Читать книгу Veiled in Death - Stephanie Blackmoore - Страница 9

CHAPTER TWO

Not one, but two police cars executed screeching stops in front of the Antique Emporium. Port Quincy’s chief of police, Truman Davies, who happened to also be my fiancé’s father, exited his car and surveyed the scene. His partner Faith Hendricks, several decades his junior, got out of her own police car. Her blond ponytail swung back and forth as she hurried over. Her aviator glasses were in full effect.

Great. Helene really knows how to bring out the whole cavalry.

I was used to Helene’s shenanigans, which up until now had not included grand theft veil on Main Street, Port Quincy, Pennsylvania.

Truman finished observing the mess before him. At first, he seemed concerned, then irritated, and finally his crinkled eyes rested at mildly amused. I watched him cycle through those emotions as he took in the lay of the land and made his own decisions about what was probably happening. He gave a rueful chuckle and a barely perceptible shake of his head. I watched Helene lock her icy-blue eyes with Truman’s, and her heavily padded shoulders seemed to sag in defeat. It wasn’t a sight I’d had the pleasure to witness before. Soon we’d have this sorted out and Bev and I would have our pieces of the lovely veil. I inwardly cringed as I replayed the sickening shred of the delicate fabric when Helene viciously ripped the lace from my grip. Helene still had the veil clutched to her chest, a strange and rare air of defeat cloaking her more closely than her ancient designer duds.

But my celebration was premature. A moment later, Helene seemed to spot a small opening in the crowd before her and made a final run for it with the veil. Truman’s amusement slid right off his face.

“Stop her!” He hefted his frame in an impressively quick fashion and motored off after Helene. He sprinted half a block and stopped when Faith rounded the corner from the other direction, her hands on her hips. Faith thankfully did not reach for her holstered gun, but she still meant business. She may have been young, but she exuded authority. Her youthful appearance didn’t take away from her stature as a policewoman. Faith gave one short, disapproving shake of her head, her blond ponytail swishing against her black policewoman’s uniform in apparent disapproval.

Faith slipped her sunglasses down her nose and delivered a scathing gaze at Helene. Then she marched Helene back to us with her hand firmly clamped on the collar of Helene’s jacket, as if Faith were a scolding mama cat. But Helene was no cute kitten. She was the spitting image of an angry, bedraggled show cat sputtering in her Bill Blass suit.

“What’s all this about?” Truman’s voice was stern. His previous mirth at this improbable situation had evaporated in the June sun.

Bev, Helene, and I began talking all at once. Our voices grew louder and incomprehensible.

“Whoa. One at a time.” Truman couldn’t suppress an eye roll as he delivered his order. I was a bit miffed at being scolded like a toddler. No way did I want to be lumped into the same category as Helene. I wasn’t the one to rip a rightfully purchased item from someone’s hands in broad daylight and try to abscond with it.

Helene took a step forward, her defeated posture gone. She clutched the purloined veil to her middle with one hand, and puffed out her king-cobra pageboy hairdo with the other.

“I was just liberating my long-lost family heirloom from these hooligans.” Her thin lips swathed in pearlescent coral lipstick settled into a smug, if not terse and triumphant, grimace.

“What?!” Bev took offense to Helene’s name-calling and reached for the veil.

“Bev.” Truman flashed a warning glance at the seamstress. Bev dejectedly took a step back.

“We just bought that veil a minute ago!” Bev managed to restrain herself from manhandling Helene, but her voice was shrill.

“That’s right. Bev and I bought this piece of lace right here at the Antique Emporium.” I gestured toward the brick storefront, willing any of the Battles women to emerge and corroborate my story. “I have the receipt and everything.”

“Okay. Let’s see it.” Truman held out his large palm, now barely suppressing a smile. He sensed this kerfuffle would soon be solved and the spectacle on Main Street would go away.

Let’s get this charade over with.

I reached into the clear shopping bag from the Antique Emporium and stifled a cry.

“It’s gone.” I held up the bag. It fluttered in the slight breeze, the plastic now in tatters. I’d been holding the thin receptacle in the same hand as the veil, and Helene’s barbaric swipe with her peach French tips had ripped the bag open with the precision of a velociraptor. My eyes tore up and down the sidewalk, seeking the slim white slip of paper receipt that had once nestled safely within the bag.

“How convenient, Mallory, dear.” Helene gave a toss of her head, her icy eyes positively dancing with mirth.

This time it was Bev who laid a steadying hand on my arm. I swallowed and urged myself to stay cool. The only thing keeping me from losing it was sending up a silent prayer of thanks that I’d had the good fortune and sense to not marry Helene’s son, Keith. I finally noticed the growing chatter around me. The crowd of early morning shoppers and walkers had grown. They clutched their iced coffees, scones, and donuts as if waiting for us to deliver a reality-show-worthy cat fight.

“Truman, we have a copy of the receipt.” Claudia’s bell-like voice cut through the whispers as she emerged from the Antique Emporium with a restorative whoosh of cold air.

