The Wrong Bridesmaid, page 8
And with that order to myself, I get in my truck and roar off to find Winston.
It’s easier than I expect, considering he’s set up at the kitchen table at home, with a laptop open in front of him and a spread of papers covering the glass surface.
“Hey, man,” I say. “Got my suit fitted, but you could’ve warned me about the Duchess’s grabby, stabby hands.”
Winston looks up in surprise, echoing, “Grabby, stabby hands?”
I mimic her cupping my ass a little more exaggeratedly than actually happened, and Winston grins.
“A little birdie also told me something,” I start, using our (not so) codename for Wren from when we were kids.
“No telling what she’s got up her sleeve now,” Winston says wryly.
“She said she’s a groomswoman, and you want me to be your best man?” It’s not that I doubt Wren, or more accurately Avery, but I need to hear it from Winston firsthand.
He leans back in the chair, crossing his arms. “And if I do?”
It’s more of a challenge than an invitation, but I guess I deserve that. “I would be honored to stand by your side. But I’d also understand if you wanted someone more . . . present.” It’s as close as I can get to acknowledging how long I’ve been gone and how out of touch I’ve become. I’m working on fixing that, at least for now, but I don’t have the right to expect a place of honor like best man.
Winston stands, coming around the table to offer his hand. “I wouldn’t have anyone else, man.”
I bypass his hand and grab him in a manly bear hug, patting his back as he slaps mine. So much is healed between us in this moment, and I’m struck with how much I’ve missed him.
As we sit down, I tell him, “I met your girl. She’s just as pretty as you said. Also, side note . . . she saw my junk.”
The bomb drops the way I thought it would, with Winston’s eyes going wide and then narrowing sharply. “Explain,” he orders.
I laugh. “Kidding. Sort of . . .” But as I tell him about my morning standing half-naked in a roomful of women, he’s the one laughing at my embarrassment.
Chapter 6
HAZEL
The bell above the entrance to Mrs. Hinsley’s shop tinkles when I come back in, and it somewhat snaps me back on task as I go to the back. Opening the door, I find Rachel and Wren already in their wedding attire. Rachel’s in her bridesmaid dress, an empire-waisted, silver-gray, sleeveless shift that’s absolutely the complete opposite of a stereotypical ugly bridesmaid dress, and Wren wears a slim pantsuit, gray tuxedo-style pants expertly cropped to show off her sky-high stilettos and ankles, a white silk shirt, and a vest that somehow covers and accentuates her figure at the same time, her jacket carried over her forearm.
“Damn, looks like we’ve got Victor and Victoria all at once,” I joke, and Wren grins as she strikes a model-worthy pose.
Before she can say anything, though, Cara snaps her fingers, a habit of hers I really don’t like. It feels like she’s snapping for a dog to obey or something. “Lovely ladies. Hazel, get changed quickly so I can see you all together. I need to make sure that the drape works with both of your figures.”
Apparently, we’re all stripping in the small room today, because Rachel’s and Wren’s clothes are on hangers on the wall. I’m glad Wyatt is gone. Despite his arrogant confidence at being nearly naked in a roomful of women, I would not strip down in front of him.
No way, no how.
Cara is still being a taskmaster, checking things on her tablet. “Wren, you’re wearing the necklace the bridesmaids are wearing, correct? To ahem, soften your look.”
“Soften?” Wren echoes with a bit of attitude, lifting an eyebrow. She’s as girly-girl as they come, the quintessential debutante, but she’s got an edge to her, and is more than willing to fuck with people’s heads just for shits and giggles. “Uh-huh. That’s me, soft as a lamb.” She examines her nails, which are filed to a respectable length but painted red with black french tips.
Pulling my own dress on with Mrs. Hinsley’s help, I hide a giggle. I know the wedding planner isn’t all too keen on having a groomswoman, despite her constantly saying that she wants Avery’s wedding to be “unique” and a “one-of-a-kind statement” for the memory books—a.k.a. Cara’s work portfolio.
Still, for a wedding pulled together in a matter of a few months, Avery has been more than pleased with the things the planner has come up with. Then again, Avery would’ve been happy with just her and Winston and an officiant and zero muss or fuss.
