more famous Beatle, and faint watermarks splashed my little bug from bumper to hood.
Thankfully, that seemed to be the only casualty from last night’s thunderstorms, along with a few rain puddles on the gravel. Once the thundershowers finally disappeared last night, the wedding party went on to have a flawless rehearsal, capped by a champagne toast at midnight. Too bad the groom had to miss the festivities.
Other than that, everything was on track, as far as I could tell. I climbed the grand staircase to the first floor, and then I paused a moment to catch my breath.
Since Lorelei had invited me to spend the entire day at her house when we spoke at the rehearsal, I’d brought an arsenal of supplies with me: a carpenter’s toolbox filled with beauty products, in case any of the bridesmaids needed a last-minute touch-up; a shoebox full of sewing supplies, including no-stick tape, several different spools of thread, and a chain of safety pins as long as my arm; an industrial-strength steamer for the lace veil; and my own gown for the occasion, which Bo chose for me. His pick? An Adrianna Papell sleeveless sheath with gold lace that stopped at the knees. A bit sassy and fun, it was formal enough to please even the most stalwart Southern hostess but cool enough to keep me comfortable during the reception, since July weddings in southern Louisiana could be notoriously steamy.
As a milliner, I couldn’t attend such an important event bareheaded, though. In addition to the myriad boxes and bags I carried, I toted a hatbox with one of my favorite summer creations inside: a Parabuntal straw picture hat with a gold grosgrain bow. The simple design would complement the more ornate dress, while the wide brim would shield my face from the late-afternoon sun.
Thank goodness I spied someone standing on the other side of a window in the front door, and she opened the panel for me.
“Everyone’s in the sunroom.” She looked like the mother of the bride, with fair skin and chestnut hair. While I wore my auburn hair in an updo ninety percent of the time, this woman wore hers chin-length.
I happily relinquished my packages to her when she motioned for them. “Thank you so much. I’m the milliner, and I need to do some last-minute touch-ups on the bride’s veil this morning. You must be Mrs. Honeycutt.”
“Yes, indeed. Nice to meet you.”
“I’m Melissa DuBois, but everyone calls me Missy. By the way, you have a lovely daughter.”
“Thank you.” Her smile broadened even more. “I’m quite partial to her myself. Now, everyone is already enjoying brunch in the sunroom, so please join them for a bite to eat.”
At that moment, someone new entered the hall with her own armload of packages, so I cleared the way for my hostess to greet her next guest.
Once I said goodbye, I made my way down the hall, which featured oversized lanterns overhead, a white wainscoting that reached my waist on the walls, and honey-colored hardwoods underfoot. I followed the hardwoods into another room, this one built with floor-to-ceiling windows, used-brick floors, and enough greenery to fill an arboretum. I’d apparently reached the sunroom.
A half-dozen tables decorated the space, each topped with a linen cloth and magnolia centerpiece. One of the largest tables groaned under the weight of fruits, pastries, and enough orange juice to satisfy even a daycare center. I moved closer to the table, marveling at the size of the fruit, given that it was July and way past the end of the growing season.
Conversation buzzed around me. Most of the tables were full, and ones that weren’t had purses or cell phones strewn across them as placeholders. I picked my way to a table on the right, where I recognized several of the bridesmaids and a groomsman or two.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” I addressed the nearest bridesmaid, who looked to be about Lorelei’s age.
“Of course not.” She edged her plate closer to her elbow. “You’re the milliner, right? We were just talking about Lorelei’s veil. It’s gorgeous!”
“Thank you.” I placed my lime-green clutch on the table and nodded at the buffet. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to grab one of those delicious-looking pastries. Would you like one, too?”
“No, I’m fine. I’ve been here for a while. I thought I’d see how Wesley’s doing, but he hasn’t come down yet. No one’s seen him.”
Uh-oh. That didn’t sound good. From what I heard yesterday, his voice sounded like he’d been gargling with pea gravel, and the nasally tone signaled a head cold. He also mentioned a high fever to Lorelei.
“Oh, dear. I hope he’s feeling better tonight.”
The girl nodded noncommittally and returned to her breakfast, so I felt free to take my leave. I headed for the buffet table, where a stack of warmed plates anchored one end. Just as I was about to pull a plate off the top of the stack, I heard a loud clacking noise behind me. It sounded like a Clydesdale had entered the sunroom and clomped its way to the tables.
Sweet mother of pearl! The moment I turned, I thanked my lucky stars I wasn’t wearing stilettos, because I would’ve toppled onto the buffet table. As it was, my mouth fell open and cool air rushed to the back of my throat.
There, next to a chocolate fountain surrounded by plump strawberries, stood Stormie Lanai, a local newscaster. She wore a pure-white pantsuit and leopard Manolo Blahniks that, no doubt, created the sound of horses’ hooves.
Unfortunately, Stormie and I shared a long and complicated history, and I couldn’t believe we both occupied the same space now.
It all began last fall. Stormie, a reporter for KATC in Baton Rouge, decided to return a veil I’d created for her wedding, exactly one week before her big day. She somehow landed a rich Texas oilman, and she planned to marry him at a renovated plantation as soon as possible. Those plans changed, however, when someone went missing there and police cordoned off the property. The resulting investigation forced her to come up with Plan B, which meant a Las Vegas wedding and a tiny fascinator instead of a floor-length veil. She couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t gladly refund her money, even though I’d spent months creating a beautiful cathedral-length train with carrickmacross lace and hundreds of tiny seed pearls.
We finally resolved the matter with me taking apart the intricate veil and using the pieces to create a one-of-a-kind fascinator.
Stormie stood with her back to me now, as she picked among the strawberries by the fountain. I marshalled my courage, since there was no way we could avoid each other in a room this size, and I tapped her on the shoulder.
She instantly whirled around. “Why, Missy DuBois. Whatever are you doing here?”
Like always, Stormie wore so much foundation, her face resembled a Kabuki mask. As a newscaster, she was conditioned to wear heavy makeup for the cameras, but she’d never mastered the art of applying it in real life. Case in point, she wore false eyelashes so thick they resembled two butterflies about to take flight whenever she blinked, which was often.
“The bride hired me to make a wedding veil. What about you?”
“Why, I’m covering the wedding for Channel Eleven, of course. This shindig will be the biggest show our little state has ever seen!”
Leave it to Stormie to sound like a carnival barker as she described the Honeycutt wedding. No wonder she garnered such high ratings for KATC, since she tended to sensationalize everything she came across.
“Well,