I couldn’t suppress a giggle as I took in her getup. She must have started changing out of her reenactment gear when this melee went down. She wore bright turquoise capris with an embroidered pineapple pattern atop pretty melon-colored espadrilles. But her top half was still cloaked in a homespun shirt and rough-woven brown jacket, her tricorn hat still pinned on, but knocked askew. She looked like a time traveler caught in a comical mid-change back to the future. Claudia was Helene’s adversary, and now my knight in shining armor.

Er, make that colonial-era garb.

“See? We sold it to Mallory and Bev.” Claudia stopped to draw in a breath. She was feisty and in good health, but this kerfuffle seemed to have rattled the septuagenarian. “Excuse me, I’m a bit out of breath. I haven’t run out that door this fast in years. But it’ll be good practice for when I rush the field this weekend.” She couldn’t resist shooting Helene a little smile with her dig. Then she nearly doubled over and stifled a wheeze. She finally righted herself and laid a slip of yellow paper into Truman’s still-outstretched palm. “I gave them the top copy of the receipt.”

The chief scanned the paper with keen hazel eyes. I blinked and realized with a start that Garrett was a near carbon-copy of his father, just twenty-five years his junior.

“She just made that up!” Helene’s composure dissolved in a screech.

“Oh, give me a break.” I was glad I hadn’t had a chance to don my sunglasses, the better for Helene to see my displeasure with her with a mighty eye roll.

“It’s time-stamped seven minutes ago.” Truman glanced at the crowd and sighed. “I really don’t think this is a tough one to solve. This seems to be the end of the matter.” He handed the storekeeper’s yellow copy of the receipt to Claudia and laid his upturned hand out again, this time before Helene.

“Relinquish the veil.”

Helene’s eyes nearly bugged out of her skull at Truman’s demand. “I. Will. Not. And you of all people, Truman, should understand why.” Helene jammed the delicate lace into Truman’s face. He took a protective step back. But he couldn’t hide the flinch that slipped out when he got a closer look at the veil.

Huh?

Before I had time to process that puzzling exchange, the door to the Antique Emporium flew open again. Out streamed Pia and June, the latter expertly wielding a mint-condition Louisville Slugger. She’d no doubt nabbed the baseball bat from her stock.

“Easy there, June,” Truman cautioned.

June ignored the chief and directed her ire at Helene. “I was captain and the best hitter for the Quincy College softball team, class of 1978.” Her voice carried down the sidewalk as the small crowd of curious onlookers grew. I was more shocked at her outburst than anything. June was expertly persuasive in her store, but never pushy. If anything, the reedy redhead was serene and calm as she moved through her kingdom of antique treasures. This was a side of her I never expected to see. Her assertiveness mixed with her normally willowy, patrician air was strange to see.

Truman cleared his throat to stifle a laugh. “That won’t be necessary, but thank you, June.”

I saw Pia relax by a degree. She had been hovering behind her mother, looking ready to spring into action and restrain her if necessary.

“We found the veil in the store this morning.” June seemed to come to her senses and let the thick wooden bat drop to her side. She’d win Truman over with reason instead of subduing Helene with threatened force.

A dawning look of realization seemed to steal over Truman’s face, but it was fleeting. I began to doubt I’d even seen it.

“This is ludicrous. Mallory and I bought this veil, fair and square. We found it in a—”

But Bev was cut off by a nearly frantic Pia, who I now realized had baby Miri strapped to her front in the carrier.

“You’re saying too much, Bev.” Pia’s gimlet green eyes, so like her sister Tabitha’s, were wide with caution.

“Pia, she’s just setting the record straight.”June was a bit exasperated with her daughter.

“Mom, you need to stop talking, too.” Pia was firm, issuing her mother a demand.

June was shocked enough to be quiet. She seemed to realize her mistake and instead sent her daughter a grateful look.

I gave the young woman a shrewd glance. She’d make a fair attorney, in addition to her event-planning skills. Her instincts to keep our facts and case close to the vest in front of Helene were savvy and sound. No one should give Helene anything that she could later use to claim the veil was hers. June clammed up for good, but not before she mouthed a silent thank-you to her daughter.

All was still under the now oppressive sun. The small crowd began to buzz again with pent-up energy. Truman once more held out his hand.

“The veil, Helene.”

The reigning queen bee of Port Quincy looked up and down the street in thought. She took in the gaggle of looky-loos and shuddered. She mounted one last attempt to keep the veil in her possession. “I think you need to keep it at headquarters, Truman, or better yet, neutral grounds.” She fluttered her thin lashes. “A place like my bank safe-deposit box. Just until this matter is cleared up.” Her plea came out in a desperate sputter.

Truman raised an eyebrow and looked irritated. He waited a beat and instead chose to laugh at her gall. “The idea that our police headquarters is not neutral is hysterical.”

Helene went for the jugular. Her icy gaze swept over me. I suppressed an incongruous shiver in the now-glaring sunlight.

“It appears we’re witnessing some regrettable, but predictable favoritism.” Helene’s spine grew ramrod straight for this speech. The crowd quieted. “Mallory here is engaged to Chief Truman’s son, as you all know.” Helene gave a pitiful and staged sigh. “I think the town of Port Quincy should know you can never get a fair shake if you go against Truman Davies’s near and dear.” She sent a sinister smile my way.

