Bride Quartet Collection (35 page)

“You handled that yourself. You stood up to her.”

Mac shook her head. “I’d stood up to her before. Maybe not like this last time, not as tall and straight. But if I started it, you finished her off for me. You add in Carter, and the fact that as, God,
kind
as he is, he’s not susceptible to her bullshit—then the fact she’s getting pampered by her rich fiancé in New York? My life’s gotten a lot smoother.”

“Has she contacted you since?”

“Funny you should ask. This morning, in fact, and as if we’d never had that really ugly last scene. She and Ari have decided to elope. Sort of. Those crazy kids are jetting off to Lake Como next month, and they’ll be married at the villa of one of Ari’s dear friends once Linda’s planned all the details—which is her version of eloping, I guess.”

“Oh God, if you say George Clooney, I’m going to go.”

“If only. I don’t think we’re invited anyway. She mostly called to make sure I understood she’s doing a
lot
better than Vows for her wedding.”

“What did you say?”

“Buona fortuna.”

“You did?”

“I did. It felt good. And I actually meant it. I do wish her luck. If she’s happy with this Ari, she’ll leave me the hell alone. So . . .” She turned, turned again, and pulled into the lot of Kavanaugh’s. “It’s all good. Do you want me to wait, just in case?”

“No, you go on. I’ll see you back at the house for tonight’s consult.”

Parker got out, adjusted her grip on her portfolio bag as she checked the time. Right on schedule.

She scanned the long building that housed what appeared to be offices attached to a large garage. She heard the
whoosh
of some sort of compressor as she approached, and saw through the open garage doors the legs, hips, and most of the torso of the mechanic who worked on a car on a lift.

She caught glimpses of shelves, which she assumed held parts and other paraphernalia, racks of tools. Tanks, hoses.

She smelled oil and sweat, not offensive to her mind. Work odors, productive scents. She approved of them, especially since she saw Emma’s car sitting in the lot, very clean and very shiny.

Curious, she detoured to it. The chrome glinted in the sunlight, and through the window she noted the signs of meticulous detailing.

If, she mused, the car ran as good as it looked, she’d bring hers here instead of to the dealer for its next regular service.

She crossed the lot toward the office to settle the bill and get the key.

Inside, a woman with hair more orange than red sat on a stool at the short leg of an L-shaped counter, pecking with two fingers at the keyboard of a computer.

Her brow furrowed, her mouth twisted in a way that told Parker the computer was not her friend.

She stopped, sized Parker up over the top of a pair of bright green cheaters. “Help you?”

“Yes, thanks. I’m here to pick up Emmaline Grant’s car.”

“You Parker Brown?”

“Yes.”

“She called, said you’d be coming to get it.”

When the woman made no move, just continued to stare over the tops of her glasses, Parker smiled politely. “Would you like to see some identification?”

“No. She said what you looked like when I asked, and you look like what she said.”

“Well then, if I could see the bill?”

“I’m working on it.” The woman shifted on the stool, pecked at the keys again. “You can sit right down there. It won’t take me long. Take less time if I could just write it out on an invoice pad, but Mal has to have it this way.”

“All right.”

“Vending machines through that door there if you want something to drink.”

Parker thought of her client, and the distance to the bridal boutique, the traffic. “You said it wouldn’t take long.”

“It won’t. I’m just saying . . . What does this demon from hell want from me?” The woman raked long red nails through her orange frizzy hair. “Why won’t it just spit the damn thing out?”

“May I . . .” Parker leaned over the counter, scanned the screen. “I think I see the problem. Just point and click here, with the mouse.” She tapped the screen. “Good. Now see where it says Print? Click that. There you go. Now click on Okay.”

Parker leaned back as the printer clicked into life. “There you go.”

“Click this, click that. I can never remember which click comes first.” But she looked over the counter and smiled for the first time. Her eyes were as bold and engaging a green as the frames of her cheaters. “Appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

Parker took the bill, sighed a little as she ran down the work. New battery, tune-up, timing, oil change, fan belts, tire rotation, brake pads. “I don’t see the charge for the detailing.”

