The heat was palpable. The fluttering canvas canopies dotting Arnie’s sprawling canyon ranch did little more than spare the guests the relentless rays of July sun. Champagne bottles prematurely popped their corks in a burst of protest, for as rapidly as the tuxedoed waiters replenished the red, white, and blue tubs of ice in which they floated, the chunks melted to the temperature of a lukewarm bath.
Everyone was there. It could have been a post-telecast Academy Awards gala or a White House formal dinner. Julia Roberts wore a slinky column of lipstick-red moiré. Barbara Walters and Joanne Woodward huddled deep in conversation with Sylvester Stallone near the free-form swimming pool bobbing with a rose-petal configuration of the American flag, and Dustin Hoffman, Robert De Niro and Francis Ford Coppola nibbled shashlik and Beluga caviar rounds with Bill and Hillary Clinton and Henry Kissinger.
Valets scurried up and down the mountain roads, parking Ferraris, Jeeps, Mercedes-Benz, Vipers, and Rolls-Royces. The cars snaked through the canyon in a coil of pricey, glittering metal.
Waiters wove through the crowd, offering delicacies as muted strains of vintage Elton John floated from the loudspeakers that were scattered across the patriotic landscape.
Ana was in the guest suite, breathtaking as a fairy princess in Angelina’s masterpiece gown. As Louise wound white gardenias through her hair, Ana trembled with excitement. She was terrified that for the first time in memory she might be so nervous she’d forget her line.
I do.
I do love you, John Farrell. More than anything or anyone in the whole world.
Last night John had made love to her in Arnie’s swimming pool with the moonlit reflection of the tents shimmering around them. While the water lapped at their shoulders, he buried his face in the damp tendrils clinging to her neck and murmured: “Guess what? Arnie convinced me to do a cameo in the picture you’re shooting with Clooney.”
Ana pulled back to peer quizzically into his face, half-shadowed in moonlight.
“I play the judge who sentences you to prison at the beginning of the movie.”
Ana laughed. “So you’re the louse who buys into the crooked DA’s setup. Think a screwball comedy will catapult you into a new career? Or are you just there to keep an eye on me during my love scenes with George?” she teased.
“Well, the thought did cross my mind...”
“Johnny.”
“Hmmm?” he asked, reaching out to draw her close again.
“Don’t give up your day job.”
She’d splashed water in his face and he dunked her, their laughter echoing through the trees and twining around the wedding bowers the designer had placed at the crest of the hill.
Like water nymphs, they played until the wee hours of the morning, grateful to be together, content in each other’s arms, and carefree as the white satin ribbons streaming from the bowers in the faint evening breeze.
“Finished,” Louise pronounced, stepping back to admire the blossoms entwined in Ana’s hair. Ana regarded herself from every direction in the full-length triple mirror. Perfect.
Louise handed her a small lace garter threaded through with pale blue satin. “This was my mother’s—and she and my dad have been married forty-seven years. I’d say that’s a lucky token, wouldn’t you?”
“As lucky as they come.” Ana scooped up the voluminous skirt so that Louise could slide the garter into place.
“Better hurry,” Louise urged, “cameras roll in ten minutes.”
“I’ll be right down,” Ana promised, reaching for the small velvet box nestled on the bed as Louise disappeared down the hall. She drew the faded photograph from the box, smiling down with love at the visage in her hands. “You said if I held on to my dreams and worked hard to make them come true, anything I wanted was possible, Grammaw,” she whispered. “You were so right.”
Ana cradled the photo against her chest, then propped it against the dressing table mirror. Her grandmother’s crinkled old eyes watched her as she slipped on the small pearl stud earrings and matching teardrop necklace she’d taken from Tennessee, her only mementos of Grammaw.
“There. That’s it. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. I’ve got it all.” She looked at herself in the mirror a final time before slipping down the stairs and into the spotlight once again.
* * *
With Richard’s hand clasped in hers, Monique wedged through a crevice in the crowd toward the dance floor. As usual, he’d been working that crowd as if he were running for office instead of John Farrell.
“You’re mine for the next ten minutes, pal.” Monique informed him with a saucy toss of her head. The orchestra was playing a rhumba, and despite the oppressive midday heat, the wedding guests were oblivious of anything but the music.
As they reached the dance floor, the bouncing beat gave way to the slow strains of a ballad, and Monique melted into Richard’s arms. They moved together in small concentric circles until Richard spotted Warren Buffett sauntering across the lawn.
“There’s Warren—Mo, hang on a second. I’ve been thinking over his proposition and I have a few questions...” And she was stranded on the dance floor, dumbfoundedly watching the back of his head disappear into the throng, until she was suddenly encircled by the arms of the groom.
“Your big day is coming up in a few weeks, isn’t it?”
“St. Patrick’s will pale compared to this, I’m afraid. What a lovely party, Senator.” Monique spoke the words automatically, a bright smile pasted on her face, hiding the anger she felt at Richard. John Farrell is a true gentleman, she thought wryly. He was carrying on a meaningless conversation with her, giving her time to recover from her embarrassment at being deserted in mid-dance. He’d stepped in as adroitly as if he’d been waiting in the wings for an opening on her dance card.
“We should be back from Cap Ferrat in time to toast your marriage, Comtesse,” he said as smoothly as he guided her across the floor. “Ana and I wouldn’t miss being there for the world.” His blue-gray eyes twinkled down at her. “After all these are the perfect weddings of the summer, are they not?”
His lighthearted words lingered long after the dance. Perfect weddings. My perfect wedding. It should be...
Yet something bordering on wedding jitters kept eating at Monique, though every last detail was in place. She had taken the next few weeks as vacation time, leaving Linda to see to the seating arrangements and to notify the caterer of the final head count. The Plaza had everything else under control. Monique had nothing to do except savor a few days at home with Maman—her last visit to the country as a single woman.
So why couldn’t she shake this nagging feeling that something had been left undone?
Mentally, she ticked everything off again—each detail, each plan. On the surface all was in order. Still, she was bedeviled by a feeling she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
Half an hour later she bumped into Richard at the poolside bar. “Fancy meeting you here,” she said coldly, and started to brush past him.
“A Manhattan for the lady,” he demanded of the bartender, grabbing her arm and keeping her by his side. “Mo, of all people, you should be used to how I do business by now. This is benefiting your future too.” He handed her the drink, but his eyes were already skimming the crowd. “It’s not like you to pout, Comtesse.” Before she could respond, he tugged her forward. “Put on your million dollar smile, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
There’s someone you’d like to impress with my title more likely, she thought wearily—and was instantly angry with herself. She loved Richard’s drive, his steely determination, and aggressive power plays. She loved being part of his team. The man was poetry in motion, he was matchless at the top of his form. Since when had she forgotten the rules of the game? She counted to ten, pushing away her annoyance and reminding herself how much she loved him.
“Point the way, boss, but you do owe me one more turn around the dance floor.”
Richard winked at her and brushed a tiny kiss across the tip of her nose. “Consider it a done deal, gorgeous. But first come meet Sheikh Abu ibn Hassan.”