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I suck my teeth. “There’s still a chance we can make it in time.”
She glances at her watch. “Mmmph.”
I roll my eyes. “You act like I planned this or something. The tow truck should be here shortly. Then we’ll be on our way.”
Persia flips down the visor, checks her face and hair in the mirror. “This must be a sign,” she says nonchalantly. She fusses with a curl until it is lying just so.
I’m looking out of my sideview mirror at the speeding cars flying by us, too aggravated to ask her what she means. And Paris is too caught up in her text from our mother stating the ceremony is about to start to be concerned either.
“Well, so much for that,” Paris says, sitting back in her seat. “There’s no way we’ll make the ceremony now.”
“Look on the bright side. We’ll be there for the reception.” Paris rolls her eyes up in her head. Persia grunts. I’m relieved when I see the tow truck finally pulling up behind us.
It is six o’clock when we finally pull up into Stillwell Estates, an exclusive gated community of magnificent estates in a cul-de-sac. When we find the address, I turn into the winding driveway and gasp.
“My God,” Persia says, taking in the sprawling lawn. “Pasha’s salon does well, but there’s no way she’s able to afford this unless there’s a whole lot of dirty money up in here.”
“Well,” I say, driving up toward the valet area and pulling behind a Range Rover. “I ain’t one to gossip, but we do know who she’s marrying.”
“Mmmph,” Paris and Persia grunt as three young attendants open our car doors. They take our hands and help us out of the car, then loop their arms with ours and usher us down a long, white carpet that leads to the back of the estate. There are torches lit everywhere as we approach two large white tents. On the other side of the property, we see the bridal party over by a beautiful man-made lake, taking pictures. We spot Pasha in her gown but can’t make out the rest of the group.
Ohmygod, this is beautiful, I think as the young attendants walk us to the entrance of the first tent where the guests mix and mingle and have cocktails until the bridal party arrives.
“Oh, she really outdid herself,” Paris says, pulling out her camera and snapping pictures.
“Yes, she did,” Persia agrees. “I hope those tents are air conditioned ’cause this damn heat is brutal today.” We’re relieved when one of the attendants tells us that both tents are. “My God, there are some fine men here tonight.”
Even I have to cut my eyes and do a few double-takes. There are beautiful men and women all over the place prancing around in Gucci, Versace, and Armani. The sun’s rays are hitting so much bling that it’s blinding.
Paris
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Everything is breathtaking, I think, feeling as if I’ve stepped into a paradise the minute we cross the entrance of the white-carpeted cocktail tent. Cool air greets us as we step in. The tent is adorned in white draperies, candles, and cube seating with gorgeous white couches arranged throughout the tent. Crisp and pristine, the whole setting is simply elegant. There are literally hundreds of gorgeous white roses and candles everywhere. This is definitely going to be one wedding none of us will ever forget.
I spot the wedding planner flitting around the room in a beautiful pale pink dress suit, giving orders to the wait staff. There’s a handsome young man walking around with a 35-millimeter camera taking pictures of guests. “Oooh, look, there go Mother and Daddy over there,” Porsha says, pointing.
“Oh, great,” Persia groans. “I’m going over to the bar.”
“Oh no, you’re not,” I state, grabbing her by the arm. “You’re going to greet our parents. I wonder who that couple is they’re talking to.”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I don’t wanna be anywhere near that woman.”
“Well, too bad,” I say through clenched teeth. “Now smile.”
Dad spots us first, smiling. “There they are,” he says, giving the three of us a hug and kisses on the cheeks.
“Fashionably late as usual,” Mother says, glancing at her timepiece. She eyes me. “Looks like you’ve picked up some weight. I hope you’re not going to let yourself get out of shape.” Daddy shoots her a look.
I smile. “No, Mother, trust me. I’m not.”
“Out of shape or not,” the strapping man with the beautiful woman on his arm says, grinning. “You still look—”
The three of us scream as he faces us. “Garreeeeeeett, it’s so good to see you.” We hug and kiss him.
“And you must be Bianca,” I say, extending my hand. “It’s so good to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”
She smiles. “Same here. Garrett tells me how close the four of you were growing up.”
