Icing On The Cake. Laura Castoro
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of Ted’s estate. But I just can’t stand the idea of handing everything over to her! How juvenile is that?
“I like your hair lifted back off your face,” Celia continues. “Has anyone ever told you you look a bit like Jackie O?”
“No.” Embarrassed, I turn away. Sally looks like Jackie O. I look, well, like not Jackie.
If I’m looking at all sexy it’s the shoes. Periodically, Sally cleans out her closet and sends me pairs of last season’s got-to-have shoes. Shoe size is the only size we share. Lucky me! The right pair of shoes can make even a simple black sheath look couture. Tonight I’m wearing Jimmy Choo sandals with curvy red patent leather hole-punched straps. Sex on a stem!
The black tie wedding is being held in one of the swanky hotels in the area. A block-long white Hummer limo blocks the curved entrance while double-parked guests wait for valets. I park myself. In my pennies-count world, I can’t afford to show off.
When we finally break free of the crush entering the prenuptial cocktail area of the reception hall, Celia has parallel frown lines between her brows. Already set high, her envy meter is rising.
The theme of the wedding is “Under the Sea.” The tones are champagne and mother-of-pearl pink with traces of silver. From tabletops spilling over with shells and pearls to a ceiling artfully draped to resemble ocean currents, the room is a stage set of seascape luxe. Granted, it’s not as gaudy/tacky as it will sound when I describe it to Riley and Sarah, but my job tonight is to be biased on Celia’s behalf. And Celia’s turning an envious shade of green. Of course, it could be that she’s holding her stomach in too tight.
“Would you look at all this?” I hope I sound faintly disapproving. “Who but a cruise ship still does conch shell ice sculptures?”
“Jenna took the Michael C. Fina wedding workshop course.” Celia sounds positively subdued. “She must have made an A.”
“And he made a bundle. Anyone can buy inspiration. She bought too much.”
Celia gives me a funny look. “Don’t you like it?”
I look around with a sigh of so what. “Honestly? It’s as if Tiffany did The Little Mermaid in platinum and pearls.”
A bubble of laughter escapes Celia and she steers me over to a diorama of the bridal place setting. The elaborately scrolled and painted pieces of Butterfly Garden bone china by Versa are presented as works of art. “John had a cow when I told him how much a setting costs. Oh, but it is gorgeous.”
“Plates that decorative make it hard to tell when you have finished eating. And notice the size and weight of her silver. Elderly relatives will never be able to lift those forks to their mouths.”
Celia giggles again. “I had no idea you could be so catty.”
A waiter with tray approaches. “Have a Blue Bird or Abyssina martini.”
Celia grabs the pretty blue drink with narrow strips of orange peel curling over the rim. After a sip she smiles. “Yum!”
“Gin, Monin Orgeat and blue Curaçao,” the waiter offers in explanation.
I wrinkle my nose. “Nothing called a martini should be blue.”
“You might prefer the Abyssinia,” the waiter says. “It’s cognac, crème de cacao and grapefruit juice.”
“Have a lot of requests for that sort of thing?”
He shrugs. “It’s the bride’s selection.”
Celia looks at me. “I can’t wait to see what the appetizer plaza has to offer.”
I nod. If Celia’s ready to move on from sucked-in abs to self-indulgent grazing, my job, for the moment, is done.
I opt for the nearest bar station where I order a real martini. My limit is one before the wedding. Nothing gets me tight faster than a good martini. That tingling at the tip of my nose signals stop before all sense of decorum is lost.
There’s a side galley for those with the preceremony munchies. At one stop hapi-coated sushi chefs make bite-size delicacies. After a tasting, we depart for tables laden with mini crab cakes, tiny beef Wellingtons and bite-size ham biscuits with béchamel sauce. My personal favorite is the lobster ceviche served in a silver conch shell. Heaven!
Finally Celia glances at her watch. “When are we going be seated?”
That question is being murmured in variation all around us when the doors are thrown open on a room with rows of velvet chairs and a wedding canopy at the far end. The throng rushes through to vie for the best seats.
As I would follow, Celia catches me by the elbow. “I wonder what that’s about.”
I follow the jerk of her head and spot a bridesmaid in a platinum silk chamois fishtail gown. She’s waving to get our attention as she swims toward us.
She doesn’t even introduce herself, just whispers, “Which of you is Celia Hart?”
“I am, was Celia Hart,” Celia answers. “Now Celia Martin.”
“Thank God!” She grabs Celia by the arm. “Jenna’s locked herself in the dressing room and says she won’t talk to anyone but you. Hurry!”
Celia must be doing marathon girlfriend counseling. It’s been half an hour since the groom’s mother announced that the wedding is off. After that, the hotel bar seemed a better location to wait than standing around at a celebration gone fractious. As I slipped out I overheard a guest refer to the bride as a “schizoid drama queen.” No doubt from the groom’s side of the aisle.
I’m gratified that my strapless black sheath with illusion yoke has earned me a few glances of approval. Possibly it’s the Jimmie Choos. But I’m not interested in fending off upscale barflies. With a soda and lime in hand I chat up the bartender, Mitch, though he isn’t above asking snoopy questions about the wedding. I’ve tried to divert him by talking about my favorite topic, bread, but he keeps coming back to the wedding.
“What’d you wager they spent on that shindig?”
“What do you think of the idea of pomegranate seed bread?” I respond. “I can’t decide, does it sound like breakfast bread, dessert bread or a cheese-and-wine bread? I suppose it depends on how sweet it is, and whether or not there’s a glaze.”
“The kitchen staff has a pool going. My bet is three hundred thou.”
Talk about a one-track mind.
“Excuse me,” the man to my right says. “Are you here for a wedding?”
He sat down a few minutes ago, leaving a stool between us. I don’t glance at him but I suppose there’s no reason to be rude. He could be another stranded wedding guest. “Yes, the wedding that wasn’t.”
“Really? Tough break. So who called it off?”
I look over with every intention of telling him to mind his own business. But whatever I was about to say takes flight as I’m left just looking.
He’s dressed in sport coat and open collar, definitely not a wedding guest. The rest of his assets click off in my mind: high forehead, cropped dark hair, bold nose and jaw set off by deep copper skin that no bottle, spray, oil or butter produced. Yet it’s not his mature urbane looks that shut down my annoyance. It’s his city-block smile. It’s a smile of recognition, the kind you get from a long-ago friend who’s eager for you to place him.
But I don’t know him. Trust me, I would remember. The expectant look in his dark eyes only reminds me that I’m a single woman in a nice dress with time on her hands. So, um, what did he ask me?
“I’m here as moral support for a friend of a friend of the bride.”
That smile widens a notch. “What kind of support does a friend of a friend of the bride give?”
The