You wretched woman.

This time I felt the steadying touch of both Bev and Claudia on either arm. Their presence barely kept me from lashing out at Helene. Truman was used to such claims and better able to brush them off. He seemed genuinely amused.

“That’s so preposterous, I can’t even get riled up, Helene.” Truman almost patted her arm, then retracted at the last second as Helene recoiled and took a stumbling step back in her kitten heels.

“Don’t patronize me!”

Truman’s eyes filled with kindness. “I wouldn’t do anything of the sort, Helene. If you have an issue with what happened today, you can file a report.” But as he said it, his face took on a worried cast.

Helene shook her head, finally capitulating. “There doesn’t need to be an investigation, Truman. I know the truth now.” Her usually haughty expression dimmed belying an emotion I’d never seen her reveal.

It’s almost like she’s going to cry.

I wanted the icky twilight-zone feeling to go. Because I was feeling something I’d never felt. A genuine flash of sympathy for Helene Pierce, my mortal enemy.

Now that she couldn’t command Truman to give her the veil, the weight of defeat wilted Helene more than the intensity of the midday June sun. Her narrow shoulders sagged in capitulation. A trickle of sweat marred her carefully powdered countenance. Her lips actually puckered, the coral lipstick bleeding into her frown lines. Her dowager-empress façade frizzled in the heat. She usually looked so composed, icy, and mean.

She was still impeccably dressed; that is, if the time machine that looked like it brought Claudia back from the late 1700s made a pit stop in the 1980s and picked up Helene. But all her shoulder-padded elegance and imperiousness had wilted. Also, she bore a second expression that belied something I realized I’d never seen before, in addition to her sadness.

Helene looks downright scared.

The might and main of being the biggest mover and shaker in our little corner of the world was turned upside down. I couldn’t help but feel a smidge of compassion for the woman who had once been slated to be my mother-in-law, even though she rarely sent a speck of kindness my way.

But it was short-lived. Helene seemed to stiffen and change course.

“My business here is done. But Claudia, I’ll have you know, you will not be setting foot on that reenactment field.” Helene had lost the battle over the veil and resumed her original fight with Claudia over women participating in the mock battle at Cordials and Cannonballs.

“Oh yeah? I’d like to see you try to stop me.” Claudia stepped forward and pushed her sleeves up and readied her fists.

“Over my dead body.” Helene issued her threat as a hiss, and the crowd audibly gasped. But Helene wasn’t done. “I will get you fired, Mallory Shepard, from your event-planning duties at Cordials and Cannonballs if a single woman sets foot on that field.”

I snorted at her threat. This was the Helene I was used to. I was even able to tamp down a flash of worry that Helene would get me fired. Helene hadn’t been happy I’d been appointed to do the event, but she’d played nice. Well, nice for her, which translated to icy indifference and well-timed sighs and eye rolls about my planning choices. Which was downright cordial considering our past feuds. I’d offered my event-planning services to the town at a steep discount and was happy to do it. Helene had tried to meddle with my past events, but it wouldn’t work.

Elvis the basset hound had been napping a comfortable distance from Bev. His long leash allowed him to doze in a patch of shade under a nearby store’s awning. I wished I could have snoozed during this whole show, too. Elvis chose this moment to awaken like a doggie Sleeping Beauty, execute a magnificent stretch, and settle down at Bev’s feet with a luxurious yawn.

The crowd laughed at his seeming dismissal of Helene, and I couldn’t help but join in. Maybe this was the bit of levity we needed to end this charade. The laughter seemed to snap Helene out of her funk. She stormed off without the veil, her suede kitten heels striking the sidewalk with angry force. The crowd parted around her like the Red Sea, no one eager to get in her way.

I felt the defensive energy that was racking my body flow out in a whoosh.

“That was intense.” I turned to Bev and witnessed her shoulders sag, too.

“Not what I expected after the lovely morning we’d had planning my wedding.” Bev gave a shiver.

I turned to Pia. I needed to salvage what we’d set up inside the Antique Emporium. “Are you still interested in interviewing for the assistant position tomorrow? I promise my interactions usually aren’t as fraught.”

Pia laughed, then toned down her voice to avoid the now-napping baby Miri. The little one had been surprisingly unfazed throughout this whole ordeal. The sweet baby had slipped into a blissful snooze midway. “Those were some crazy fireworks we just witnessed. We need to keep those for the festivities surrounding Founder’s Day and the Fourth of July.”

Bev’s eyes twinkled merrily. My friend seemed to have recovered somewhat from the last half hour. “Or save those fireworks for a joint wedding with me!”

I groaned at my friend once more pushing me to move up my wedding.

Truman happily took Bev’s bait. “When are you two finally tying the knot?” The few passersby laughed and finally moved along. It was the town joke apparently that the wedding planner couldn’t seal the deal on her own wedding. I thought this dramatic melee would finally get people’s minds off of my lack of a finalized date with Garrett. I sent my soon-to-be father-in-law a withering sigh and an arched brow as my answer.

