I held my breath as Virgie’s footsteps paused in front of my stall. Given that the door opened inward, the only way Virgie could spot me would be if she walked into the stall and turned around. Go away, go away, go away became my sudden new mantra.
And it worked. A moment later the heel clicks started back in the other direction.
“They’re all empty,” I heard the woman declare as I quietly breathed again. “Okay, so let’s have it out. If someone types in the wrong URL for you and ends up redirected to my site—well, too bad, so sad. I only did what any good businessperson would do.”
“But not what a partner would do,” the other woman shot back. “Seriously, I can’t believe you’d stab me in the back like that, not after all these years. So enjoy squatting on those domains. I’ll just set up a new website under a new business name and buy up the dot-biz and dot-net and dot-com and any other dot that’s out there.”
Even I knew that was an empty threat. Roxanna had her entire business tied up in the Your Special Day name. Rebranding her company would cost her thousands in advertising, not to mention the legal paperwork and lost business.
“I have an idea,” Virgie said, and I could almost hear her purring in satisfaction. “Why don’t I sell you the domains? There’s, what, five of them—so, let’s say ten thousand dollars for all.”
“You have to be kidding! That’s highway robbery. Besides, where am I supposed to get that kind of money?”
“Here’s a thought, partner.” The purr morphed into a genteel growl. “How about you start with the ten thousand bucks you skimmed off the top from our joint expo account?”
From my hiding place, I stifled a gasp. Skimmed? As in, illegally took? Was Virgie really accusing Roxanna of embezzlement?
“What are you talking about?” the other woman growled right back. “I didn’t steal anything!”
“I have to say, you were pretty darned clever about it. It took me almost a year to realize that money was missing, and I still haven’t figured out how you did it. But since we’re partners, I’ll give you a chance to make things right. Pay it back to the account, and we’ll pretend none of this happened. And I’ll even let you buy the domains at a reasonable price.”
“Virgie, you’re talking crazy. I can’t pay it back because I never took any money that wasn’t mine.”
Roxanna’s tone had taken on a hard edge, and I frowned. Although I considered her a friend, the truth was that I’d known the woman for only a few months. Still, I found myself believing her. Besides, my gut feelings about people tend to be correct.
On the other hand, why would Virgie lie about money being missing?
Unless Virgie had done the skimming and was trying to shift the blame to her partner, I answered myself. But that didn’t make any sense either.
Before the argument could escalate, I heard the main restroom door slam open again. In marched what had to be at least four women, their echoing footfalls accompanied by a wave of equally noisy chatter that would have done a posse of high school girls proud.
From my hiding place, I heaved a silent sigh of relief. No way would Roxanna and Virgie continue their argument in front of paying customers. As proof of that, I heard Virgie’s equally hard-edged parting comment to Roxie—“We’ll talk later”—followed by more echoing footsteps and the sound of the restroom door opening again.
Had they both left?
I tried peeking through the gap but couldn’t see more than a sliver of the sink area. Gambling on yes, I swiftly closed my stall door before one of the newcomers could inadvertently barge in.
I waited a respectable few moments more, using the continued commotion as cover. Then, telling myself it was now or never, I slung my purse over my shoulder and casually walked out of the stall.
Fortunately, neither Roxanna nor Virgie was still lurking about the sinks. Still, I took my time washing my hands and checking my hair and makeup before I slipped out the restroom door and into the hallway. No Roxanna or Virgie there either. Which meant that neither woman knew I’d overheard Virgie’s accusations.
Which also meant that I could put the incident out of my head and enjoy the rest of the expo.
Easier said than done, I told myself, lapsing into cliché. And then I promptly proved the adage wrong when I took an alternate entry back inside the gym again and spied a booth I hadn’t noticed earlier.
