Happy Ever After

  aroused and interested. No point in pretending otherwise.

  So flustered, aroused, and interested, she hadn’t even asked where he planned to go, what he planned to do.

  How was she supposed to dress, for God’s sake? How was she supposed to prepare without the smallest detail to go on? Did he plan to take her to dinner, a movie, a play, straight to a motel?

  And why would they go to a motel when they both had homes?

  And why couldn’t she stop thinking and just read her damn book?

  She could just call him and find out. But she didn’t want to call him. Any normal man would’ve said,

  I’ll pick you up at seven, we’ll go to dinner. Then she’d know what to expect.

  She certainly wasn’t going to dress up when he’d probably pick her up on his motorcycle. She didn’t even know if he had a car.

  Why didn’t she know that?

  She could ask Del. She’d feel stupid asking Del. She felt stupid thinking about asking Del.

  She felt stupid.

  She’d let him put his hands all over her, was unquestionably thinking about letting him do it again—and more—and she didn’t even know if he owned a car. Or how he lived, or what he did with his free time, except play poker on poker night with her brother and his friends.

  “I could drive,” she murmured. “I could insist we take my car, then . . .”

  When her phone rang, she snatched it off the night table, thrilled to get her mind off her own personal insanity and onto a bride.

  “Hi, Emily. What can I do for you?”

  MONDAY MORNING, DRESSED IN A RUSTY RED JACKET AND BLACK pants, with heels low enough to suit errands, stylish enough to handle appointments, Parker hauled her dry cleaning bag to the stairs.

  “Here, I’ll get that.” Heading over from his wing, Del shifted his briefcase to take the bag.“Dry cleaning? If I take this down to your car, will you drop mine off, too?”

  “Can do, but make it quick.” She tapped her watch. “I’m on a schedule.”

  “There’s breaking news.” He set the bag and briefcase down. “Be there in two. Don’t carry that down.”

  “You might as well get Laurel’s while you’re at it,” she called after him.

  “Make that five.”

  She started to pick up the bag again, shrugged, carried his briefcase down instead. Emma strolled out of the parlor.

  “Hey. I copped coffee from Mrs. G, so I thought I’d check the house flowers while I was here. Heading out?”

  “Monday morning errands, then a consult at the bridal shop, and so on.”

  “Dry cleaning.” Emma waved her hands.“Can you take mine?”

  “If you get it here fast.”

  “I’m practically back already,” Emma claimed as she dashed out the door.

  Parker checked her watch, then walked back to pick up the weekly cleaning from Mrs. Grady.

  By the time she’d loaded that in her car, Del came out with two more bags. “I can pick this up when it’s ready,” he told her. “But maybe I need to rent a truck.”

  “Not done yet. Emma’s getting hers.”

  He tossed the bags in. “You know, with the amount you have, they’d pick up and deliver.”

  “Yes, but I’m going right by there anyway.” She took in a deep breath. “Fall’s coming.You can smell it. The leaves are starting to turn already.” Stupid, stupid, she thought, but couldn’t stop herself. “I guess when the weather turns, Malcolm must have to stow his motorcycle.”

  “Mostly. He’s got a ’Vette, some vintage deal he restored. Pretty slick. He won’t let anybody else drive it. And he’s got a truck.” He shot her a look. “Worried about your transportation?”

  “Not especially.That’s a lot of vehicles for one person.”

  “It’s his deal. He picks up vintage cars at auctions, restores them, flips them like houses. Seems there’s a hell of a market for that kind of thing, done right.” He reached around to tug her ponytail. “Maybe he’ll teach you to rebuild an engine.”

  “A useful skill, I’m sure, but I don’t think so.” She glanced over to see both Emma and Carter carting laundry bags. “Maybe we could use that truck.”

  “Ran into Mac on my way.” Emma puffed out a few breaths. “So we’ve got the whole haul.”

  “Are you sure you can manage all this?” Carter asked Parker. Didn’t she always? she thought but only pointed to the car. “Load it in.” And she’d make sure it was labeled on the other end.

  “I can pick it up—” Carter began.

  “Del’s on return detail. That’ll be Thursday,” Parker told her brother. “After two. Don’t forget. Full consult on the Foster-Ginnero wedding,” she said to Emma as she rounded the car.“Five sharp.”

