go to Reno on…well, on whatever day we reserved the suite.”
“In the limousine with the fake flowers all over it.”
She stared at Cabot. “You really want to rehearse the whole thing?”
“Everything but the marriage ceremony.” He smiled at her. “We’ll start with the going-away-suit part.”
“We?”
“Don’t forget the second limo for the crew.”
“We?”
“Rooms for everybody. And make all those restaurant reservations. We’ll start with dinner on—”
“You mean you’re going too?”
His eyebrows lowered until they almost met at the bridge of his nose, and he looked at her as though she were truly a dim bulb. “Well, of course. How else can I plan the shots, check the lighting, oil the gears for the real thing?”
“Silly me,” she said faintly.
“So now that that’s settled…” Mr. Wycoff said.
“I must be going,” Cabot said. He rose from his chair and herded Faith out of the office and back to her workstation. She was sorry because now he was behind her and she’d been looking forward to watching him walk again, checking out his height again—six-two, six-three—She wanted to get a closer look at his shoulders and his buns, of course, and while she was at it, the muscle tone of his calves. She hadn’t been able to take it all in when he’d had himself covered up in a three-piece suit.
Back at her desk, she called Charity’s cell phone and reached her at her new job, then let Charity patch in Hope, who was shopping for office space in New York. She and her new love were going into business together, and Hope was the Real Estate Task Force.
“What’s up?” Hope said briskly, while Charity said, “You okay, Faith?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” Faith said. “I was just wondering what you wear in Reno in February on your honeymoon.”
It really made her crazy when they squealed like that at the same time. She held the phone away from her ear until the squealing faded a little and then said, “Not my honeymoon. Ha. Gotcha.”
“You twit,” Hope said.
“Whose honeymoon?” Charity said.
“Tippy Temple’s.”
“Tippy Temple’s getting married?” Charity’s tone was hushed and reverent.
“You know her?” Faith asked.
“Who’s Tippy Temple?” Hope asked.
“Someday you should take time to catch up on pop culture,” Charity scolded her. “Tippy Temple’s in that movie…”
“…’A Kiss to Build a Dream on,’” Faith supplied.
“…and she’s fantastic. So sweet…”
“…and I’m going to Reno to fill in for her.”
“Wait a minute,” Hope said.
“Oh, Hope,” Faith said, “not on their real honeymoon. This is just a rehearsal.”
“A rehearsal for what?” Hope was clearly in a militant feminist mode. Faith had imagined that falling in love would change Hope a little, but apparently she’d been mistaken.
“For the video. I mean…” she halted, realizing she was getting in deeper with every word that came blabbing out of her mouth. “Hope,” she said firmly, “it’s business. You’ll just have to trust my judgment.”
“Who’s the groom?” Charity said.
Faith couldn’t stop herself. “Oh-h-h,” she said, sighing, “you mustn’t tell a soul, of course, but he’s a publicist named Cabot Drennan, and he’s everything Tippy deserves, the stuff dreams are made of—tall and tanned, strong and forceful, successful and…”
In the silence, she realized what her sisters already knew, that her judgment was not to be trusted, especially not by her.
4
“I’VE GOT AN ANSWER FOR YOU.” Charity sounded abrupt. That meant she was not at her new job, but at one of her remaining modeling sessions and wearing shoes that were too tight.
“Oh, thanks,” Faith said. “What was the question?”
“What to wear on a honeymoon in Reno. I was talking to the stylist, and he—”
“It’s a moot point now,” Faith said, cutting her off. “My trousseau just arrived, courtesy of Cabot Drennan, ‘Publicist to the Stars.’”
“Wowie. He’s doing it up right,” Charity said. “Well, come on, tell me, what’d you get?”
Feeling like Cinderella, Faith unzipped one bag after another. “There’s a pale-blue silk suit. With a matching straw hat. And clutch bag.”
“Your going-away suit,” Charity said, sounding dreamy for once.
“Tippy’s going-away suit,” Faith corrected her. “And here,” she said, unzipping another bag, “is a…oh, I see, it’s a layer of crumply silk over a layer of satin. The color of vanilla ice cream. And a cashmere shawl that matches.” She pulled the shawl around her shoulders and snuggled into it, relishing the softness of the wool.
“A dinner dress for your wedding night.”
Faith took a breath. “A dinner dress for Tippy’s wedding night.”
“Oh. Right. I keep forgetting.”
“Tippy won’t wear this same dress, of course,” Faith said. “She’ll wear something similar.” She paused. “Probably a size smaller,” she concluded grimly.
“Oh, Faith, stop it. If you were any thinner you’d disappear. Hurry up and unpack some more. They’re going to call me soon. At least I hope so. My feet are killing me.”
Faith unzipped and reported, unzipped and reported. Another fantastic dress, a white silk pantsuit. Bikinis and cover-ups. “You ought to see this,” she said finally. “It’s a pale-blue satin dressing gown just like the one Lauren Bacall wore in that forties movie, the one about—”
“No underwear?”
Neither Charity nor Hope shared her passion for the romantic old movies and were quick to cut her off when she launched into the plot of one of them. Too used to the maneuver to be offended, Faith riffled through the stack that was piling up on her bed. “No.”
“No tempting teddies, black lace bikinis?”
“No. Of course not,” she said a moment later. “They won’t
