Wedding Vows: Just Married: The Ex Factor / What Happens in Vegas... / Another Wild Wedding Night

Karen gave a social laugh, the kind that says, let’s move on, but Ron seemed to consider her remark seriously. He said, “I’m a CPA. Being the kind of guy who disappears in a crowd is very useful for that profession, too.”

“I’m sure it isn’t. I mean, you’re not…” Oh, Lord, what did she mean? A blush started to mount her cheeks.

“Laurel’s very artistic,” Karen said, in a way that suggested she wasn’t good with words or people. Which was, of course, basically true.

“I can see that,” Ron said, gazing at the cake behind her. He was so incredibly neat, his not too long and not too short hair parted precisely, his shirt wrinkle-free, his shoes shining.

Today, as she often did, she wore clothes in Indian cotton that were already wrinkled, and she had a bad habit of getting icing in her hair. Her apron was certainly well-splotched with food coloring, bits of icing, and she noticed, glancing down at her plastic clogs, that there was a lump of marzipan on her toe. Next to this extraordinarily tidy man she felt like a disaster.

“This cake is incredible.”

“Thanks. It’s obviously a traditional cake, but I do all kinds.”

“There’s a book out front with samples of her work. You’ll have to take a look when you get a second.”

“I’d like that,” he said.

“And this is Anton. He’s one of Chelsea’s people,” Karen said, smoothly leading him to another part of the kitchen. They both admitted that Anton’s soup smelled amazing, and then Karen whisked Ron away to meet the caterer who was upstairs.

Chelsea arrived in the kitchen herself not half an hour later and Anton said, “Why do we have a CPA prowling around the kitchen? We’re not getting audited, are we?”

“No, of course not. Karen’s dating him and I guess they got to talking and she decided to hire him.”

“Karen’s dating Ron?” Laurel gasped.

“Sure, why not?”

“I don’t know, he seems so…” She couldn’t find the word she was looking for. All she could come up with was “understated.”

Chelsea grinned at her. “Well, they do say that opposites attract.”

She thought of herself, One Big Mess—and a colorful mess at that—and the tidiest, most understated man in the world and the strange, instantaneous attraction she’d felt toward him. “Yes, I guess you’re right.”

“SO, WHAT DID YOU THINK of our operation?” Karen asked Ron as they settled themselves back at her office. Lasagna was a treat she didn’t allow herself very often, but she felt she needed to do something special for Ron after his embarrassment yesterday morning when Dexter had shown up at her door far too early in the day. Or maybe she felt some urge to punish herself by porking out on hundreds of calories of all her favorite things. So, she’d work extra hard at the gym tonight on her way home.

“You’ve got a great setup here. I think you’re smart to have alliances with other businesses without setting yourself up as their employer. Makes your life a whole lot easier.” He paused, took off his glasses and reaching into his pocket removed a cloth and began to polish the lenses. Then he replaced his glasses carefully. “Now, let’s take a look at your accounting setup.”

Karen was only too happy to have an outside expert look over her books and her systems. Ron was an easy person to have around, he didn’t irritate her or ask her a million questions when she was busy, he simply got on with his work quietly.

And, much less quietly, she got on with hers.

“You want a live streamed video feed of your ceremony to go online?” she said into the phone, rolling her eyes as she grabbed a pen. “Right, I’m sure it would be nice for the folks back home to watch you live. Mmm-hmm. Yes, I’m sure they do offer that in Las Vegas.”

She sighed. Scribbled notes. It was always something. “It’s not a service I get called on to do very often, but let me look into it and get back to you.” And she hung up the phone.

“People want to have their wedding televised?” Ron asked, looking startled.

“It’s like everybody wants their own reality show these days.”

“Can you do it?”

She glanced up from her notes. “Provide a live feed? Oh, sure. I can do pretty much anything if it’s legal and somebody’s willing to pay for it.”

“If I ever get married, I won’t want it on TV.”

Chelsea strolled in just then with a menu in her hands. “Won’t want what on TV?”

“Ron doesn’t want his wedding televised.”

Chelsea blinked at him and then at Karen. “You’re getting married?”

