TWENTY-TWO
PICK UP MY dress from Lucia, was Rain’s reply text.
Theresa frowned.
Are you sure you don’t want to try it on again?
Lucia will be here Sunday when Im dressing. Said shed sew me in2 it if she had 2.
Theresa sent Rain a string of heart emoticons to let her know she understood her instructions. She showered after, relieved that last night’s champagne wasn’t poisoning her head. Maddy had been a responsible den mother, loading them up with water, Gatorade, and ibuprofen before sending them to their beds. Theresa was grateful for it; one scotch hangover was enough for the week.
She got dressed in a pair of jean capris and a pink short-sleeved button-down, slathering on the SPF 50 so the sun wouldn’t murder her skin. Alex kept busy by checking his email on her laptop. They were companionably quiet, like they’d known each other forever. The way they talked, fought, and fucked spoke to an unwarranted familiarity. Theresa hadn’t had this with Scott; sure, they’d maneuvered around each other well enough after a while, but there were difficulties she hadn’t realized she’d resented until after she’d moved out. The world had to stop when the writer was writing. Music couldn’t be too loud, or above a whisper, so working out was impossible. She’d started running because he complained every time she tried to do cardio in the living room. The vacuum could only be run with explicit permission. The dishwasher, too; it was loud. Delivering Scott lunches might have been thoughtful of her, but if he was on a word sprint, he’d bark at her for destroying his focus all the while munching on the sandwich she made him.
If the dog barked, it was her responsibility to shut him up, and God forbid she prioritize her work over Scott’s. That was a big no-no, and it was, in the end, what ended their relationship: when she became the bigger breadwinner. When her art trumped his. That’s when he had the excuse to have those three women in those three cities to pad his ego. Because he was so miserable. Because she made him miserable.
But with Alex, there was none of that nonsense. No unreasonable demands. No posturing. She didn’t feel like she was walking on eggshells or that her successes would somehow diminish his.
And it was nice. Real nice.
Maybe this is a thing that’s supposed to happen. Fanciful, yes, but when I don’t want to flush his head down the toilet, I really, really like him.
They climbed back into Sol’s Porsche and cut their way through paparazzi taking pictures at the garage gates. The incessant flashes reminded her she needed to get shutter time at the rehearsal dinner that night, and she made a note for herself on her cell phone.
They peeled away from the curb, Alex riding the clutch hard.
“If you leave Sol’s transmission in the street, he’ll probably be upset,” she said.
“That’s what he gets for driving a matchbox car instead of a real car” was his quasi-tart reply. He softened it with a smile. “Are you uncomfortable?”
“I’m fine. Just giving you garbage at your misuse of a beautiful car.”
“I hate this car. And you, my dear, are a sasspot.”
“If you think I take that as an insult—” She grinned. “My mother says that a lot. That I’m sassy.”
“Oh? Is she a sasspot, too? Is sasspot in the family line?”
Theresa put her phone aside and leaned back in her seat, her arms folded behind her head. “Oh yes. Her name’s Ruby and she’s very much a Ruby. Brazen. Flippant. She met my father when she was serving him drinks at a bar and had to shut him off and then call security to haul him out with his friends because he was so drunk. He didn’t remember much about that night except for ‘an angel with red hair,’ so he kept going back to the bar to see her again, and then it took him three weeks just to convince her he wasn’t an arsehole and that she should go out with him. Nine children later, here we are.”
“They sound happy,” Alex said, turning the car onto another narrow street.
“Very. They’re my relationship goal, right up to and including the big family.”
“Really?” Alex smiled. “You’d be up for nine?”
“Maybe! Maybe not. I do have a career now, but if I settle down with Mr. Right, who knows? I like kids.”
“So do I,” Alex said quietly. “I’d like to have some sooner or later, if God sees fit. It’d be nice to get a house with a big yard and putter my way into old age with a Mrs. DuMont at my side.”
“Huh. Nine-some children, though?”
“If I settle down with Mrs. Right, sure, why not?”
