Skinny Bitch Gets Hitched (22 page)

“Actually, I want to worry about the dress—but not now. When I'm ready, I'll go shopping.”

“Well, really, the wedding needs to be cohesive.”

“My dress doesn't have to go with the tablecloth and flowers.”

“Well, really, it does.”

“Dominique, I appreciate all you're doing, but I'll take care of the dress on my own. I think my mother wants to go shopping with me.” That wasn't even a lie. My mother did want to go dress hunting with me. She knew my taste and would be a big help.

“Oh,” Dominique said, her face falling. “All right then. Of course. I'll need a photograph of it when you get it, to make sure everything else I'm planning follows suit.”

Why was so she controlling?

“I have a board meeting in a half hour so I have to zip off, but we'll need to discuss your registry. Of course, you'll register at—”

“Actually, in lieu of wedding gifts, I'd like guests to donate to the SPCA of LA and PETA too.”

She stared at me. “You
can't
be serious. I don't even know what those acronyms actually stand for. Something to do with dog shelters and fur protesters?” She mock shivered. “When I was in New York City last winter, some unkempt young woman
lunged at me and made growling noises. It took me a minute to realize she was protesting my mink wrap.” Dominique rolled her eyes.

Mink wrap.
I
mock shivered. Gross. “As a philanthropist, I'd think they'd be high up on your list. Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. And PETA is People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. There's a local shelter I volunteer at whenever I can. The Montana Avenue Rescue. I'd like them added too.”

She laughed. “Oh, Clementine. You're darling, really. But there's no need to make a statement at your wedding. Isn't that a little . . . tacky?”

“It's not a statement. Zach and I don't need a Vitamix or someone's five hundred bucks. But the SPCA could use kibble and cat crates and dog beds and money to pay for neutering and vet bills. PETA's awareness campaign—”

“Oh, God, spare me. I have to run, Clementine, but we'll revisit once I discuss with Zach.”

Huh. Maybe I should have talked about it with Zach myself.

My face must have given something away because she looked at me for a moment. With concern. “Darling,” she said, walking me out to my car, “maybe you
should
go over that list of Jocelyn's—with Zach. You two should make sure you're on board.”

“On board with what?”

“Life, dear. The same values. Please don't take offense, but I foresee conflict.”

“Zach and I are fine.”

She smiled. Smugly. “Oh, you're too sweet. Go over that list with Zach. I forget what's on it, but maybe overturning a rock or two will be helpful, after all.”

I wasn't scared of what I might find out, was I?

R
ustic-vegetable potpie with a biscuit crust. Smoky potato empanadas, falafel with tahini sauce, blackened Cajun seitan stir-fry. The more I heard Dominique's voice in my head, condescendingly calling me sweet (aka fool), the more I cooked. Cooking calmed me as nothing else could.

I stood at my station in the kitchen of the restaurant and drizzled tahini sauce over the three falafel cakes, then slid them inside a warmed garlic-infused pita full of thickly sliced cucumbers, tomatoes, red cabbage, and lettuce. Should I keep my falafel, every bit as
delicioso
as Alexander had said, off the menu just because Fresh was having Mediterranean night for the
Times
visit? Would keeping it be crappy to do to Alexander, considering my falafel had the edge over his?

Wasn't that the point, though? To
win
?

And be the reason Alexander didn't get promoted?

Half the sandwich gobbled up, I put it on the serious-contender list. I'd figure it out later.

I glanced at my watch. Almost noon. Someone else was probably hungry for my falafel. Someone I missed like crazy: Zach. I made another sandwich, wrapped it up, added a piece of my raspberry tort, whipped up one of his favorite juice blends—pomegranate-strawberry—and booked over to his office.

Zach's admin, an officious dude in a sweater vest, said he'd alert Zach that I was here, so I sat down in the reception area. The double doors to his suite opened, and Zach came, a look of surprise on his face.

“I didn't forget we were having lunch, did I?” he asked, looking worried that he had. Which was a good sign that he truly was just crazy busy lately.

I stood up and followed him into his office. I'd only been here once before, and I was still surprised by the size of the place. Bigger than my entire apartment with gorgeous views of the ocean and the Santa Monica Pier. His desk was the size of a king-size bed.

“Just thought I'd surprise you with lunch.” I took out the falafel and smoothie and put it on his desk. “I miss you, Zach. And I'm going to say this straight out—your mother is planning every detail of our wedding while I've never felt more disconnected from you. It's weird.”

He took my hands in his and pulled me close. “I'm sorry
I've been so busy, Clem. It's temporary, though. Come sit down with me.” He took the falafel and smoothie over to the huge leather (ick) sofa by the floor-to-ceiling window. “Is my mother driving you nuts?”

“I can handle her. She means well—ish.” I smiled.

