. It’s her wedding day. She should feel like a queen.”

“Exactly. And that isn’t going to happen if she has to wear this dress. She wants something that fits her personality better. That’s where you come in. You can nip here, tuck a little there, and it’ll be perfect for her.”

“What changes did you have in mind?”

I pulled out the two-page list Mandy and I had jotted down on the cab ride over.

Esther took one look and shook her head. “This is a lot more than a few nips and tucks.” She shook her head. “Maybe I’m not the right person for this.”

“Nonsense. You’ve got the experience. The knowhow. And a whopping six weeks to get it all done.”

“That’s impossible.” She gave another shake of her head. “I can’t do this.”

“Maybe she’s right,” Mandy piped up. She wore a worried expression and a hopeless light glittered in her eyes. “This is a stupid idea.”

Ditto. “No, it isn’t. It’s a glam idea, and it’s going to work.” It had to because it was all I’d been able to come up with. “That, or you can wear the dress as is.”

“Or I can not wear it at all and call the whole thing off.”

“Over this lovely thing?”

Mandy shook her head. “Please. Would you stop saying that?”

“That it’s lovely?”

She nodded. “It isn’t. It’s awful.”

Esther looked as if someone had kicked the big fat tabby parked on her couch. “You really think so?”

“No,” I cut in. “I mean, yes, in her eyes, but to each his own, remember? You think it’s lovely and, therefore, it is. But you’re not wearing it. Mandy is, and she isn’t as excited about the whole thing.” I stared Esther in the eyes. “She isn’t half the woman you are,” I told the made vamp. “She can’t pull off this look.”

She seemed to think. “Not everyone can do petticoats,” she finally admitted.

“Exactly, which is why we’d like you to rip them off and taper the skirt down some.”

“But,” she started and caught her lip. She cast a glance at Mandy, who looked as if someone had actually kicked her instead of the cat. Sympathy flared in her eyes. “I suppose I could cut out at least one of the petticoat layers.”

“Really?” Mandy looked hopeful and Esther nodded.

“Maybe even two.” She eyed the dress again and her hand dove beneath the layers of fabric. “But I won’t lie. I’m not so sure we can taper the skirt without compromising the integrity of the dress, and I won’t do that.” She gave her head a firm shake. “I couldn’t live with myself if I butchered this precious creation.”

I waited for the birds to chirp and a cloud of fairy dust to rain down on us.

Instead, my cellphone rang. “Just do what you can,” I told her before I punched the talk button and repeated Suze’s address for the fifth time. “Now stop stalling and GO ON THE DATE.”

“All right, already,” Word mumbled before the line went dead. I punched off, slid the phone into my purse, and told Esther how grateful we were for her help. “Just do what you can,” I added.

She agreed, halfheartedly, and Mandy and I caught a cab for the morgue. Mandy was on duty tonight and I was dropping her off on my way.

“You’re looking very colorful tonight,” Mandy said as we barreled down Fifty-seventh. “And glittery.”

I’d gone all out with a hot-pink Chanel dress, silver Louis Vuitton handbag, strappy Manolo Blahnik stilettos, and enough jewelry to weigh down the average mob hit. Makeup wise, I’d gone for a cross between Fairytopia Barbie and Lil’ Kim. Glitter eye shadow. Lots of eyeliner. Sparkling Ruby MAC lips, Pink Obsession glitter blush, and Dazzling Dust nail polish.

“I’m trying to make a statement,” I told Mandy.

“And that would be
Don’t bother me. I’m in the middle of an acid trip
?”

“
Don’t pick me. I’m a camera hog.
”

She shrugged. “That was my second guess. So what do you think will happen with the dress?” Mandy asked.

“Are you asking Lil the realist or Lil the optimist?”

“There is no Lil the realist.”

“That would be door number two, then. Let’s see…Esther will realize that the dress is a hideous monstrosity, and since she’s a die-hard romantic who fantasizes about her own wedding, she’ll go above and beyond the call of duty to make yours as extra special as it can be. She’ll kill herself day and night until the dress is a vision of loveliness. You’ll walk down the aisle, say, “I do” with a smile on your face, and you and my brother will live happily ever after.”

“She’s not going to pull off the bows, is she?”

“Not a chance.”

She seemed to think. “This is hopeless, isn’t it? Your brother and I…” She caught a sob. “We’re not going to make it.”

“That’s crazy. The two of you are already making it. You’re living together. You’re putting up with him and he’s putting up with you. You don’t mind that he leaves his dirty socks on the floor and he doesn’t mind that you drape your wet bras all over the bathroom shower.” When she gave me a questioning look, I shrugged. “I’m a vamp, remember? Anyhow, you’re dealing with the bottles of leftover blood that he keeps leaving on the counter and he’s dealing with the granola wrappers all over the nightstand. He’s putting up with your work schedule. And you’re putting up with our mother.”

“And Luc.”

I nailed her with a gaze. “She sent over Luc, too?” She nodded, and a rush of envy shot through me.

Luc was my mother’s favorite manicurist. He could do a French mani in ten seconds flat, and he gave the yummiest paraffin-wax hand treatments. And his pedis? My. My.
My.
Talk about delish.

“Tell Jack I absolutely hate him,” I added. My gaze zeroed in on the fingers that Mandy had curled around her purse. “You, too?”

She looked sheepish. “He’s right there at our beck and call. It seems like such a waste just to let him sit around and watch cable all day. I mean, really, Jack can only get his toenails filed so many times a day, you know?”

Yep, unfortunately, I did.

“I could always postpone the wedding,” she added after a long moment. “I don’t want to, but sometimes I think it’s the only thing left to do. Nothing seems to want to work out.”