Ron looked understandably harried by this turn in the conversation and Karen had to laugh at his hunted expression. “No, we were talking about some of the outrageous requests I get from brides and grooms.”

Chelsea stepped forward and placed the menu on Karen’s desk. “This is the menu for the underwater crowd. Let me know what you think. I may have gone overboard on the fish courses.” She stepped back and added, “I’ve always said if you call your business If You Can Dream It, you have to expect strange requests.”

“There’s a perfect wedding for everyone. I simply help make it happen.” She looked up at Chelsea, so busy with her catering company that she wasn’t getting her own wedding planned and decided this was the perfect moment to find out a few details subtly, so she asked Ron, “What would your perfect wedding be?”

He removed his glasses and polished them, which she was beginning to recognize as a stalling gesture. “Well, I can’t say I’ve given it too much thought,” he said to the lenses. “But now that my parents are both gone I suppose something very simple would suit me. A nice lunch, perhaps, for a very few friends and colleagues. And then my new wife and I would fly to Ireland.”

“Ireland?” both women said at once.

He replaced his glasses and blinked at them. “Why not? I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“Well, it’s not exactly the top honeymoon destination.” Chelsea smiled her lovely smile. “But maybe you’ll find an Irish woman to marry.”

“I only meant—”

“What about you, Chels?” Karen interrupted, knowing Ron was uncomfortable discussing something so theoretical. “What’s your ideal wedding?”

“Honestly? I cater so many weddings and there’s still so much post-divorce bitterness between my parents that my dream wedding is to hop on a plane, go to a first-class resort and be waited on.” A dreamy expression floated across her face. “No sourcing fresh ingredients or worrying about food allergies. We’d laze around all day and order room service when we got hungry. Or just stay in bed all day. Perfect bliss.”

“Why don’t you do it, then?”

She fiddled with her engagement ring. “It’s sort of complicated. First there was the whole fake engagement thing last year, and now that we’re really getting married, David’s entire firm is getting involved. Somebody’s brother-in-law will play the fiddle, another has a friend who’s a photographer, you know how it is.”

“You wouldn’t want to have your friends witness the event?” Ron asked.

“Not really. Weddings are starting to feel too much like work. We could always take pictures.”

“Go to Las Vegas,” Ron suggested. “You can have your own live TV wedding there.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Then she turned the question to Karen. “Well? What’s your perfect wedding?”

An image filled her mind. Her and Dex in a garden in June. The weather was perfect, the scent of roses hung in the air and she’d known in that moment that she was meant to be with the man beside her.

Apart from her mother refusing to sit anywhere near her father, and crying through the entire service, her wedding had been perfect.

“A garden wedding. But I already had my perfect wedding once. I doubt I’ll get a second chance.”

15

LAUREL WAS FEELING flustered when she arrived at work. With two wedding cakes to bake and decorate and a birthday cake for an obnoxious-sounding twelve-year-old boy who wanted a Lord of the Rings theme, she knew she couldn’t waste any time. For a perfectionist, that was always difficult.

She changed her black boots for her plastic clogs, tied her hair back and slipped on a clean apron.

She was the first one in and the quiet kitchen, gleaming with stainless steel and hulking appliances still and quiet like sleeping giants, made her happy.

Her own small area wasn’t completely uncluttered, however. A paperback novel sat in the middle of her counter. Puzzled, she picked it up. The book was well-thumbed, an old paperback that was clearly loved by its owner. She knew because she had a shelf of books like it at home.

The Thirty-Nine Steps, by John Buchan. The novel had a lurid red cover and when she opened it inside was a yellow Post-it note which said, “From a fellow spy novel enthusiast. This is one of my favorites. Ron.”

If the man had sent her two dozen red roses she couldn’t have been more thrilled. There was something so personal, intimate almost, about the sharing of one’s own copy of an oft-read book. A tiny thrill went through her as she turned to the first page, imagining the times when Ron must have had his hands exactly here, turning the page for himself, perhaps in a coffee shop on a Saturday morning, or maybe sitting up in bed at night before settling to sleep.

