Stand-In Groom (30 page)

Something heavy hit her bed. She shrieked and bolted upright, nearly colliding with Jenn, who bounced up and down on her knees.

“When were you going to tell us?”

Anne glanced at the alarm clock. Not even eight o’clock. Less than four hours of sleep—again. Never before had she thought ill of a relative. But right now she hated the two auburn-tressed sisters staring at her like baby chicks waiting to devour a worm. She fell back against her pillow with a groan. “Go away! Let me get some sleep.”

“I told you we should have left her alone,” Meredith scolded her younger sister. “Come on, let’s go.”

“No. I want to hear it from her. Is it true?” Jenn crawled over and straddled Anne.

“Is what true?” She could very easily toss the skinny-minnie off the bed, maybe even out the window.

“You’re planning Cliff Ballantine’s wedding.”

She could have gone all day without being reminded of that. “Go away.” She pushed Jenn away, rolled onto her side, and covered her head with the pillow again.

“You’re on the front page of the newspaper, Annie.” Meredith’s
soft voice filtered through the thick down covering Anne’s ears. “You looked really nice last night.”

She bolted upright again, this time bumping Jenn’s nose with her forehead. She snatched the paper from Meredith. Below a giant color photo of Courtney and Cliff on the front porch of Lafitte’s Landing was a smaller image of herself. When… ? Oh, she’d gone out to give Jonathan batteries for his radio pack.

“I’m surprised your phone isn’t ringing off the hook.” Jenn rubbed her nose.

“I turned the ringer off when I got home last night. I thought that would thwart anyone who might try to disturb me before I had a decent amount of sleep. I guess I’ll have to start using the door chain.”

“She would have just stood there pounding on the door until you opened it.” Meredith came around and sat on the edge of the bed. “Did you know?” She pointed at Cliff’s picture.

Anne shook her head. “No. George was under strict orders to keep his employer’s identity secret. No one knew until just before the press conference.”

“Hello?” Forbes’s voice rang through the apartment.

“In here,” Jenn yelled.

“What is it with you people and Saturday mornings?” Anne flipped the folded paper over to look at the top of the page again. B
ALLANTINE TO
M
ARRY
L
OCAL
G
IRL
, the headline proclaimed. Poor Courtney. She tossed the paper aside as Forbes entered her bedroom.

“Aren’t you going to read the articles?” Jenn caught the section before it slid off the far side of the bed.

“I was there. I planned it. I think I know what happened.” She propped a couple of pillows against her headboard and scooted up to sit against them. She reached for the tall paper cup of coffee Forbes held in his hand and took a big gulp before handing it back to him. “Ugh. Gross. Skim milk and artificial sweetener. I always forget.”

“Everything okay?”

Why did he look so nervous? “Mostly.” She cocked her head to one side. “Did you know anything about this? No, wait.” She held up her free hand. “I don’t want to know. Anything you say will probably just make me mad, and then we’ll sit here all morning analyzing why I’m mad and I’ll never get any more sleep. So now that everyone is reassured that I’m okay, can you please leave so I can go back to sleep?”

His relief palpable, Forbes leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Yes. Yes, we can do that.”

Meredith patted Anne’s knee through the quilt. “Yeah. Sorry we woke you up like that.”

“Jennifer, let’s go.” Forbes stood at the end of the bed like a nightclub bouncer.

“But—”

“No buts. Now.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at the door. He waited until his younger sister huffed out of the room, then turned back to Anne. “Rest up. If what they wrote in the paper is true, you’re not going to be getting a lot of rest anytime soon.”

As he walked out the door, Anne rearranged her pillows and curled into her favorite position. She yawned and closed her eyes. Ah, sleep.

If what they wrote in the paper is true…
Forbes’s words bounced through her mind. What had they written about her in the paper? The feature they’d done on her after the article in
Southern Bride
had been extremely complimentary and had driven most of this summer’s business. But with whom had the reporter spoken last night?

Her head throbbed. She wouldn’t worry about that now. She needed sleep. Sleep. She tapped her fingers on the mattress. Sleep. Yes, that’s what she needed.