At first glance, the setup wasn’t much to look at. On the plain white backdrop hung an equally uninspiring white sign with the words Plus One along with a logo that I couldn’t quite make out at a distance. I couldn’t tell anything about the booth’s contents either, since women were gathered three and four deep in front of it. Obviously, whatever was being hawked there was popular with brides-to-be and their friends, never mind the lackluster presentation.
Curious, I walked closer and smiled as I finally made out the logo on the sign. Done in black and white, it featured a cartoonish, droopy-eared rabbit wearing a tux and top hat and leaning against a plus sign. I had to admit it was cute; still, I frowned as I noticed that something about the character looked vaguely familiar.
And then, like a scene from a romantic comedy, the crowd of women parted long enough for me to finally see the exhibitor casually posed behind the table.
Not a rabbit, I promptly realized, torn between a laugh and a groan. A hare. Which happened to be the favorite insignia and likely personal spirit totem of my BFF—best frenemy forever—one Harold A. Westcott III, aka Harry Westcott.
Harry saw me, too, and sent a grin and breezy wave my way. Simultaneously, a dozen pairs of suspicious female eyes whipped about in my direction to see who deserved this attention from him.
Have I mentioned that Harry is an actor? And not just a wannabe. He’s had major roles in a couple of really bad made-for-cable horror movies, at least one having to do with swamp werewolves. Your basic C-lister, but not for lack of talent. Almost a month ago during Cymbeline’s annual Shakespeare festival, he served as both director and lead in Hamlet. That production received stellar reviews from as far away as Atlanta.
Of course, the fact that one of the play’s actors had been murdered in my B&B might have had something to do with the newspaper coverage received.
Unfortunately, circumstances beyond Harry’s control had kept him here in Cymbeline afterward. But what any of that had to do with his presence at the expo, I couldn’t guess.
As I debated whether or not to battle through his hangers-on to find out just what in the heck Harry was doing at the expo, a voice came over the gym’s PA system again. This time it was Virgie.
“Good morning again, brides,” she said. Her amplified tones were honeyed and reflected none of the anger or snark I’d heard during her arguments with John and Roxanna. “It’s almost time for our next giveaway. This prize is for a free weekend stay at the Cymbeline Manor Resort. If you haven’t done so already, please find the pink ticket that was in your welcome bag, take it to the stage, and deposit it in the giant wineglass next to the pop-out wedding cake. We’ll be drawing our winner in fifteen minutes.”
The prospect of two free nights at what for Cymbeline passed for luxury accommodations was enough to clear the decks around Harry’s booth. As the women hurried to drop off their tickets, I took the opportunity to see what he was up to this time.
I should explain that Harry and I have history. No, not that kind—there’s never been anything romantic between the two of us. I first made his acquaintance remotely soon after I bought my house, when he began calling and sending fevered letters accusing me of stealing the place from him.
Not that the allegation had come totally out of left field. It turned out that Mrs. Lathrop had been Harry’s great-aunt, who’d given him a verbal promise that the house would be his upon her death. Unfortunately, the old woman had died before she’d had a chance to change her will. As a result, her executor—who happened to be Harry’s estranged father—had put the house up for sale without Harry’s knowledge.
In the months since, Harry and I had managed a truce that culminated in a contract of sorts following the Shakespeare festival. I’d let him stay at the B&B for thirty days rent-free until he got his literal and figurative act together again. In return, he would quit pursuing any claim to Fleet House.
Harry had agreed and installed himself in my tower room, which had also been the room where he’d stayed summers as a kid when visiting his great-aunt. Actually, the arrangement had worked out rather well. If nothing else, it had been nice to have someone besides Mattie to chat with on the occasional quiet days when no guests were registered at the B&B.
But my concern now was what he was doing here at the bridal expo. I’d been talking to him about the event for a couple of weeks now—as well as about rearranging my guest schedule to be sure I’d have no one checking in or out on expo day. And never once had he mentioned that he’d paid for a booth at the same event.
“Fancy meeting you here.” I greeted him with a timeworn idiom. “If you’d told me you were taking part, we could have ridden in together.”
