As Harry was taller than most of the predominantly female throng, I spied him almost immediately. He was surrounded by a small knot of teenage girls who’d apparently appointed themselves his personal posse. I knew that, on the one hand, Harry adored the attention, but on the other, a crowd of hangers-on could become a major annoyance. And given the demographic of said posse, I figured things had already reached the aggravation point.
Allowing myself a grin at his predicament, I stood and waved.
“Harry, over here,” I called, doing my best to be heard over the babble of conversation.
He caught sight of me and nodded. I saw him say something to the teens, and then he started in my direction.
“You’re welcome for the rescue,” I told Harry a few moments later as he took the seat next to me. “I was afraid I was going to have to run over there and pry you away from your new friends.”
He gave an airy wave. “They were glad to let me leave once I explained the situation. If anyone asks, you’re my spinster cousin here to experience planning a wedding vicariously, since chances are you’ll never walk up the aisle yourself.”
“Thanks.” I shot him a sour look. “You know darned well I’ve been married before. You even worked with Cam once.”
Yes, my ex-husband is the Cameron Fleet, rising star on the professional golf tour circuit and current media darling. And small world that it is, it had turned out that several months before Harry and I met, he had been hired for an allergy medicine commercial featuring Cam.
Things had not gone well. Apparently, after a few takes, good old Cam had managed to get Harry booted off the shoot. Probably for being too good-looking, I had privately decided when Harry related the story, knowing how my ex hated to share the spotlight.
But that was last year. Now, and to mix sports metaphors, Harry tossed me a curve ball. “Speaking of your ex-husband, I meant to ask you how you were handling it.”
“Handling what?”
“You know, his big announcement.”
Announcement? The pro golf tour had ended in August, giving us civilians a respite from televised tournaments. Frankly, I’d deliberately avoided keeping track of Cam’s standing on the leaderboards, though I knew he had won a couple of tour events early in the season. And so I shrugged and shook my head. “Guess I’m going to need a few more hints.”
“It was all over the sports section the other day,” he replied. “I even saw a couple of stories online about it this morning. Apparently, everyone’s favorite professional golfer is engaged to be married.”
“Cam is engaged?”
I wasn’t sure which shocked me more: the news that my ex-husband was tying the knot again or the fact that Harry actually perused the sports page. Ignoring the latter revelation, I concentrated on the first bombshell.
“Engaged?” I repeated, struggling to keep my tone even. “When? To whom?”
“Yes. Just this week. Some female sportscaster.” He answered my questions in quick succession. “And that’s the extent of my knowledge. Anything else and you’re going to have to pick up a newspaper yourself.”
Still, his expression was sympathetic as he added, “I really did think you already knew. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, sure. Just give me a minute to get used to it.”
Though, of course, I would need more than sixty seconds to merely digest the news. Accepting it would take even longer. To be honest, it felt like someone had socked me in the gut. It wasn’t that I still loved the man, but we had been married for almost twenty years. And though we’d parted on less-than-friendly terms, on some level a connection remained between us.
Which had to be why a little voice inside me was suddenly crying, How could he love anyone besides me-e-e-e!
I summoned a smile. “Really, I’m fine. And I have to say, I’m not surprised, now that I’ve had a moment. Cam’s the type of man who needs a woman hanging around. That was pretty much the reason we got divorced—all those extra women.”
Harry smiled back. “If it helps, I think Cameron Fleet was an idiot for not being satisfied with the woman he already had.”
I waited to see if a punch line would follow, but he sounded sincere. Feeling warmed by the compliment, I replied with equal sincerity. “Thanks. That helps.”
And then, because I still hadn’t reached the acceptance stage, I added, “You know, maybe I’ll skip the fashion show after all.”
“Are you sure? I think you might find it more entertaining than you expect.”
As if on cue, the overhead lights dimmed, while a series of small white spotlights illuminated the stage and catwalk. The chattering crowd promptly settled itself into relative silence. And then over the PA system came a familiar male voice.
“Welcome, brides-to-be, relatives, and friends, to the third annual fall Veils and Vanities bridal fashion show!”
I whipped about to stare at Harry.
“That’s you!” I exclaimed as the crowd broke into applause. Or rather, it was the announcer-guy version of him. The recorded voice was a little more theatrical, a little deeper than the actor’s everyday, only-slightly-Georgia-accented tones.
The real-life Harry gave me a smug smile. “What can I say? Virgie offered me a free booth if I’d do their voice-overs for the fashion show. Her son, Jason, has a recording studio on the other side of town.”
I raised my brows a little at this new tidbit of gossip. John had told me previously that he had no children, so this Jason had to be the product of a second marriage for Virgie.