I thought of the two voice mails I’d had when I’d checked my cell messages before arriving at Esther’s apartment. There’d been one from Evie about a few recent clients, one from Word wanting to verify Suze’s address, and zero from my mother. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone a full twenty-four hours without calling me.

She was obviously too busy doling out servants to Jack and plotting ways to break up his relationship with Mandy to bother with her daughter.

Hip, hip, hurray!

For now. But if Jack and Mandy called it quits, then I would be right back where I started.

“Nonsense.” Determination gripped me. “The hotel is a sure thing and I’m confident that Esther will come through for us.” Just like I was confident I could get myself X’d off the reality show (fingers crossed) and find Ty (fingers
and
toes crossed) before it was too late. “We just have to think positive.”

“That, or we could suck down a few chocolate martinis before you drop me off.”

I glanced at my watch and thought of my crazy—and slightly uncertain—evening ahead. (Yeah, I had a plan, but that didn’t mean it was going to work.) “I
do
have an hour before the
MMW
limo picks me up.”

She nodded. “That settles it then. Positive is out. Getting sloshed is in.”

I was
so
going to need an AA meeting when my afterlife finally settled down.

Twenty-seven

I
’d just stepped out of the cab in front of Dead End Dating when a black limousine rolled up to the curb and a uniformed driver got out. He opened the door for me and I climbed in with the other nine finalists.

Ten minutes later, the car pulled up to Central Park where the official date would launch with individual carriage rides for each of the finalists with—you guessed it—the infamous Mr. Weather. Meanwhile, the rest of us would suck down cocktails and talk to the cameras at a sidewalk café that had been set up, complete with tables and a uniformed waitstaff. Lights twinkled in the trees overhead. Beyond, the moon hung high in the sky and the stars glittered hot and bright and…

Deep sigh.

It truly was the most romantic setup I’d ever seen, right down to the white carriage wrapped in a garland of red roses.

The producer herded everyone over to the sidewalk café while a kindergarten teacher by the name of Pamela Sue Mitchell, who was up first, headed for the white carriage and Mr. Weather.

He looked as perfect as ever in a pair of black Armani slacks and a royal blue shirt. His hair had been coiffed with gel and his fingernails buffed and polished. He held a single rose as he waited for the first contestant, a smile on his handsome face.

I put on my best game face and stepped forward.

I moved at the speed of light, zooming in between Pam and Mr. Weather before anyone realized what had happened.

“Me first, me first,” I cried. I snatched the rose from his hand and leaned in front of him just as the camera zoomed in on us.

I beamed for a close-up while he blew out a mouthful of my hair.

“What are you doing?” he asked as he pushed me out of the way.

“I’m always first,” I told him. “Just relax and go with it. The cameras are rolling.” Before he could get out another word, I climbed into the carriage and settled into the seat, my rose in hand.

Mr. Weather exchanged a few words with the producers before they finally came up for air. He pasted on his smile and climbed in beside me while a production assistant herded a shocked Pamela back toward the makeshift sidewalk café.

“I like your enthusiasm,” he said, but he didn’t sound half as happy as he looked.

My own smile widened. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Just as he settled into the seat next to me, I shrieked, “Wait, wait. I have to get a picture of this.”

“There are a dozen cameras recording everything.”

“It’s not the same thing. There’s no guarantee that this will make it on the air and I
have
to show my friends. They are never going to believe this.” I pulled out the disposable camera I’d picked up on the way over.

“Nick”—Mr. Weather started to motion to one of the producers—“could you help us out here?”

“Oh, don’t bother him.” I shoved the camera into his hand. “You can handle it. Just aim and click.” I struck my best pose.

“But I thought you wanted to show your friends?”

“I do. They are so not going to believe how good my hair did tonight. We’re talking yummy perfection.” When he just sat there, I waved a hand at him. “Go on. Snap a pic. In fact, snap a couple. I’ve got family, too.”

The camera
click, click, clicked
and I shifted into several different poses. There. Here. Now. Perfect.

“You’re a sweetie.” I snatched the camera from his hands and stuffed it back into my purse.

“Don’t you want to get a picture of us?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I guess I could.” I eyed him. “But do you really want a bunch of pictures circulating with your hair looking like that?”

He touched a hand to his head in alarm. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, for starters, you’ve got a ton of strands out of place.”

He shook his head. “I don’t have even one hair out of place.” Another shake. “That’s crazy.”

I shrugged and pulled out the camera. “Hey, it’s your career.”

He flashed me an exasperated look and his gaze collided with mine. Bingo.

His gaze sparked as I stared deep into his eyes and sent the silent message.

I’m just confirming what you’ve thought since leaving your Park Avenue apartment. Tonight just isn’t your hair night. While most of it is cooperating beautifully, there are those few wayward strands that keep working themselves loose. You tried telling the studio stylist that they weren’t cooperating, but she wouldn’t listen. And now look what’s happened. Everyone is noticing. Staring. Smirking.

“Forget it,” he blurted. “No pictures. Please.”

I patted his hand and gave him an understanding look. “Don’t worry. I’m sure no one else will notice. Oops, then again, some of this is going to be on television so it’s possible someone might notice.”

Like, say, several million viewers.

“I need a mirror!” He shot to his feet and a production assistant rushed forward, mirror in hand. Mr. Weather spent the next few minutes smoothing and slicking at several invisible hairs near his temple while I posed for camera shots with the carriage driver.

Fifteen minutes later, we settled into the carriage and the ride started. The horses clopped their way around Central Park for several minutes while a small golf cart filled with the producer and two cameramen kept time next to us. Another camera guy rode up front with the driver, the lens trained on us as Mr. Weather explained the difference between a funnel cloud and an actual tornado.

Yawn.

Literally.

I opened my mouth and let loose the biggest, loudest
aggghhhhhh
I could manage, followed by a “Sorry for zoning out. It’s not you. Really.”