Bev and Truman roared with laughter, and I found myself joining in. It was a lovely, if now too-hot day, the sky a vivid and cloudless periwinkle. The little crowd had finally completely dispersed. Pia and Miri, Claudia and June returned to their store, with firm plans for Pia to interview for the assistant’s position the next day. All was well.

For now.

I couldn’t shake the incongruous look of fear in Helene’s eyes.

“Here.” Truman motioned me over and gently and reverently divvied up the two jagged halves of the veil to Bev and me.

I glanced down at the swath of lace. It was still lovely, except for the violently ragged edge where it had been torn asunder.

“Is this even possible to mend?” Bev moaned. She sent a glance down the sidewalk, seeming to expect Helene to reappear out of the ether. “Why don’t you keep my half with yours in your safe?” She reunited her piece of the veil with mine, seemingly happy to offload the veil we’d both desperately wanted just a bit ago.

I wrapped the scraps of ancient, delicate fabric in what was left of the ripped plastic Antique Emporium bag and deposited the lot into my own bag. The light lace veil seemed to weigh heavily within. The coveted fabric had not been rent carefully with Bev’s capable seamstress’s shears, but by the hands of Helene, administered with her white-hot anger. I couldn’t suppress a shiver.

* * *

“Truman’s right, you know.” My mother whirled around from her stance at my kitchen sink and sent me a smirk. She dried her hands on a pretty floral apron embossed with cheery sunflowers and daisies. The apron occluded her more formal business look beneath. Today she’d donned a purple sheath dress with matching jelly sandals and a poplin headband. Her temporary look with the summer floral apron echoed Bev’s wedding style. “You need to hurry up and get hitched, missy. What in the world is keeping you two from following through?!”

Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

I didn’t suppress my eye roll as I took the delft blue pitcher from my mother’s hands. I was rewarded with the tart, pleasant scent of freshly squeezed lemonade. I was hoping to quench my thirst and relax after the crazy happenings earlier in the day. Instead, it felt like every denizen in Port Quincy was poking fun at me. My mom’s not-so-subtle nagging usually rolled right off my back. But not today. I wanted my home and B and B to be a den of calm. I ignored her barb and carefully poured the lemonade into two cut crystal glasses. I plastered what I hoped was a serene smile on my face and gestured for my mom to sit down. She seemed irritated I wouldn’t take the bait.

Still, it was nice to hang out with my mom. She and her business partner, Justine, were busier than ever with their less-than-a-year-old staging and decorating venture. It was a real joy to catch my mom making herself at home in my B and B kitchen for a respite from her own busy day. She must’ve ferreted out the hidden key under the back porch and let herself in. I didn’t mind the boundary smashing since she’d whipped up this batch of lemonade for us. I was ready for a calm rejoinder.

“I just got engaged on New Year’s Day. It’s only June. I told you Garrett and I are aiming for fall. That’s a quicker timeline than most people getting hitched.”

“You aim for the bull’s-eye in a dart game, Mallory, not a wedding date. Just set the darn thing and be done with it!” My mom attempted to blow her bangs from her forehead in frustration. She seemed to have forgotten she’d pushed them back today with the purple gingham headband.

My tiny calico cat, Whiskey, appeared at my mom’s feet. She blinked her impressively large ochre eyes and let out a delicate but insistent meow. I nearly thanked the thoughtful feline for seeming to sense my need for rescue. My mom tsked and blushed. She seemed to realize her outburst went a bit too far. She produced a cat treat from the pantry and was rewarded by a happy, purring kitty twining around her ankles.

“I am worried that I won’t be able to properly attend to your wedding as mother of the bride and chief wedding designer. When the time does finally come, that is.” She softened her tone with a sprinkling of the fretfulness I was used to. “You’re a professional wedding planner. But I want to relieve you of that role for your own big day. You should just sit back and enjoy.”

“That’s so thoughtful, Mom.” My heart warmed toward my mother, Carole. Her sentiments were in the right place, even though pushy could have easily been her middle name. I also couldn’t help but compare my mom’s offer to Bev’s. My dear seamstress friend had made the same offer of wedding planning help just this morning. It would make sense for my mom and Bev to team up to design my wedding. Garrett and I would happily hand over the reins in that arena. It was totally enticing to imagine myself as a regular blushing bride, instead of managing my own wedding as my very own client.

It was too bad pigs flying had a better chance of happening than those two special women in my life working together. Carole and Bev were more alike than their strikingly different appearances belied. My mom favored preppy outfits all in one hue, and her persona was persnickety and careful. She was always admonishing me to watch my figure and to keep propriety in mind. Bev, in contrast, favored loud prints and patterns to cloak her own ample, apple-shaped short frame, and as many sparkly hair accoutrements as her impressive blond beehive would hold. But like my mom, Bev was a whizz at her business. She dressed nearly every bride in Port Quincy, as well as their attendants, in addition to being a skilled seamstress. Her renown had grown, and brides frequently traveled from Pittsburgh, western Maryland, and West Virginia to check out her special shop, Silver Bells. I wished Carole and Bev could be friends. And in another universe, where my mom hadn’t once dated Bev’s fiancé, Jesse, maybe they would have been.