  “All over it. Thanks, Parker.”

  She drove out, imagining both Del and Carter would be on their way close behind her. Jack, she knew, had already left for an early meeting on a job site. Emma would shortly begin processing the morning’s flower deliveries while Mac worked through the morning on photos—and handled an afternoon studio shoot, and Laurel baked for an outside job for Wednesday evening.

  A full day for all, she mused. Just the way she liked it.

  She dropped off the dry cleaning first, personally tagging each bag.

  Systematically, she worked down her list. Banking, stationery store, office supplies, stops to replace the supplies she’d been called on to use during the past week’s events. She added to her in-house supply of emergency party favors, thank-you gifts, hostess gifts, loading all carefully in her car, in order.

  And paused to take calls, answer texts from clients.

  She got her weekly manicure and arrived at her consult fifteen minutes early.

  She loved the bridal shop, the soft, female fragrance in the air, the sparkling displays, the flow and sheen of white gowns.

  There were elegant or edgy offerings for attendants, lovely choices for mothers of brides or grooms all carefully arranged with pretty and plush seating areas throughout, with roomy and multimirrored dressing rooms.

  “Parker.” The owner herself moved around a counter. “We’re all set for your client. First dressing room. Champagne, an assortment of cookies for the bride, her mother, and her two friends. We’ve got four gowns earmarked for the first round. You said ivory, elaborate, full skirted, lots of sparkle.”

  “That’s our girl. She won’t want anything sleek or simple, and she’s got the build to carry a big dress. Monica, since I’m early, I want to look for something I think would work for Laurel.”

  Monica clapped her hands together.“I was hoping you would.”

  “More contemporary, but with just a touch of thirties glamour. Maybe a subtle sweep in the skirt. Fluid, but with a tucked waist.” She gestured to the gown on the nearest display.“That’s not quite it, but it’s the idea.”

  “I’ve got a few minutes, too. So let’s play.”

  There was nothing, to Parker’s mind, quite like the pleasure of browsing through wedding gowns. Studying the lines, the tones, the details. Imagining it all. And since Monica had an eye and an efficiency Parker respected, she spent a satisfying ten minutes.

  “This one’s almost there.” She held up a gown, studied it from bodice to hem. “But I’d want a little more interest in the bodice. Laurel’s small-breasted. She’s also wonderfully toned, so I think she’d like strapless or spaghetti straps, especially as it’s going to be a summer wedding.And I’d want a touch of elegant fun in the back.”

  “Wait! I have one in the back we were holding. The client went in a different direction. Shouldn’t have, if you ask me. I think it may be what you’re after. Let’s go back and take a look.”

  She stepped into the back with Monica where more lovely gowns waited for the future bride to embrace or decline.

  She saw it before Monica reached for it. She saw Laurel.

  “That’s it! Oh, yes, that’s exactly it.” She studied it, top, bottom, front, back, eyeing every
detail and embellishment. “Monica, this is Laurel.You’ve done it again.”

  “I think that’s ‘we.’This is a four.”

  “And so’s Laurel. It’s fate. Can I take it home for approval?”

  “As if you had to ask. I’ll have it bagged for you.”

  “Thanks so much. I’m going to make a quick call before our bride gets here.”

  “Take your time. If they come in, we’ll get them settled first.”

  Parker took out her phone as Monica went out. “Mrs. G? I’ve found Laurel’s wedding dress. Can you set things up for tonight? It is. It’s absolutely perfect. I’ll try to find the headpiece while I’m here. It’ll have to be after the consult at five. Thanks, Mrs. G. I’ll be home in a couple hours.”

  She pocketed the phone and, after giving the dress another sigh, went out to meet her client.

  If browsing gowns was a pleasure, helping an eager bride find hers could be fraught with peril or full of joy.

  She dealt with a little of both with Emily.

  “I don’t want to look like anyone else.” Emily brushed her palms over the flouncing layers of tulle.

  “No bride ever does,” Parker told her.

  The four earmarked gowns had been tried on and rejected, as had another half dozen.

  And the second bottle of champagne opened.

  The problem with selection by committee, Parker mused, was that often the committee couldn’t agree on anything, almost on principle. What the bride liked, the mother didn’t. What the mother liked, one of the friends dismissed.

