A Wedding on Primrose Street (Life In Icicle Falls Book 7) (14 page)

Charley slipped into the booth opposite her. “I’m sorry. It sucks being betrayed like that, even when it’s by a loser.”

“Thanks,” Daphne murmured. “My mother thinks I’m a failure.” Oh, no. Had she said that out loud? One Chocolate Kiss and she had the loosest lips in town.

Her horror must have registered on her face because Charley smiled and said, “Moms always expect more from you. It’s in the job description.”

Daphne moved her empty glass away. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

“You probably needed to. And you know what else you probably need? Another Chocolate Kiss. I’ll get you one.”

True to her word, Charley fetched it herself and gave Daphne a free shrink session. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she concluded. “You trusted the guy. You believed in him. That’s what we’re supposed to do. It’s what we all
want
to do. Nothing wrong with that. And, you know, things have a way of working out. I’m living proof. I’ve got the best guy in the world now.”

“Well, if you’ve got the best, there’s no point in my looking,” Daphne said, managing a smile. “Anyway, I’m done with men.” She could hardly count the number of times she’d said that—to herself and others.

Charley rolled her eyes. “I’ve heard those words before. Hey, I said them.” She slid out of the booth. “Stay for an hour or two. It’s karaoke night in the bar, always good for a laugh.”

“I could use a laugh.”

She could also use a life, so she hung around the bar for a while, watching the locals warble to their favorite pop songs. Then, when she knew her mother would be asleep, she returned to the house and took Muriel’s book to bed.

One of the best things about starting over is that the possibilities are endless. Don’t worry about where you’ve been. It’s where you’re going that counts. The slate is clean. What gets written on it is up to you.

Daphne smiled. Her future wasn’t dark and hopeless. It was filled with possibilities. And she was going to take advantage of every one of them. She was going to write a new story on that clean slate.

* * *

Muriel’s inspiring words and Daphne’s determination to do well combined to give her a very good week. The days she worked with Muriel, she came home energized and pleased with herself. She cooked dinner every night and her mother not only complimented her, but had second helpings of everything from mushroom lasagna to salmon loaf, an old classic Roberta had taught her to make when she was a teenager.

“I swear, Daphne, I’ve gained five pounds,” she said and took another bite of caramel cream pie. “This is incredible. Darling, you could have your own restaurant.”

“Not here,” Daphne said. “Too much competition.”

Mother frowned at her pie. “Really, Daphne, sometimes you give up before you even start.”

“I didn’t know I was starting anything,” Daphne retorted. It was more a case of her mother, as usual, concocting some grand scheme for her and then expecting her to follow through. Rather ironic, considering that Daphne practically had to beg to be allowed to help with weddings. Owning a restaurant would be twice as challenging as assisting with receptions.

Her response produced a long-suffering sigh. “I worry about you, Daphne. I don’t know what you’re going to do with the rest of your life.”

Obviously not partner with her mother in the wedding business. “I don’t, either,” Daphne said, “but I’m going to figure it out. Let me get my ducks in a row first.”

Mother sighed again and nodded, and they left the discussion there, with the ducks swimming about, trying to line up.

* * *

A wedding was scheduled for Saturday, and Daphne was on hand to assist with the setup. She’d enjoyed doing this for her daughter’s wedding five years earlier. It had been such a lovely affair, and she’d had so much fun helping. Granted, she’d messed up on the invitations, but in addition to work, she’d been taking a neighbor to chemo and preparing meals for the woman’s family. Plus Mitchell had been starting a new job and that had put them under a lot of stress. Still, the invitations had finally gone out and the wedding had been well attended.

Now she was ready to shoulder part of her mother’s load and, yes, enjoy the vicarious thrill of a happy event.

“Thank you, dear,” Mother said after everything was arranged and ready to go. “You’ve been a huge help.”

Music to Daphne’s ears.

“Would you like to serve during the reception? It’s only appetizers.”

