“No.” Bethany gave me a chilling blue-eyed glare. In the next moment her face relaxed, and she smiled sweetly. “I’m an old-fashioned girl. To me, the wedding has to come before the baby. If that means the wedding has to be a little smaller, Ryan and I are fine with that.”
“I’m not fine with a smaller wedding,” Hollis said. “Anything less than four hundred guests is not possible. This occasion is going to show the old guard that we’re a family to be reckoned with.” She gave me a small smile that didn’t quite coordinate with her fierce, fixed stare. “This is Bethany’s wedding, but it’s my show. I just want everyone to remember that.”
This was not the first time I’d planned a wedding in which people had brought different agendas to the table. But it was the first time the mother of the bride had been so blunt about wanting the occasion to be her show.
It couldn’t have been easy to grow up in the shadow of such a mother. Some children of dominating parents turned out to be timid and insecure, desperate not to attract attention. Bethany, however, seemed to be have been made in the same tough, diamond-hard mold. Although Bethany wanted a stylish wedding, it was clear that above all she desired expediency. I couldn’t help wondering if she was worried about Ryan wriggling off the hook.
The pair sat side by side on the blue sectional, their legs crossed identically on the diagonal. Bethany was a gorgeous young woman, lean and lanky, her hair long, white blond, and stick straight. A large engagement solitaire glittered on her left hand as she draped her arm gracefully along the back of the sofa.
“Mother,” she said to Hollis, “Ryan and I have already agreed that we’re only going to invite guests that we have personal connections to.”
“What about my personal connections? An ex-president and first lady —”
“We’re not going to invite them.”
Hollis stared at her daughter as if she had just spoken in tongues. “Of course we are.”
“I’ve been to weddings with Secret Service, Mother. Bomb-sniffing dogs, the magnetometers, everything in lockdown for a five-mile radius… Ryan wouldn’t stand for it. There’s only so far I can push him.”
“Why isn’t anyone worried about pushing me?” Hollis asked, and laughed angrily. “Everyone knows the mother is in charge of the wedding. It’s all going to reflect on me.”
“That doesn’t mean you can bully everyone into doing what you want.”
“I’m the one being bullied. I’m the one everyone’s trying to sideline!”
“Whose wedding is this?” Bethany asked. “You had your own. Do you have to take mine too?”
“Mine was nothing compared to this.” Hollis shot me an incredulous glance as if to convey how impossible her daughter was. “Bethany, do you know how much you have in your life that I didn’t get?”
“Of course I do. You never stop talking about it.”
“No one is being sidelined,” I interceded hastily. “We all have the same goal, for Bethany to have the wedding she deserves. Let’s get the contractual obligations out of the way, and then we can start working on a master guest list. I’m sure we can find some ways to pare it down. We’ll consult with Ryan, of course.”
“Isn’t it up to me to decide —” Hollis began.
“I’m positive we can have Bethany featured as bride of the month in Southern Weddings and Modern Bride,” I interrupted, trying to distract her.
“And Texas Bride,” Sofia added.
“Not to mention some local media coverage leading up to the wedding,” I continued. “First we’ll come up with a compelling narrative —”
“I know all that,” Hollis said irritably. “I’ve been interviewed dozens of times about my galas and fund-raisers.”
“Mother knows everything,” Bethany said in a saccharine tone.
“One of the most appealing angles to this story,” I said, “is about a mother’s and daughter’s joy in planning a wedding together while the daughter is expecting her own child. That could be a great hook for —”
“We’re not going to mention the pregnancy,” Hollis said decisively.
“Why not?” Bethany asked.
“The old guard won’t approve. It used to be that these situations were covered up and kept quiet, which is still the best way, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask you,” Bethany retorted. “I haven’t done anything to be ashamed of, and I’m not going into hiding. I’m marrying the father of my child. If the old bitches don’t like it, they should try living in the twenty-first century. Besides, my bump is going to be obvious by the time the wedding takes place.”
“You’ll have to watch your weight, sweetheart. Eating for two is a myth. During my entire pregnancy, I only gained fifteen pounds. You’re already looking puffy.”
“Bethany,” Sofia broke in with artificial cheer, “you and I need to arrange a time to brainstorm ideas and color palettes.”
“I’ll come too,” Hollis said. “You’ll want my ideas.”
After the Warners had left the studio, Sofia and I collapsed on the sectional and groaned in unison.
“I feel like roadkill,” I said.
“Are they going to act like this the whole time?”
“This is only the beginning.” I stared up at the ceiling. “By the time we make it to the seating plan, blood will have been shed.”
“Who is the old guard?” Sofia asked. “And why does Hollis keep talking about him?”
“It’s not a him, it’s a them. An older, established group that wants everything to stay the same. There can be an old guard in a society, in politics, a sports organization, pretty much any group you can come up with.”