It was a different story for my stepfather, Doug, and Bev’s Jesse. The two had made nice at one of my winter events, Paws and Poinsettias, and were becoming fast friends. The men had bonded over their shared love for the Pittsburgh Penguins and American history. It wasn’t a rare sight to see the two men catching dinner together in downtown Port Quincy. I just wished their other halves would have been willing to bury their hatchets, too, or the similar sketch pads they both used in their work as a stager and decorator and a bridal-store owner and seamstress. But I wasn’t holding out hope for that. The two women did an uncomfortable and tetchy little dance each time they were unfortunate enough for their paths to cross in Port Quincy. Which in a town this small, was pretty darn frequent.

Mom let out a thoughtful sigh. “I never thought I’d complain about my business doing so well. But I can just see how this is going to go. I won’t be able to be your wedding planner despite being the perfect person for the job. After all, I can see where you got your natural design eye from.” She fluffed out her hair, carefully dyed the same shade as my sister Rachel’s beachy, caramel tresses.

And almost as if being summoned, my gorgeous, Amazonian sister strolled through the back door. My mom bestowed a quick kiss on my sister’s cheek.

Rachel grinned. She must’ve caught my mom’s last utterance as she trailed in the door. “Don’t worry about being Mallory’s wedding planner, Mom. Bev can do it.” Rachel didn’t seem aware of the dagger blow she’d just delivered to our mom. Carole recoiled and leaned against the kitchen counter. My oblivious sister poured a healthy goblet of lemonade and drained it in ten seconds flat, making the hurried action somehow seem like an audition for a Country Time lemonade commercial. But Rachel had that effect. She was eight inches taller than yours truly, with a daring sense of style and a magnetism that left nearly every unattached man in Port Quincy drooling in her wake. It was too bad for them that my sister seemed to be permanently off the market, having fallen head over heels in love with her boyfriend and our event-planning business’s part-time chef, Miles.

“C’mon, Mom. I’m just joking.” Rachel set her sweaty goblet of drained lemonade on the counter and sent our mom a more caring gaze. “Mallory is a control freak, just like you. I’m sure she’ll manage to plan her own wedding herself somehow.”

I burst out laughing at my sister’s prediction. “I don’t mind being a control freak if it leads to gorgeous and thoughtful ceremonies and receptions for my clients. And maybe you’re right, Rach. My instincts will be to plan my big day with Garrett. But I’d also be happy to relinquish that control.”

Rachel’s pretty green eyes lit up at my offer. “Just say the word, and I’ll do it.”

I gulped on a swig of tart and sweet lemonade and sputtered as the liquid went down the wrong pipe. “Thanks, Rach.” I took in my sister’s outfit of the day and regretted making the offer to plan my wedding, even though it had been half in jest. She wore a daringly short romper of gold and green dots, the pattern like a zoomed-in pointillist painting. She tied in the colors with a swath of metallic bronze glitter eyeshadow, her hair in a jaunty side ponytail to reveal the giant gold hoops swinging in her ears. The big earrings matched her pretty hair, a sun-kissed shade between blond and brown. And she towered even higher than ever above me in a pair of cut-out, high-heeled gold lamé basketball shoes, a Frankenstein-matchup of Converse All Stars and stilettos. And to top it all off, that zany getup somehow looked amazing on Rachel. It was as if Anna Wintour had personally designed this look and my sister was ready to grace a fashion magazine. I think if I donned the same getup, I’d be asked about where the costume party was being held. You could definitely see the resemblance between us, but my sister was all flash and sparkling green eyes and prodigious height and curves, and I was shorter, with sandy curls and eyes a more subdued shade of brown.

My sister reined in her personal style when it came to working with me, planning weddings. Her daring suggestions were incorporated in small increments that really made the designs pop. But left unbridled, I wondered if my tentative fall wedding would turn into a mix of Malibu Barbie and fall harvest glitter-bomb.

“I’d love your help, Rach,” I reiterated, careful not to choke on my second swig of lemonade. Rachel beamed her assent, and I felt so much love toward my sister. Of course, she could help design my wedding, even if it did turn into a spectacle. I was touched that so many lovely people in my life wanted me to have a nice, carefree wedding, and take over my professional planning role. It was just too bad there was no chance for a Carole-Bev-Rachel trifecta of a collaboration.

Rachel and I both seemed to remember our mother and turned to take her in at the counter. She hadn’t recovered from Rachel’s suggestion several minutes ago that Bev plan my wedding. She narrowed her eyes from her station and stripped off the sunny apron. She glowered at us in a purple-hued low-boil rage, refusing to treat Rachel’s joke as a mere flippant comment.

“Mom, Rachel was just joking.” I attempted to soothe my mother and took out ingredients to make some cold salads for dinner to accompany our oven-fried chicken. I wordlessly handed my mom a head of broccoli and bowl of shredded cabbage. I rustled around in the pantry for a jar of mayo and some golden raisins to complete the broccoli salad.

My mother gave up her protestations and started washing the veggies, but not before she sent Rachel a haughty look. My sister shrugged and grabbed a washed floret and popped it in her mouth.

