Skinny Bitch Gets Hitched (14 page)

“Zach and I both agree that the farm is perfect. This place is really special to me, Dominique. It's more than just where I grew up—it's what made me into who I am. Add in that Zach grew up in the area, and it couldn't be more ideal.”

Dead silence. “Well, of course I'll have to come see the venue.”

“I'm driving back tonight, so if you want to come up today . . .”
Say no, that's okay, I can't, I'm busy, why don't you just put me in charge of flowers?

“I'll be there at five o'clock.”

She was as relentless as her stepdaughter. I gave her directions and went to tell my parents they were about to meet one of their in-laws. Dominique Jeffries Huffington and the Coopers in the same airspace. I could not imagine.

The shiny white Lexus SUV pulled in at exactly five o'clock, and naturally, a driver in uniform emerged and opened the passenger door. Dominique, in an outfit she probably wore only to ride horses, stepped onto the dirt driveway in her shiny flat-brown leather boots.

“Oh my,” she said, glancing around. “This really
is
a farm, isn't it. I thought it might be more of a farm
look
.”

My parents' three big dogs came bounding over to inspect the new arrival, and the look on Dominique's face was priceless.

I laughed. “My parents raised three children on this farm—by planting, harvesting, and selling organic crops. Twenty varieties of lettuce alone.”

Dominique stared at me. “That's lovely, darling, really. But you do realize that a wedding here just wouldn't work. It's simply too . . . rustic.”

“Think of it as a challenge, then,” I said, glancing around. “You have to admit that barn is gorgeous.”

She glanced at the old-fashioned, red barn, at the orange cat sitting in an empty wheelbarrow, and tilted her head, as if trying to see what the hell I was talking about.

“Clementine, I tell you this as family.” She leaned closer and whispered, “You've known Zach for what—a few months? I've known him his entire life. He doesn't want to get married here. This isn't Zachary. It may be you, but it's not him. I'm sure he agreed to have the wedding here to make you happy, but, darling, don't you want him to be happy too?”

I had to hand it to her; she was good at this. “Zach tells me the truth. If he didn't want the wedding held here, he would have said so.”

She slightly shook her head as though I were a half-wit. “Darling, you're so
young
. I'm only trying to help. Think about it and I'm sure you'll come around.”

Deep breath, Clementine. In and out, count to five.

Let it go,
I told myself, picturing Zach's handsome face, watching his lips say those exact words.
Let it go.

But a little part of me was busy wondering if she was right about Zach. Maybe he didn't want to get married here. Maybe a fifty-acre organic-vegetable farm wasn't exactly his dream location (if guys had a dream location) for the most important day of his life. Maybe that was why it had taken him so long to respond to my text. Maybe that was why he'd been so scarce lately.

Yeah right. Zach spoke his mind, just as I did. If he didn't want to have the wedding on the farm, he would have said so. I did know Zach. Very well.

“You have to admit, the view is stunning,” I said.

She looked at me quizzically. “The view? Where?”

I laughed. “Dominique, do you see that tree line?” I pointed behind her to the far edge of the farm, where majestic evergreens made for a miniforest. “When the sun sets behind them, it lights up the sky in dark pink.”

“Trees are a view?”

“They are.”

“Well, I think I've seen enough. We'll discuss this once you've had some time to think this through. Talk soon, darling.” Then she got back into her car without even meeting my parents.

This had to be good news. When she heard that my mind was made up, she'd fire herself as wedding planner for sure.

V
ia phone, Zach had assured me that, yes, he did want to get married at the farm, and that his mother would not only accept it, but get over it, even if she wouldn't get over herself.

I didn't believe it. I hadn't heard a word from her in days. Which reminded me that I hadn't heard much from Zach in the past few days, either. He'd extended his business trip, but he always called and texted throughout the days and nights when he was away. Even when he wasn't. What was going on? Maybe he was just busy. But he was never too busy for me. Something felt . . . wrong.

On Sunday morning, while I was in the kitchen, drinking green tea and making a list of what supplies I needed for tonight's specials at the restaurant and then a possible menu
for the Outpost, my phone rang. I lunged for it, hoping it was Zach.

Dominique.

“Clementine, I've been thinking. You're absolutely right. A wedding at your parents' little farm is a challenge. And one I accept. I'll need pictures of the grounds, from every angle. By tomorrow so that I can get started on my vision.”

