Veiled in Death. Stephanie Blackmoore

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СКАЧАТЬ Instead, it felt like every denizen in Port Quincy was poking fun at me. My mom’s not-so-subtle nagging usually rolled right off my back. But not today. I wanted my home and B and B to be a den of calm. I ignored her barb and carefully poured the lemonade into two cut crystal glasses. I plastered what I hoped was a serene smile on my face and gestured for my mom to sit down. She seemed irritated I wouldn’t take the bait.

      Still, it was nice to hang out with my mom. She and her business partner, Justine, were busier than ever with their less-than-a-year-old staging and decorating venture. It was a real joy to catch my mom making herself at home in my B and B kitchen for a respite from her own busy day. She must’ve ferreted out the hidden key under the back porch and let herself in. I didn’t mind the boundary smashing since she’d whipped up this batch of lemonade for us. I was ready for a calm rejoinder.

      “I just got engaged on New Year’s Day. It’s only June. I told you Garrett and I are aiming for fall. That’s a quicker timeline than most people getting hitched.”

      “You aim for the bull’s-eye in a dart game, Mallory, not a wedding date. Just set the darn thing and be done with it!” My mom attempted to blow her bangs from her forehead in frustration. She seemed to have forgotten she’d pushed them back today with the purple gingham headband.

      My tiny calico cat, Whiskey, appeared at my mom’s feet. She blinked her impressively large ochre eyes and let out a delicate but insistent meow. I nearly thanked the thoughtful feline for seeming to sense my need for rescue. My mom tsked and blushed. She seemed to realize her outburst went a bit too far. She produced a cat treat from the pantry and was rewarded by a happy, purring kitty twining around her ankles.

      “I am worried that I won’t be able to properly attend to your wedding as mother of the bride and chief wedding designer. When the time does finally come, that is.” She softened her tone with a sprinkling of the fretfulness I was used to. “You’re a professional wedding planner. But I want to relieve you of that role for your own big day. You should just sit back and enjoy.”

      “That’s so thoughtful, Mom.” My heart warmed toward my mother, Carole. Her sentiments were in the right place, even though pushy could have easily been her middle name. I also couldn’t help but compare my mom’s offer to Bev’s. My dear seamstress friend had made the same offer of wedding planning help just this morning. It would make sense for my mom and Bev to team up to design my wedding. Garrett and I would happily hand over the reins in that arena. It was totally enticing to imagine myself as a regular blushing bride, instead of managing my own wedding as my very own client.

      It was too bad pigs flying had a better chance of happening than those two special women in my life working together. Carole and Bev were more alike than their strikingly different appearances belied. My mom favored preppy outfits all in one hue, and her persona was persnickety and careful. She was always admonishing me to watch my figure and to keep propriety in mind. Bev, in contrast, favored loud prints and patterns to cloak her own ample, apple-shaped short frame, and as many sparkly hair accoutrements as her impressive blond beehive would hold. But like my mom, Bev was a whizz at her business. She dressed nearly every bride in Port Quincy, as well as their attendants, in addition to being a skilled seamstress. Her renown had grown, and brides frequently traveled from Pittsburgh, western Maryland, and West Virginia to check out her special shop, Silver Bells. I wished Carole and Bev could be friends. And in another universe, where my mom hadn’t once dated Bev’s fiancé, Jesse, maybe they would have been.

      It was a different story for my stepfather, Doug, and Bev’s Jesse. The two had made nice at one of my winter events, Paws and Poinsettias, and were becoming fast friends. The men had bonded over their shared love for the Pittsburgh Penguins and American history. It wasn’t a rare sight to see the two men catching dinner together in downtown Port Quincy. I just wished their other halves would have been willing to bury their hatchets, too, or the similar sketch pads they both used in their work as a stager and decorator and a bridal-store owner and seamstress. But I wasn’t holding out hope for that. The two women did an uncomfortable and tetchy little dance each time they were unfortunate enough for their paths to cross in Port Quincy. Which in a town this small, was pretty darn frequent.

      Mom let out a thoughtful sigh. “I never thought I’d complain about my business doing so well. But I can just see how this is going to go. I won’t be able to be your wedding planner despite being the perfect person for the job. After all, I can see where you got your natural design eye from.” She fluffed out her hair, carefully dyed the same shade as my sister Rachel’s beachy, caramel tresses.

      And almost as if being summoned, my gorgeous, Amazonian sister strolled through the back door. My mom bestowed a quick kiss on my sister’s cheek.

      Rachel grinned. She must’ve caught my mom’s last utterance as she trailed in the door. “Don’t worry about being Mallory’s wedding planner, Mom. Bev can do it.” Rachel didn’t seem aware of the dagger blow she’d just delivered to our mom. Carole recoiled and leaned against the kitchen counter. My oblivious sister poured a healthy goblet of lemonade and drained it in ten seconds flat, making the hurried action somehow seem like an audition for a Country Time lemonade commercial. But Rachel had that effect. She was eight inches taller than yours truly, with a daring sense of style and a magnetism that left nearly every unattached man in Port Quincy drooling in her wake. It was too bad for them that my sister seemed to be permanently off the market, having fallen head over heels in love with her boyfriend and our event-planning business’s part-time chef, Miles.

      “C’mon, Mom. I’m just joking.” Rachel set her sweaty goblet of drained lemonade on the counter and sent our mom a more caring gaze. “Mallory is a control freak, just like you. I’m sure she’ll manage to plan her own wedding herself somehow.”

      I burst out laughing at my sister’s prediction. “I don’t mind being a control freak if it leads to gorgeous and thoughtful ceremonies and receptions for my clients. And maybe you’re right, Rach. My instincts will be to plan my big day with Garrett. But I’d also be happy to relinquish that control.”

      Rachel’s pretty green eyes lit up at my offer. “Just say the word, and I’ll do it.”

      I gulped on a swig of tart and sweet lemonade and sputtered as the liquid went down the wrong pipe. “Thanks, Rach.” I took in my sister’s outfit of the day and regretted making the offer to plan my wedding, even though it had been half in jest. She wore a daringly short romper of gold and green dots, the pattern like a zoomed-in pointillist painting. She tied in the colors with a swath of metallic bronze glitter eyeshadow, her hair in a jaunty side ponytail to reveal the giant gold hoops swinging in her ears. The big earrings matched her pretty hair, a sun-kissed shade between blond and brown. And she towered even higher than ever above me in a pair of cut-out, high-heeled gold lamé basketball shoes, a Frankenstein-matchup of Converse All Stars and stilettos. And to top it all off, that zany getup somehow looked amazing on Rachel. It was as if Anna Wintour had personally designed this look and my sister was ready to grace a fashion magazine. I think if I donned the same getup, I’d be asked about where the costume party was being held. You could definitely see the resemblance between us, but my sister was all flash and sparkling green eyes and prodigious height and curves, and I was shorter, with sandy curls and eyes a more subdued shade of brown.

      My sister reined in her personal style when it came to working with me, planning weddings. Her daring suggestions were incorporated in small increments that really made the designs pop. But left unbridled, I wondered if my tentative fall wedding would turn into a mix of Malibu Barbie and fall harvest glitter-bomb.

      “I’d love your help, Rach,” I reiterated, careful not to choke on my second swig of lemonade. Rachel beamed her assent, and I felt so much love toward my sister. Of course, she could help design my wedding, even if it did turn into a spectacle. I was touched that so many lovely people in my life wanted me to have a nice, СКАЧАТЬ