“No charge. First-time customer. Complimentary.”

“Very nice.” Parker paid the bill, then tucked her copy in a pocket of her bag. She took the key. “Thank you.”

“Welcome. Come back when you need to.”

“I believe I will.”

Outside, she walked toward Emma’s car, clicking the key lock as she went.

“Hey, hey, hold it.”

She stopped, turned. She recognized the legs, hips, torso she’d seen under the belly of the car in the garage. This view added chest and shoulders. The light spring breeze fluttered through dark hair—that needed a trim—disordered either from work or carelessness. She supposed it suited the strong, sharp lines of his face, and the dark stubble that indicated he hadn’t picked up a razor in a day or two.

She took it all in quickly, just as she took in the hard set of his mouth and the hot green of eyes that transmitted temper.

She’d have looked down her nose if she hadn’t been forced to look up when he stopped in front of her. She angled her head up, met his eyes with hers, and said in her coolest tone, “Yes?”

“You think all it takes is a key and a driver’s license?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your battery cables were covered with corrosion, your oil was sludge. Your tires were low and your brake pads damn near shot. I bet you slather yourself with some fancy cream every day of your life.”

“Excuse me?”

“But you can’t bother to get your car serviced. Lady, this car was a disgrace. You probably spent more on those shoes than you have on maintaining it.”

Her shoes? Her shoes were none of his damn business. But she kept her tone bland—insultingly bland. “I appreciate that you have passion for your work, but I doubt your boss would approve of the way you speak to customers.”

“I am the boss, and I’m fine with it.”

“I see. Well, Mr. Kavanaugh, you have an interesting business manner. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“There’s no excuse for the way you’ve neglected this vehicle. I’ve got it up and running for you, Ms. Grant, but—”

“Brown,” she interrupted. “That’s Ms. Brown.”

He narrowed his eyes as he studied her face. “Del’s sister. Should’ve seen it. Who’s Emmaline Grant?”

“My business partner.”

“Fine. Pass on what I said to her. It’s a good car. It deserves better.”

“Be sure I will.”

She reached for the door, but he beat her to it, opened it for her. She got in, placed her bag on the seat beside her, fastened her seat belt. Then froze the air between them with a “Thank you.”

He grinned, fast as a lightning strike. “You mean go to hell. Drive safe,” he added and shut the door.

She turned the key, found herself mildly disappointed when the engine purred like a kitten. As she drove away, she glanced in the rearview mirror, saw him standing, hip-shot, watching her.

Rude, she thought—absurdly rude, really. But he apparently knew how to do his job.

When she parked near the bridal boutique where she intended to meet her client, Parker pulled out her BlackBerry to e-mail Emma.

Em. Car is done. Looks and runs better than it has since you bought it. You owe me more than the bill. Will discuss tonight. P

A
T HOME, EMMA USED THE TIME BETWEEN APPOINTMENTS TO write itemized contracts. She loved the choices made by her last client, a December bride. Color, color, and more color, she thought. All that hot and bold would be a pleasure to work with in winter.

She sent the contract to the client for approval, copied Parker for Vows’ files. She smiled when she spotted an e-mail from Jack. Then snorted out a laugh as she read it.

“Trench coat and elbow pads. Good one. Let’s see . . .”

You’ll need to choose between my red lace elbow pads and the black velvet set. Or I can just surprise you. I’ll try them on later with my collection of trench coats. I have a particular favorite. It’s black and has a shine so it always looks . . . wet.

Unfortunately tonight won’t work for me. But that gives us both more time to think.

“That ought to give you a moment or two,” Emma murmured, and hit Send.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A
T SIX, EMMA WALKED INTO THE KITCHEN FROM THE MUDROOM as Parker walked in from the hall.

“Good timing. Hi, Mrs. G.”

“Grilled chicken Caesars,” Mrs. Grady announced. “Use the breakfast nook. I’m not setting up the dining room when you girls are going to be coming in and out and picking.”