Carole suddenly wheeled around, an arc of water spraying us from the head of broccoli she held in a murderous grip. “This really is all moot, Mallory, until you and Garrett stop stalling and set the darn date.”

I opened my mouth to soothe my mom rather than lay down some kind of gauntlet. She obviously was more perturbed than I would have guessed at the prospect of Bev having any kind of hand in planning my wedding. But then she had to step way out of line.

“I think it’s time for me to intervene, Mallory.”

Say what?

I braced myself for the undoubtedly amusing and probably preposterous thing my mom would say. But nothing prepared me for her next decree.

“I think you should get married this summer. I took the liberty of peeking at your schedule in your office. You have a few Friday and Sunday dates left in July and August. Just set the darn date!”

I opened my mouth to jump in, but Carole wasn’t done. Her green eyes flicked up and down my figure. “You’ll need to shed a few pounds, and fast.” She narrowed her gaze at the jar of mayo, momentarily sparing me. “Swap this out for some low-cal Miracle Whip.”

“Mom. You’ve officially gone too far.” I held up my hand like a traffic attendant. “I happen to like the way I look. I don’t appreciate comments about my weight.” I didn’t have the bombshell looks of my sister, but I tried to make time for exercise and good food choices, even if that only translated to bike rides and long walks with my fiancé and his daughter Summer, and the occasional consumption of a salad. I wouldn’t have my mom berate my appearance. But apparently, she wasn’t finished.

“You’ll be eating for two soon enough, Mallory.” Carole waved a dismissive hand at what must have been my flummoxed and appalled face. “You need to give me some grandbabies, and you and Garrett may as well get the show on the road.”

Rachel had appeared indignant at my mother’s mixed weight-loss decree and pep talk, but Mom’s latest demand made Rachel spit out her lemonade. She shook her head as she grabbed a napkin. I was glad that my sister was as stunned as I was. Her giant etched-gold hoops hit her shoulders as she glanced back and forth between our mother and me, wondering who would say what next. Whiskey the cat stood in rapt silence, watching Rachel’s earrings like a pendulum.

“Your clock is ticking, Mallory.” My mom chose to double down on her bold remarks rather than apologize.

I stood still in my kitchen, hoping the grip I used on the tea towel in my hands didn’t give away my anger. But I thought of my role as unofficial therapist when I planned weddings. I often had to maneuver around potential and real emotional minefields and wounds exposed between family members when they attempted to come together to plan a big day. I cautioned my brides to stand up for themselves and not take the familial bait, and I would do the same with my mother.

I answered her evenly and truthfully. “Garrett and I haven’t discussed it.”

The gasp that reverberated around the room wasn’t my mom’s, but Rachel’s. Mom was shocked into total silence.

Whoops.

Rachel finally found her voice. “You haven’t talked about kids?” Rachel let out an alarmed yelp. “Mallory, that’s not a good sign.” Rachel shook her head, the gold hoops’ dancing becoming increasingly agitated. “Miles and I have it all planned out. A long engagement, with him probably popping the question on Valentine’s Day. Then a big winter wedding a year after that. Followed by several months of international travel. And our first of four kids a year after that.”

I was happy to hear my sister’s lavish life blueprint all laid out for my mom to hear. Somehow Rachel’s declaration put Carole into more of a tizzy than my own dearth of procreation plans.

“It’s time to put the brakes on all that, young lady.” My mom turned her alarmed expression to Rachel. It was a running theme that I’d grown up a bit too fast, watching my sister, four years my junior, after school when we’d been latchkey kids. My dad had left one day and never returned, with nary a clue or trace. My mom had given up her suburban housewife role and launched an uber successful decorating business from nothing. But I’d looked out for Rachel, and my mom couldn’t get it out of her head all these years later that I might not want to do things on some preapproved timeline, and that my wild-child sister might actually be ready to settle down. People’s perceptions of each other could be hard to change.

I let them argue about Rachel’s readiness to plan out her life, and retreated to my thoughts. My mom’s rather crass demand for grandbabies had set my head spinning.

It had been on my mind. I spun back a few hours prior, when I held sweet Miri in my arms. I couldn’t stop thinking about her baby-powder scent, the brief cuddles, and her joyous baby laughter. Not that I wanted all that tomorrow, either. My heart pulled.

How in the heck do I bring this up with Garrett?

The adorable six-month-old had reminded me yet again that Garrett and I hadn’t broached the subject of kids in any formal way. The topic made me uneasy. Maybe because I wasn’t sure what I wanted. And I was worried to discover what Garrett’s thoughts were on the matter.

My fiancé had been maddeningly unspecific about whether we should have a child of our own. And until a few weeks ago, I’d been ambivalent, too. I was happy and excited for my friend Olivia’s impending birth and had agreed to plan her baby shower. I realized my beau and I had just talked unnervingly and ambiguously about having another child. It was a someday thing, if a thing at all. I didn’t think the door was closed, but I was alarmed that there was no deadline. And now my mom’s needling was getting to me. A-ticking and a-tocking indeed.

And how would Summer feel? I loved my fiancé’s daughter as my own, but I’d also never try to usurp her mother, Adrienne.

