Skinny Bitch Gets Hitched (33 page)

It was the Skinny Bitch way.

W
hen I got home that night, the first thing I did was text Alexander:
Knock 'em dead, chef (not literally).

Then I called Dominique. At the sound of my voice, there was dead silence.

“I'm coming over,” I said.

“I might not be home.”

“Well, then I'll write what I have to say on your front door. In my dark red lipstain.”

“You would, wouldn't you,” she said.

“Shit yeah.”

I could see the eye roll from here. “I'll be here for another half hour, so you'd better hurry if you want to catch me.”

God, she was transparent. She wanted to talk this out as much as I did. Somehow, along the way, I'd gotten to know Dominique Jeffries Huffington.

“If you're here to grovel to get me back as your wedding planner, you'll have to do better than this,” she said, her expression flat. “Tea?” She gestured at the pot on the ornate tray on the coffee table. Gold bangles clanged on her tanned, toned arm. “The tea is herbal since I know you don't do caffeine. And the croissants are dairy-free, by the way.”

She was trying, at least.

“The wedding's been postponed.”

The look of alarm on her face surprised me. “Postponed? Why? Is it my fault?”

“Why do you think so?” I knew full well why. I wanted to see if she did. If she had a clue.

“Well, I did raise a bit of a fuss. Perhaps it caused problems between you and Zach.”

“I will have that tea,” I said, reaching for half of an almond croissant. “Do you want that to be the case?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why
did
you raise such a fuss? Why do something that would potentially come between us?”

She stared at me for a moment, then stirred fake sugar into her tea and took a sip. “Well, I was mad as hell, for one.”

“You worked so hard to repair your relationship with Zach, though.”

“I'm who I am.”

“Same here.”

“I'm sorry I caused problems with you and Zach. That wasn't my intention at all. I like you, Clementine. To be honest, I Iike you so much that it made me even more furious that you meddled in Keira's life.”

“But that's the thing. I didn't meddle at all. She got on
Eat Me
on her own. She made that happen. She decided she wanted to be a chef and apply to cooking schools on her own. And lest you forget,
you
were the one who asked me to hire her.”

“To make her see how awful working a restaurant is. I thought Zach's steak house would knock some sense into her, but one walk through your kitchen and she thought it was all puppies and rainbows because of the vegan influence. I was sure she'd be disabused of that in a day.”

“But instead, she found her passion.”

Dominique turned away with her teacup, pretending to have great interest in a depressing oil painting of someone's great-grandfather.

“What the hell is so awful about being a chef?”

“My father was a chef,” she finally said, getting up and moving over to the window. “He lived and breathed his job and he brought it home with him. Do you know that he made us—my sister and I—respond with ‘Yes, chef' and ‘No, chef'? He
was a tyrant, I think I mentioned that. The thought of Keira entering that world . . .”

Ah. “I'm sorry your father was a tyrant. I've worked for some tyrants and know exactly what you're talking about. But not all restaurant kitchens are run by pricks.”

“Even walking into a restaurant kitchen makes me shudder. It's not even something I want to get over. I just don't want to do it.”

“I can understand that.” I envisioned a six-, eight-, twelve-year-old Dominique hoping for a crumb of good attention and being dismissed or hit with a wooden spoon. “But it's not fair to Keira, is it?”

She was silent for a moment. “I
never
talk about this. Except occasionally to my husband. He takes my side, of course.”

“I'm on your side, Dominique. But I'm on Keira's side too. She deserves to follow her bliss. Even if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“I think you should go now.”

But there was no anger in her dark blue eyes. She was thinking. A good thing.

Around midnight, my phone pinged. Alexander? Finally reporting in on how the visit from the
Times
reporter had gone?

Nope. Not Alexander.

Keira.

It's a miracle. Dominique apologized. Said she'd turned into a tyrant. I'm applying to culinary schools with her blessing! She's going to talk to my dad too. Yay!

I texted back a
yay
.

For the first time in the history of Clementine's No Crap Café, I was a customer, sitting in the dining room with Zach and Dominique. I had a great team in the kitchen. I had balance. I had a much-needed night off.

Dominique took a bite of her butternut-squash ravioli. “This pasta is so toothsome,” Dominique said without a shred of irony. “Excellent. Even if you didn't make it this time. Since you're sitting right here.”

“I trained my staff well,” I said, shooting her a smile. “Oh, and, Dominique, I was wondering. I've got a ton on my plate with this place and working on the plans to open the Outpost in my parents' barn. Would you like to handle the wedding plans again?”

She tried hard to hide her smile. “Well, I'll have to think about it. You were a bit of a tough customer, you know.”

Ha.

“Okay, I've thought about it. I accept. There goes a pair of my Louboutins sinking in dirt and smelling like rabbit shit.”

I had a feeling Dominique and I would get along just fine.

From: Martina Jones

[email protected]

To: Clementine Cooper; Alexander Orr

Hey, Clementine and Alexander,

I couldn't decide between Clementine's No Crap Café's exceptional pumpkin ravioli, and blackened Cajun seitan stir-fry, and sopaipillas, and Fresh's melt-in-your-mouth spanakoptia and vegetable moussaka, so I decided to include
both
restaurants in my travel piece on the best vegans across America. Congrats! And thanks for dinner.

—Martina

Congratulations, chef,
I e-mailed to Alexander. Shit, yeah!

A week later, I had another Saturday night off, for a wedding. Guess whose? Sara and Joe's.

The ceremony was at Joe's house, and the reception in the backyard.

They turned their master bedroom into a bridal suite, and when I helped Sara on with her dream gown, which our friend Ty and I had chipped in to buy as a wedding gift, she looked so beautiful I almost cried. Until I sat down on the water bed—that's right, water bed—and the moment was ruined. I did her
makeup and arranged her hair around her veil, long and wild and curly.

In a half hour, Sara Macintosh would walk down the white-rose-petal-strewn aisle to Joe “Steak” Johansson, who cleaned up danged well, I had to admit. Sara's parents had come around a bit, since Joe promised to revert from now on to the altar boy he'd once been in front of them. They in turn vowed not to watch the show.

As I put the veil on and fluffed it around Sara, she said, “You know what I was thinking about last night? That Joe and I didn't get around to number nine on Jocelyn's list. The adventure together.”

“You totally did. Same with me and Zach. Your relationship, the engagement. Today. The honeymoon. Your entire future. There's your adventure. Together.”

“I love you, Clementine Cooper.”

“I love you too.”

“How do I look?” She spun around for me.

“Absolutely beautiful.”

“Turns out that crazy guy I'm marrying likes me skinny
and
fat. I'm back down the fourteen pounds I gained, and he tells me I look smokin' hot both ways.”

“So go marry him.”

And she did. An hour later, as I watched her dance with her husband at the reception, she looked so, so happy. Not only had she just married the guy she loved, but she'd gotten her first role on a sitcom and would be quitting
Eat Me
next week.
Joe was planning a special send-off, and then the next week she'd start shooting her new role as the funny best friend and next-door neighbor on a new half-hour sitcom starring someone famous. She'd done it.

Shit, yeah, Sara!

As maid of honor, I'd had to walk down the aisle with Joe's best friend, a guy more vulgar than Joe, which was saying something. But soon, I'd be walking down the aisle to Zach. And I was ready.