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  At home, Emma used the time between appointments to write itemized contracts. She loved the choices made by her last client, a December bride. Color, color, and more color, she thought. All that hot and bold would be a pleasure to work with in winter.

  She sent the contract to the client for approval, copied Parker for Vows’ files. She smiled when she spotted an e-mail from Jack. Then snorted out a laugh as she read it.

  “Trench coat and elbow pads. Good one. Let’s see . . .”

  You’ll need to choose between my red lace elbow pads and the black velvet set. Or I can just surprise you. I’ll try them on later with my collection of trench coats. I have a particular favorite. It’s black and has a shine so it always looks . . . wet.

  Unfortunately tonight won’t work for me. But that gives us both more time to think.

  “That ought to give you a moment or two,” Emma murmured, and hit Send.

  Chapter Eight

  At six, Emma walked into the kitchen from the mudroom as Parker walked in from the hall.

  “Good timing. Hi, Mrs. G.”

  “Grilled chicken Caesars,” Mrs. Grady announced. “Use the breakfast nook. I’m not setting up the dining room when you girls are going to be coming in and out and picking.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I worked through lunch. I’m starved.”

  “Have a glass of wine with it.” Mrs. Grady jerked her head toward Parker. “This one’s in a mood.”

  “I’m not in any particular mood.” But Parker took one of the glasses of wine Mrs. Grady poured. “Your bill.”

  Emma glanced at the bottom line, winced. “Ouch. I guess I deserve it.”

  “Maybe so. But I didn’t deserve the angry lecture from the proprietor who assumed I was you.”

  “Uh-oh. What hospital is he in? I should send flowers.”

  “He survived, unscathed. Partially because I was on a schedule and didn’t have time to hurt him. Your car was also detailed, expertly, inside and out—gratis to first-time customers. Which counted in his favor. Marginally.”

  Pausing, Parker took another sip of wine. “Mrs. G, you know everyone.”

  “Whether I want to or not. Sit. Eat.” When they had, Mrs. Grady plopped down on one of the counter stools with her own glass of wine. “You want to know about young Malcolm Kavanaugh. Bit of a wild one. Army brat. His father died overseas when he was a boy. Ten or twelve, I think, which may account for the bit of wild. His ma had a hard time keeping him in line. She used to waitress at Artie’s, the place on the avenue. He’d be her brother, Artie would, and why she moved here when she lost her husband.”

  Mrs. Grady took a sip of wine, and settled back a bit to tell the rest. “As you may know, Artie Frank is a complete asshole, and his wife is a prissy snob of a woman. What I heard was Artie decided to take the boy in hand, and the boy did his level best to snap that hand off at the wrist. And good for him,” she added with some relish. “He went off, the boy did, to race cars or motorcycles or something like. Did some stunt work in the movies, I believe. Did well enough for himself, from what I’m told. And made sure his ma got a piece of the pie he was making.”

  “Well. That speaks well of him, I suppose,” Parker allowed.

  “Got busted up on a stunt, and got some kind of settlement out of it. He used it to buy the garage out on Route One, about three years ago. Bought his ma a little house as well. He’s built up a nice business, from what I’m told, and still has a bit of the wild in him.”

  “I’ll assume he’s built up his business through his skill with engines and not through his skill with customer relations.”

  “Put your back up,” Emma commented.

  “I’ll get over it, as long as he does the job well.” Parker glanced over as Laurel came in. “Cutting it close.”

  “Coffee and cookies are set up. Some of us don’t have time to sit around eating and gossiping before a consult.” Laurel frowned as she combed her fingers through her hair. “Plus you’re having wine.”

  “Parker was in a mood because—”

  “I heard all about that already.” Laurel poured herself a scant half glass. “I want new juice. What’s the current situation with Jack?”

  “I think we’re having virtual sex. We’re still in the early stages of foreplay, so I’m not sure where it’s going.”

  “I’ve never had cyber sex. I’ve never liked anyone enough to have cyber sex.” Laurel cocked her head as she considered. “And that sounds odd. I like a guy well enough to have actual sex, but not virtual?”