One professional photographer had been allowed in last night. George said Cliff’s publicist, that very nice young woman named Tracie, would choose certain photos from inside the party to be
released to the major entertainment magazines. Anne hoped she wasn’t in any of them. She hated what the camera did to her already large frame.

Stop thinking about it. Sleep!

How many messages would she have on her voice mail at work? After the
Southern Bride
article, she’d changed her home number and kept it unlisted. But not only was her cell phone number on her business cards; she’d bought a display ad in the Yellow Pages this year. She was the only one out of the five planners listed in the category who’d done so. She was also the only one to ever be featured in a regional magazine. Or to have her own office in Town Square, just a few doors down from the store that did the most bridal clothing business in town. How much was this kind of national exposure going to grow her clientele?

She tossed onto her other side. She already had the answer to that in her appointment with Alicia Humphrey in a few hours. The girl was by no means a major star like Cliff, but her fiancé’s latest film had won several awards at this year’s independent film festivals. Buzz had already started about the possibility of an Academy Award nomination for best director. At least, that’s what she’d heard most often last night.

What if Alicia wanted Anne to come out to California to meet with her? She rolled onto her back and stared at her high, whiteplaster ceiling. No. Not even for a client could she board a plane. In this day and age, technology should allow her to do whatever necessary from here. Baton Rouge was only a two-hour drive, so that was no problem. But she had to make Alicia understand that Anne Hawthorne would
not
be flying anywhere.

All possibility of falling asleep again gone, Anne pushed up into a sitting posture and reached for the newspaper. The article contained mostly fluff. A truncated guest list. The reporter should have stayed later, as the most interesting names weren’t on it. A reference to the Mardi Gras–themed decor with Pamela Grant and the Delacroix Gardens Nursery & Florist both mentioned. Excellent,
free publicity for her vendors. When she found her name, she took a deep breath before continuing on.

The event was planned and executed by Bonneterre’s own Anne Hawthorne, an event planner whose business, Happy Endings, Inc., is well known throughout Louisiana and the Southeast. Hawthorne has planned many high-profile events, such as the mayor’s inaugural ball, the annual Bonneterre Debutante Cotillion, and the society wedding of Senator Hawk Kyler’s daughter Aiyana Kyler-Warner.

“I totally relied on Miss Anne for everything,” bride-to-be Landry said. “She talked to me about what I wanted and then did everything just like I imagined. No, even better than I imagined.”

Hawthorne, a Bonneterre native, first appeared in the pages of the
Reserve
twenty-eight years ago as one of five survivors of a commuter plane crash that took the lives of twelve others, including her parents, world-famous photographers Albert Hawthorne and Lilly Guidry-Hawthorne.

According to sources, Hawthorne and Ballantine knew each other as students at Acadiana High School and UL–Bonneterre. Neither Hawthorne nor Ballantine could be reached for comment.

“Nor am I likely to comment.” She tossed the paper aside. At least they hadn’t written anything negative about the event or her company. She climbed out of bed and winced as her sore feet hit the hardwood. She hadn’t even worn heels last night, and her feet still ached.

Thank goodness she’d set the coffeepot up without changing the timer before climbing into bed in the wee hours. She poured a cup of the chocolate-caramel-pecan-flavored brew, stirred in half-and-half and sugar, and padded across to her giant chair-and-a-half. Cradling the blue ceramic mug in her left hand, she grabbed the
TV remote and clicked the TV on. The screen came to life showing CNN Headline News.

“…confirmed all the rumors when he announced yesterday he is getting married.” The picture cut away from the cutesy reporter to footage of Cliff’s press conference. She smiled to see George in his butler-esque stance behind him. If George agreed to go into business with her, he’d never have to debase himself the way she’d seen him do with Cliff several times yesterday.

She clicked up one channel. MSNBC. Same story, same footage. Click. Fox News. Different news story—but then the scroll at the bottom of the screen ran the announcement. Click. Regular CNN. A repeat of
Larry King Live
from earlier in the week—with the announcement of Cliff’s engagement in the scroll at the bottom. Click. E! Entertainment Television. The
True Hollywood Story
of Cliff Ballantine. Couldn’t be all that “true” since they’d never interviewed her or Aunt Maggie, his employer for four years. Click. The Style Network. The fashion critique of a movie premiere event last night—and chatter between the hosts about the engagement announcement “a few minutes ago.” Click. Bravo Network. A repeat of
Inside the Actor’s Studio
featuring Cliff.

