Happy Ever After

  “What I want now is a nice glass of wine before I see what I can mooch from Mrs. G for dinner since Del called and has a late meeting.”

  “Change of plans there,” Parker announced. “We have something to do upstairs.”

  “Parker, I can’t possibly do a summit. My brain’s tired.”

  “It’s not that kind of a summit.” Parker got to her feet. “And I think your brain will wake up for it.”

  “I don’t see . . .” Realization dawned, clearly, in Laurel’s eyes. “You found a dress for me.”

  “Let’s go see.”

  Grinning at her friends, Laurel bounced in her seat. “It’s my turn! Is there champagne?”

  “What do you think?” Mac demanded and hauled her up.

  “Same rules as before,” Parker said as they all started up together. “If it’s not the one, it’s not the one. No hurt feelings.”

  “I haven’t even decided on the style I want yet. I keep circling around. But I’m pretty sure I don’t want a veil, it’s so medieval. Apologies,” she said to Emma. “But maybe I’d just go for some sort of hair ornament or flowers, so I don’t think the dress should be too traditional. I don’t want to go ultracontemp either, so . . .”

  “And so it begins.” Mac wrapped an arm around Laurel’s waist, hugged. “It’s Bride Fever, honey. Been there, done that.”

  “I didn’t think I’d be here doing that, but I surrender. This is why Del said he’d be home late?”

  “I called him when I found the dress.” Parker paused at the closed door of the Bride’s Suite. “He’s hanging out with Jack and Carter. Ready?”

  Laurel pushed her swing of hair behind her ears, gave herself a quick shake. Laughed. “Absolutely ready.”

  As had been done for Mac, then Emma, Laurel’s dress hung in full view. A bottle of champagne chilled in a silver bucket with a pretty tray of fruit and cheese beside it.

  Mrs. Grady stood, pincushion and camera at the ready.

  “It’s beautiful, Parker.” Eyes intent, Laurel stepped closer. “I haven’t been sure about strapless, but I love the way the neckline curves a little—softer—and the ruching and beadwork on the bodice adds that texture and sparkle.” Reaching out, she brushed the skirt—just fingertips. “I haven’t been sure about sparkle.”

  “I like the way the material pulls in at the waist, soft gathers to that center silver work, then the drape down from there.” Mac angled her head, circled, nodded. “It’ll photograph beautifully.”

  “The way it flows and folds down at the center of the skirt,” Emma added. “With the silver beadwork along the edges. More interest, but not fussy. And the way those lines and textures are mirrored in the back. It’s really lovely, Parker. Good work.”

  “We’ll see about that once the girl’s in it.” Mrs. Grady waved a hand. “Get her going. I’ll pour the champagne.”

  “No peeking,” Mac warned as she turned Laurel’s back to the mirror.

  “Luckily it’s your size, so it shouldn’t need much fitting. So I picked up the underpinning. Even if you don’t like the dress, the underpinning will work with anything you end up with.”

  Mac grabbed her own camera once they had Laurel covered up again, caught moments of Parker and Emma smoothing skirts, buttoning the back.

  Mac clicked her glass to Mrs. Grady’s. “What do you think?”

  “Lips zipped until the bride has her say.” But her eyes were damp.

  “Okay, you can turn around, take a look.”

  At Parker’s directive, Laurel turned. Her face stayed neutral as she studied herself. “Well . . .” Somber, she turned one way, then the other, with a slight shake of her head that had Parker’s heart dropping.

  “It may not be what you had in mind,” Parker began. “What you’ve imagined wearing. It’s your day. It has to be exactly right.”

  “Yeah, it does. I’m not sure . . .” Laurel turned her body so she could see, then study, the back.“I just don’t know . . . how you do it! Psych!” She laughed and threw her arms around Parker. “You should’ve seen your face. So damn stoic. I love you. I love you guys. Oh, it’s gorgeous. It’s so perfectly perfect. I have to look at me again.”

  As she broke away to spin in front of the mirror, eyes sparkling, Parker just said, “Whew.”

  “You’re three for three.” Emma tapped glasses. “And though I was going to make a pitch for one, you’re right about the veil, Laurel.”

