Tales of the Otherworld (33 page)

Lucas rubbed my bare feet. After a moment, I peeked through my fingers.

“Do I even want to know about the matchbooks?” I asked.

“Probably not.”

“Procrastinate, and we’ll only have more work later. Let’s get it over with.”

“Well, it appears that commemorative matchbooks were included in the cost of our wedding invitation package.”

“Bonus. Okay, then, that’s settled. On to the next order of—”

“Not so quickly, I’m afraid. We need to decide what we want the matchbooks to say.”

“Oh, I don’t care. Paige and Lucas. Lucas and Paige. Whichever. Then the date. There, on to—”

“Color.”

“Color of—?”

“The matchbook and the text. We also need to select a typeface. And artwork. Plus, they’d like to know if, for an extra hundred dollars—”

“—we can cancel the damned matchbooks altogether?”

He chuckled and resumed my foot massage. I let myself enjoy it before pushing onto my elbows.

“You realize there’s only one answer.”

“To which question?”

“All of them.”

He arched his brows.

“Elopement,” I said.

He shifted closer to me, carefully moving the papers aside as he did. “If you really want that …”

I sighed. “We can’t. Your mother—”

“Has already said it’s our choice. Yes, she’d like a church wedding, but considering that I found someone actually willing to marry me, she’s not about to quibble over the specifics.”

“But she’d be disappointed. And your father wouldn’t forgive us.”

“Which, one could argue, is all the more reason to elope.”

I play-punched his leg. “Things are going well with your dad—far better than I dared hope. If a church wedding makes him happy, it’s a small price to pay.” I lifted the ledger. “Well, not a
small
price, but worthwhile.”

I glanced over at Lucas. “He’s still letting us run the show, right? Hasn’t insisted on paying again?”

Lucas shook his head. “Just general ‘if the costs get to be too much’ reminders that his checkbook is available.”

“Nothing else, right? No advice, no suggestions…?”

“None.”

“Which worries you.”

“Terrifies me. But perhaps he realizes this is one area where his interference wouldn’t be welcome.” He paused. “And, in the more likely event that he’s simply lying low, plotting his mode of attack, we have the backup plan.”

“We do, indeed. Now, on to the next life-or-death matter.” I flourished a page. “Rubber chicken, dried-out beef, or fish that hasn’t seen water in a week …”

Countdown: one week

Savannah and I were out front planting mums. I wasn’t much of a gardener, but I figured that as a new homeowner in a neighborhood with magazine-ready gardens, I should at least make an effort.

“I wouldn’t,” Savannah said. “If you can’t compete, don’t join the race, my mom always said. Better a spectator than a loser.”

“Dig,” I said.

“Like you have time for this crap. What’s more important, saving the world from evil or having a pretty garden? It’s stupid.”

“No, it’s ‘fitting in.’ Now dig.”

A horn honked, and I looked up to see a sporty little black car pulling to the curb, passenger window sliding down. Leaning over from the driver’s seat was a tall woman in her late forties, her dark hair short and stylishly tousled, broad grin lighting up an unexceptional face.

“You girls look busy,” she called.

I smiled and stripped off my dirty gloves. Savannah tossed her trowel onto the sidewalk and bounded over to Lucas’s mom, her arms wide.

“Grand—” she began.

“Don’t you dare,” Maria said, raising a warning finger.

“One more week,” Savannah said as she got in the passenger side. “Do you prefer Gran or Granny?”

As Maria eased the car into the driveway, I grabbed my trowel and gloves and followed. When Savannah jumped out and headed for the back door, I stepped into her path.

“Maria’s suitcases are still in the car,” I said.

Savannah sighed and gestured for Maria to pop the trunk.

Maria hesitated, key fob raised. “Are you sure about this, Paige? I can stay at a hotel. Just drive in to help and—”

“And waste precious time traveling? We have a lot to do. Stay here. Please.”

As we headed inside, Savannah was still razzing Maria about becoming a grandmother. It was a dubious connection, but Maria never pointed that out. Just emphatically declared that she was far too young to be the grandmother of a teenager.

“But I’ve never had a grandmother,” Savannah said, making puppy eyes at Maria as we cut through the kitchen. “You wouldn’t deprive me of that, would you?”

“Tell you what. If you call Benicio Grandpa, we have a deal.”

“Okay.”