“Yes, ma’am. I worked through lunch. I’m starved.”

“Have a glass of wine with it.” Mrs. Grady jerked her head toward Parker. “This one’s in a mood.”

“I’m not in any particular mood.” But Parker took one of the glasses of wine Mrs. Grady poured. “Your bill.”

Emma glanced at the bottom line, winced. “Ouch. I guess I deserve it.”

“Maybe so. But
I
didn’t deserve the angry lecture from the proprietor who assumed I was you.”

“Uh-oh. What hospital is he in? I should send flowers.”

“He survived, unscathed. Partially because I was on a schedule and didn’t have time to hurt him. Your car was also detailed, expertly, inside and out—gratis to first-time customers. Which counted in his favor. Marginally.”

Pausing, Parker took another sip of wine. “Mrs. G, you know everyone.”

“Whether I want to or not. Sit. Eat.” When they had, Mrs. Grady plopped down on one of the counter stools with her own glass of wine. “You want to know about young Malcolm Kavanaugh. Bit of a wild one. Army brat. His father died overseas when he was a boy. Ten or twelve, I think, which may account for the bit of wild. His ma had a hard time keeping him in line. She used to waitress at Artie’s, the place on the avenue. He’d be her brother, Artie would, and why she moved here when she lost her husband.”

Mrs. Grady took a sip of wine, and settled back a bit to tell the rest. “As you may know, Artie Frank is a complete asshole, and his wife is a prissy snob of a woman. What I heard was Artie decided to take the boy in hand, and the boy did his level best to snap that hand off at the wrist. And good for him,” she added with some relish. “He went off, the boy did, to race cars or motorcycles or something like. Did some stunt work in the movies, I believe. Did well enough for himself, from what I’m told. And made sure his ma got a piece of the pie he was making.”

“Well. That speaks well of him, I suppose,” Parker allowed.

“Got busted up on a stunt, and got some kind of settlement out of it. He used it to buy the garage out on Route One, about three years ago. Bought his ma a little house as well. He’s built up a nice business, from what I’m told, and still has a bit of the wild in him.”

“I’ll assume he’s built up his business through his skill with engines and not through his skill with customer relations.”

“Put your back up,” Emma commented.

“I’ll get over it, as long as he does the job well.” Parker glanced over as Laurel came in. “Cutting it close.”

“Coffee and cookies are set up. Some of us don’t have time to sit around eating and gossiping before a consult.” Laurel frowned as she combed her fingers through her hair. “Plus you’re having wine.”

“Parker was in a mood because—”

“I heard all about that already.” Laurel poured herself a scant half glass. “I want new juice. What’s the current situation with Jack?”

“I think we’re having virtual sex. We’re still in the early stages of foreplay, so I’m not sure where it’s going.”

“I’ve never had cyber sex. I’ve never liked anyone enough to have cyber sex.” Laurel cocked her head as she considered. “And that sounds odd. I like a guy well enough to have actual sex, but not virtual?”

“Because it’s a game.” Emma got up to give Laurel the remaining half of her salad. “You might like a man enough to go to bed with him, but you might not want to play with him.”

“That makes weird sense.” With a nod, Laurel stabbed at the salad. “You always make weird sense when it comes to men.”

“And obviously she likes Jack enough to play with him,” Parker added.

“Jack’s got a sense of fun, which is one of the things I’ve always liked about him. And found attractive.” Emma’s lips curved in a slow, easy smile. “We’ll see how much we like playing games.”

I
N THE PARLOR, OVER COFFEE AND LAUREL’S MACAROONS, PARKER led the consult with the engaged couple and their mothers. “As I explained to Mandy and Seth, Vows will tailor our services to suit your needs. As much or as little as you want. Our goal, together and individually, is to give you the perfect wedding.
Your
perfect wedding. Now, when we spoke last, you hadn’t chosen a date, but had decided you wanted evening and outdoors.”

Emma listened with half an ear as dates were discussed.

She wondered if Jack had gotten her e-mail yet.

