What the Hatmaker Heard. Sandra Bretting
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luck? Hah! The only reason people ever told a bride about rainstorms and good luck was to make the girl stop crying. That was my opinion, anyway.
Sure enough, after a few more steps, another droplet joined the first. It was the start of a good old-fashioned thunderstorm, which often blew through southern Louisiana in the middle of July. Not only that, but the skies took on the yellowish tone of the mansion’s walls, instead of the chalky white of the staircase, as God intended, which meant we were in for a real downpour.
“You’re not listening to me!”
A man’s voice thundered from behind a beautyberry hedge nearby. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one discombobulated by the thunderstorm. I paused for a moment, until the gentleman spoke again.
“You never listen to me.”
“I am so listening to you.”
I recognized Lorelei’s voice, with its deep-throated Cajun accent. Which meant she, no doubt, stood on the other side of the hedge with her fiancé.
I stretched on my tippy-toes to check out my hunch. Unfortunately, my vantage point was blocked by clumps of purple berries, so I sank to my heels again.
“Really, Lorelei?” her fiancé whined. “You’ve been listening to me? Okay, what did I just say?”
“Well, you…” Lorelei’s voice trailed off miserably.
“See? I knew it.” Her fiancé spat the words. “Not that you care, but my fever’s up to a hundred degrees now.”
“Ouch. Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I took it five minutes ago. And between the cough and my asthma, I can hardly breathe.”
“Then I don’t know what to do. Nana and Pop-Pop just got here, and they want to see you.”
“We’ll have to tell them no. I think I need to take a nap before the rehearsal.”
“Maybe that’s a good idea.” Lorelei sounded pleased to have found something—anything—to hang her hat on. “I’m sure a long nap will do you wonders. You’d better take some Tylenol, too. I’ll think of something to tell the guests. I’m sure they’ll understand.”
“Yes, but do you understand? I don’t want to disappoint you since you’ve been working so hard on this wedding.”
Well, butter my biscuit. Maybe Wesley Carmichael had a heart, after all. He sounded downright worried about his fiancée’s feelings now. Maybe I’d judged him a bit too harshly.
“I understand,” Lorelei said. “It’s not your fault you got sick. And you’ve been so good to me when it comes to the wedding. C’mon…you even said yes to the roast beef, and you don’t eat meat.”
I was about to delicately cough, or clear my throat, or otherwise make my presence known—since lurking behind a beautyberry bush was not my idea of good client relations—when the heavens opened up for real. Rain splashed to the ground in sheets of palest silver; the individual droplets like daggers thrust from the clouds above.
“Eek!” Lorelei yelped.
While the couple raced to find shelter, I did the same. Already some strands of my hair fell into my eyes, and the rest wouldn’t be far behind. So I hurried over to a staircase on the left, which led to a basement of some sort. A heavy oak door at the bottom of the staircase was cracked open a smidge, and, since the heavens showed no signs of a cease-fire, I ditched down the stairs and stumbled into the basement room.
Only to find out it wasn’t a basement at all. The room housed an old wine cellar, which smelled of dried plant stalks and musky berries. Sure enough, a line of oak casks stairstepped up the wall, their centers cinched with iron staves. Someone had branded the sides with an elaborate “HH.”
Everything else hid in the shadows, which didn’t seem very safe to me, so I felt along the wall for the nearest light switch. Once I flicked the light on, the shadows immediately dissolved.
I was right…I stood in an ancient wine cellar, with an elaborately carved bar built into the far wall. Leave it to the Honeycutts to do everything top-notch, because the bar had the same HH monogram carved onto its side. Someone had even monogrammed the initials onto emerald-green seat cushions that topped a row of barstools.
As a final touch, a checkerboard of smooth mahogany shelves marched up the brick wall, designed to hold candlesticks, single-stem vases, or other interesting objects. A half-dozen shelves hopscotched up the wall in an elegant pattern.
Not a bad a place to ride out the storm. The only thing that could make the room even cozier was the addition of my fiancé. But since that wasn’t likely to happen, I settled onto one of the barstools and waited for the storm to pass. Little did I know how long the wait would be, or what would else would happen in that very room.
Chapter 2
The next morning dawned hot and bright, and the air sizzled with leftover moisture from last night’s thundershowers.
I drove onto the grounds of Honeycutt Hall, accompanied by the cock-a-doodle-doo of a rooster. Since I rarely heard farm fowl back home in Bleu Bayou, it cheered my heart to be welcomed onto the property in such a unique way.
I continued down the pea-gravel lane—appropriately named Sugar Street, since the mansion’s founders mined the crop in the eighteen hundreds—and entered a curved driveway that fronted the house. Once I found a parking spot, I stepped from my VW. I’d nicknamed the car Ringo in honor of another, more famous Beatle, and faint watermarks splashed my little bug from bumper to hood.
Thankfully, that seemed to be the only casualty from last night’s thunderstorms, along with a few rain puddles on the gravel. Once the thundershowers finally disappeared last night, the wedding party went on to have a flawless rehearsal, capped by a champagne toast at midnight. Too bad the groom had to miss the festivities.
Other than that, everything was on track, as far as I could tell. I climbed the grand staircase to the first floor, and then I paused a moment to catch my breath.
Since Lorelei had invited me to spend the entire day at her house when we spoke at the rehearsal, I’d brought an arsenal of supplies with me: a carpenter’s toolbox filled with beauty products, in case any of the bridesmaids needed a last-minute touch-up; a shoebox full of sewing supplies, including no-stick tape, several different spools of thread, and a chain of safety pins as long as my arm; an industrial-strength steamer for the lace veil; and my own gown for the occasion, which Bo chose for me. His pick? An Adrianna Papell sleeveless sheath with gold lace that stopped at the knees. A bit sassy and fun, it was formal enough to please even the most stalwart Southern hostess but cool enough to keep me comfortable during the reception, since July weddings in southern Louisiana could be notoriously steamy.
As a milliner, I couldn’t attend such an important event bareheaded, though. In addition to the myriad boxes and bags I carried, I toted a hatbox with one of my favorite summer creations inside: a Parabuntal straw picture hat with a gold grosgrain bow. The simple design would complement the more ornate dress, while the wide brim would shield my face from the late-afternoon sun.
Thank goodness I spied someone standing on the other side of a window in the front door, and she opened the panel for me.
“Everyone’s in the sunroom.” She looked like the mother of the bride, with fair skin and chestnut hair. While I wore my auburn hair in an updo ninety percent of the time, this woman wore hers chin-length.
I happily relinquished my packages to her when she motioned for them. “Thank you so much. I’m the milliner, and I need to do some last-minute touch-ups on the bride’s veil this morning. You must be Mrs. Honeycutt.”
“Yes, indeed. Nice to meet you.”
“I’m Melissa DuBois, but everyone calls me Missy. By the way, you have a lovely daughter.”
“Thank you.”