“I obviously do need to discuss this with Garrett.” I threw my mom and Rachel a bone. “And Summer needs to weigh in on things too, it’s only fair. She’s fourteen and this would drastically change her life. If Garrett and I even consider it.”

“Summer is the loveliest young woman, Mallory,” my mother added. “But I also know you and Garrett will add to your family. The more the merrier!”

I gave my mother what felt like a thin-lipped smile and turned back to the broccoli salad, effectively ending this discussion.

But my mom wasn’t finished. She bulldozed on with horrifying and admirable aplomb. “If you and Rachel hire an assistant tomorrow, you and Garrett could get things going and take a nice, long maternity leave. Why,” she added slyly, “you could even hand the reins of the business over to Rachel for a while!”

Oh no, she didn’t.

My power-hungry sister literally licked her glossy, glittery lips. “That’s a brilliant idea, Mom. Mallory, you can take a well-deserved break and I’ll show you what I can do.”

I stifled a giggle at this ambush and couldn’t even act mad. My mom and sister were being ridiculous. I was still inwardly reeling at my mother’s allusion to Garrett and I “getting things going.” But not worried, because it ultimately didn’t concern her. It was more worrying that my mom was pushing this plan in a bid to award my sister with more responsibility. I felt like these two had colluded.

But Mom had already moved on to less weighty subjects. “I will be there when you get your dress, Mallory. Rachel and I are planning this wedding for you. We’re family. Maybe it would be best if we skipped Bev’s little shop.” My mom spat out the seamstress and dress-store owner’s name in a little sibilant hiss.

I suppressed my eye roll and answered in a calm tone. “Don’t worry, Mom, you’ll be there.” No way was I going to mention the ethereal sundress Bev and I had stumbled upon in the Antique Emporium as a possible dress contender. The fact I’d discovered it with Bev instead of her would have sent my mom reeling over the edge.

“Well, I really must be going.” Mom glanced at her plum-colored watch and gathered an equally hued leather bag. “I have a meeting with a client, but I’ll be back for dinner.”

Rachel and I gave our mother a cheery wave of a send-off, then collapsed into a gale of laughter.

“That was too intense,” Rachel sputtered.

“Mom is too intense,” I corrected. “The nerve of her demanding grandbabies!”

“She’s right about our assistant search, though,” Rachel cautiously began. “I’m not, um, pushing for you to get married and knocked up or anything, but you do work too hard in general. And with my cake business busier than ever, we need to hire someone who will see this as a long-term career rather than a part-time gig while they’re finishing school.”

I nodded and recalled the spreadsheets and reconfiguring my sister and I had done to make this a full-time position with good benefits and room to grow. The three candidates we’d be interviewing seemed like they’d be good fits, and it would be hard to make a hiring choice. Which reminded me.

“We have one more candidate, Rach.”

My sister set down her second goblet of lemonade a bit too hard on the counter, sloshing the pale yellow nectar over the edge. Whiskey the calico rushed over to sniff the dripping puddle forming on the floor. The cat turned her nose up at the acidic drink and instead sauntered over to her water dish.

“You what? Without consulting me? No way. Cancel the interview.” Rachel’s pretty green eyes flashed with anger.

I sighed and placed a hand on my hip. Rachel wanted to be an equal partner in the business, but had increasingly been pulled in the direction of her baking side business and her relationship with Miles. “I’d hoped you wouldn’t mind one more addition. She’s slated to interview right after our first three candidates. I think you’ll agree she’s so promising that we couldn’t let this opportunity pass.”

But my ringing endorsement of Pia only riled Rachel further. “It sounds like this person is basically hired, Mallory. Mom is right. I need more of a say here.”

I opened and closed my mouth like a beached fish while I gathered my thoughts and tempered my own annoyance. “I don’t think that’s exactly what Mom said. And since when are you taking advice from Mom?”

Rachel bristled. “So just who is this person?”

I sighed. “Pia Battles. There.” I touched my cell phone’s screen. “I just forwarded you her CV and a link to her web portfolio. She has ample event-planning experience, and she just moved back to Port Quincy for the foreseeable future.”

But Rachel didn’t appear to have heard anything beyond the surname Battles.

“Is she related to Tabitha?” Rachel spoke the name with icy disdain.

“Yes, she’s Tabitha’s little sister, just graduated from college in D.C.”

“Absolutely not.”

I shook my head at my sister’s decree. A few summers ago, she’d dated Tabitha’s ex, to disastrous results. Tabitha had tried to warn Rachel, and received an earful. The women were civil, but would never be friends.

I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Rachel had learned her epic grudge-holding skills from our mom and was destined to detest Tabitha forever. Just as my mom would never be friends with Bev.

I sighed and turned from my sister to put the pitcher of lemonade into the refrigerator. “I’m sorry, Rach. I should have run this by you. But the interviews are tomorrow, and I just added Pia on. We don’t have to hire her. But I want to do her the courtesy of keeping the interview. And I hope you will give her a chance. Whatever happened between you and Tabitha shouldn’t poison your opinion of her little sister. They’re different people, after all.”

My sister placed a fist under her chin and sighed. The chandelier reflected off of her sparkly bronze acrylics. She shrugged. “I’m a professional. I’ll give her a shot.”