Then the fatuous smile on her face snapped off like a light that’s been switched off. What was she doing getting all romantic about this man? He was dating Karen. Chelsea had said so herself and Chelsea wasn’t a person to make things up.

She closed the book carefully and slipped it into her bag to take home after work. She’d misread the situation. He was simply being nice. He wasn’t showing interest in her.

He didn’t want to date her, he wanted to be her book buddy.

With a sigh, Laurel hauled out a tub of cake flour and got to work creating yet another artistic fantasy that would be gobbled up in no time by greedy twelve-year-old mouths.

Hours later, she was well into the decorating when a soft male voice said, “That looks amazing.”

She turned to find Ron looking over her shoulder. “Thanks. Do you know what it is?”

“The Eye of Sauron. From Lord of the Rings. I don’t know how you did it, but the colors look like fire.”

Like any artist, she was happy to have her work recognized. “Oh, good. I’ve got some really cool sparklers that will shoot red and orange sparks into the air. I figured a twelve-year-old boy is going to want something spectacular.” She glanced up to find him still admiring the cake, and for a second she could imagine what Ron must have looked like as a twelve-year-old. “Thank you for the book.”

“You’re welcome. Have you read it?”

“No. I saw the movie once. During a Hitchcock phase I was going through.”

He seemed pleased that she hadn’t already read it. “It’s a classic early spy thriller. You’ll have to let me know what you think.”

“I will.” She continued piping red gel onto the rim of the eye.

“Maybe we could have coffee sometime?”

Her hand spasmed and splat: a great squirt of red spat out of her bag so the eye now had a huge red jujube of a tear hanging from it. “Oh, crap,” she cried, grabbing a spatula and easing off the mess she’d made.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Of course we don’t have to have coffee. I thought you might like to discuss the book.” He seemed as nervous and flustered as she felt.

She had no idea how to respond. She didn’t even know what he was asking her. Was it for a date? Which is what she’d first assumed, but now she wondered if perhaps he hadn’t meant anything more than a friendly coffee.

But what if she said yes, and it was a date, and then Karen might be upset and she loved her job here and didn’t want to cause any trouble to a woman she liked enormously.

On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t a date at all and she’d sound all stuck up and full of herself if she refused.

Which was why she pretty much stayed away from the whole male/female personal interaction thing. It was all simply too confusing, like a game whose rules she’d never grasp.

She’d attempted to play chess a few times and felt absolutely bewildered. When was a playing piece allowed to go sideways and which ones could only go forward, she’d never quite understood. And as for that horse thing that went over and up, it was enough to drive a creative brain crazy.

Silence seemed to echo around the kitchen. It had never seemed so huge, or so empty. “Of course I’d like to discuss the book sometime,” she finally managed to say, keeping her attention on the icing, but not daring to continue her task in case he said something that made her completely ruin her cake.

“You don’t drink coffee?” he asked seeming a little puzzled.

“I love coffee,” she snapped. One of them was being incredibly dense and she had a horrible feeling it was her.

“But you don’t want to go out with me?” he finally asked with a kind of humble tone that made her glance up from the cake and meet his gaze.

“No. I would like to go out with you.” She sighed. How could a woman spend so much time strengthening her core and believing in the essential oneness of all people and still be such a weenie? She decided to speak her truth. “But you’re seeing Karen. At least that’s what Chelsea said.”

The second the words were out she regretted them. She didn’t want Ron to think she’d been asking about him. How embarrassing.

He didn’t make the obvious conclusion, but a puzzled frown settled on his face. “Karen’s a wonderful person,” he began. “But I don’t think you could say we’re seeing each other. Not romantically. We both realized that we’d rather work together than,” he gestured helplessly, “you know.”

“Oh.”

“So, will you?”

The world made sense again. Speaking her truth was as wonderful as all the yogis in the world told her it was. “Go for coffee with you?”

“Yes.”

“I hardly ever date,” she admitted in a rush. “I’m not very good at it.”

He breathed what seemed to her to be a sigh of relief. “Me neither. I am so happy we both like books. At least we’ll have something to talk about.”