“Oh. I thought she meant someone in the army.”
It was probably because of the contentious meeting we’d just been through, and the sudden release from tension, but Sofia’s innocent remark struck me as irresistibly funny. I began to laugh.
A throw pillow came flying out of nowhere, hitting me in the face.
“What was that for?” I demanded.
“You’re laughing at me.”
“I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing at what you said.”
Another pillow struck me. I sat up and fired it back at her. Giggling wildly, Sofia leapt over the back of the sofa. I leaned over and whacked her with a pillow and ducked as she popped up to swat me again.
We were so busy that neither of us noticed the front door opening and closing.
“Uh… Avery?” came Val’s voice. “I brought sandwiches for lunch, and —”
“Just set it on the counter,” I called, leaning over the back of the sofa to wallop Sofia. “We’re having an executive meeting.” Thwack.
Sofia launched a counterattack, while I flung myself to the sofa cushions. Thwack. Thwack.
“Avery.” A note in Val’s voice caused my sister to stop. “We have a visitor.”
I lifted my head and peeked over the sofa back. My eyes widened as I saw Joe Travis standing there.
Mortified, I dropped back out of sight. I lay back on the sofa, my heart thundering. He was here. He had shown up, as he’d said he would. I felt light-headed. Why hadn’t he chosen a moment when I’d been composed and professional, instead of finding me in the middle of a pillow fight with my sister like a couple of twelve-year-olds?
“We were letting off steam,” I heard Sofia say, still breathless.
“Can I watch?” Joe asked, making her laugh.
“I think we’re done now.”
Joe walked around the sectional and came to stand over me as I lay on my back. His gaze skimmed briefly over the length of my body. I was wearing another one of my shapeless but expensive dresses, black and sleeveless. Although the hem usually reached to midcalf, it had ridden above my knees when I’d flopped onto the sofa.
I couldn’t look at him without remembering the last time we’d been together, the way I’d writhed and kissed him and told him everything. Mortified color blanketed me head to toe. What made it worse was that Joe s
miled as if he understood exactly what was causing my distress.
“You have great legs,” he said as he reached down for me, his fingers closing around mine. I was hauled to my feet with easy strength. “I told you I’d show up,” he murmured.
“A little more advance notice would have been nice.” Hastily I pulled my hand away from his and tugged my dress into place.
“And give you a chance to run?” He pushed back a wave of hair that had fallen over my eyes and tucked another behind my ear with unmistakable familiarity.
Conscious of Sofia’s and Val’s interested regard, I cleared my throat and said in a professional voice, “What can I help you with?”
“I came by to see if you wanted to go out to lunch. There’s a Cajun diner downtown – it’s not fancy, but the food is good.”
“Thank you, but Val already brought sandwiches.”
“I didn’t bring anything for you, Avery,” Val called from the kitchen. “Just for me and Sofia.”
Like hell. I looked around Joe’s shoulder, ready to call Val on it, but she ignored me, staying busy in the kitchen.
Sofia smiled at me, her eyes mischievous. “Go have lunch, mi hermana.” Deliberately she added, “Take as long as you want – your schedule is clear for the rest of the afternoon.”
“I had plans,” I said. “I was going to look over everyone’s expense accounts.”
Sofia gave Joe an imploring glance. “Keep her away as long as possible,” she said, and he laughed.
“I’ll do that.”
The Cajun diner was lined with a counter and steel-framed stools on one side and a row of booths on the other. The atmosphere was agreeably boisterous, the air filled with brisk conversation, the scrape of flatware on melamine plates, and the rattling of ice cubes in tall glasses of sweet tea. Waitresses carried plates filled with steaming food… étouffée thick with plump crawfish tails, ladled over patties of grits fried in butter… po’boy rolls stuffed with lobster and shrimp.
To my relief, our conversation stayed in safe territory, with no mention of our last encounter. As I described the meeting with the Warners, Joe was amused and sympathetic.
The waitress brought out our order, two plates of pompano that had been stuffed with shrimp and crabmeat and baked in foil pouches with a butter-and-wine velouté sauce. Every bite was creamy and tender, melting luxuriously on my tongue.
“I have an ulterior motive for asking you out today,” Joe said as we ate. “I need to stop by an animal shelter and take some pictures of a couple of new dogs. Want to come and help?”
“I’ll try… but I don’t think I’m good with dogs.”
“Are you afraid of them?”
“No, I’ve just never been around them.”
“It’ll be fine. I’ll tell you what to do.”
After lunch, we drove to the shelter, a small brick building with abundant windows and crisp white trim. A sign featuring cartoon cats and dogs read “Happy Tails Rescue Society.” Joe pulled a camera bag and a duffel bag from the back of his Jeep, and we walked into the shelter. The lobby was bright and cheerful, featuring an interactive screen where visitors could browse through photos and descriptions of available animals.