This was like getting invited to sit at King Arthur’s Round Table. “Sure,” Daphne said.

And so she did, passing through the crowd of wedding revelers with a platter of hot wings the bride was particularly fond of. Why on earth anyone would pick something with barbecue sauce for a wedding was beyond her. It was so messy, and the guests were going through napkins as though there was no tomorrow.

Daphne wished Lila had given her the shrimp platter instead as she nervously made her way between revelers. She gave the mother of the bride an especially wide berth, since the woman was wearing a pale blue dress that would not go well with barbecue sauce.

The father of the bride waylaid her and helped himself to several.
Eat ’em all
, she felt like saying.
Then I can get rid of this ticking time bomb.
She’d barely finished that thought when two kids darted at her from out of nowhere. They were on a collision course and Daphne took a step away to avoid them, which had her backing into the bride’s grandmother.

“Pardon me,” Daphne murmured and turned to avoid getting her with the deadly wings. Sadly, just as she turned, the bride passed by in all her wedding-gown glory. This might not have been a problem except that the bride had been indulging in a lot of champagne and was now weaving like a passenger on the deck of a storm-tossed ship.

Daphne tried to dodge her, but then an equally tipsy bridesmaid laughed at something one of the groomsmen was telling her and took a step back, bumping into Daphne, nudging her right into the bride. There was an “Oomph” and an “Eek,” followed by a wail and a “Look what you’ve done!” and an “I’m so sorry.” And then there were tears. Loud, copious tears. And then...there was Mother.

“Oh, dear,” she said.

“My dress is ruined!” screeched the bride.

“Let’s go to the powder room and see if we can fix this little spot,” Mother suggested.

“Spot” was an understatement. It was more like a stream. No, make that a river, a river of sauce wending its way down the bride’s front.

“I’m so sorry,” Daphne repeated.

“You should be!” spat the bride.

And now here was Mom’s assistant, Lila, with a rag and a small plastic bin, silently cleaning up the mess that had fallen on the floor. Lovely. How many women did it take to clean up a Daphne mess?

“We can fix this,” Mother said again. “We have a wonderful dry cleaner here in town, and of course we’ll pay for the cleaning.”

“That won’t help me now.” The bride looked down at her stained dress and burst into a fresh chorus of wails.

“No, but baking soda will,” Mother said, taking the hysterical bride by the elbow. “Daphne, fetch the bottle of white vinegar and the baking soda,” she commanded and led the bride to the powder room.

Daphne hurried to the kitchen, trying not to cry, Muriel Sterling’s words mocking her with every step.
The slate is clean. What gets written on it is up to you.
She was a disaster, the backward mirror image of King Midas. Nothing she touched turned to gold. It all turned to poop.

She got the baking soda and the vinegar and a dishcloth and dashed out of the kitchen, nearly colliding with Lila, who was coming in.

“That wasn’t your fault,” Lila said.

“Yeah, well, tell that to my mother.”

“I will,” Lila said firmly.

As if it would do any good.

The bride was still hysterical and threatening to sue when Daphne arrived at the powder room. The mother of the bride was hovering outside, begging her daughter to calm down. Too late for that.

Daphne squeezed inside (three was definitely a crowd in a powder room, especially when one of them was wearing a voluminous gown) and then stood by like a surgical nurse assisting in a delicate operation, handing over cleaning supplies. All the while the patient kept up a tipsy tirade, but Mother had nerves of steel and continued to work.

Finally she said, “I think we’ve got it.” The operation was a success. “Daphne, run upstairs and fetch me the hair dryer.”

Daphne dutifully fetched the hair dryer and watched as her mother blew away most of the stain.

“You did it,” the mother of the bride gushed happily when her daughter finally emerged, and all the guests who’d been hovering nearby applauded.

Roberta Gilbert to the rescue. How embarrassing that the mess had been caused by her very own daughter.

“It could happen to anyone,” she said to Daphne later that night as she and Daphne and Lila unloaded trays of champagne glasses onto the kitchen counter.