Okay, maybe she needed to go to a different set of channels. She punched in the number for TBS. They usually ran romantic comedies on Saturday mornings. Commercials. She sipped her coffee. Hopefully something that would put her to sleep. The movie came back on. She squinted to read the caption in the lower right corner. “You’re watching
Mountebank
.”

She nearly threw the remote at the TV. Cliff’s first movie. The one that had made him a star and her a nobody. She jumped out of the chair, crossed to the armoire-style entertainment center, and grabbed the blue box of the extended edition of
Return of the King
. Nothing like the Battle of Pelennor Fields and the destruction of the ring to get her mind off things—

“Anne, it’s you!”

She glanced down at the TV. Cliff’s face, ten years younger,
filled the large screen. She recognized that expression. She’d seen it when he suggested they get married.

“Anne, you’re the one I love. You’re the one I want to marry—”

She turned the DVD player on, mercifully sending the TV to a blue screen while she inserted the first disc.

No wonder he’d gotten that part. He already had the fake emotions—and the lines he had to say—down pat from practicing on her. She slouched down in the deep cushions of the big chair.

What would his marriage to an overweight, provincial, hometown girl have done for his career ten years ago? He’d spent the past decade creating the image of a happy-go-lucky bachelor, only too happy to have a different starlet on his arm at every red-carpet event he attended. Women turned out in droves to see his action-adventure movies on opening night. Would he have become such a phenomenon with Amazon Anne on his arm at every event?

No. She sighed. Not only would she have hampered his rise to megastardom, she would have hated all the attention; and being honest with herself, the stress of living in the public eye would have driven a wedge between them. She was woman enough to admit they would have been divorced within a few years.

He had an ulterior motive for dating her all those years. Could he be marrying Courtney now to improve his image? He’d gotten lots of press about being a playboy, gracing the cover of several magazines as the Bachelor of the Year multiple years running. Which was fine as long as he made action films. According to several conversations she’d overheard last night, Cliff wanted to be “considered for dramatic roles.” He’d never get those roles and garner an Academy Award nomination as long as he lived a life worthy of the cover of the
Enquirer
. And he’d wanted to win that particular award ever since she’d known him. He’d even practiced his acceptance speeches on her. “I’d like to thank the Academy, the wonderful casting agent who had the foresight to choose me for this role, the fabulous screenwriters who wrote this role with me as their model, the director who took my advice on every scene….” She’d
laughed then, not truly understanding the size of his ego.

Did Courtney really comprehend what she was getting herself into? Could the poor girl ever hope to compete with Cliff’s first love—himself?

The struggle between good and evil on her TV screen no longer interested her, and she turned it off. She needed to have a heart-to-heart with Courtney Landry before things went any further. If the girl got in over her head and ended up brokenhearted when Anne could have done something to head it off…

She went into the kitchen and grabbed her cell phone from her purse. She scrolled down to Courtney’s name and hit the button to dial.

No answer. Her voice sounded so young in her voice-mail greeting. “Hello, Courtney, it’s Anne Hawthorne. I hope you enjoyed yourself last night. You looked beautiful, and everyone in America loves you already. I know—I saw it on all the news channels this morning. Listen, I wanted to schedule a time for the two of us to go to lunch this week. We’ve never really had a chance to sit down, just the two of us, and chat. We’ve got some big events coming up that I’d like to get your ideas for. So just give me a call.” She left her cell, home, and office numbers and hung up.

Out of curiosity, she called into her voice mail at work.

“Ms. Hawthorne, hi, my name is Alaine Delacroix—you’ve worked with my family at Delacroix Rentals and Delacroix Nursery many times. I’m the social scene reporter with Channel Six—”
Anne skipped forward and listened to the first few seconds of twenty-three more messages—all from reporters wanting exclusives about the wedding. She deleted them with no remorse.