The bride wanted romance. Didn’t they all? Emma thought, but perked up when she said she’d be wearing her grandmother’s wedding gown.

“I have a photo,” Mandy announced, “but Seth isn’t allowed to see. So . . .”

“Seth, would you like a beer?”

He looked over at Laurel, grinned. “I would.”

“Why don’t you come with me? I’ll set you up. When you’ve finished the beer we should be ready for you again.”

“Thanks.” Mandy reached into a large folder when Laurel led Seth out. “I know it’s probably silly—”

“Not at all.” Parker held out a hand for the photo, and her polite expression turned radiant. “Oh. Oh, it’s gorgeous. It’s just stunning. Late thirties, early forties?”

“You’re good,” the mother of the bride said. “My parents were married in 1941. She was just eighteen.”

“Ever since I was a little girl I’ve talked about wearing Nana’s wedding gown when I got married. It needs to be fitted, and a little repair, but Nana’s taken good care of it.”

“Do you have a seamstress in mind?”

“We’ve spoken to Esther Brightman.”

As she studied the photo, Parker nodded approval. “She’s a genius, and exactly who I’d recommend for this. Mandy, you’re going to look absolutely amazing. And we could, if you want, build the entire wedding around this dress. Vintage glamour with class, romance with style. Tails rather than the more expected tux for the groom and groomsmen.”

“Oh, wow. Wow. Would he go for that?” she asked her future mother-in-law.

“He’ll go for anything you want, honey. Personally, I love the idea. We’d want to find vintage dresses, or the vintage style for the bridal party.”

Emma studied the photo when it came to her. Fluid, she thought, Deco-inspired lines, with a sheen that said silk. She lifted her gaze to study Mandy, and decided the new bride would wear the gown as beautifully as her grandmother had. “I can replicate the bouquet,” she said half to herself.

“What?” Mandy cut herself off in midsentence and swung her attention to Emma.

“The bouquet—if you wanted—I can replicate it. Look how clever she was, how smart to offset the long, fluid lines of the gown with the oversized crescent of calla lilies. Do you have the veil and headpiece?”

“Yes.”

“From what I can see, she had it trimmed with lily-of-the-valley. I can do that, if it appeals to you. I just wanted to mention that before Seth comes back. Something you can think about.”

“I love it! Mom?”

“My mother will be a puddle. So will I. I love it, too.”

“We’ll talk about it in more detail when we do our individual consult. Meanwhile, when you select the dresses for the bridesmaids, if you can get pictures then I can get copies made or you can scan them and send them in an e-mail so I can see what kind of flowers she chose for them.”

Emma handed the photo back to Mandy. “You’d better put that away.”

“Mac, why don’t you give Mandy an overview of the photography?”

“First, I want to duplicate the pose in your grandmother’s formal portrait. It’s classic and gorgeous. But tonight, we should talk about what you’d like for your engagement portraits.”

They moved from stage to stage, step to step, with a rhythm they’d developed over the years. As they discussed photography, cakes, food, Emma jotted down key words that would help her create a picture of the bride, the groom, and what they envisioned.

And if her thoughts veered in Jack’s direction a few times, she reminded herself she excelled at multitasking.

By the time she and her partners walked the clients to the door, she was ready to duck out and see if Jack had answered her e-mail.

“Good job,” she said. “I’m going to go home and start a file for the event. So—”

“There’s something else,” Parker interrupted. “When I was at the boutique today, I found Mac’s dress.”

“You what?” Mac blinked at her. “
My
dress?”

“I know you, and what you’re looking for. And since it was right there, saying I’m Mac’s, I used our connections and brought it home for approval. Maybe I’m wrong, but I thought at least you’d want to try it on.”

“You brought home a wedding dress for me to try on?” Eyes narrowed, Mac pointed at Parker. “Aren’t you the one who’s always telling brides they might try on a hundred dresses before they find the one?”

“Yes. You’re not most brides. You know immediately what works and what doesn’t. If it doesn’t, no harm done. Why don’t we go take a look? It’s up in the Bride’s Suite.”

