“YOU CAN’T DENY that we still blend together perfectly,” Bastien said after he and Desiree had sung for thirty minutes.
“Our voices,” she qualified. “Though you never sang all that often when we were a four-person band.”
“We put you in the front because you were the prettiest,” he said. He glanced out the doors again at the gathering guests. “I’m going to run out and see if anyone of those guys in the Hawaiian shirts happened to have brought a uke. That’d be cool if we could sing the ‘Hawaiian Wedding Song’ to that.”
“I doubt they’d have it here at the house, even if they’d brought it on the plane.”
“True. But this is a small town, so wherever they’re staying can’t be that far away.”
“They’re all either at Brianna’s Bed and Breakfast or the Lighthouse View Hotel. Neither of which are very far away.”
“I thought Brianna Mannion was a wedding planner.”
“She’s helping out today. The brides recently adopted a baby, so their lives got too busy to take care of details, which was when Brianna stepped in. She used to be a concierge for the mega-rich at some of the best hotels in the country, then decided to slow her life down and come back home from Las Vegas. To make a long and somewhat winding story short, she and the contractor helping to restore the Victorian house she was renovating are now engaged.”
“Long and winding stories that end up happily are my favorite,” he said.
She refused to fall into that conversation snare. Their own road might have been long and winding, but she wasn’t going to allow her heart to tumble again. She’d done the right thing breaking up with Bastien. She’d have to remember all the reasons why leaving had been for the best. And why their lives were still not compatible.
“I mostly know the melody to the ‘Hawaiian Wedding Song,’” she said. “Enough to keep up if I knew the words. Which I don’t. And I really can’t wait for you to try to track down a ukulele. I have to go change into the dress I’m wearing to the wedding. Jolene, a Hollywood makeup artist, insists on doing my makeup along with all the other women’s. She’s the daughter of Gloria, who runs the salon and is in charge of hair today.”
“It’s going to take me some time to catch up on all the small-town connections,” he said, as if he was actually going to be staying here in Honeymoon Harbor. He wouldn’t last a month. “You’re gorgeous just the way you are,” he said, unaware of her thoughts, “but you should have time to go online and check it out while she fancies you up. You always were the quickest of us to memorize lyrics.” He flashed her another of those damn cocky grins, then went off in search of a ukulele.
Shaking her head, she went off to get “fancied” up. Since baking in a hot kitchen could melt off makeup, it had been years since she’d worn anything but a bit of moisturizer. When Gloria Wells had started selling her daughter’s organic products at Thairapy, she’d fallen in love with the light and smooth lotion.
“Well,” Jolene said, as Desiree sat down in the chair in front of the dressing table. “I’ve been gilding a lot of gorgeous lilies today. But it’s still fun.”
“Other than a bit of lipstick and sometimes a touch of powder for New Orleans humidity, I haven’t worn makeup since I used to sing, which was years ago,” Desiree said.
“Brianna told me you were in a rock band.” Jolene swept a moisturizer over her face, then followed up with a light-as-air primer. “That must have been fun.”
“It was blues rock. And it had its moments.” Desire smiled for the first time since Bastien had appeared in the kitchen. “Who am I kidding? It was fun. For a few years. Then I decided it was probably time to grow up and get a job where I could earn a living down the road. The music business, like Hollywood, was and still is extremely sexist. Not every woman can have a career for as long as Cher or Carly Simon.”
“I suppose you can probably do makeup as well as I do.”
“Stage makeup is different,” she said. “As you probably know from working in Hollywood. The bright lights take more. I layered it on with a trowel.”
“You’re striking enough to get away with going over the top.” Jolene stood back and studied her. “Your eyes hold such a wonderful element of surprise when contrasted with your skin. What would you say to a smoky cat eye with some glitter?”
“That it might be a bit much for an afternoon garden wedding.”
“True.” Jolene sighed. “But it’d be fabulous. If I weren’t leaving after the wedding to Ireland for a shoot, I’d want to really get creative with you so Kylee could take your portrait. But for today, we’ll skip the cat eyes and glitter and just go with a bit of smoke.”
As she got busy with her artistry gathering up her brushes and colors, Desiree went online and looked up the lyrics for the song. Which, fortunately, were short and simple. And perfect.
“I’d imagine your work allows for a lot of travel,” she said, after she’d committed them to memory over two readings.
“At times,” Jolene said. “But even with films set in fabulous places, many of the interior shots are done in studios in LA, so there’s not as much as you’d think. Though sometimes the constant travelling for work makes it difficult to have a relationship. I’m going to be in Ireland for three months, while my boyfriend, I guess that’s what you’d call him, although it sounds so high school, will be shooting in Australia and Hawaii.”
