Icing On The Cake

I turn to Celia. “Isn’t there a law against invasion of privacy?”

“John calls it a reasonable expectation of privacy.” Celia’s husband has twice qualified for Jeopardy and is waiting for the call. “He says Harrison proposed in a public place. He could have no reasonable expectation of privacy.”

“What about me? I was totally blindsided. Don’t I have a right to privacy?”

“Least that chump weatherman didn’t catch the 411 on you, Miz T,” Shemar offers as consolation.

I clutch at this realization. I wasn’t named. No one will know it was me. So, maybe no real harm was done, except to Harrison. Poor Harrison! He’s going to be in all alone in the spotlight of shame.

That fantasy lasts as long as it takes for the door to open.

“Who’s Miss Picky this morning?” Mrs. Morshheimer actually simpers as she comes up to me. “I thought he was just right for you.” She pats my arm. “At a certain point in life a girl can be too particular. Security and companionship are better in the long run.”

She leans in really close to whisper. “The s-e-x never lasts.” She looks up at me with a little shake of her head.

Great. Just great!

Chapter 8

Who marries on a Friday? This is a mercy wedding. At least my attendance is.

With the Fine Arts and Crafts Show opening tomorrow I should be at the bakery taking care of a hundred last-minute details. But I promised Celia. And this is Jenna Harris’s wedding.

Jenna Harris is, by Celia’s account, a whippet-size baby-blonde, the ethereal kind found only in Manhattan. Celia is “baby’s mum” blond, meaning she’s often too busy to keep the roots touched up. If Botticelli drew her she’d be one of the Three Graces of ample hip and stomach curves. But a bigger psychological barrier is that Celia and John eloped while Jenna’s wedding is rumored to be the wedding of the season—even if it is being held in New Jersey. I say there’s something fishy in that, but what do I know?

“You look lovely,” I assure her for the fourth time. She’s wearing a champagne silk dupioni sheath. “I can tell you’ve lost weight.”

“And you. Sexy, sexy!” Celia seems as delighted as if she were speaking of herself.

What I’ve lost is my appetite. Hiring a lawyer I can’t afford to fight for my share of Ted’s will has me chewing my nails to the quick. Reason aside, I don’t really want any part 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.