He glanced her way, a strange, fond smile on his face. She returned it without hesitation; while it was far too soon to think along the lines of permanence, maybe, if they could traverse the bumpier paths of getting to know each other, there was hope for more. Scott never wanted children. He wasn’t devout. He would have been content to stay in an apartment for the rest of their lives, and any marriage they had would always come second to his books and quest for fame.
Alex was not Scott.
And that’s a very good thing.
She slid her hand over to rest on top of his on the stick shift. His fingers grazed hers.
Alex parked outside Weddin’ Kisses, in one of the four vacant spots reserved for Darlene’s patrons. Things had changed since they’d been there last; someone had hung a sheet in the window to block the street view. A handwritten note was fastened to the door informing customers that the shop would breathe its last breath the next Friday and that all future questions about refunds and reservations should be directed to someone named Nancy.
Theresa climbed out of the car and up the steps. Alex followed, ducking around her to hold open the door. She winked at him as she walked inside. His hand brushed the small of her back. She shivered, because his casual touches reminded her of their not-so-casual touches from the night before.
Which resulted in screaming orgasms.
I like screaming orgasms.
The bell on the door was still there, heralding their arrival with festive jingle-jangles. Inside the shop, the seating area was devoid of furniture, leaving an open space on the hand-knotted rug, the darker rectangles showing where the couches used to be.
“’Lo!” called Tara from the back.
Alex stepped up to the counter. The wilted flowers were gone. The photographs on the wall had been taken down and put into a box next to the printer. “Hi. Tara, it’s Alex and Theresa for the DuMont wedding.”
Tara poked out her dark head from the back room. She wore a brown cap over her black hair, a plain white T-shirt with a pocket, and a pair of checkered brown pants that looked like she’d stolen them straight off an old man’s legs. They were too big for her by at least two sizes, but her leather belt valiantly kept them hovering above her hips.
“Been expectin’ ya,” she said. “Made a list when yer folk called ’bout the flowers. Lemme git it. Sorry ’bout the no email thing. No innernet here an’ I don’t gots the dough ta pay fer it. Too expensive.”
Alex smiled. “Don’t worry about it, Tara. You’ve been such a huge help.”
“Tryin’. Darlene left a mess, bless her big dead heart.” She ducked around back. There was a rustle of papers and the hiss of a box being dragged over tile floor before a hard slam! “Got yer list.”
She reappeared, waving a lined piece of paper with her familiar chicken scratch on it. “Wrote ’em in order’a likeliest. Darlene got the best rates from that shop out near the Tremé, so she used ’em lots, but they’re real exclusive—only do commercial work usually. Wanna talk ta Louisa. I’d’a called fer ya but been busier’n a one-legged man in a ass-kickin’ contest tryin’ ta close up.”
Theresa barked laughter. “Thank you, Tara. I certainly hope someone’s compensating you for all this work.”
“Oh, y’know. Gettin’ by.” Tara looked uncomfortable, so Theresa dropped it to be polite. Alex, however, either wasn’t as perceptive, or his desire to help exceeded proprietary expectations.
“Do you need a job?” he asked bluntly.
“Eh?” Tara’s dark eyes went big, casting an owlish slant to her features. “Mean, been lookin’, ayeh. Weren’ like I had notice with Darlene.”
Alex nodded and pulled out his phone. “Talk to Sol. On Monday. It might end up being his accountant, Cylan—in case Sol has honeymoon plans—but either way, I’ll text you a time. Is the number I have good, or is there another one we should use?”
“Yer serious?” Tara blinked fast, her eyes wet, like the tears were right there but she didn’t want to let them go.
“As a funeral,” Alex said. “You were a personal assistant before?”
“Well, ayeh. Some parts ’at, some parts secretary. Do it all. Went ta typin’ school an’ I gots a real good phone manner.”
But do people understand you?
Okay, that’s not kind. Bad, Theresa. Bad.
Alex nodded. “He’s looking for a PA. Mentioned it just this morning. The question is, can you put up with my asshole brother? He’s a flamboyant pervert but he has a good heart and he treats his employees like family. Good pay, good benefits. Discretion and hard work are key, though.”