“It was a last-minute decision, so I didn’t think it was worth mentioning,” he replied with a noncommittal shrug.
Which in Harry-speak probably meant there was something just a bit shady about the situation. But since that would be Virgie and Roxanna’s problem, I let that pass and instead gave a nod toward the sign. “So what’s this, some sort of spin-off of your tour company?”
One of his non-acting gigs was Wild Hare Tours. Harry—the aforementioned “hare”—served as guide and official driver to various offbeat destinations around the state. At my insistence (backed by Cymbeline’s code enforcement department), his half-scale tour bus, a school district reject repainted with a similar cartoon bunny logo, was parked for the duration at the Heavenly Host Baptist Church a few miles away.
Harry shook his head. “A whole new venture. Welcome to Plus One,” he said, and handed me a surprisingly expensive-looking flyer.
Can’t get a date for your sister’s wedding? Dread showing up to the next family picnic minus a boyfriend? Need someone to cheer you on at that awards banquet? What you need is a professional Plus One. Hire an award-winning actor to play the role of your date, colleague, or BFF at your next event. Choose whichever Plus One persona best suits your needs:
Suave Man of the World
Brainy yet Handsome Nerd
Former Pro Athlete
Successful Businessman
Or work with your Plus One associate to create a custom character. Hourly rates, will travel. Go to our website for details.
The URL was at the bottom of the page, followed by a disclaimer in bold print: Your Plus One’s services are limited to public appearances only.
By the time I’d finished reading his flyer a second time, my mouth was hanging open in disbelief. I sputtered wordlessly for a few moments and then finally burst out, “Y-You’re a male escort!”
Which would explain why he’d neglected to mention the whole expo thing to me before.
Meanwhile, Harry gave me a disapproving look.
“Really, Nina. Escort sounds so…smarmy. I prefer professional companion. Or perhaps hired associate. Or even compensated colleague. And for your information, people are clamoring for this service. I’ve already booked an event for tomorrow afternoon. Now, would you like to review my portfolio of suggested personae?”
As I’ve previously said, it wasn’t a lack of talent that had kept Harry from greater things in the acting world. Neither was it his appearance. Because the man looks like what my mom back in Texas would call a matinee idol.
We’re talking thick hair so dark it’s almost black and artfully razored so it has a tendency to fall gracefully across his tanned brow. Combine that with features that are neither too sensitive nor too craggy and eyes so blue you’d swear he was wearing colored contacts and you have definite leading-man material. He’s a couple of years younger than me, which means he has at least another decade before he makes the transition from hottie to distinguished. It also helps that he stands six feet tall and hits the gym just often enough to look good in a tight T-shirt and snug jeans. He was wearing a pair of the latter now, along with one of his favorite nubby-textured, untucked linen shirts in deep forest green. His was a deceptively casual look, made more so by the eighties-throwback stubble on his chin and cheeks.
Harry, meanwhile, had flipped open a thick white binder similar to the one on my booth’s table. But rather than featuring photos of guest rooms and flowers, this one was filled with professional head shots as well as what appeared to be candid set photos from his various films.
“As you can see, we have all manner of looks for your Plus One for you to choose from.” He began his spiel as he turned the pages. “Here is our Successful Businessman, if you’d like to impress a certain someone who thinks he’s an investment genius. And the PhD who plays first base for an amateur softball team on the weekends—this one is perfect to stick it to a boss who lies about having an MBA. Oh, and the ever-popular Boy Next Door to bring to your grandmother’s birthday party. Of course, each character has his own backstory, which we can customize for our clients.”
“We? Our?” I echoed, looking around. “Is that in the Sybil sense”—referring, of course, to the famous psychiatric case of supposed multiple personalities—“or is someone else in on this besides you?”
“Actually, it’s the royal we. One of our characters is a distant relative of the Windsors,” he coolly replied, turning another page. “But I must say that this one is my favorite. I call it the Retired Secret Agent.”