“It wasn’t Daphne’s fault,” Lila put in. “The woman ran right into her.”

“I know,” Mother said, patting Daphne’s shoulder. “I saw.”

Vindicated. She wasn’t done writing on that slate, after all.

There was another wedding scheduled for the following weekend, and her mother was actually giving her a second chance and allowing her to help with it. Maybe they
could
work together. Then someday, when Mother was tired of all this, Daphne could take over. Weddings could become a family tradition. Perhaps that would make up for the fact that a successful marriage didn’t seem to be.

No, she corrected herself, Marnie was breaking that pattern. She was happily married. Marnie was, simply, Daphne’s magnum opus.

* * *

The next Saturday dawned bright and sunny, with blue skies and fat, fleecy clouds floating over the snow-tipped Cascades. A perfect day for a wedding. And this was going to be quite the affair. Not as big a deal as the upcoming wedding for the mayor’s daughter, which would take place in May, but a big one nonetheless. In addition to a cake worthy of a Food Network TV show, the bride had ordered swan-shaped cream puffs from Gingerbread Haus and a full-course dinner that was to be catered by Schwangau, the priciest restaurant in town. She’d spent a fortune on flowers at Lupine Floral and had ordered enough wine and champagne to get the entire town of Icicle Falls snockered. Not content with a DJ, she’d hired a five-piece band. Guests were all receiving small gift boxes of Sweet Dreams chocolates. Everyone was setting up when Cass Wilkes from the bakery arrived with the cake still in layers.

“We don’t have the table quite ready yet,” Daphne told her.

Cass checked the time on her cell phone. “I’ve got to get back to the bakery pretty quick. We’re shorthanded today.”

“Tell you what. Let’s unload it in the kitchen, and Lila and I can put it together,” Daphne said.

Cass looked frankly worried by this suggestion. “I’d better wait.”

“We can manage,” Daphne assured her. She’d seen enough cakes put together in her time, and she’d seen the picture of this particular model. Very traditional, with layers held up by vintage champagne flutes. She and Lila could handle it.

Cass gnawed a corner of her lip. “I don’t know.”

“It’ll be okay,” Daphne promised her. “Anyway, it’s our fault things aren’t ready for you.”

Cass yielded. “All right. Thanks, Daphne.”

“No problem.” And it wouldn’t have been a problem if the lace on Daphne’s tennis shoe hadn’t come undone. Or if she’d even seen that it had come undone. Or if Lila had seen it. But the sneaky lace worked its way loose and dangled under her feet as she bore the top layer of the cake, walking behind Lila, who had the middle layer. They’d already set up the bottom one on the cake table. When they were done, it would rise like a fondant tower from a bower of roses and orchids. It was going to be lovely. They were almost at the table when the wicked shoelace played its joke, tripping Daphne, making her lurch forward. She tried desperately to keep the cake from going down with her, but only succeeded in bumping into Lila. For a moment they did a little dance, both balancing their cakes in the air. The Dance of the Wedding Cake, tra-la, tra-la. And then the dance was over, and the dancers were down on the floor, one of them with her face in the frosting. Filled with horror, Daphne sat up, parting the sea of frosting on her face. The sea parted and there came her mother.

And that blank slate had fresh writing on it. It said
You’re toast
.

Chapter Fourteen

Anne in Charge

S
ome weddings came off like well-rehearsed plays. Most weddings, though, like the humans who participated in them, had flaws. Some of those flaws were small—maybe not quite enough food, the bride and groom trying a fancy dance move and collapsing on the floor, the flower girl sitting down and taking off her shoes in the middle of the ceremony. Some of the flaws were a little bigger—the best man losing the ring or getting drunk and making a completely inappropriate toast at the reception. Some flaws were huge, like the bride or groom not showing up.