She doesn’t need all the bells and whistles, but that doesn’t mean she’s not enjoying them. She’s getting to be a princess for a day, and to be honest, I want her to enjoy the hell out of it. Besides, she looks amazing in her luxe dress and fancy heels.
Wren’s still being Wren, though, and while she’s definitely on board with Avery being a princess, she’s not going to make it easy for Cara. “Yes, I brought the necklace with me as instructed,” Wren bites out, “but I was thinking a bow tie would be better.”
A bow tie. Fucking . . . awesome. Seriously, when I met her, I thought Wren was going to be a full-fledged, spoiled-rotten diva princess. I mean, we went to school together, and she was basically the queen of every dance, sweetheart of the football quarterback, and able to get away with murder with a flutter of her lashes.
Instead, in the times we’ve spent together, she’s been bold and blunt, and though I never would’ve guessed it, I think we’d be great friends . . . if her last name were anything else.
Avery seems to like her, too, and Wren has been fully supportive of my best friend’s “pulling my brother’s head out of his ass,” as Wren described Winston. Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe it’s only the Ford men who are the way they are . . . like it has something to do with their testicles.
Completely ignoring Wren’s suggestion, Cara and Mrs. Hinsley go about pinning here and discussing there, making me feel like a piece of meat in my dress. Though it is pretty, I’m not used to wearing fancy shifts or frocks or whatever they call this style. But for Avery, my bestest bestie in the whole wide world? I’d dress up as the Cold Springs High School Falcon, complete with floppy-beaked feathered head if she asked me to, and smile politely in the pictures. Thankfully, she didn’t ask for that. Though the idea of “flying” down the aisle, yelling “caw caw,” would be quite the memory.
“Wren, tell me more about Wyatt,” Rachel says when she can breathe and Mrs. Hinsley isn’t fussing over her. “Other than how cute and sexy he is. I could see that for myself.”
I hold back a groan, but luckily Wren delivers one loud enough for the both of us. “Cute? I suppose. But he’s an asshole too,” she warns. “My biggest brother’s nobody’s prize.”
I snort and mumble under my breath, “Shocker.”
Too late, I realize Avery is looking from Rachel to me curiously. “What’d you think of him?” Avery asks. “You know, the other night, since you’d already met him first.”
The second bit is deliberately emphasized, like she’s reminding Rachel of girl code. Funny, considering I was just telling myself the same thing last night when it came to Charlene. “Not calling dibs like we’re kids, Avery.”
Rachel cackles gleefully, rubbing her hands together like a Disney villain. “Good, because I am!” she announces. “No shame in my game! That man looks good enough to sop up with a biscuit.”
“You’re welcome to him. He’s a Ford, after all, and you know what that means,” I declare automatically, sounding eerily like Aunt Etta, and it’s only after the words are out of my mouth that I realize what I just said . . . and who’s in the room with me. I flick apologetic eyes to Wren, who shrugs, unoffended, and then to Avery. “I didn’t mean Winston . . . sorry.”
Avery waves it off, and it seems I’ve ducked a bullet for now. “It’s okay. I know Winston, and know his heart. He’s mine—heart, soul, mind, and body. He might work for his uncle, but he’s nothing like him.”
I hope, for Avery’s sake, she’s right. And for myself, too, because if Winston hurts her, I’m going to kill him, slowly and painfully, and the life in prison will be worth it in honor of my BFF’s heart.
After the fittings are done, I tag along as Avery and Cara go to the bakery to check on the cake. The bakery is right on Main Street in downtown, with a well-cared-for kelly-green canvas awning over the front door and a pink-and-white sign overhead that shows years of weathered age. I remember when Mom showed it to me the first time, though . . .
“This is our future, Hazel. We’ll do it together, you and me.”
She was right. Mom has run the Bakery Box for years, mostly doing it on her own. I help out as much as possible, going from Aunt Etta’s place to the bakery as many days a week as I can. But this is Mom’s baby, her pride and joy.
Inside, the pine floors gleam, though their history is apparent, with nicks in the wood and visible nails at the corners of the boards. The glass display cases are new, purchased used only a few years ago, and fitted with daylight LED lights that make the pastries inside glow with warmth.