He took a huge bite of the falafel. “God, this is incredible. Thanks for bringing it. I was about to order in again.”

“You ready for Sunday?”

“What's Sunday?”

He'd forgotten that my parents were throwing us an engagement party? Was he
this
distracted? “The meeting of the parents. The hippie farmers and the corporate giants.”

“My brain is going to explode—if I don't check my calendar every five minutes, I forget what I'm doing next. This acquisition is going to kill me. And I think our parents will get along great.”

Talk about brains exploding. The Jeffrieses and Coopers in the same room should be something to see.

“Your mom and I were talking about Jocelyn's list again. Now she thinks we should go over it. Make sure we're on the same page, to use your kind of lingo.”

He took a sip of the smoothie. “We
are
on the same page. Despite everything.”

“About SPCA and PETA donations in lieu of wedding gifts?” I should probably have asked him if he was okay with that, but I'd figured he would be. Did Zach really want people like my cousin Harry or Sara shelling out 250 bucks to us? Did
we want wildly expensive china for sixteen in some ornate pattern? No. We didn't. I understood Zach and he understood me. He'd be fine with the donations.

He smiled. “My mother left a voice mail ranting about that hours ago.”

“And?”

“I like cats. And dogs. And vicious minks.”

I hugged him. I knew it. “What about your expectations of married life? That's something I haven't even thought much about.”

“That's kind of a big question. I guess I expect we'll be partners. In everything.”

But what if you disagreed with me on something I wanted to do? Such as the Outpost?
I squeezed his hand and said, “Me too,” because it was true. And because once I had the logistics of the Outpost figured out and could show Zach real numbers and a business plan, he'd be on my side. If he wasn't, well, guess we'd both find out what happened when we had a stalemate. The Outpost would be mine, and the decision would be mine.

After a knock at the door, a head poked in.

“Oh, sorry, didn't meant to interrupt, but it's urgent.”

“No problem,” I said to Zach. “See you tonight?”

“Come over after you close.” He leaned over and kissed me, his hand cupping my face. He looked at me for a good long moment, then kissed me again.

Finally. My Zach seemed to be back.

“Let me make myself crystal clear, young lady,” Dominique screeched into my ear a few hours later. I held my iPhone out a bit so she wouldn't blow a hole in my eardrum.

And hello to you too. I'd barely answered her call before she started screaming.

“Keira will not, under any circumstances, appear on that ridiculous abomination of a television show. She said your friend works for the show, which is how I'm sure she got herself on there. These are not the kinds of connections I'm interested in her making, Clementine. So undo this. Now.”
Click
.

Whoa. I was staying out of this one.

When I arrived at the restaurant on Saturday morning, I was just in time to hear Violet, Gunnar's nine-year-old daughter, throw the tantrum of all tantrums. Did nine-year-old's throw tantrums? Guess so.

“No one wants to eat a vegan cake, Dad!”
she yelled, tears streaking down her face. “Everyone's gonna think I'm weird. They already think I'm weird. Just forget it!” She slid down the wall to her butt.

Violet Fitch looked so much like Gunnar. Same almost-black hair—except Violet's was past her shoulders in tangles of gorgeous waves—and catlike green eyes, long black lashes,
and serious eyebrows. She wore a Fun concert T-shirt, yellow shorts, and flip-flops.

“Violet,” Gunnar said, his voice a combination of frustration and weariness. He'd clearly had to drag her here.

“Hey,” Alanna said to the girl in a gentle voice I hadn't heard before, probably because I'd never seen her around a kid before. She went over to Violet and slid down the wall beside her. “I'm gonna make you a deal. If you don't love, and I mean
love
, the cake we bake today, I'll invite you and your dad over to my place tomorrow morning and I'll make sure I have all the ingredients for a not-vegan cake. Okay?”

“But why can't we just make a
not
-vegan cake now? Why bother teaching me how to bake a cake I—and everyone in the world—will think is totally gross?”

“Because you're going to be incredibly surprised, that's why,” Alanna said. “The cake we'll make today will be
so
good you will want to eat the entire thing. No exaggeration. And I have a recipe for you to take home so you can make it yourself.”

Violet stared at her, her expression softening. “I like your hair.”

Alanna smiled. “I like yours too.”

“So how do we start?” Violet asked, standing up. “Can we make a chocolate cake? My dad said we can.”

Alanna stood up too and headed toward my baking station, which was on the other side of the kitchen.

“We're gonna make the best chocolate cake you ever had. And you won't even know it's vegan. Do you know what
vegan
means?”

“That it doesn't have anything in it that comes from animals, right?”

“Right,” Alanna said. “So the only things we have to switch out are eggs—which come from what?”

“Chickens.”

“Right again. And butter. Do you know why we can't use butter in a vegan cake?”