  “Because it’s a game.” Emma got up to give Laurel the remaining half of her salad. “You might like a man enough to go to bed with him, but you might not want to play with him.”

  “That makes weird sense.” With a nod, Laurel stabbed at the salad. “You always make weird sense when it comes to men.”

  “And obviously she likes Jack enough to play with him,” Parker added.

  “Jack’s got a sense of fun, which is one of the things I’ve always liked about him. And found attractive.” Emma’s lips curved in a slow, easy smile. “We’ll see how much we like playing games.”

  In the parlor, over coffee and Laurel’s Macaroons, Parker led the consult with the engaged couple and their mothers. “As I explained to Mandy and Seth, Vows will tailor our services to suit your needs. As much or as little as you want. Our goal, together and individually, is to give you the perfect wedding.

  Your perfect wedding. Now, when we spoke last, you hadn’t chosen a date, but had decided you wanted evening and outdoors.”

  Emma listened with half an ear as dates were discussed.

  She wondered if Jack had gotten her e-mail yet.

  The bride wanted romance. Didn’t they all? Emma thought, but perked up when she said she’d be wearing her grandmother’s wedding gown.

  “I have a photo,” Mandy announced, “but Seth isn’t allowed to see. So . . .”

  “Seth, would you like a beer?”

  He looked over at Laurel, grinned. “I would.”

  “Why don’t you come with me? I’ll set you up. When you’ve finished the beer we should be ready for you again.”

  “Thanks.” Mandy reached into a large folder when Laurel led Seth out. “I know it’s probably silly—”

  “Not at all.” Parker held out a hand for the photo, and her polite expression turned radiant. “Oh. Oh, it’s gorgeous. It’s just stunning. Late thirties, early forties?”

  “You’re good,” the mother of the bride said. “My parents were married in 1941. She was just eighteen.”

  “Ever since I was a little girl I’ve talked about wearing Nana’s wedding gown when I got married. It needs to be fitted, and a little repair, but Nana’s taken good care of it.”

  “Do you have a seamstress in mind?”

  “We’ve spoken to Esther Brightman.”

  As she studied the photo, Parker nodded approval. “She’s a genius, and exactly who I’d recommend for this. Mandy, you’re going to look absolutely amazing. And we could, if you want, build the entire wedding around this dress. Vintage glamour with class, romance with style. Tails rather than the more expected tux for the groom and groomsmen.”

  “Oh, wow. Wow. Would he go for that?” she asked her future mother-in-law.

  “He’ll go for anything you want, honey. Personally, I love the idea. We’d want to find vintage dresses, or the vintage style for the bridal party.”

  Emma studied the photo when it came to her. Fluid, she thought, Deco-inspired lines, with a sheen that said silk. She lifted her gaze to study Mandy, and decided the new bride would wear the gown as beautifully as her grandmother had. “I can replicate the bouquet,” she said half to herself.

  “What?” Mandy cut herself off in midsentence and swung her attention to Emma.

  “The bouquet—if you wanted—I can replicate it. Look how clever she was, how smart to offset the long, fluid lines of the gown with the oversized crescent of calla lilies. Do you have the veil and headpiece?”
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  “Yes.”

  “From what I can see, she had it trimmed with lily-of-the-valley. I can do that, if it appeals to you. I just wanted to mention that before Seth comes back. Something you can think about.”

  “I love it! Mom?”

  “My mother will be a puddle. So will I. I love it, too.”

  “We’ll talk about it in more detail when we do our individual consult. Meanwhile, when you select the dresses for the bridesmaids, if you can get pictures then I can get copies made or you can scan them and send them in an e-mail so I can see what kind of flowers she chose for them.”

  Emma handed the photo back to Mandy. “You’d better put that away.”

  “Mac, why don’t you give Mandy an overview of the photography?”

  “First, I want to duplicate the pose in your grandmother’s formal portrait. It’s classic and gorgeous. But tonight, we should talk about what you’d like for your engagement portraits.”

  They moved from stage to stage, step to step, with a rhythm they’d developed over the years. As they discussed photography, cakes, food, Emma jotted down key words that would help her create a picture of the bride, the groom, and what they envisioned.