  “Thinking that, I picked these up.” Parker crossed over to open a box holding two jeweled combs.“I had this idea. If you can stop admiring yourself for a couple minutes, I want to try something.”

  “Can’t I admire myself while you try it? Look at me.” Lifting her skirts, Laurel took another spin. “I’m a bride!”

  “Then hold still. I was thinking if you swept your hair back from the temples with these, then we had the hairdresser do something fun in the back.”

  “And we’d add some flowers—she might have enough for a French braid,” Emma calculated, “leaving the rest of her hair down.We have them wind some thin, beaded ribbon through the braid, and pin a small clip of flowers. Sweet peas, you said you wanted sweet peas and peonies primarily.”

  “I do love sweet peas,” Laurel confirmed, then reached up to touch the sparkles in her hair. “I love the combs, Parker. It’s just exactly the sort of thing I was trying to visualize. Oh, the dress. The dress. It’s just a little bit thirties. Classic but not traditional. It’s my wedding dress.”

  “All of you together now,” Mrs. Grady ordered, “before you get too sloppy on joy and champagne.There’s my girls,” she murmured as they lined up for the photo.

  MAC SCANNED PARKER’S ENORMOUS AND TERRIFYINGLY ORGANIZED closet. “Maybe if I had a closet this size, I could keep it all neat and organized.”

  Parker rejected a red shirt and moved on. “No, you couldn’t.”

  “That’s cold.True, but cold.”

  “If you kept your closet organized, you wouldn’t be able to buy another white shirt just because it’s cute, because you’d be perfectly aware you already have a dozen white shirts.”

  “Also true, but there’s something to be said about knowing where your red patent leather belt is when you absolutely need your red patent leather belt.” Mac opened a drawer in one of the many built-in cabinets that held Parker’s collection of belts, neatly coiled in color groups.

  “Since you know where everything is, and keep a detailed list on your computer of the entire contents and their specific location, why is it taking you so long to pick something out?”

  “Because I don’t know where we’re going or how we’re getting there.” Frustration shimmied in her voice as she rejected another shirt.“And because it’s important I don’t make it look important.”

  Understanding perfectly, Mac nodded. “Cashmere sweater, strong color.Vee or scoop with a white cami, black or gray pants. Heeled booties, color depending on the color of the sweater. It’s going to be cool tonight, so wear that excellent leather topper, the one that hits about midthigh and has the swoosh when you walk.”

  Parker turned to her friend. “You’re absolutely right.”

  “Image is my business. Wear some great earrings, and leave your hair down.”

  “Down?”

  “It’s sexier down, less studied. Go for some smoke on the eyes and pale lips. I don’t have to add, wear excellent underwear just in case, because you only have excellent underwear. I’m often struck with underwear envy.”

  Parker considered Mac’s overall vision. “I haven’t decided if Malcolm’s going to get a chance to see my underwear.”

  “Yes, you have.”

  “I haven’t decided if he’s going to get a chance to see it tonight.”

  “That just makes it sexier.”

  “It just makes me more nervous, and I don’t like being nervous.” She opened another drawer. Shook her head, opened another. “This? Good strong plum color, V-neck, but with the mandarin collar, there’s a
little interest.”

  “Excellent. If you have a softer plum-tone cami, and you will, go for that instead of white. And the gray pants, stone, straight leg. Then . . .” She crossed to the wall of shoes, ordered by type, subcategorized by color. “Then you’ve got these truly delicious heather booties in suede with this great tapered heel. The colors and fabrics are all soft and rich, but the combination’s got a casual yet put-together Parker feel.”

  “It’s good.”

  “Oh, and wear those big hammered-silver hoops. You hardly ever wear them, and they’ll rock this outfit.”

  “They’re so big.”

  Mac pointed a finger. “Trust me.”

  “Why do we go to all this trouble?” Parker asked. “Men don’t notice anyway.”

  “Because what we wear affects how we feel, how we act, how we move. And that they do notice. Especially the move. Get dressed, smoke the eyes.You’ll know you look good so you’ll feel good.You’ll have a better time.”

  “I’d have a better time if I knew what to expect.”

  “Parker?” Mac skimmed a hand down Parker’s ponytail as their eyes met in the mirror. “Most of the guys you go out with, you know what to expect from minute one.They don’t make you nervous. I haven’t known you to get beyond a solid like or maybe a nice, safe care about since college.”