That last flaw had marred only one of Anne’s weddings and it had happened the year before. The groom failed to show. The bride had been in tears and her father had gotten into a shouting match with the groom’s father and finally punched him in the nose, maybe figuring that was as close as he was going to get to the errant groom-
not
-to-be. The church was emptied, the caterers were sent home and the parents of the bride wound up paying for food nobody ate. Anne had waived her fee. She learned that, later on, the groom returned, begging for a second chance, and he and the bride had a quiet ceremony and then got out of town before his father-in-law could take a swing at him. Someday, hopefully, they’d all look back on the wedding disaster and laugh. Or at least not come to blows.

At today’s wedding, nobody was going to take a swing at anyone, unless it was one of the caterers, slapping an amorous grandpa.

“He pinched me,” an outraged Cressa told Anne. “I was walking past with a platter of cheese cubes and the geezer pinched me!”

“Let Renaldo go to him from now on and stay on the other side of the room,” Anne advised.

Cressa frowned. “The old guy moves around a lot. I think he’s following me.”

Her and every other girl in the room. Anne watched as he put an arm around one of the bridesmaids and gave her a decidedly ungrandfatherly squeeze while attempting to look down her dress, then proceeded to hit on the mother of the groom.

There were other problems besides Grandpa. One twelve-year-old boy was systematically emptying every nut and candy bowl in the reception hall, gobbling the contents without restraint. Anne had already seen several adults chase him away, to no effect. His older brother, who was obviously too young to drink, was enjoying himself equally, sneaking into the champagne punch when no one was watching (not an easy feat, considering how many people were dipping into the punch bowl).

The male members of the party weren’t the only ones out of control. Two of the bridesmaids were already tipsy, and one of them was cozying up to the groom.

At the rate this gathering was going, there would be much to remember, and not in a good way. Anne always tried to caution her brides to think carefully about their guest lists. There was a direct correlation between the kind of people a bride invited and the kind of wedding she had.

Anne couldn’t do anything about the tipsy bridesmaids or the lecherous grandpa. She did, however, diplomatically point out a potential problem with the underage tippler to the mother of the bride, and a few minutes later she saw the young man being hauled away by his father for a chat.

The gluttonous twelve-year-old was making for the nut bowl again and Anne decided to stop the little squirrel before any more nuts or candy were put out. She suspected nature was eventually going to take its course and he would pay. But by the time retribution arrived there’d be nothing left for the guests.

She got to the cake table just as he was scooping out another handful. “They’re good, aren’t they?”

The boy gave a start and looked over his shoulder, the picture of guilt. “Uh, yeah.”

“I love nuts, too,” Anne said and chose a couple of pecans, making them partners in nut thievery. “But, you know, you’ve got to be careful with nuts.”

He looked at her suspiciously.

“Yeah. Too many of them give you—” she lowered her voice “—the runs. And it comes on really suddenly.” She looked furtively around and hunched down, a woman about to share a secret. “I went to a wedding once where a boy ate too many and he...” She bit her lip. “All over everything, in front of all the wedding guests.”

She had the squirrel’s attention now.

“Everybody laughed,” she added for emphasis.

The boy dropped the nuts back in the bowl. Lovely. But it looked as though a cure for gluttony had been found. “Aren’t you going to have any more?” Anne asked innocently.

He shook his head. “I’ve had enough.”

She watched as he slipped through the crowd, heading in the direction of the restrooms. Ah, the power of suggestion, she thought, and went to fetch more nuts.

The rest of the reception went well. The tipsy bridesmaid stopped hitting on the groom after she threw up in the rhododendron bushes and then passed out, the punch and nut thieves settled down and Cressa got a marriage proposal from Grandpa.

All in a night’s work.

Watching the bride and groom, strolling from guest to guest with their arms around each other, left Anne feeling that same sense of accomplishment she always felt upon seeing another couple happily wed. Soon she’d be experiencing the thrill of her own daughter’s reception...