Later that evening my mom, sister, stepdad, and I gathered around the table for an evening of chitchat and familial fun. While my parents had their own abode, it was always fun to host them for dinner. We had a good time, no doubt because we all carefully chose to avoid the landmine topics of earlier in the day. I regaled everyone with a more detailed version of my impromptu showdown with Helene. All seemed well. The pretty but ripped veil was tucked away in the safe in my office. I fell into bed that night with a full heart. My family was a bit crazy, but they loved me fiercely. Whatever happened with my wedding, and with the heart-pounding conversation I’d soon have with Garrett about having kids someday, everything would be fine.

At least that’s what I told myself.

* * *

“Two down and one to go.” My sister seemed to melt into the loveseat we were sharing as we interviewed candidates for the assistant wedding-planner position. I’d been impressed with my sister’s professionalism this morning after her reaction yesterday to granting Pia an interview.

“Macy and Simon were incredible. It’ll be hard to choose between them.” My sister closed her eyes and seemed to shut down any discussion, too.

“Not so fast, sis.” I realized Rachel’s apparent acceptance of Pia’s interview was anything but. She was just banking on our other candidates being so good we could bypass Tabitha’s little sister altogether. Fine. I’d play my sister’s game. For now. But she couldn’t stop Pia walking in the door in T-minus-ten-minutes.

“Macy and Simon would both do a wonderful job.” I acquiesced and played along. “I think we’ll finally have a permanent assistant.”

But Rachel seemed to catch on to my performance. “I’m still mad at you, Mallory. You’re not off the hook just yet.” Rachel’s voice dropped to a low grumble. “I was in on selecting the other three candidates. I still can’t believe you added a fourth based on an impromptu interview in the Antique Emporium! When you’re out on maternity leave, this won’t happen.” She smirked after delivering her final barb.

“Whatever, Rach.” I retaliated by lobbing a small decorative pillow, which I purposely sent wide. I wouldn’t want to mess up my sister’s interview look. Rachel giggled and expertly batted it away like the volleyball player she’d been back in high school. But I could tell that even though we had just made light of it, Rachel was ticked to her core that I’d unilaterally invited Pia to an in-person interview. Ticked enough to make a running and annoying joke about the parent-in-waiting gauntlet our mother had thrown down yesterday. I could remain amused as long as this all remained in the realm of jokes and giggles.

Rachel was usually the more easygoing person in our business, but she had vetted our other three candidates with ruthless efficiency and an eagle eye. I could set aside my annoyance and understand why she wasn’t too thrilled to have Pia sweep in during the eleventh hour. But fate had been kind to me. Our most promising candidate had canceled this morning. She’d been gracious and had not wanted to waste our time as she’d just accepted a job in Pittsburgh. Which left Macy and Simon, who had both aced their interviews. But Rachel couldn’t be mad about Pia, who brought this round of interviews back to the three-candidate number we’d decided upon. I wasn’t going to apologize any longer.

“Honestly, Rach, I hope Pia works out. Macy told us she plans to commute from Pittsburgh, and Simon seems bitten by the big city bug, too. They’d both do well here, but Pia has no illusions about sleepy small-town life since she grew up in Port Quincy.”

Rachel batted away my list of reasons with a flick of her acrylics. “I can’t believe you made me call Pia’s references already. That’s a bit premature, Mallory. Just promise, no more big decisions without consulting me.” Rachel was as annoyed as I’d seen her in a long time. It was true we were formal business partners now. But her maudlin pout catapulted me back to when we were decades younger, arguing childishly about the fairness of this or that.

I rejoindered with an exasperated sigh. “But we called everyone else’s references last week, Rachel. We’re just giving Pia an equal chance. The same as we granted the other candidates.”

Rachel remained defiantly skeptical. “I’ll withhold judgment until I meet this supposed event-planning Svengali. This job requires finesse and sophistication and excellent communication skills. The young man and the woman we just interviewed were both fantastic and would be immediately helpful to our business.” She flounced back into the loveseat with an unprofessional harrumph and crossed her arms against any apparent rejoinder I’d have. Her sweeping tassel-chandelier earrings swished against her shoulders in silent censure as she shook her head once in my direction. Rachel had partially covered her curve-hugging black catsuit with a pretty khaki jacket and red sky-high heels. Her beachy, caramel waves piled high on top of her head were held in place with rose-gold chopsticks. She’d topped off her look with faux, round red reading glasses with powerless glass lenses. She looked amazing, true to her daring style, yet still professional.

It wasn’t anything I could pull off, though. I was the more subdued version, my hair less golden, curlier and more unruly, too. I was still pleased with my interview outfit of a peach sundress with a smattering of green leaves, flat espadrilles, and a white linen jacket. Rachel and I were so different, but we complimented each other in every way. I didn’t want to preface Pia’s interview with a sisterly fight.

It was time to stop convincing Rachel. I was sure Pia was our next assistant. I just hoped Pia could persuade my sister as well. I tried to suppress the smirk I felt forming at the corners of my mouth. “You’ll see, Rach.” I took a delicate swig of my tea.