She turned to him, not even realizing she still held the spatula. The connection she’d felt the first time she saw him was only strengthened by his words and she felt a rush of understanding. “I know exactly what you mean. Isn’t that the worst part? Sitting there, racking your brain for something to say? And my mind always goes blank when I start to panic. I’ll blurt out something ridiculous.” He smiled at her and she suddenly recalled her brilliant conversational repartee of yesterday when she’d told a man she’d never met before that he could be a spy because he looked so innocuous. She supposed she didn’t need to tell him another word about her little problem with blurting out the strangest things.

“Have you ever tried online dating?”

“No. I’d never have the courage.” Her eyes widened in awe. “Have you?”

“Yes. I decided that mathematically it made sense to widen the scope of potential females as far as possible since I only meet a very narrow selection of women in my daily life.”

“Impressive logic. How did it work?”

“Well, let’s see, over the last four months I’ve gone on approximately twenty-five first dates.”

“Twenty-five first dates?” Her eyes widened.

“Mmm-hmm. A few of them progressed to second dates, but nothing felt quite right.”

“I don’t know how you had the guts to keep going.”

“I’m tenacious that way. Once I’ve determined on a course, I try to continue until I’ve achieved success or accepted that success is not possible. It’s important not to give up too soon.”

“Wow. Did you meet nice women?”

“Yes. Quite a few. It’s how I met Karen.”

She gestured wildly. “Get out of here. Karen went through with it? She tried online dating?” With a cry of horror she realized she’d swiped his neat blue and white striped tie with a slash of red icing gel. It looked like the tie had tried to slit its own throat.

They both looked down, but she was the one who gasped.

“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry.”

He continued as though the disaster had never taken place. “And through Karen, I met you.”

He swiped his finger over the red gel on his tie and sucked the red goo off his finger. “I’d say it worked quite well.”

“I’ve ruined your tie,” she cried, holding her palms to her cheeks.

“Yes, you have. Let me know when you finish that book and we’ll go for coffee.” And he left looking surprisingly happy for a man wearing a suicidal tie.

16

WHEN KAREN WALTZED into the kitchen, Laurel experienced a pang of uneasiness. She’d finished The Thirty-Nine Steps and was getting together with Ron Saturday morning for their promised coffee to talk about the book. But she only had his word for it that Karen and he were friends. She’d heard of men who used Internet dating to pull together their own personal harems.

Not that she could imagine Ron with a harem, but then how well did she know him?

Karen was in full business mode and checking timing on the various cakes that Laurel was making for her over the next two months. After they’d finished confirming delivery dates, she said, “Um, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Karen grabbed at her arm. “Oh, God. You look guilty. Please don’t tell me you’re leaving. I can’t take it. Really. Your cakes are so spectacular, you’re part of our success.”

“No,” she said, half laughing. “It’s nothing to do with my cakes. I’m really happy here.”

“Oh, that is such a relief.” Karen slapped a hand over her heart. Her manicure was perfect. Laurel really should think about getting one of those. She imagined her fingernails with that shiny pink finish, then couldn’t. She wasn’t the nail polish type. “I’ve finally got my dream team, I can’t bear to lose one of you.”

“It’s more, um, personal.” She looked down and suddenly wished she hadn’t opened this conversation. She had no idea how to explain herself and felt foolish even trying.

“You can trust me,” Karen said gently. “If you’re in any kind of trouble…” The hand on her arm was both warm and soothing.

“Oh, I’m being stupid. It’s nothing. Only Ron asked me out and then he said you and he… And I don’t want to do anything you wouldn’t feel comfortable with, because I am so happy here and…” Her voice petered out and she continued to stare at the floor until she couldn’t stand it anymore and raised her gaze.

But Karen didn’t look at all angry. More stunned. She said, “You and Ron?” the way a person might say “ice cream and horseradish?” As though the two things couldn’t possibly belong together. “You’re surprised?”

“Well, yes, to be honest. You don’t seem like you’d have a lot in common.”

“We both like spy novels. And he has such nice eyes.”

“Yes, he does.” She tapped her pretty pink nails against her binder. “Wow.”

Laurel couldn’t gauge what “wow” meant. “So, are you okay with that?”