  “I tell you what.Why don’t you all take a break? We’ll have all these taken out, and you have a cookie, some more champagne. Clear your mind. Give me five minutes.”

  She thought she had it now, and went into a huddle outside the dressing room with Monica.

  “An overskirt of tulle would work, as long as there’s texture and sparkle under it. Let’s keep the midriff snug, and continue the sparkle. She needs something other than strapless or a standard neckline. I saw something with a delicate tulle halter. It had a silver jewel accent between the breasts and I think a lace hem with a demi train.”

  “I know exactly the one.” Lips pursed, Monica nodded. “You may be right. I’ll have it brought in along with let’s say two others that may suit. I have one with a pick-up skirt big enough to hide an army under.”

  “Excellent. One of the problems is the mother wants bride white.”

  “The mother’s wrong. With her coloring Emily needs the warmth of the ivory. She’ll see it when we hit the right gown.”

  Ten minutes later, Parker helped hook the back of the gown. “Nobody say a word.” She smiled as she said it, but the order was firm.“No comments until Emily turns around and sees for herself. Let’s get her thoughts and impressions first this time.”

  “It feels good. I love the skirt.” She smiled nervously at Parker. “The lace and the tulle and the silk and the pattern of the flowers and beads. But I thought bigger, if you know what I mean.”

  “Let’s see what you think when you see the full effect.There. The back’s gorgeous, by the way. Now deep breath, and turn around to the mirrors.”

  “Okay, here we go.”

  Emily turned, and Parker thought: bull’s-eye. She recognized the stunned, misty-eyed delight, the awareness, and the change of body language as Emily straightened, lifted her head.

  “Oh, oh, look at me! Look at this.” She traced her fingertips down the sparkling midriff. “I love the halter style, the way it’s so delicate, not like straps.”

  “You wouldn’t be able to wear a necklace,” one of the friends commented.

  “But think of the earrings this dress would handle,” Parker said quickly.“Anything from subtle studs to long chandeliers.And with a headdress, a tiara to play off the gorgeous brooch-work on the bodice, you’ll sparkle for miles.”

  From experience, Parker watched the mother’s reaction, smiled to herself. “What do you think, Mrs. Kessler?”

  “I think . . . It’s just . . . Oh, Emmy.”

  Parker handed out tissues.

  The headdress, the underpinnings, took a fraction of the time already spent.At the bride’s request, Parker stayed to suggest gowns for the bridal party while the bride got her first fitting.

  Parker adjusted her schedule, and pleased the two friends— one-third of the bridal attendants, with her choice of stylish, off-the-shoulder gowns in the bride’s choice of rose red.

  She left her very happy client and carried what she hoped would be her friend’s wedding gown out of the shop.

  “Parker Brown.”

  She glanced over, faltered briefly. “Mrs. Kavanaugh. How are you?”

  “Good enough.” Kay Kavanaugh’s wild orange hair blew in the light breeze as she tipped her green-framed glasses down her nose. “Buying a dress?”

  “No, actually, taking one for approval for a friend. Laurel McBane. I think you’ve met Laurel.”

  “She brought her car in for Mal to fiddle with. Seems like a sensible girl. She’s getting married to your brother, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, next summer.”

  “The other two you’re working with, they’re getting married, too.”

  “Yes, Mac this December, and Emma next spring.”

  “You’re dating my boy, aren’t you?”

  The segue from weddings to Malcolm threw her off again. “We went out to dinner, but . . . Yes, I suppose I am.”

  “I want coffee.You can meet me in there.” She pointed to one of the cafes along the main street.

  “Oh, thank you, but I really need to—”

  “You ought to be able to spare ten minutes for a cup of coffee when somebody asks you.”

  She knew when she’d been neatly put in her place.“Of course. I’ll just put this in the car.”

  “Need a hand?”

  “No, no thank you. I have it.”

  “Inside, then.”

  Good God, Parker thought, what was this about? And it was ridiculous to be nervous about having a cup of coffee with a perfectly nice woman, just because that woman was the mother of a man she was . . .

  Whatever she and Malcolm were.

  She loaded the dress, locked the car, checked her watch. She had twenty minutes to spare.What could happen in twenty minutes over coffee?

