The Banyan Room. “There’s a happy ending in there.”
Parris peered through the glass, too. Inside, the Phipps-Stovers were sitting at a table for four by the fireplace, sipping champagne and eating the strawberry-topped cheesecake Parris had arranged as a special treat. Brian Phipps-Stover fed his wife a bit of cheesecake. Joyce giggled as she slipped the bite into her mouth.
God save Parris from newlyweds.
Didn’t they know what was going to happen three weeks, three months, three years—maybe even three hours—from now? The little charade of happiness would stop and everyone would show their true ugly colors, turning happily-ever-after into a-nightmare-a-day.
Parris had watched her parents’ marriage self-destruct. She’d seen her own fall apart before she’d even come within fifty feet of the altar. Happy endings were a con perpetrated by couples who pretended to live in harmony while they tucked the fights over bills and in-laws out of sight when company arrived.
“Everyone can have a happy ending,” Merry said, as if reading Parris’s mind.
“All I want is a happy auction.” Parris excused herself, then pushed on the doors and entered the up-scale restaurant. She glanced at her watch. Only three minutes late. If she hadn’t had that conversation with Merry, she would have been on time.
Parris pasted on a smile and crossed to the Phipps-Stovers, trying to stomach the endearments of “pookie” and “truffle lips” that echoed between them as they finished off the last of the cheesecake.
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Phipps-Stover. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person,” Parris said, extending her hand. “I’m Parris Hammond, co-owner of Hammond Events and Consulting. I believe you’ve already talked with my sister Jackie.”
Both Phipps-Stovers rose and greeted her in turn. “Is that Miss Hammond or Mrs.?” Joyce asked.
“Miss. I’m afraid I haven’t been as lucky as you.” Parris put a broader smile on her face as all three of them sat down. “I’ve yet to find a man who suits my taste.”
“Luck hasn’t much to do with marriage,” Brian said, spearing a strawberry with his dessert fork. “I’ve had better luck in Vegas.”
Joyce pursed her lips and cast him a sour look but didn’t say anything.
“First, I wanted to thank you for your support of the Victoria Catherine Smith Memorial Aquarium Fund,” Parris said. “It’s a wonderful cause and your donation will enable us to showcase the wonderful marine life in this area for everyone to see.”
“I like fish. They entertain me.” Brian shrugged, popped the strawberry in his mouth, then took a sip from the flute of champagne.
“Darling, you sip the champagne, then bite the strawberry,” Joyce said. “That provides the maximum epicurean effect.”
“If I do that, pookie, I get seeds stuck in my teeth. I eat the berry first and then wash it down with champagne.”
Joyce’s smile strained against her cheeks. “Really darling, people will think you’re uncouth if you do that.”
Brian’s gaze narrowed. He put down his fork and crossed his arms over his chest. “People? Or just you?”
Uh-oh. The bloom was already off the Phipps-Stover rose. Their union more resembled a bunch of thorns covered with a few lingering petals.
“Let’s discuss what you’re donating to the auction,” Parris said, interjecting a change of subject before the strawberries became the beginning of a food fight.
The Phipps-Stovers recovered their manners from somewhere off the floor and slipped back into proper society mode. Brian reached into the breast pocket of his suit and withdrew a checkbook. “If you’ll just give me a pen—”
“Oh no, darling.” Joyce laughed. “We aren’t writing a check. That’s so…impersonal. I thought we’d donate a piece of art.”
“What piece of art?”
“That painting in the parlor. The one over the fireplace.”
“My great-aunt painted that.”
“Darling, it’s just a bit risqué for our tastes, don’t you think? I mean, all those orchids and lilies. It’s…well, it doesn’t send the right message.”
“Are you trying to say my aunt’s painting is the equivalent of an HBO special?” He was half out of his seat.
Oh God. This wasn’t going well at all. Parris had no idea what to do. The only event planning she’d ever done was RSVPing to a party invitation. She had to save the situation. But how?
“Your aunt was institutionalized, dear. For her overabundance of men.” Joyce put on a tight smile and gritted her teeth. “Her paintings reflected her…needs, shall we say? And they certainly are the talk of the town. They’d fetch quite the price.”
“My great-aunt was a Stover. That makes her someone to be respected, not gossiped about.”
It looked like the Phipps-Stovers were about to come to blows. Parris wished for the hundredth time that Jackie was there to help her. But no, Jackie had to go off and get married. Granted, Jackie deserved a happy life, but still, couldn’t it have waited until after the auction was over?
“I’m sure we can work it—” Parris began.
Brian got to his feet. “I’m through with this. Forget the whole thing.”
“Please stay. I’m sure we can—”
Joyce rose as well. “I’m not staying, either. In fact, I’m not even staying on the island.”
“Good. There’ll be more room on the beach, considering all you do is take up sand and bake yourself to a crisp.”
Joyce let out an indignant gasp. “I do not!”
“Before you know it, you’ll look as old and wrinkled as that sculpture your grandmother dumped on us.”
Joyce put a hand over her gaping mouth. “I cannot believe you said that. That marble bust of Great-Grandfather Phipps is an heirloom. A piece of history.”
“It’s a piece of—”
“There’s an easy way to settle this,” said a male voice Parris had hoped she wouldn’t hear again.
She spun around and found Brad Smith standing a few feet away, a small bag in one hand. He was freshly showered and in a different T-shirt, but he still looked more like a California college student than a grown-up.
Both the Phipps-Stovers had stopped arguing, though. Either they were waiting with bated breath for Brad’s solution or they’d been stunned into silence by the appearance of a beach bum in The Banyan Room.
Brad dug into his pocket and tossed a quarter at them. Brian caught it in his right hand. “There’s your solution,” Brad said.
“Flip a coin?” Joyce looked horrified.
“It’s