The wedding planner seemed miles away. She came back with a start. “Oh, absolutely. Ron and I met through a dating site but we had absolutely no spark. I think he’s a very nice man and he’s a talented accountant and I think we’re becoming friends, but we’re definitely not dating. I’ve hired him to do some work for us.”

“Okay then, that’s good.”

“You and Ron. Who should know better than a wedding planner that opposites attract.” She shook her head. “You’ll have to tell me how your coffee date goes.”

“How did you know we’re having coffee?”

“That’s how he always starts a relationship.” Then as Laurel’s eyes widened she hastily added, “At least, that’s what he told me. It’s not like I know him intimately or anything.” She cleared her throat, obviously embarrassed. “Because, in case you’re wondering, there was no, you know, between us.”

Laurel was insensibly cheered by this news. Not that it was any of her business, obviously, if Ron and Karen, who had met before she’d ever met Ron, had hooked up. Still, she was glad they hadn’t. She couldn’t imagine how weird it would be to have sex with a man who’d also slept with a colleague who was the closest thing she had to a boss. Not that she was thinking of having sex with Ron. The very idea had her thinking as muddled as one of her crazy icing color experiments that failed.

LAUREL ALMOST MISSED the letter grade.

It wasn’t until she’d made sure she hadn’t left a bookmark or a smudge or anything that might lessen the book—or her—in Ron’s eyes that she noticed the neatly penciled letter A marked on the inside back cover of the paperback.

An A and then a line of equally neat handwriting. It said: Book that began a genre. Masterpiece?

She loved the question mark at the end of masterpiece, as though he didn’t want to give out superlatives too easily. Was the A a letter grade like a teacher would give a student paper?

She traced the comment with her fingertip. She thought of the way so many people throw out words like masterpiece, genius, brilliant, groundbreaking and so on and how rarely the rave was deserved. She’d often heard ridiculously over-the-top praise for her own efforts. But then, Laurel, who was modest about most things, knew that some of her cakes were, in fact, masterpieces. Which suggested that not only mastery of one’s medium of work was necessary, but also something more. Some whiff of the creative, the unusual, that took a creation to a new level.

She’d never thought of herself in the same realm as artists—she made bakery goods to be consumed, her works of art were no more permanent than a sand castle or an ice sculpture.

And yet, she liked to think that she lifted the mere cake to a new level, infusing it with meaning and giving joy to those first viewing it and then consuming it.

A shy woman, she spoke through food.

Usually.

Sometimes other forms of communication were necessary and she never found it easy to converse. She was shy, loath from a child to put herself forward. She’d always admired bold women, like Karen, who could go out and meet new people, sell products and services, fight when she had to. Laurel was much happier alone in her corner of the kitchen putting her thoughts into icing rather than words.

Somehow, she recognized in Ron a kindred spirit. The fact that he’d made this short and measured judgment of a book appealed to her. She couldn’t imagine him in a book club arguing the merits of chaining oneself to a stranger of the opposite sex as a way to solve crime, or discussing the sexual undertones of the book and how they related to the mores of the time. The very notion of Ron arguing in public about sexuality made her want to giggle.

And if he did want to discuss the book with her over coffee she knew she’d find herself tongue-tied and stupid.

But she had to say something. In the end, she took a Post-it note, so impermanent it wouldn’t even leave a mark in the book, and below his A and comment she put her own. She said, after much thought and the wanton waste of half a dozen yellow sticky notes:

He’s an ordinary man who, when forced to save his country, can do extraordinary things. As in so many thriller novels, things aren’t what they seem to be on the surface. I think that’s true of people, too.

She realized that her note was hardly significant literary criticism, but she didn’t care. Her last line was more of a personal observation that had nothing to do with the novel but she was trying to tell Ron, in her own way, that she wasn’t exactly what she appeared either. She hoped there was more to her than she could articulate.

As the date approached, she realized, she wanted to be different from all the other women he’d had a first date coffee with. Well, it stood to reason she would be because she was different from pretty much everyone she knew. But ever since Karen had told her that Ron started all his relationships with a coffee date, she’d decided that she wasn’t going to tell her grandchildren that she and Grandpappy had got together over coffee in cardboard containers.