  Inside, she crossed to the booth where Mrs. Kavanaugh already consulted with the waitress.“They have good pie here. I’m having apple pie.”

  “Just coffee for me,” Parker said as she slid in across from Malcolm’s mother. “Is it your day off ?”

  “Afternoon off. I had some things to take care of.” Kay sat back. “My boy has an eye for pretty women, but he’s not stupid about it.”

  “That’s . . . good to know.”

  “I saw he had one for you the first time you came into the garage. It took him long enough to get around to it—that’s where he’s not stupid. It’s clear you’re not stupid either.”

  Parker considered a moment. “I can’t think of anything to say to that except no, I’m not.”

  “But you’re a different kettle than what we’re used to around our place.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “If you don’t, I’m going to think you are stupid. You’re a Brown, with the Brown name, the Brown status, and the Brown fortune. Don’t saddle up your high horse,” Kay warned as the waitress brought the pie and coffee.“I’m not finished.You act like a Brown, and by that I mean you act like the ones who raised you to be one. Your parents were good people, people who didn’t flaunt that name, status, and money. Didn’t shove it in anybody’s face. I worked some of the parties they threw back when you were a kid. To my mind you can tell what makes up a person by how they treat the hired help.”

  Stumped, Parker added some cream to her coffee.

  “I like your brother, too, even if he and the others won’t let me in on their poker nights because I don’t have the right plumbing.”

  At Parker�
�s laugh, Kay smiled, and Parker saw Malcolm. “If you’re asking, both Del and I know and appreciate the privilege we were born into.”

  “I can see that for myself. You don’t exactly sit around on your butts, do you? You know how to work and how to build something for yourself and who comes after. That’s a thumbs-up to your parents, and to you.”

  “That’s a lovely thing to say.”

  “Lovely or not, it’s how I see it. If Mal’s got his eye on you, it’s dead on you. It’s not on what comes with you—that name, status, or money.” Kay cocked a brow at the flash in Parker’s eyes. “And you just answered the only question I had about this.You already know what he’s looking at, so I could’ve saved my breath. Now I can enjoy my pie.”

  “Mrs. Kavanaugh—”

  “I think you can call me Kay after this. Or Ma Kavanaugh, if that suits you better.”

  “If I thought Malcolm had ‘his eye’ on the Brown assets, I’d—”

  “Have already given him the heave-ho. I’m not stupid either.”

  “Do the two of you always interrupt people in midsentence?”

  “Terrible habit.” Kay smiled again.“Want some of this pie? It’s damn good.”

  Parker started to refuse, then picked up the second fork the waitress had laid, took a small sample. “You’re right. It’s damn good.”

  “I hate to be wrong. Mal had a rough time as a boy,” she continued. “Some of that’s on me, and maybe why I hate to be wrong. Some of it’s just the way the cards got dealt. But it didn’t ruin him. I think he used it to make something of himself, to prove something. He’s got flaws, and I’m the first to point them out, but he’s a good boy. I figure you could do worse, and I figure you couldn’t do much better.”

  Parker couldn’t stop the smile.“He loves you, too. In a way that shows. It’s one of the things about him I find appealing.”

  “He’s never let me down, I’ll say that. Not once, not ever. We try to have a Sunday dinner at my house once a month.You come next time. I’ll tell Mal to work it out with you.”

  “I . . . I’d like that.”

  “I’m no Maureen Grady in the kitchen, but I won’t poison you. Have some more pie.”

  Parker picked up the fork again, and had some more pie.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  AFTER THE EVENING CONSULT, LAUREL TUCKED HER FEET UP, stretched her arms. “I think this one’s in the running for Ditzy Bride status. Not only does she want her MOH to walk her two Siamese cats down the aisle rather than carry a bouquet, but wants to include them on the guest list.”

  “Which means us providing, and her paying for, a meal—they’ll have the salmon—for each.” Mac rolled her eyes.

  “Plus collar boutonnieres.” Emma only laughed. “And a cat sitter through the reception.Where are you going to get a cat sitter?” she asked Parker.

  “I’ll talk to her vet. At least she didn’t insist on having them at the head table during dinner.”

  “But it was close.Well, that’s a problem for another day,” Laurel decided.