  And if her thoughts veered in Jack’s direction a few times, she reminded herself she excelled at multitasking.

  By the time she and her partners walked the clients to the door, she was ready to duck out and see if Jack had answered her e-mail.

  “Good job,” she said. “I’m going to go home and start a file for the event. So—”

  “There’s something else,” Parker interrupted. “When I was at the boutique today, I found Mac’s dress.”

  “You what?” Mac blinked at her. “

  My dress?”

  “I know you, and what you’re looking for. And since it was right there, saying I’m Mac’s, I used our connections and brought it home for approval. Maybe I’m wrong, but I thought at least you’d want to try it on.”

  “You brought home a wedding dress for me to try on?” Eyes narrowed, Mac pointed at Parker. “Aren’t you the one who’s always telling brides they might try on a hundred dresses before they find the one?”

  “Yes. You’re not most brides. You know immediately what works and what doesn’t. If it doesn’t, no harm done. Why don’t we go take a look? It’s up in the Bride’s Suite.”

  “Oh, we have to see.” Thrilled with the idea, Emma grabbed Mac’s hand and tugged. “Wait, we need champagne. Which Parker would have thought of already.”

  “Mrs. G will have it up there by now.”

  “Champagne and a potential wedding dress?” Mac mused. “What are we waiting for? No hurt feelings if I don’t like it,” she added as they started up the stairs.

  “Absolutely not. If you don’t it would only tell me how vastly superior my taste is to yours.” With the faintest of smirks, Parker opened the door to the Bride’s Suite where Mrs. Grady poured flutes of champagne.

  “Heard you coming.” And she winked at Parker as Mac simply stared at the gown hanging from the hook.

  “It’s beautiful,” Mac murmured. “It’s . . .”

  “Strapless, which I think will suit you,” Parker continued. “And the slight A-line will flatter your build. I know you were leaning toward something completely unadorned, but I think you’re wrong. The tissue organza over the silk adds romance, softens the lines. You’re angular. And the back?”

  Parker lifted it off the hook, turned it around.

  “I love it!” Emma pushed forward. “The ruffle train, out of the organza! It’s fabulous, just a little flirty. Plus the way it should drape over your butt—”

  “Will actually give you one,” Laurel finished. “Try it on, or I will.”

  “Give me a second, this is a moment. Okay, there’s the moment.” And Mac unhooked her pants. As she stripped down, Emma circled a finger.

  “Turn your back to the mirror. You don’t want to see yourself putting it on. You want the pow effect once you’re in it.”

  “Dropping your clothes where you stand.” Mrs. Grady shook her head as she scooped them up. “Just as you always have. Well, help her into it,” she ordered, and stood back, smiled.

  “Oh. I’m going to cry.” Emma sniffled while Parker fastened the gown in place.

  “They didn’t have your size, so it’s a little big.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.” Mrs. Grady picked up her pin cushion. “We’ll nip and tuck a bit here and there so it shows better on you. It’s a shame you’ve always been such an ugly thing.”

  “Insult me, but don’t stick me.”

  “That’ll do for now.” Mrs. Grady stepped around to fuss a little with the bodice, then reached up to smooth Mac’s bright red hair. “We have to work with what we’ve got.”

  “Count to three, Mac, then turn and look.” Emma pressed both hands to her lips. “Just look at you.”

  “Okay.” Mac took in a breath, let it out, then turned toward the cheval glass where she’d watched so many brides study their reflections. The only thing she could say was “Oh!”

  “And that says it all.” Laurel blinked at tears. “It’s . . . it. You’re it in it.”

  “It’s . . . I’m . . . Holy shit, I’m a bride.” Mac’s fingers fluttered up to her heart as she angled herself. “Oh, check out the back. It’s fun, and female, and I do have an ass.” In the glass, her gaze shifted to Parker’s. “Parks.”

  “Am I good or am I good?”

  “You’re the best. This is my wedding dress. Aw, Mrs. G.”

  Mrs. Grady dabbed her eyes. “I’m just shedding a tear of joy that I won’t have four spinsters on my hands.”