Maria laughed as we walked into the living room. “Now,
that
I have to see. Of course it means you also have to start calling our son Dad.”

“Certainly not,” Lucas said from the couch, not lifting his gaze from his notebook. “I intend to insist on Father, spoken with the proper degree of respect.”

Maria bent to kiss Lucas’s cheek, then glanced at his notes. “What are you working on?”

“A list,” Savannah and I said in unison.

Lucas lifted his gaze, fixing us with a baleful glare. “I’m making note of everything we still need to do for the wedding, organized by date, priority, and probability of enlisting help to complete it.”

“It’s a list,” I said, sliding onto the sofa beside him.

“Watch it or you’ll find your name beside every item.” He looked up at Maria. “How was your trip, Mamá?”

Maria sat down and regaled us with tales of late-summer construction horror, as crews worked feverishly to finish before winter blew in. She’d
driven down from Seattle. When Lucas and I bought the house, deciding to settle in Portland, Maria had moved from Illinois to Washington State, declaring it was “close enough to pester her son, but not close enough to drive him crazy.”

It was a joke, of course—few mothers meddled less in their child’s life than Maria. She and Lucas were close, but she had her own life—her career as a high-school teacher, boyfriends, a wide social circle, and a string of causes that she championed.

Lucas was telling her about damage my car had sustained in a crater-deep pothole when the doorbell rang.

“Probably the neighborhood beautification council,” Savannah muttered. “Come to complain because we left gardening tools unattended on the lawn for ten minutes.”

“If so, they’re
your
tools,” I said, getting up. “Practice your hostess skills on Maria while I answer the door.”

While I doubted it was the beautification council at my door, it wasn’t impossible. When I’d first seen our house, I’d fallen in love with the neighborhood, which had reminded me of the one where I’d grown up in Boston—quiet streets of modest, immaculately tended older homes. As I’d learned, most of the residents were either retirees or urban professional couples, one with the spare time to landscape and the other with the cash to hire someone. We had neither.

When I swung open the door and saw a fortyish woman in a suit, designer clipboard at the ready, I thought my time had come.

“Miss Winterbourne?” She forced a smile. “You won’t be hearing that much longer, will you? By next week, it’ll be Mrs. Cortez. Or will that be Winterbourne-Cortez?”

“It will be Winterbourne,” Lucas said from behind me. “May I ask—?”

“Winterbourne-Cortez,” the woman murmured, marking it onto her pad. “Lovely.” She proffered her hand in a shake as brief and light as an air kiss. “Margory Mills, wedding planner, at your service.”

“Wedding planner…?” I glanced over my shoulder at Lucas, who winced, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “My father hired you, I presume?”

“He did indeed. A very generous man.”

“Yes, well, while we appreciate the gesture, and apologize for any inconvenience the misunderstanding might cause—”

“You want to plan your own wedding,” she said, stepping inside and brushing past us. “I understand, as does your father. But you already
have
planned it. All that’s left is coordinating the affair so your special day is as perfect as you imagined it.”

“Yes, but—” Lucas began.

I caught his attention and cast a privacy spell, so we could speak without Ms. Mills overhearing. “If it makes your dad happy, it’s not such a bad idea. There
is
a lot of work still.”

We turned to accept Ms. Mills’s proposition, but she was already in the living room, introducing herself to Maria and Savannah.

“The troops are rallying, I see,” she said. “Splendid. Many hands make light work. Now let’s see these wedding plans.”

I retrieved the overstuffed file folder while Savannah—after two meaningful looks and a nudge—offered refreshments. Once the coffee and cookie tray were delivered, Savannah retreated to her room while we went over the plans.

“Amazing,” Maria said when we finished. “I don’t know how you kids did it. All that work. Makes me glad I’d never—” She stopped with a sidelong glance at Ms. Mills. “
Planned
a wedding. This certainly will be lovely, though.”

“Of course it will,” Ms. Mills said. “First, though, you’ll need to complete the wedding party list. I don’t see a maid of honor or a best man.”

“We’re just having bridesmaids and ushers,” I said.

“Oh …” She looked ready to comment, then snapped her mouth shut. “Well, I presume you have a third usher, to even out the party.”

I shook my head. “Savannah’s more of a junior bridesmaid and flower girl combined. We wanted to keep the wedding party small.”

