Icing On The Cake. Laura Castoro

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СКАЧАТЬ rise, dress for bed and return to a slumber where, in my dreams, farts instead of words issue from Harrison’s mouth.

      

      “Liz! Have I got something to show you!”

      It’s rare that Celia arrives early enough to open. Obviously something else has brought her in today because she goes right over to the TV-VCR perched above the counter and pops in a tape. Occasionally we watch a movie after hours as we clean up.

      “I’m not always out of the shower in time to catch the local weather report so I tape and replay it while I dress. I’m so glad I did this morning.” Celia picks up the remote and points. “Now watch.”

      For a few seconds the jerky movements of fast-forward animate the screen and then under the direction of Celia’s thumb, It pauses and starts again in Play mode. There is our local weather guy chatting with the co-anchors of the show.

      “For all of you who’ve ever wondered about the hype at North Jersey Lexus, I’ve got a scoop. Yes, an eyewitness account of my very own. It seems not even the famed Negotiator can close every deal, even if it’s diamond-clad. Stay tuned—”

      “Oh…my…God!” I turn in horror to Celia.

      “So it’s true?” Celia’s Betty Boop face goes all wide-eyed with surprise. “Harrison proposed to you?”

      “Er, sort of. But how did they hear about that?” I look back at the screen. “And why is it on TV?”

      Celia shushes me, fast-forwards the tape through the commercials, hits Play again.

      “Harrison ‘The Negotiator’ Buckley is well known to Jerseyites as the man who will not take ‘No deal’ for an answer. Well, old Harrison, car dealer par excellence, was certainly off his game last night. While dining at a local establishment…”

      I turn away, feeling woozy. Who knew the local weather guy was at the restaurant last night, or that he’d make my proposal—no, refusal—the topic of his water cooler spot on the morning news?

      “—So go by and give Harrison a break. ’Cause some little lady broke his heart.”

      “Your old man proposed?” Shemar has come out from the back. “And you shut him down in public. Ouch! Now, that’s cold.”

      “He wasn’t my old man. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

      “I’m only saying, Miz T, you could be driving the hoopty of your choice off his lot, chilling and thrilling at this very moment.”

      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.”

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