I suppressed a smile. This version of Harry did look like something out of a James Bond movie. He was wearing a perfectly fitted tux, hand casually tucked in a pocket and hair slicked back, sternly gazing away from the camera as if contemplating how best to deal with the latest crop of supervillains.
My smile broadened. “I have to say that I agree with you. In fact, if I ever attend another wedding, this is the guy I’d want to bring with me.”
“Let me know next time an invite comes around, and I’m there. I’ll even give you the friend rate.”
“Oh, okay, sure.”
Abruptly discombobulated, as—despite the reference to friends and discounts—his offer had sounded uncomfortably like a date, I hurried to regroup.
“So, why are you doing this Plus One thing, anyhow? You’ve got the tour company already. And shouldn’t your agent have something new for you by now?”
“You should know the reason better than anyone else,” he replied.
Dropping the sales pitch, Harry flopped gracefully into his chair behind the table. I noticed that he didn’t have one of those ubiquitous candy bowls. Apparently, truffles weren’t necessary when the exhibitor himself was eye candy.
His gloomy expression as he stared back at me now only made him look more attractive, assuming one went for the moody “Twilight” sort of male.
“Our thirty-days’-free-rent agreement is almost up,” he reminded me, “and I’m still too broke to fill up the bus for the trip back to Atlanta. And no way can I scrape up enough for first and last for a new apartment there. I’ve done exactly one tour in the past month, and that went to pay my current bills. I talked to my agent yesterday, and the situation hasn’t changed. No one’s willing to touch me right now because of that whole thing with my series.”
That “thing,” I knew, not being Harry’s fault.
Apparently the director of John Cover, Undercover—which new cable series Harry had been confident would be his breakthrough role—had been accused of sexual harassment by some of the female crew as work on the first season ended. At least one lawsuit had ensued, prompting the production company to yank the show before it ever aired. And, as Harry had the starring role, even though he’d not been accused of anything inappropriate, he was still suffering the fallout.
“Hang in there,” I awkwardly reassured him, not able to think of any better platitudes. “Another scandal is bound to happen before too much longer, and the powers that be will all forget all about you.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
It didn’t take binoculars to see that the gloominess was rapidly morphing into full-blown self-pity, Much as I wanted to help, I wasn’t being paid by the hour to serve as Harry’s therapist. So I did the next best thing.
“Harry, about that moving-out deadline,” I began, hoping I wasn’t going to regret what I was about to offer, “let’s just say it was merely a suggestion. If you need more time to save enough rent money for your own place, you can stay a while longer.”
“Really?”
He perked up at that. Straightening in his chair, he put a hand over his heart and gave me the old matinee-idol smile. “You’re a lifesaver, Nina Fleet. I promise I won’t abuse your hospitality for any longer than I have to.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
My reply was a bit more stern than necessary, but only because it had hit me that I was actually glad he was staying. Which was not at all the reaction I’d expected of myself. But I didn’t have time to dwell on that now, especially as it had also occurred to me that I’d been away from my own booth for far too long.
“All right, gotta go now,” I told him. “Otherwise the guy in the booth next to mine is going to think someone kidnapped me. Maybe I’ll see you at the fashion show after lunch.”
I’d meant that last as something of a joke, but to my surprise, Harry nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. If you get there first, save me a seat. I’ll do the same for you.”
By now, the expo attendees were making their way back to the vendor area, having dropped off their tickets for the drawing. I left Harry talking to a pink-haired middle-aged woman who had swooped in the moment I turned away. Smiling, I started back to my own booth. If the fashion show proved boring, I could entertain myself by imagining scenarios between Harry’s various Plus One characters and random members of the audience.
I had a couple of brides-to-be waiting at my table. I hastily apologized for having stepped away and, plying both women with truffles, pitched them on the benefits of choosing Fleet House over any other B&B in Cymbeline.