“I see. Well, on to the dinner then.” She perused the menu. “Red wine. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of that brand …”

“It’s a local winery. They also have a great nonalcoholic sparkling wine.”

“What about white?”

“Well, we’re serving beef, to support the beef farmers.”

“Some people will still prefer white, and you must cater to all your guests. I’ll add a case of that—at Mr. Cortez’s expense, of course.”

Lucas glanced my way, ready to argue, but I gave a small shake of my head.

“Now, about dinner.” She pored over the menu, frowning. “I only see beef …”

“That’s the primary option, but we also have vegetarian.”

“What about kosher? Lactose-free? Gluten-free? Nut-free?”

Lucas shook his head. “There is one lactose-intolerant guest, but he simply avoids dairy products. While we would love to offer meals for every conceivable personal choice and food allergy, it isn’t feasible with a guest list of only forty. We’ve hired a women’s shelter to cater and, while they will provide ingredient lists for concerned guests, the menu must understandably be limited.”

“Women’s shelter? Oh, dear.” A brisk note in her book. “No matter. I know an excellent four-star restaurant in Portland that will cater on short notice. We’ll have a choice of beef medallions, sea scallops—”

“We’ve already hired the shelter group,” I said.

“And Mr. Cortez will compensate them with a sizable donation, I’m sure. Now, about the DJ. Your father would prefer a live band, and he’s told me you both like jazz, so we’re flying a lovely quartet from—”

Lucas held up a finger, asking her to wait. Then he took out his phone and dialed.

“Papá? It’s Lucas. Your wedding planner is here.” Pause. “Yes, the gesture was—” Pause. “Yes, we
are
quite busy—” Pause. “Yes, it was very thoughtful of you. However …”

Countdown: three days

“Okay,” I said, rounding the bottom of the stairs, cordless phone still in hand. “I’ve straightened out the hotel. Seems the desk clerk was looking at next month’s reservations. The block we reserved for our guests
is
still booked. Crisis twenty-nine averted. Oh, and twenty-seven, too. I’ve spoken to Petulia’s Petunias and convinced them that having lived for three years without a Web site feedback form, they don’t absolutely need one done this week.”

Lucas nodded and put his cell phone into his satchel. “And I believe
potential crisis twenty-eight is resolved as well. I’ve cleared up the misunderstanding with that necromancer, assuring him that while I’m happy to investigate his legal case, I cannot represent him, not being a member of the bar in Utah…and I cannot begin
any
investigation in the next ten days.”

“Good.” I collapsed against him. “All bullets dodged so far.”

Savannah walked around the corner, shaking her head. “You guys don’t need wedding planners; you need life planners.”

“Are you volunteering?”

She snorted and headed past us for the stairs.

“While you’re up there, get changed for dinner, assuming you’re joining us …” I backed away from Lucas. “Elena’s plane. It’s after five, and they said they’d phone when—”

“She called your cell,” Savannah yelled back. “The house line and Lucas’s line were busy. They’re on their way. Oh, and they invited Maria to dinner as well. And yes, I reminded them that means no supernatural talk at the table.”

“Thank y—”

“Hey, someone’s here,” Savannah called from upstairs. “It’s a big black SUV.”

I stiffened, and Lucas’s arm tightened around me, chin jerking up.

“Just kidding,” Savannah said, grinning as she hurried past us down the stairs. “It’s only Adam.”

“Ask him—”

Too late. She was already in the kitchen, making a beeline for the back door.

Countdown: two days

Lucas had asked Benicio to come no sooner than Thursday, which we’d figured was too close to the wedding for him to interfere, yet early enough that he didn’t feel like “just another guest.”

He was there right after breakfast.

Lucas had said that his parents got along fine, but I’d still been nervous, wondering if—like many estranged couples—they only put on a good show for their child. If that was the case, though, Benicio and Maria were both excellent actors. They exchanged hugs and “How’s teaching?”
and “How are your grandsons?” chatter…and seemed genuinely interested in the answers.

While they were talking, I sent Savannah out to the SUV to offer refreshments to Troy and Griffin, Benicio’s bodyguards. Benicio hadn’t brought them inside—according to Lucas, that would be rude, suggesting Benicio thought he needed protection in our house. I wanted to invite them in, but wasn’t sure that was allowed. Emily Post doesn’t cover etiquette for dealing with a guest’s bodyguards.