It was a long and busy night, but that didn’t stop her from getting together with her family the next day. Anne’s family liked to gather once a month at her mother’s house for Sunday dinner. Julia usually cooked a roast of some kind, with plenty of vegetables, and her daughters brought the rolls, salad and dessert. This Sunday the whole gang was there—Kendra and her husband, Jimmy, and their two daughters, Coral and Amy; Anne and Cam; and Laney and Drake, family member in training.

When it was football season the men often drifted off after dinner to watch the game on TV, while the women either visited or played cards. The same thing happened during baseball season if a Mariners game was being aired. But since none of the men were big basketball fans, during basketball season they joined the women for conversation or some sort of game.

This afternoon it was Trivial Pursuit, and the women were behind, struggling to answer the sports-and-leisure questions.

“This is hard, Mommy,” said Coral, Kendra’s oldest.

“It sure is,” Kendra agreed. “Who knows this stuff?” she protested, throwing up her hands.

“Men,” Jimmy said.

“They should have cooking questions in here,” Kendra grumbled.

“Talk about a sexist remark,” Cam teased her. “What makes you think men don’t know anything about cooking?”

“The greatest chefs in the world are men,” put in Dad.

“Not anymore,” Kendra said. “And there certainly aren’t any at
this
table.”

“That’s because our women are such great cooks.” Dad grinned at their mother. “Why try to compete with perfection?”

“I wouldn’t object if you tried,” Julia said, grabbing a handful of bridge mix.

“Aw, Julia, you know you love to cook,” he said.

“Not all the time.”

“All you have to do is say the word,” Dad told her.

“Fine. Tomorrow night
you
make dinner.”

He frowned. “You can’t just spring that on a man.”

“Sam Wellington, I’ve been trying to spring that on you for years.”

Anne doubted her mother had tried very hard. Her parents had always had a traditional relationship, with her father working and her mother staying home and running the house. Still, she knew that after forty-five years in the kitchen, her mom was getting tired of KP.

“Daddy, tomorrow night’s the perfect night to cook,” Anne said. “All you have to do is put the leftovers in foil and stick them in the oven.”

“Maybe we’ll have sandwiches tomorrow night.” Julia waggled a finger back and forth from Laney to Drake. “Make him cook some of the meals when you two get married. If you don’t train them right from the beginning, they never learn.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. W.,” Drake said. “I know how to cook.”

“He already makes dinner for us on Fridays and Sundays,” Laney said proudly.

Her grandfather shook his head. “Young men today, they’re all henpecked.”

“Is that so?” asked his wife, cocking a disapproving eyebrow.

“Hey, I say do whatever works.” Cam clapped Drake on the back. Then he looked at Kendra. “So, are you girls going to answer the question or not?”

“Not,” Kendra muttered. “Who hit the most home runs for the Yankees? Who knows?”

“I do,” Jimmy said with a smirk.

“Oh, go ahead and answer and then shut up,” Kendra told him, turning his smirk into a grin.

The men won, and after much good-natured grumbling, it was time for pie and ice cream and more visiting.

“Have you two figured out where you’re going to live after you’re married?” Julia asked Laney.

“At Drake’s place,” Laney said, smiling at him. “His roommate’s already moved out and I’m going to use the spare bedroom as a studio.”

Julia smiled. “That sounds like an excellent idea. And how are the wedding plans coming?”

“Good,” Laney replied.

Slower than a dying slug, Anne felt like saying. “We still have so much to do.”

“At least you have your venue,” Julia said. “That house is lovely.”

Drake frowned. “I thought we were getting married on the river.”

“We are,” Laney assured him and leaned over to kiss his cheek.

“The house is for the reception,” Anne reminded her mother.

Julia’s eyebrows took a disapproving dip downward. “I thought you decided against the raft.”

If Anne had her way, her daughter would be getting married under the rose bower in the garden at Primrose Haus. It would be in full bloom by June and so lovely. But she hadn’t convinced Laney yet.

“That’s still up for discussion,” she said hopefully.