What was left of the morning passed speedily. Even lunch, a tasty-enough boxed sandwich meal eaten in bites between conversing with potential guests, was a hurried affair. During a momentary lull, I ducked as low as I could behind my table to finish my final bite of dessert—a white-iced petit four with a piped yellow rose on top—only to look up and see Roxanna standing at my booth.
By design or accident, she was wearing a reversal of Virgie’s outfit, hers a dark-blue skirted suit with a pale-blue silk top. Her ensemble was topped by a striking purple-and-blue scarf, its tiny circle pattern reminding me of the lotus pods Virgie had so disliked. The length of silk hung around her neck and was tucked loosely under either lapel rather like a religious stole.
Her bright-pink lips stretched in a genuine if weary-looking smile.
“So, how’s it going? Are you getting lots of prospects?” she asked, and held out her arms for a friendly embrace.
I hopped out from behind my table to give her a quick hug. “So far, so good, for a first timer. I have to say, I’m really glad you talked me into taking part.”
While the sentiment was true, my smile was forced, awkward as I suddenly found myself feeling in her presence. She doesn’t know you eavesdropped on her argument with Virgie, I reminded myself. But even with that self-reassurance, it was hard to meet her gaze.
Roxanna must have noticed something was up, for she asked, “Nina, is everything okay? You look distracted.”
“No worries. Everything’s fine,” I lied.
She nodded. “Sorry, I guess it’s just me. I had a little confrontation with Virgie earlier, and I’m still upset.”
“Oh no, that’s too bad. Would it help to talk about it?”
If she recounted their argument, then I’d have a legitimate reason to know about it and could face her without feeling guilty. Unfortunately, it seemed Roxanna shared John’s reluctance to air unclean washing in public. She shook her head.
“It’s just a business disagreement. We’ll work it out.”
Then her smile slipped. Lowering her voice, she glanced either way and leaned closer to add, “Seriously, sometimes I’d just like to strangle that woman.”
“I think they put you in jail for that sort of thing,” I told her with a wry smile as I resumed my seat. “Working things out is probably the better strategy.”
“Well, all I can say is that before she starts accusing me of dirty deeds, she’d better clean up her own house.” With those cryptic words, she glanced at her watch and then pulled back on another smile. “Gotta go. The fashion show starts in about an hour. Be sure you take a break and watch at least a little bit of it. We’ve got a lot of surprises planned.”
“I will. Can’t wait,” I promised, though she had already scurried off before I’d finished the words.
I spent the next half hour chatting with a bride and her mom who were considering an outdoor wedding the following April. Once they’d wandered off with one of my brochures in hand, I saw that it was almost one thirty. And according to the expo schedule, that was when the show would start.
Sure enough, Virgie’s voice came over the PA system again.
“Attention, brides and friends and family. Our Veils and Vanities fashion show will begin in just a bit. If you’ve not already taken a seat at the expo stage, I suggest you do so quickly. You won’t want to miss this collection of fabulous bridal and wedding fashions coming from Atlanta, New York, and even London!”
That was my cue to pull out my Back in Ten Minutes sign again and gather my phone and purse. The other nearby exhibitors seemed to have the same idea. In fact, John had already left his booth, though in his case I doubted he was headed for the fashion show. More likely he was taking a well-deserved break.
The seating area around the stage was already almost full by the time I’d walked to the other side of the gymnasium. The stage was empty now too, the multilayer faux cake gone and leaving only the curtained backdrop.
With most of the expo attendees gathered in one spot, the noise level from the accompanying excited chatter had risen significantly, amplified by the gym’s uneven acoustics. Not surprisingly, the seats closest to the runway were already filled on either side. Remembering my promise to Harry, I found two empty chairs together not far from the action. I hurriedly plopped into one seat and stuck my bag on the other. Then, hoping it wouldn’t prove too awkward to watch a parade of bridal gowns while sitting alongside arguably the most eligible bachelor in the place—especially in my current unsettled state—I glanced about the crowd for him.