  “Justin Blake.” Parker smiled a little. “I really thought I was in love with him then . . .”

  “The world caved in,” Mac said, thinking of when the Browns had died.“He wasn’t really there for you, didn’t have it in him to be.”

  “And that was that.”

  “That stayed that, too. I really think Mal’s the first risk you’ve taken with a guy since Justin Selfish Asshole Blake.”

  “And that turned out so well.”

  Mac turned, laid her hands on Parker’s shoulders. “I love you, Parks.Take a chance.”

  “I love you, too.” Parker let out a breath. “I’ll wear the big silver hoops.”

  “You won’t be sorry. I have to get going. Have fun tonight.”

  Of course she’d have fun. Why wouldn’t she? Parker thought as she swung on the leather topper Mac had correctly recommended.

  She knew how to have fun.

  She wasn’t all business all the time, as most, if not all, of her clients could attest. And all right, maybe having fun with clients was business, but it didn’t negate the fun factor.

  She knew she was overthinking the entire thing, which meant she started overthinking the overthinking until she wanted to smack herself.

  Nothing relieved her more than the ring of the front door. At least now she could get started on whatever she was doing for the evening.

  “Casual,” she said to herself as she walked to the door. “Easy. No stress, no pressure.”

  When she opened the door, he stood there, leather jacket over an untucked shirt the blue of faded jeans, thumbs tucked in the pockets of dark pants.

  Casual, she thought again. He certainly knew how to be.

  “You look good.”

  She started to step out. “Thanks.”

  “Really good.” He didn’t move out of her way, but into her. A smooth move, she’d think later, that put his hands in her hair and his mouth on hers.

  “You didn’t say where we were going,” she managed. “Or how . . .”

  She spotted the car now, a low-slung beast in shining black. “That’s quite a car.”

  “It’s heading toward cold tonight. I didn’t think you’d want the bike.”

  She walked off the portico and had to admire the lines. Del had been right. It was very slick. “It looks new, but it’s not.”

  “Older than I am, but it’s a nice ride.” He opened the door for her.

  She slid in. It smelled of leather and man, a combination that only made her more aware of being female.When he got in beside her, turned the ignition, the engine made her think of a fist, coiled and ready to strike.

  “So, tell me about the car.”

  “Sixty-six Corvette.”

  “And?”

  He glanced at her, then shot up the drive. “She moves.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Four-speed close-ratio trans, 427 CID with high-lift camshaft, dual side-mount exhausts.”

  “What’s the reason for a close-ratio transmission? I assume that was transmission, and the close ratio means there’s not much difference between the gears.”

  “You got it. It’s for engines tuned for max power—sports cars—so the operating speeds have a narrow range. It puts the driver in charge.”

  “There wouldn’t be any point having a car like this if you weren’t.”

  “We’re on the same page there.”

  “How long have you had it?”

  “Altogether? About four years. I just finished restoring it a few months ago.”

  “It must be a lot of work, restoring cars.”

  He slanted a glance at her as his hand worked the gearshift. “I could point out the irony of you saying anything’s a lot of work. Plus it’s a driveable ad for the business. People notice a car like this, then they ask about it.Word gets around.Then maybe some trust fund baby who’s got his granddaddy’s Coupe de Ville garaged decides to have it restored, or some dude with a wad of cash wants to revisit his youth and hires me to find and restore a ’72 Porshe 911 wherein he lost his virginity, which takes some doing in a 911.”

  “I’ll take your word.”

  He grinned. “Where’d you lose yours?”

  “In Cabo San Lucas.”

  His laugh was quick. “Now, how many people can say that?”

  “A number of Cabo San Lucans, I imagine. But to return to the car, it’s very smart.The idea of a driveable ad for your business.”

  It did move, she thought. Hugging the curves of the road like a lizard hugged a rock. And like the bike, it spoke of power in subtle roars, smooth hums.

  Not practical, of course, not in the least. Her sedan was practical. But . . .

  “I’d love to drive it myself.”

  “No.”

  She angled her head, challenged by the absolute denial.“I have an excellent driving record.”

  “Bet you do. Still no.What was your first car?”

  “A little BMW convertible.”