“Oh, we
have
to see.” Thrilled with the idea, Emma grabbed Mac’s hand and tugged. “Wait, we need champagne. Which Parker would have thought of already.”

“Mrs. G will have it up there by now.”

“Champagne and a potential wedding dress?” Mac mused. “What are we waiting for? No hurt feelings if I don’t like it,” she added as they started up the stairs.

“Absolutely not. If you don’t it would only tell me how vastly superior my taste is to yours.” With the faintest of smirks, Parker opened the door to the Bride’s Suite where Mrs. Grady poured flutes of champagne.

“Heard you coming.” And she winked at Parker as Mac simply stared at the gown hanging from the hook.

“It’s beautiful,” Mac murmured. “It’s . . .”

“Strapless, which I think will suit you,” Parker continued. “And the slight A-line will flatter your build. I know you were leaning toward something completely unadorned, but I think you’re wrong. The tissue organza over the silk adds romance, softens the lines. You’re angular. And the back?”

Parker lifted it off the hook, turned it around.

“I love it!” Emma pushed forward. “The ruffle train, out of the organza! It’s fabulous, just a little flirty. Plus the way it should drape over your butt—”

“Will actually give you one,” Laurel finished. “Try it on, or I will.”

“Give me a second, this is a moment. Okay, there’s the moment.” And Mac unhooked her pants. As she stripped down, Emma circled a finger.

“Turn your back to the mirror. You don’t want to see yourself putting it on. You want the
pow
effect once you’re in it.”

“Dropping your clothes where you stand.” Mrs. Grady shook her head as she scooped them up. “Just as you always have. Well, help her into it,” she ordered, and stood back, smiled.

“Oh. I’m going to cry.” Emma sniffled while Parker fastened the gown in place.

“They didn’t have your size, so it’s a little big.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” Mrs. Grady picked up her pin cushion. “We’ll nip and tuck a bit here and there so it shows better on you. It’s a shame you’ve always been such an ugly thing.”

“Insult me, but don’t stick me.”

“That’ll do for now.” Mrs. Grady stepped around to fuss a little with the bodice, then reached up to smooth Mac’s bright red hair. “We have to work with what we’ve got.”

“Count to three, Mac, then turn and look.” Emma pressed both hands to her lips. “Just look at you.”

“Okay.” Mac took in a breath, let it out, then turned toward the cheval glass where she’d watched so many brides study their reflections. The only thing she could say was “Oh!”

“And that says it all.” Laurel blinked at tears. “It’s . . . it. You’re it in it.”

“It’s . . . I’m . . . Holy shit, I’m a bride.” Mac’s fingers fluttered up to her heart as she angled herself. “Oh, check out the back. It’s fun, and female, and I
do
have an ass.” In the glass, her gaze shifted to Parker’s. “Parks.”

“Am I good or am I good?”

“You’re the best. This is my wedding dress. Aw, Mrs. G.”

Mrs. Grady dabbed her eyes. “I’m just shedding a tear of joy that I won’t have four spinsters on my hands.”

“Flowers in your hair. A wide floral headband instead of a veil,” Emma suggested.

“Really?” Pursing her lips, Mac studied herself, imagined. “That could work. That could work well.”

“I’ll show you some ideas. And you know, I think with the lines of the dress, I’d like to see a long sweep of a bouquet, probably hand tied. Maybe arm-carried.” Emma angled one arm, swept her hand down to demonstrate. “Or a cascade, but with a waterfall effect. Rich, warm autumn colors, and . . . I’m getting ahead of myself.”

“No. God, we’re planning my wedding. I think I need that drink.”

Retrieving Mac’s flute, Laurel stepped to her. “It sure looks better on you than any of our old Wedding Day costumes.”

“Plus, it doesn’t itch.”

“I’m going to make you one hell of a cake.”

“Oh man, I’m watering up again.”

“Turn around, all of you,” Mrs. Grady ordered as she took a camera out of her pocket. “Our redhead’s not the only one who can take a picture. Glasses up. There’s my girls,” she murmured, and captured the moment.