“Sure! Bein’ real honest? Darlene was a real bitch most’a th’time. Movin’ over ta a run’a-the-mill pervert’d be a treat.” Tara’s eyes flitted back and forth. “Sorry fer speakin’ ill’a the dead. God rest her soul an’ such. Lemme—” She snagged the paper back from them so she could scrawl a number across the top with her name printed below. “Tha’s me. M’personal number. I’d be real happy fer the innerview.”
“Excellent.” Alex took it, eyed the list, and nodded. “Thank you again, Tara. We wouldn’t have pulled it off without you.”
“Aww, yer sweet. Hope ta talk at yer folk on Monday!”
“It’ll happen,” Alex promised. “You have my word.”
“Did you do that for your brother or to your brother?” Theresa asked when they were safely in the car.
“A little bit of both, to be honest.” Alex pulled on his seat belt. “Plus she helped the family. If she can’t handle Sol, Cylan will put her on the desk or in the office. Do a solid for a DuMont, we do a solid back, and at this point, Cylan’s an honorary DuMont.”
“That’s sweet,” Theresa said. “It’s a little bit Mafia, but it’s sweet. I’m glad you thought to ask her about a job. It hadn’t even occurred to me.”
Alex shrugged, trying to play it off as casual, but the red on his cheeks said he was flattered. Embarrassed, but flattered. “Being a bull in a china shop has some benefits. Not many, but some.”
“Yes, well. I must like bulls. In china shops, even.”
His flush darkened.
Theresa unfolded Tara’s paper and eyeballed the names. She snagged her cell from her purse and pointed at the top of the list. “I’ll get started, see what we can do. No point in running around the city if we can just make a few calls.”
“Sounds good. I’m thinking we can go pick up my tux, then swing around to Lucia’s for the dress? Two birds, one stone?”
“More like a flock of birds, but yes, that sounds good.”
Plan set, Alex got driving, Theresa got calling. The first shop on the list was Crescent Blooms, and a woman with a lovely drawl answered the phone.
“Hello, I’m looking for Louisa.”
“Speakin’! Who’s this?”
“My name’s Theresa Ivarson. I’m calling on behalf of my best friend, Rain Barrington. Darlene at Weddin’ Kisses booked a wedding for this Sunday—”
“It is y’all! Josephine! It’s for the Barrington weddin’! We were right!” There was a celebratory whooping in the background of the shop, excited chatter, and fumbling with the phone before Louisa returned to the line. “Girl, we got a six-thousand-dollar order of flowers here that we were worryin’ about. Darlene didn’t ever give us names, said it was top secret, but she paid us in full. We saw on the news about the weddin,’ and we guessed who it was, but we weren’t sure, and no one at Darlene’s number was pickin’ up.”
Theresa smiled. “Mystery solved!”
“Danged right. It all worked out okay!”
From there it was Louisa confirming the order and Theresa advising of the venue change while Alex parked outside of the tailoring shop. The bridal party’s flowers would be dropped off Sunday morning at The Seaside. The centerpieces would be sent to the dock and loaded onto the Capulet along with white rose favors for the guests. Louisa was incredibly helpful, and when she asked if they could get photographs from the wedding to hang in the shop to show they’d been showcased at the Barrington/DuMont match, Theresa offered her own pictures.
“I’m one of the photographers,” Theresa explained. “Maid of honor and a photographer. I’m a photojournalist by trade. I’ll double check with Rain, but I’m sure it’ll be fine as long as everything goes smoothly.”
“Oh, it’ll go smooth. Someone’s gonna be fed to a gator if it doesn’t,” Louisa said.
They both laughed, verified contact phone numbers, and hung up feeling better than they had before the conversation. Theresa was just sliding her phone back into her purse when Alex walked out of the store with a black garment bag. There wasn’t really a way to hang it, so he laid it out best he could in the back, smoothing the wrinkles so he wouldn’t have to contend with them later on.
Theresa watched him with no small amount of dread.
“How are we going to get a wedding dress in here without destroying it?” she demanded.
Alex eyeballed her over the back of his seat and frowned. “Porsches suck.”