  “Flowers in your hair. A wide floral headband instead of a veil,” Emma suggested.

  “Really?” Pursing her lips, Mac studied herself, imagined. “That could work. That could work well.”

  “I’ll show you some ideas. And you know, I think with the lines of the dress, I’d like to see a long sweep of a bouquet, probably hand tied. Maybe arm-carried.” Emma angled one arm, swept her hand down to demonstrate. “Or a cascade, but with a waterfall effect. Rich, warm autumn colors, and . . . I’m getting ahead of myself.”

  “No. God, we’re planning my wedding. I think I need that drink.”

  Retrieving Mac’s flute, Laurel stepped to her. “It sure looks better on you than any of our old Wedding Day costumes.”

  “Plus, it doesn’t itch.”

  “I’m going to make you one hell of a cake.”

  “Oh man, I’m watering up again.”

  “Turn around, all of you,” Mrs. Grady ordered as she took a camera out of her pocket. “Our redhead’s not the only one who can take a picture. Glasses up. There’s my girls,” she murmured, and captured the moment.

  While the ladies drank champagne and discussed wedding flowers, Jack popped a beer and prepared to fleece friends at Texas Hold ’Em.

  And tried not to think about Emma and her latest e-mail.

  “Since it’s Carter’s first official Poker Night, let’s try not to humiliate him.” Del clapped a friendly hand on Carter’s shoulder. “Taking his money’s one thing, embarrassing him’s another.”

  “I’ll be gentle,” Jack promised.

  “I could just watch.”

  “Now where’s the fun and profit in that. For us?” Del asked.

  “Ha,” Carter managed.

  They mingled around Del’s lower level. A boy’s dream space, in Jack’s opinion, with its antique bar that had once served pints in Galway, its slate pool table, its flat-screen TV—an auxiliary to the even bigger one in the media room on the other side of the house. It boasted a vintage jukebox, video games, and two classic pinball machines. Leather chairs, sofas that could take a beating. And a Vegas-style poker table just waiting for action.

  No wonder he and Del were friends.

  “If you were a girl,” Jack said to Del, “I’d marry you.”

  “No. You’d just have sex with me then never call me.”
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  “You’re probably right.”

  Since it was there, Jack snagged a slice of pizza. Skinning friends was hungry work. As he ate he considered the group. Two lawyers, the professor, the architect, the surgeon, the landscape designer—and as he watched the last player come through the door—the mechanic.

  Interesting group, he thought. It fluctuated from time to time with a new addition, like Carter, or when one of them couldn’t make it. The tradition of Poker Night had begun when he and Del had met in college. The faces might change off and on, but the foundation remained.

  Eat, drink, tell lies, talk sports. And try to win money from your friends.

  “We’re all here. Want a beer, Mal?” Del asked.

  “I’m breathing. How’s it going?” Mal said to Jack.

  “Well enough. The new blood’s Carter Maguire. Carter, Malcolm Kavanaugh.”

  Mal nodded. “Hey.”

  “Nice to meet you. Kavanaugh? The mechanic?”

  “Guilty.”

  “You towed my future mother-in-law’s car.”

  “Yeah? Did she want me to?”

  “No. Linda Barrington.”

  Mal narrowed his eyes. “Okay. Yeah. The BMW convertible. The 128i.”

  “Um. I guess.”

  “Nice ride. Interesting woman.” Mal smirked as he lifted his beer again. “Good luck with that.”

  “The daughter doesn’t take after the mother,” Del put in.

  “Lucky for you,” Mal said to Carter. “I met her—the daughter. Mackensie, right? She’s hot. She does the bride thing with the Cobalt I just serviced.”

  “Emma,” Del added.

  “Right. She ought to be arrested for vehicular abuse. I met your sister when she picked it up,” he told Del, and grinned. “She’s hot, too. Even when she gives you the deep freeze.”

  “So . . . Emma didn’t pick up her car?”

  Mal glanced at Jack. “No, the other one did.

  Ms. Brown.” He took a hit of his beer. “The one who says ‘excuse me’ and means ‘fuck you.’ ”

  “That would be Parker,” Del confirmed.