  “The 328i?”

  “If you say so. It was silver. I loved it.What was yours?”

  “An ’82 Camaro Z28, five speed, cross-fire fuel-injected V8. She moved, at least when I finished with her. She had seventy thousand hard miles on her when I got her off this guy in Stamford. Anyway.” He parked across from a popular chophouse. “I thought we’d eat.”

  “All right.”

  He took her hand as they crossed the street, which gave her, she told herself, a ridiculous little thrill.

  “How old were you when you got the car?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “You weren’t even old enough to drive it.”

  “Which is one of the many things my mother pointed out when she found out I’d blown a big chunk of the money I was supposed to be saving for college on a secondhand junker that looked ready for the crusher. She’d have kicked my ass and made me sell it again if Nappy hadn’t talked her out of it.”

  “Nappy?”

  He held up two fingers when they stood inside, got a nod and a wait-one-minute signal from the hostess. “He ran the garage back then, what’s mine now. I worked for him weekends and summers, and whenever I could skip out of school. He convinced her restoring the car would be educational, how I was learning a trade, and that it would keep me out of trouble, which I guess it did. Sometimes.”

  As she walked with him in the hostess’s wake, she thought of her own teenage summers. She’d worked in the Brown Foundation, learning along with Del how to handle the responsibility, respect the legacy—but the bulk of her holidays had been spent in the Hamptons, by the pool of her own estate, with friends, with a week or two in Europe to top it off.

  He ord
ered a beer, she a glass of red.

  “I doubt your mother would’ve approved of the skipping school.”

  “Not when she caught me, which was most of the time.”

  “I ran into her yesterday.We had coffee.”

  She saw what she’d seen rarely. Malcolm Kavanaugh completely taken by surprise. “You had . . . She didn’t mention it.”

  “Oh, it was just one of those things.” Casually, Parker opened the menu. “You’re supposed to ask me to dinner.”

  “We’re having dinner.”

  “Sunday dinner.” She smiled. “Now who’s scared?”

  “Scared’s a strong word. Consider yourself asked, and we’ll figure out when it’ll work. Have you eaten here before?”

  “Mmm.They have baked potatoes the size of footballs. I think I’ll have one.” She set her menu aside.“Did you know your mother worked for mine occasionally—extra help at parties?”

  “Yeah, I knew that.” His eyes narrowed on her face. “Do you think that’s a problem for me?”

  “No. No, I don’t. I think it might be a problem for some people, but you’re not one of them. I didn’t mean it that way. It just struck me . . .”

  “What?”

  “That there’d been a connection there, back when we were kids.”

  The waiter brought their drinks, took their order.

  “I changed a tire for your mother once.”

  She felt a little clutch in her heart. “Really?”

  “The spring before I took off. I guess she was driving home from some deal at the country club or wherever.” Looking back, bringing it into his mind, he took a sip of his beer. “She had on this dress, the kind that floats and makes men hope winter never comes back. It had rosebuds, red rosebuds all over it.”

  “I remember that dress,” Parker whispered. “I can see her in that dress.”

  “She’d had the top down, and her hair was all windblown, and she wore these big sunglasses. I thought, Jesus, she looks like a movie star.Anyway, she didn’t have a blowout. She had a slow leak she didn’t notice until she did, and pulled over, called for service.

  “I’d never seen anybody who looked like her. Anybody that beautiful. Until you. She talked to me the whole time.Where did I go to school, what did I like to do. And when she got that I was Kay Kavanaugh’s boy, she asked about her, how she was doing. She gave me ten dollars over the bill, and a pat on the cheek. And as I watched her drive away I thought, I remember thinking, that’s what beautiful is.What it really is.”

  He lifted his beer again, caught the look on Parker’s face.

  “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

  “You didn’t.” Though her eyes stung. “You gave me a little piece of her I didn’t have before. Sometimes I miss them so much, so painfully, it’s comforting to have those pieces, those little pictures. Now I can see her in her spring rosebud dress, talking to the boy changing her tire, a boy who was marking time until he could go to California. And dazzling him.”

  She reached out, laid a hand over his on the table. “Tell me about California, about what you did when you got there.”

  “It took me six months to get there.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  She learned he’d lived in his car a good portion of the time, picking up odd