The menu board on the wall was hand-drawn in chalk pens by the local art teacher, listing things like Creamy Box Pie, Mom’s take on a lemonade icebox pie. Between Mom and Aunt Etta, they’ve got the inappropriate-food-name market cornered.
Working between the two places, I talk about pussies and boxes more than any reasonable person should, and definitely more than someone whose pussy box is getting zero action should.
Cara and Avery sit down at one of the little café tables, and I step into the back. “Mom! We’re here!”
Mom steps out of the walk-in freezer, wiping freshly washed hands on her white apron, which is streaked with red.
“Uh, Mom? Anything we need to discuss? You know I’ll alibi you for anything, but you can’t keep the bodies in the freezer. Health Department.”
Her face wrinkles in confusion for a moment, then clears as she shakes her head and swats at me. “Oh, you. This is icing, not blood, and you know it. I just finished the Thompsons’ red velvet anniversary cake with fifteen red roses, one for every year.” Her smile is bright, though I know she’s thinking of my dad. He died when I was a kid, one of those tragic accidents that always seem to hit the wrong people, and Mom still misses him. I do too. “You here with Avery for her final tasting?”
I nod, then warn her, “Yeah, Cara’s here too.”
Mom shrugs. “She’s a big personality, but I know the type. She’s got to be able to handle bridezillas, groomzillas, momzillas, and all the other ’zillas. I don’t envy her, that’s for sure. I’ll stay back here in my kitchen, where the only arguments I get are from Helga.”
Helga is Mom’s huge, industrial, heavy-duty mixer with a mind of its own. Every handyman in town has taken that bitch apart to poke and prod her, and she still won’t stay fixed. Mom puts up with it and treats the machine like a good-luck charm at this point. “Alright, let me get a fresh apron on, and I’ll grab Avery’s samples.”
“Want help?” I offer, heading to the case, where I see the mini cupcakes for Avery. Just minis today, though the reception’s going to have full-size creations straight out of Avery’s dreams and Mom’s imagination.
“I’ve got it, honey. You go sit with your friend and be a bridesmaid today, not a worker bee.” Mom shoos me off from the case, pulling her red-streaked apron off and tossing it into a bag of laundry, before grabbing a pristine white one.
She pulls it over her dark ponytail and settles it around her neck, tying it around her thin waist quickly. I’m struck suddenly by how pretty she is. I mean, she’s my mom, so I know she’s amazing, but I forget that she’s growing older the same way I am.
There are faint lines around her eyes and small parentheses around her mouth that I don’t remember being there, even though I see her damn near every day. She’s still as beautiful as she’s always been, but I can see the toll life has taken on her in a way I never have before. Maybe I’m more aware, or maybe she’s more exhausted from the long hours she keeps, but I feel like I need to freeze this moment and take a mental snapshot.
“Thanks, Mom,” I tell her, a little choked up. “I’ll grab some waters for everyone. It’s the least I can do.” I want the busywork as a chance to hide my out-of-the-blue reaction.
As I step back into the café, I hear Cara asking Avery, “And you’re sure about this place? I mean, we could have someone come into town and make your wedding cake. Anyone you want. The Cake Boss guy? Or a fancy French baker? Or even Martha Stewart! I’ve been told that nothing is out of reach, so reach for the stars, Avery. It’s your special day.”
I freeze, not wanting to put pressure on my friend. I do want her to have a special day, and will move hell and high water to make it happen if needed, but these are Mom’s cakes we’re talking about. I’ve never had anything Martha Stewart made, but I’ve had my mom’s baking and I can’t imagine anything better.
“I want one of Daisy’s cakes. It’s what I’ve dreamed of since I was a little girl,” Avery tells Cara, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Here’s some waters,” I say brightly, coming in with a tray of drinks. “Mom is grabbing the samples.”
Avery beams. Cara’s brow lifts snootily, but I ignore it and set the glasses down neatly before taking the tray back up to the counter.
Barely a minute later, Mom comes out with her own tray, a full array of mini cupcake samples ready to go for Avery’s approval. “This is my famous sweet cream cake,” she says as she hands everyone a mini cupcake on mismatched china plates. Cara takes a dainty bite, as though expecting it to taste like shit. Avery and I know better and stuff the whole thing in our mouths in one bite, chewing and moaning loudly in tongue-gasmic pleasure. “I see it meets the mark?”
