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“Diedra talked to Peach this afternoon, and brought her up-to-date. It’s a bad sign when no one has anything nice to say about the bride. Makes you wonder if the groom has lost his mind. Even if she can suck the chrome off a bumper, there’s no blow job good enough to be worth living with her.” While Jaclyn was still snorting with laughter at the incongruity of the bawdy insult drawled in Madelyn’s lazy-Southern-lady accent, her mother added, “It’s a big wedding, the money is nice, but I swear, if we’d known how much trouble this wedding would be, we would’ve tossed it back like a stinky fish.”
They were all counting the days until Carrie’s wedding was over and behind them. In their years of business they’d dealt with some doozies: angry brides, demanding brides, brides who cried at the drop of a hat, brides who probably heard voices telling them to kill. Then there were the mothers of the brides, who could be even worse, and the toxic bridesmaids, the grooms, the grooms’ parents, the squalling flower girl and/or ring bearer … the list went on and on. But never before had they all been so anxious to be rid of a client. Carrie Edwards would be legend; she would be the bridezilla against which they’d measure all future bridezillas for pure meanness.
Jaclyn sighed. Most brides were perfectly wonderful, happy women; some were even a joy to work with. It was a shame that a few bad apples had to stain the reputation of so many.
“You’re on your cell. Are you in the car?” Madelyn asked.
“On my way home.”
“I thought you’d be home by now; were you working late?”
“I stopped at a bar for a much-deserved drink.”
“I should’ve done the same after the rehearsal, but I was anxious to get home and take my shoes off. I rubbed a blister on my foot today. If you ever see me wearing those navy blue shoes again, slap me.”
Madelyn had been invited to the rehearsal dinner, but as usual she’d declined. After a long day, blistered foot or no blistered foot, a frozen dinner in front of the television was always preferable to being “on” for a couple more hours. Besides, without official duties to keep them busy, attending the rehearsal dinner meant hours of casual conversation with people they didn’t know and would likely never see again once the ceremony was over, so neither of them usually attended unless the bride specifically requested that they do.
Jaclyn considered telling her mother about Eric, but really, what was there to tell? I met a nice guy who’s maybe more wolf than lamb. Jaclyn shivered, just a little. More accurately it would be, I met a guy who makes my toes curl, which wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have with her mother. They shared all the details of work, but definitely not the details of their love lives. She didn’t want to think about her mother having a love life, though she knew Madelyn dated—much more often than she herself did, as a matter of fact—and she imagined Madelyn felt the same about her.
They made plans to meet at the office in the morning before they both got busy with their workday, said good-bye, and Jaclyn ended the call as she pulled into the one-car garage that each condo possessed. To her, having the garage space was worth the cost of the condo. Though they weren’t rolling in money, she and Madelyn each made a nice living from Premier. She lived in a nice place: spacious but not huge, sort of upper middle of the road, if such a thing existed. Overall she was very happy with her life and home, and the business they’d built.
There was something innately satisfying about what she did. She made sure marriages got off to the most spectacular, beautiful, and trouble-free start possible. She planned and executed wedding ceremonies and receptions that were events to remember with fondness if everything went right, and it was her job to make sure everything did. Relationships were her business, in a way, and yet she didn’t have time for one of her own.
She was pretty sure that made a statement about her life, but she didn’t know exactly what the statement was.
Eric had remained sprawled at the table after Jaclyn had left, staring at his empty beer glass and wondering if he should order another. No, he had to drive home; one was his limit. And if he wasn’t going to order anoth
er beer, he should be nice to the waitress and get his ass out of the chair so the table would be available to customers who actually intended to order something.
Someone slid into the empty chair across from him, and he glanced up to see Gillespie leaning toward him, his expression one of good-natured mischief. “Okay, old man, what did you say to her that would make a woman like that talk to someone like you, when she gave me the brush-off?”
Eric snorted. Old man, his ass; he was only seven or eight years older than Gillespie. He could tell by the small pool of silence around them that eager ears were listening, hoping to hear something they could use to rag Gillespie in the locker room tomorrow. Not that the patrolman wasn’t well-liked—he was—but an opportunity was an opportunity, no matter who the target was.
“Listen closely, Grasshopper,” he intoned, holding up one finger as if to focus the attention of a thick-headed student.
“I’m listening, Master,” Gillespie said in a falsetto.
“One must be subtle with women,” he continued, raising his voice just a little so their audience could catch every word.
“Subtle.” Gillespie refrained from snickering. Eric wasn’t exactly known for his subtlety; he was more of a kick-ass type of guy who’d had to learn restraint.
“Anything overtly sexual is a turnoff, not a come-on.”
“Roll up your pants legs, the bullshit’s getting deep in here,” came a loud whisper from their audience.
“You’re going too fast. Let me take some notes,” said Gillespie, pulling out his notebook and pen and flipping to a blank page. He wrote down one word. “Okay: subtle. I got that. What else?”
“There’s one thing about me that gave me a big advantage,” said Eric, and their surrounding buddies erupted.
“Come on, Wilder, it ain’t that big; we’ve all seen you in the shower, remember?”
“Yeah,” added a black detective, grinning. “You’re not even the right color, man.”
Eric kept his tone solemn. “Confucius say, sleeping tiger look small; attacking tiger look big as fucking rhino.” While everyone was still hooting with laughter, he slid his chair back and stood. When the bar was quiet enough, he looked at Gillespie and said, “But I wasn’t talking about the size of my dick. There was something else.”
“Yeah? What was it?”
“We’d met before,” Eric said, grinning, and walked out of the bar with their laughter and groans following him.