“No, it’s not.” Her daughter glared at her.

Drake looked from mother to daughter, and he wasn’t smiling, either. “If we’re gonna stick around here, we should at least do something cool like get married on the river.”

“I thought you guys were going to Vegas,” Jimmy said. Obviously, Kendra hadn’t been keeping him in the loop.

Laney and Drake exchanged a look that was—what? Regretful? Oh, no. Anne had to be misreading that. “This will be better,” she said quickly. “More people can come.”

“I don’t know. Vegas sounded like fun,” Jimmy said. This was followed by a pained expression and an “Ouch” as his wife kicked him under the table.

“Anyone for more pie?” Anne asked with brisk cheerfulness.

Seconds on pie was a good distraction, and the conversation drifted into new avenues, but Anne felt discontent coming from her daughter and future son-in-law’s corner of the table like a miasma. Surely they weren’t changing their minds. No, they couldn’t be. She was just imagining it.

“Drake doesn’t seem all that excited about the new wedding plans,” Cam observed as they drove home. “Are you sure they’re both okay with this?”

“Of course I am,” Anne said. “Primrose Haus will be great for the reception and they’ll love getting married on the river.” At least she’d talked her daughter out of wearing a bikini top—she hoped. “This will be something she can remember proudly all her life.”

Cam shot a quick look in her direction. “As opposed to?”

“Well, having regrets.”

He nodded and kept his eye on the road. “Like her mother.”

She’d never complained, never said anything. “I don’t have regrets.”

He grunted.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

“I know you wanted a big, fancy church wedding.”

“I wanted you more,” Anne said, and that was the truth. “Anyway, we’re not talking about me.”

He shrugged, ready to drop the subject.

Anne wasn’t. “If Drake was in charge we’d all be wearing eye patches, walking around with parrots on our shoulders and saying, ‘Aargh.’”

“I’d be fine with that,” Cam said, smiling. “Just as long as nobody asked me to walk the plank.”

“Who knows what they’d ask you to do.” No, the direction they were taking now was the right way to go. Her daughter would thank her for this.

Planning a wedding was such a special time for a mother and daughter. That was another thing they’d be cheated out of if Laney just went off to Vegas. It was one last mother-daughter adventure to enjoy before Laney embarked on her new life. They would look back on this with such fond memories.

* * *

The next day, Laney’s day off, they hit the road for Icicle Falls for some of that special mother-daughter time, armed with lattes Laney had made for them and a to-do list. Blue sky and sunshine promised an early spring.

“We’ve got appointments with the florist and the baker,” Anne said. “The caterer couldn’t meet with us today, but she’s going to email some sample menus to look over. Oh, and I heard there’s a local guy who DJs for weddings.”

“We already have a band,” Laney said as they exited I-5 for I-90 eastbound.

“You do?”

“Drake’s friend Anders has a band. The Flesh Eaters.”

“The Flesh Eaters,” Anne repeated weakly. “Um, what kind of music do they do?”

“Some grunge, some progressive, some new wave. They’re versatile.”

That was versatility? Anne tried to picture her parents dancing to the earsplitting wall of sound produced by the Flesh Eaters and failed. “Sweetie, are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“What do you mean?” Laney’s voice was defensive now.

“I’m just wondering if that’s really the best choice for your wedding music.”

“I think it is.”

“Well, yes, of course. But you’ll have other generations at your wedding. You want them to enjoy themselves, too. If you have a DJ he can play a variety of music, something for everyone.”

Laney chewed her lip. “But he’s Drake’s friend. We already told him he could play.”

Ah, here was the crux of the matter. Laney didn’t want to disappoint a friend. “Just tell him it didn’t work out.” Heartless, maybe, but that was the wedding biz.

“Yeah, like everything else so far,” Laney grumbled.

Okay, that hurt. “That’s not true,” Anne said. “You’re getting married on the river.”

Laney frowned at the stand of evergreens they were passing. “I can tell how much you guys approve of that.”