I already knew what kind of wedding veil I wanted when the time came. It couldn’t hurt a girl to plan ahead, now, could it?
I arrived at the studio a few minutes later, after first passing sugarcane fields and then one of my favorite local restaurants—Miss Odilia’s Southern Eatery. By the time I drove onto the asphalt lot at the Factory, which was the nickname all the studio owners used for the building, almost every spot in the lot was taken.
After a few turns around and around, I snagged an overlooked spot in the last row and hopped out of the car. Humidity enveloped me like a wet blanket and plastered my auburn hair to the back of my neck.
I forced a smile on my face anyway and barreled into Crowning Glory. The fake smile lasted exactly two seconds, until I realized Stormie had cornered Ambrose behind the counter, where she stroked his arm as if she was petting a Persian cat.
“Look…Missy’s here!” Ambrose yelped the greeting.
“Yeah. Sorry I’m late.” Hard to say whether I felt more irritated or amused by her clumsy attempt to flirt with him. Stormie Lanai might have a glamorous job, but she also wore pancake makeup in broad daylight and favored false eyelashes that looked like two butterflies in flight whenever she blinked. People only tolerated her because she was a news reporter for KATZ.
“Ambrose here was entertaining me.” Stormie practically purred the words, but at least she released his arm. “You’re late. I thought we had an appointment at nine.” She slumped onto a nearby bar stool and retracted her claws.
“We did, I mean, we do.” I glanced at Ambrose. “And I’m sure Mr. Jackson here needs to get back to work. Thanks for helping me, Bo.”
“Yeah. No problem. Good-bye, Miss Lanai.” He passed in a blur as he bolted for the exit.
“See you later!” she called to his retreating back. “Don’t be a stranger, now, you hear?”
Once he left the studio, Stormie’s syrupy smile disappeared. “I hope you don’t always keep your clients waiting, Miss DuBois. It’s bad form. I have important things to do, you know.”
“I’m sure you do. And again…I’m sorry.” I dropped my purse onto the counter and took the stool next to hers. “There was a little incident on the road this morning. But the good news is, I finished your veil over the weekend. I think you’re going to be very happy—”
“Here’s the deal.” Stormie slapped the counter, which made me jump. “I’ve given a lot of thought to what I want. Rex, he’s my fiancé, you know, said I can have anything I want with this wedding.”
No doubt. Rex Tibideaux, a burly New Orleans oilman, was at least thirty years older than his bride, not to mention thirty times richer. Everyone suspected Stormie only said yes because the deal included a horse farm and a fifty-foot yacht.
“Anything I want,” she repeated. “And I’ve decided my veil is much too short for my wedding dress. It’s definitely not grand enough.”
I blinked. “‘Not grand enough’? I thought you wanted a replica of Princess Diana’s veil. That’s what I made for you.”
“Correction…right now I have a miniature version of her veil. My veil is only twelve feet long.” Her mouth collapsed into a pout.
Far be it from me to remind her that most wedding veils only ran between three and six feet long, which meant her cathedral-length veil was already grand by any definition. Then again, I’d already used honey instead of vinegar with Herbert Solomon, which had seemed to work, so maybe it’d work with her, too.
“Well, that’s true,” I said. “But yours is just as beautiful as hers. You have to remember, Princess Diana had a very different wedding venue.” The princess got married in St. Paul’s Cathedral, for heaven’s sake. That venue could handle a twenty-five-foot veil.
“Are you saying my wedding isn’t going to be as good as hers?” Stormie’s lashes went wild at the very thought.
“No, no. Of course not,” I lied. “But the aisle at Princess Diana’s cathedral was extra big and it could handle both her veil and train. I’m not sure the chapel at Dogwood Manor has enough space for a twenty-five-foot veil.”
“Well, I don’t care. Rex said I could have anything I want. Anything. And I want a veil just like hers.” Now Stormie sounded like a three-year-old who wanted ice cream for dinner and couldn’t have it.
“Let me look at your veil again.” I pulled out my most soothing voice. “Would you like to try it on anyway, since you’re here?”
“No, I wouldn’t. I want to try it on when it’s fixed.” With a flounce, Stormie hopped off the bar stool and practically skipped away. “Call me when it’s ready,” she called over her shoulder as she pranced through the studio. “I’ll expect to hear from you in…what? Two, maybe three days?”
I gulped. Realistically, that kind of change could take weeks to pull off. “That’s not possible.” My voice came out much too soft for its own good. “There’s the beading to think about, not to mention the lace trim—”
“Whatever.” By now she’d reached the exit, where she did an about-face. “Do whatever it takes to make my veil longer. I’ll make it worth your while. Rex doesn’t even check my bills anymore.”
The minute she stepped outside, I wearily folded my arms on the counter and plopped my head onto the makeshift pillow. Two, maybe three days? That was barely enough time to order more fabric, let alone bead the extra yardage. I could never lengthen her veil on such short notice.
Or could I? Slowly, I straightened. Stormie never said I had to attach the beads and lace by hand. Given a little fabric glue, I could add the embellishments onto the extra fabric in a matter of hours, not days.
Not only that, but I happened to have a whole roll of Carrickmacross lace, the same type used for Princess Diana’s veil, sitting in my workroom. I’d planned to use it for another bride, but we had six months to create that girl’s veil, which was more than enough time to get another shipment.
I rose from the bar stool and stepped behind the counter, where I’d stashed a sketch pad and charcoal pencil. After opening the pad, I began to draw on a fresh page.
A bit of ruching in the back and the audience will never know. The folds would pillow to the ground and hide the seam.
Inspired now, my hand flew across the page. That’s it. A bit of ruching here at the waist, a nip and tuck at the feet…
The pencil faltered. Only one problem. I’d seen some old footage of Princess Diana’s wedding, and the poor girl had had to walk forever to reach the altar. The aisle in her church ran at least four hundred feet, while the one at Dogwood Manor probably topped out at twenty.
A twenty-five-foot veil would never fit. Frowning, I dropped the pencil. Maybe I could fudge on the yardage and give Stormie a little less than twenty-five feet. But how much less? There was only one way to find out.
I grabbed my purse and made my way to the exit, where I flipped the Open sign to Closed. It was time to see the chapel for myself.
Thank goodness my next appointment wasn’t due for an hour. That would give me plenty of time to drive to Dogwood Manor, measure the chapel’s