“I didn’t want to say anything, because you probably get tired of answering the question, but since you brought him up, I’ve seen the photos of the two of you on magazine covers at the checkout in the market—is it difficult dating an actor?”
“I’d never dated one before Mark,” Jolene said, sweeping color across Desiree’s lids. “I always stuck with guys in the trade. Electricians, carpenters, the occasional camera operator. But yes, I’ll admit that it can get bothersome having paparazzi cameras in your face whenever you go out to the grocery store.”
“I can imagine. When Bastien and I were together, women would send notes and even nude photos to him. Sometimes they’d even have them delivered to the dressing room we shared, or they would wait outside the club door and hand him envelopes with their phone numbers. It was hard on our relationship because, being young, I’d get jealous... I can’t believe I just told you something I’ve never admitted to anyone.”
“Hairdressers and makeup artists are like bartenders,” Jolene said cheerfully. “Clients always tell us everything. We’re also like priests in a confessional. We’re sworn to keep all secrets. And if I had to put up with that behavior, it would really upset me. But to be honest, my relationships never last long enough for me to get jealous.” She drew a line with a black pencil and smudged it with her fingertip. “My mother said I was born leaving. She’s probably right.”
“I envy you,” Desiree admitted. “Being able to move on so easily.”
“It has its pluses.” She looked into the mirror. “So, what do you think?”
“I have never, in my entire life, looked this good. No wonder you were nominated for an award.”
“Nominated is the definitive word,” Jolene said. “The awards aren’t until September.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’d vote for you in a heartbeat.”
“Too bad your vote doesn’t count. Close your eyes.” She spritzed Desiree’s face with setting water. “And if I weren’t leaving right after the wedding, I think we could become besties. Now that my BFF back in LA is engaged, I suspect I’ll come back from Ireland to discover I’ve lost her to her fiancé.” She took a mascara brush and swept it across Desiree’s lashes. “I don’t know a woman in Hollywood who has lashes as thick and long as yours,” she said. “And I’m including those who paid big bucks for extensions. This mascara is waterproof, just in case you end up crying at the wedding.”
“I don’t cry,” Desiree said.
“Never?”
“Not since my grandmother passed when I was twelve. My mother died when I was born. There were complications with the birth. So I ended up having only my father through my teens. It didn’t take me long to realize that tears really upset him, since he had no idea what to do with a girl. I just learned, the night of my grandmother’s funeral, to cry into a pillow. By the time I graduated, I’d lost the tears, I suppose,” she said, meeting Jolene’s eyes in the mirror. “A bit like your ability to move on.”
That wasn’t entirely true. She had cried in the restroom on the flight to New York from Paris, but that was more information than she cared to share.
She was, Desiree told herself as she left the room to change into her dress, going to have to gather up all her strength to resist Bastien Broussard. Or she’d be right back where she’d been when the most delicious man she’d ever seen had sauntered up to her after she’d finished singing “Joyeux Noël” and, without so much as an introduction, asked, “Hey, cher, want to be in my band?”
It was the first time in her life she’d understood that “near occasion of sin” the nuns were always warning girls against. It was also the first time she’d wanted to experience it. In that frozen moment in time, if Bastien Broussard had asked her to fly to the moon with him on gossamer wings, she’d have accepted on the spot.
She had assured the rest of the choral group that she’d be fine, and although she’d known it would be considered foolish, she had gone with him down Pirate’s Alley, where the famed Privateer Jean Lafitte and Andrew Jackson had formed an unlikely alliance to plan the successful defeat of the British at the Battle of New Orleans. Unlike the noisy holiday mood throughout the Quarter, the bar had been reasonably quiet. He’d ordered a beer for himself, a coke for her, and he’d explained about how he had a three-piece band that needed a front girl and since she was not only the most beautiful girl in the Crescent City, but also sang like an angel, she’d be perfect.
She’d been vaguely aware of him saying something about not making much money, but she needn’t worry, he’d be sure she’d be taken care of, and he’d protect her against any drunk guys who might want to harass her, and how he’d promised her they’d pass a good time together.
By then she’d already been swept away by his smooth, deep voice and dark brown eyes, and, with their fingers linked together, she’d walked with him to a little hole-in-the-wall bar on Royal, where he introduced her as his new front girl, and within five minutes they’d left with a gig that had been only two nights away.
“I don’t know any of your songs,” she’d complained at the time.
He’d stopped, framed her worried face in his beautiful hands and said, “Don’t worry, cher. We have two whole days. I’ll teach you.” And hadn’t he? About a great deal more than singing the blues.