“If I die now,” Avery says, “I’ll have no food regrets.”
Cara looks at the remaining three-fourths of a mini cupcake on her plate, then takes it in one big bite. “Oh my, that is tasty. So moist and creamy.”
“That’s what he said,” I jest, and Avery has to clap her hand over her mouth to prevent crumbs spraying everywhere.
Mom, of course, is aghast. “Hazel! Behave yourself.”
I try to laugh, but choke and, unlike Avery, end up coughing cake crumbs everywhere. I slap my hands over my mouth and mumble, “Sorry.”
Cara stabs another mini cake with her fork and eats the whole thing in one mouthful, as if afraid I’m going to yank it from her despite my ability to get these anytime I want.
I’m calling that a win for Mom.
“Mmm. Divine. I stand corrected, Avery,” Cara says as she finishes the second sample. “Is this your choice for your wedding cake?”
“It’s my preference, but Miss Daisy’s cakes are all good,” Avery says. “Unless you think the Red Wedding strawberry cake would be better?”
“No, no. I think you’ve chosen wisely. Now, let’s confirm the decorations.”
Mom and Cara start chatting about fresh-flower inserts and Swiss dots versus polka dots on the five-tiered cake they have planned while Avery and I sneak another sample. Cara may be dumb enough to turn down Mom’s Red Wedding strawberry, but we sure as hell aren’t.
Cara hrrmphs when she realizes that Avery and I are four samples deep. “Ladies, ladies . . . keep that up, and I shall have to schedule another visit with the seamstress.”
Avery sets the small cupcake in her hand down like the good girl she is. I, however, shove mine into my mouth once more, not caring about Cara’s look of disapproval. I narrow my eyes and glare back, daring her to say one word about it.
Suddenly, Cara’s eyes go bright and a light bulb basically dings over her head. “Oh my! I have the best idea ever! Daisy, how many of these mini cupcakes can you make by Saturday night?”
Mom is a consummate businesswoman who knows the correct answer to a question like that. “However many you need.”
Cara takes Avery’s hands in her own and meets her eyes. “Midnight. Madness.”
She seems to think that her brilliance is apparent, but we’re all still just as confused as before she spoke. Avery gives me a glance, and I shrug, and Avery turns her eyes to Cara. “What?”
Cara gets up and starts pacing around the room, seeing her vision before her eyes instead of Mom’s bakery, but somehow not running into any errant chair legs. “Picture it, everyone has had dinner, we’ve cut the cake, and the dance floor is starting to wane. But we want to send people home with a bang, one last memorable hurrah with the wedding-night send-off. Midnight Madness.”
Something is starting to take shape in my mind, but it’s mostly that Cara isn’t quite right, not anything wedding related.
“We’ll draw everyone outside, and it will be like a second cocktail hour of passed snacks and sweets to keep everyone in good spirits. Like the mini cupcakes in flavors completely different from the wedding cake. Something fun and boozy maybe? Chocolate bourbon pecan?” she asks Mom, who nods excitedly. “Strawberry champagne surprise?” Another nod. “And there will be a fireworks show!”
Avery was feeling the additional sweets, but fireworks make her balk. “Fireworks? Isn’t that a bit . . . excessive?”
Cara gives Avery a condescending look that irks me, but I bite my cheeks instead of telling Cara that I hope she steps in manure when she gets off her high horse. Instead, Cara planner-splains her ass off. Yup, I just made that up. “Dearie, you’re marrying into one of the wealthiest, most influential families in the area. Fireworks are completely appropriate.”
As though the matter is already decided, Cara sits and types on her tablet, making sound effects to go with her movements: “Beep-bop-bum-bum-bum, and voilà!” She finishes with a flourish of her hand. “I’ll follow up with the fire department for permits and source a professional. Daisy, let’s do three passed sweets, your choice on flavor combinations. Something that’ll knock their socks off.” She glances at the plate of mini cupcakes as though they’re proof enough that Mom can handle some freedom with her assignment. “What do you think about four hundred total servings, or thereabout? Decide what feels appropriate and send me another quote, in addition to the updates we made to the cake design today, m’kay?”