An elderly man with a shock of white hair came from behind the counter to greet us, his blue eyes twinkling as he shook hands with Joe. “Millie called you about the latest group?”
“Yes, sir. She said four had been sent by a city shelter.”
“Another one arrived this morning.” The man’s friendly gaze turned to me.
“Avery, this is Dan,” Joe said. “He and his wife, Millie, built this place five years ago.”
“How many dogs do you keep here?” I asked.
“We average about a hundred. We try to take the ones that other places have trouble adopting out.”
“We’ll go to the back and set up,” Joe said. “Bring out the first one whenever you’re ready, Dan.”
“You bet.”
Joe led me to an exercise area in the back of the building. The room was spacious, the rubber floor designed like a black-and-white checkerboard. One wall was lined with a low-slung red vinyl sofa. There was a basket of dog toys and a plastic children’s playhouse with a ramp.
After taking a Nikon from a camera bag, Joe attached a lens and adjusted the exposure and scene modes. All of it was accomplished with the quickness and ease of someone who’d done it a million times before. “First I take a couple of minutes to get to know the dog a little,” he said. “Some of them are nervous, especially if they’ve been neglected or abused. The important thing to remember is not to approach a dog directly and step into his space. He’ll see that as a threat. You’re the pack leader – the follower is supposed to come to you. No eye contact at first, just stay calm and ignore him until he gets used to you.”
The door opened, and Dan led in a large black dog with raggedy ears. “This here’s Ivy,” he said. “A Lab-retriever mix. Blinded in one eye after she got caught into a bobwire fence. No one can get a good picture because of the coloring.”
“Solid black is tricky for lighting,” Joe said. “Do you think she can handle it if I bounce a flash from the ceiling?”
“Sure, Ivy was a gun dog. A flash won’t bother her a bit.”
Setting aside the camera, Joe waited as Ivy came to sniff his hand. He petted her and scratched her neck. Her one good eye closed in ecstasy, and she panted happily. “Who’s a good girl?” Joe asked, lowering to his haunches, rubbing her chest and neck.
Ivy padded over to the basket of toys, pulled out a stuffed gator, and brought it to Joe. He tossed the toy into the air, and Ivy caught it deftly. She brought the toy back, her tail wagging enthusiastically, and the process was repeated a few more times. Eventually Ivy dropped the toy and wandered toward me, sniffing curiously.
“She wants to meet you,” Joe said.
“What should I do?”
“Stand still and let her smell your hand. Then you can rub under her chin.”
Ivy sniffed a fold of my skirt, and then her cold nose touched against my hand. “Hello, Ivy,” I murmured, stroking her beneath the chin and on her chest. The dog’s jaw relaxed and she sat promptly, her tail thumping the floor. Her one good eye closed as I continued to pet her.
At Joe’s direction, I held a reflector board while he took some shots of Ivy. She turned out to be a willing photography subject, lounging on the red sofa with a toy between her paws.
Three more dogs were brought out in turn, a beagle mix, a Yorkshire terrier, and a short-haired Chihuahua that Dan said would be the most difficult to adopt out. She was beige and white, with an adorable face with big, soft eyes, but she had two things going against her: She was ten years old, and toothless.
“Her owner had to go into assisted living,” Dan explained, carrying the tiny creature into the room. “Dog’s teeth went bad and every last one had to be pulled.”
“Can she survive with no teeth?” I asked.
“As long as she gets soft food.” Carefully, Dan set the Chihuahua on the floor. “Here you go, Coco.”
The dog looked so fragile that I felt a pang of concern. “How long do they usually live?”
“This one might could last five years, maybe more. We’ve got a friend whose Chi lived to be eighteen.”
Coco surveyed the three of us uncertainly. Her tail wagged once, twice, in a hopeful gesture that caused a sharp twinge in my heart. To my surprise, she came to me in a fit of bravery, miniature feet pattering on the floor. I leaned down to pick her up. She weighed nothing; it was like holding a bird. I could feel her heart beating against my fingers. As she strained to lick my chin, I could see hairline cracks at the tip of her tongue.
“Why is her tongue so dry?” I asked.
“She can’t hold it in because of the missing teeth.” Dan left the room, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll let y’all get to work.”
I carried the Chihuahua to the sofa and placed her on it carefully. Her ears drooped and her tail
tucked between her legs. Staring up at me, she began to pant in distress.
“Everything’s okay,” I encouraged, backing away. “Stay still.”
But Coco looked increasingly worried, creeping to the edge of the sofa as if preparing to jump and follow me. I returned and sat on the sofa. As I petted her, she crawled into my lap and tried to curl up. “What a love sponge,” I said, laughing. “How do I make her sit by herself?”