Zach must have had a few words with her.

“Our vision, right?” I said. “I like beautiful too. But earthy. Natural. Simple.”

Silence, but only for a moment. “Of course. Our vision. But you just leave everything to me.”

Ha. There was no
our
in
you just leave everything to me.
“Just one thing, Dominique. Less is more.”

She let out something of a laugh. “No, darling. Less is always less. Bye now.”

With the click, I chucked my phone on my bed, imagining a three-piece classical band hovering by every table. She'd probably figure out a way to block the trees.

The thought of tables got me thinking about the Outpost again, a farm-to-table restaurant right in that beautiful red barn. I envisioned the menu, how the tables would be decorated. I was mentally listing ingredients for a vegetable harvest soup when I heard the front door open.

“Clementine! Tell me you're home!”

I went around the glass-brick divider and found Sara beaming in the kitchen.

“Now it's my turn to make mimosas because guess what?” She was barely able to contain the huge grin on her face.

“What?”

“This!” She held out her left hand. On her finger was a diamond ring. “I'm engaged too!”

What? But she wasn't even sure if she
liked
Joe. “Sara, I'm so surprised!”

“I know! Me too. Joe and I were chowing down on ribs in the insane barbecue sauce he makes—I know, you're grossed out—and he looked at me and said, “Sar, we're so good together. You get me. You know how to deal with me. Let's do it.”

Romantic,
I thought, trying not to be too judgy.

And didn't she just say a few weeks ago that she didn't want to be “next”? That she'd join a nunnery before she'd ever marry Joe “Steak” Johansson?

“And I said, do what? And he said, ‘Duh, get married.' I was so shocked. I mean, the subject of marriage hasn't really ever come up. But the second he asked, I screamed yes without hesitation. So I know I must really want to marry him. How awesome is it that now I don't even have to worry about getting a new roommate. I'll be moving in with Joe.”

Okay, I had to tread carefully here. “I'm just surprised because the last time we talked about your relationship, you weren't sure if you—”

“Clem, he asked, I answered, and I'm happy.” She turned away for a moment, staring at her ring. She held up her hand, and her smile was back. “I'm engaged!”

“I'm so happy for you.” I hugged her.

She disappeared into her bedroom and closed the door. I wondered if she was going for her phone or sucking in a deep breath in the privacy of her bedroom.

Sara made herself scarce all day; she was either on the phone or racing out to meet someone for coffee, and I was in and out all day, shopping at my favorite markets for fresh tofu and interesting breads for tonight's specials. I'd barely had time to talk to her.

Sara. Married to Joe “Steak” Johansson.

Had she ever used the word
love
when she talked about him? I couldn't remember a single instance. She often said they had fun together, that he was so over-the-top all the time that he was like a nonstop comedy routine. Once she told me that he was so intense she often needed a break and was glad she could come home. But who knew how she really felt about him. Sara liked to kid and often kept her truest feelings to herself. Maybe she was deeply in love with Joe. Maybe she was truly happy that he'd proposed.

What I really thought: She was truly happy that he'd proposed. But no way did she actually want to marry him.

“I want to tell him to go screw himself eighty-five percent of the time,” she'd said last week. “He's so full of himself and obnoxious—and not in a good way. But the other fifteen percent? Totally great.”

Was 15 percent enough?

“He makes me feel pretty. Really pretty,” she'd said.

Before she'd met Joe, her last date had been with a jerk who'd made her feel like crap about herself.

But do you love him?
I wanted to ask her. She'd throw something at me, but I had to ask her.

Since I had to head out to the restaurant, I knocked on her bedroom door, but she wasn't home. On the kitchen table were at least ten bridal magazines with all sorts of colored stickies poking out of the pages. What the hell? Had some pod-person taken over Sara's body? The old Sara would have drawn mustaches on all the brides and written hysterical dialogue in thought bubbles over their heads. Like “Does this hideous gown make my brain look fat?”

She'd left a note.
Clem, you know you want to look
.

Ugh. I really did not.

In the twenty minutes Keira had been in the kitchen for her third day, she'd dropped a bushel of chickpeas, sending the tiny beans scattering all over the floor, walked through the
IN
door and bumped one of the waiters, in early to set up, on the forehead, and mistook parsnip for garlic, which was pretty difficult to do.