“He’s the one handling the lights and sound for the expo too,” Harry continued. “Now, sit back and enjoy the show.”
The disembodied Harry voice went on to recognize Virgie and Roxanna and to acknowledge various sponsors, along with the high school administrators and staff. I sighed and settled back into my seat. While I wasn’t in the mood to ogle wedding dresses, it might be amusing to listen to Harry’s description of same.
The show began with the sound of eighties-era pop, starting with Madonna and morphing into Michael Jackson with a little segue into Rick Springfield. The women who strutted out one after the other from behind the curtain and onto the catwalk were old enough to have listened to that music when it was first released. I already knew from the expo promo material that the models were not professionals but volunteers from the Cymbeline Chamber of Commerce.
All were wearing mother-of-the-bride (or mother-of-the-groom) dresses. Roxanna had chosen women of various sizes and ethnicities to show off the dresses, which ranged in style from cocktail length to actual ball gowns. While they strolled, the disembodied Harry voice named styles and colors, reminding the audience that all the dresses were available from Virgie’s Formals.
I joined the applause as the last model, with a saucy bounce of her size-sixteen hips, whipped back behind the curtain.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Harry beside me murmured as the music switched over to hip-hop. “The bridesmaid dresses are next, and there are a few doozies.”
And a couple were the dreaded stereotypical bridesmaid gowns with puffy sleeves and ruffles and in various sherbet hues. Most of the dresses, however, were modern and sleek and something that could actually be worn to another event later. Modeled by a group of young women who, per Harry’s next prerecorded introduction, were CHS students, they ranged from a sweet, slip-like creation in baby-pink satin to a Goth floor-length number in black-and-red lace.
I saw in surprised approval that one of the teen models was Daniel and Gemma Tanaka’s daughter, Jasmine. She came out wearing a knee-length silk sheath the same bronze shade as her riot of shoulder-length curls, the dress topped with a dark-green lace shrug. From the applause that greeted her appearance, I wasn’t the only one who thought she looked stunning.
“Wedding gowns up next,” Harry warned me once all the teens had exited back through the stage curtain to even more clapping. “You going to be okay with that?”
“Yeah, I think so. If nothing else, I’ll enjoy the music,” I added as Adele’s distinctive, emotional vocals came over the PA system.
Harry’s prerecorded patter for this collection differed from the earlier scripts. The other dresses had cycled down the catwalk at a swift pace. The bridal gowns, however, each received a more leisurely stroll, so that the entire audience had time to ooh and aah over every bit of lace and beading.
And the first couple of dresses were indeed lovely, being traditional gowns with plenty of lace and pearls and long satin trains. But by the time the third model had made her way around the catwalk and Adele had been replaced by Lady Gaga, I’d reached my limit.
“Sorry, Harry,” I said, leaning closer so he could hear me over the applause. “I don’t think I can take any more brides right now. I’m going to get a little fresh air.”
“Understood,” he replied. “There’s another eight or nine dresses to go, so probably another fifteen minutes left in the show. But you might want to come back for the finale. Virgie and Roxanna have some sort of dramatic finish planned with that big cake. They wouldn’t tell me exactly what it was, but I gathered it was some sort of floral ‘four-and-twenty blackbirds’ kind of thing. You know, roses or something spilling out all over the place.”
Not sure I was in the mood for nursery rhymes either, I shrugged. “I’ll think about it. See you later.”
I stood and made my way as unobtrusively as I could over to the exhibitors’ side of the gym. Not that there was any way to escape the cheers and clapping from the crowd, or Harry’s fashion narration over the music. But the physical separation helped. And I could see as I wended my way through the booths that I wasn’t the only one who’d opted out of the show.
The tattooed bleached blonde whose sign advertised Nails by Norma was chugging down a canned energy drink while frantically knitting something very long and spider-webby in fluffy black yarn. A few booths from her, Duwane Douglass, the baby-faced African American guy who owned Douglass Photography, was kicked back in his chair indulging in a power nap. And the next row over in the Travel Exotica booth, a gray-haired woman wearing oversized eyeglasses was hunched over her laptop playing what sounded like an alien warfare computer game.
I left the gym and headed down the hall to the main exit door. The temperature outside had to be almost eighty despite the fact that it was late September. Still, it was breezy enough out and, save for the traffic sounds from the nearby two-lane highway, relatively quiet after the relentless hubbub of the expo.
I slumped onto a short concrete wall near the handicap ramp and let out a sigh.
Cam was getting married again. Logically, I knew I shouldn’t care, should have expected he would move on at some point. Divorcing the man had been my smartest move in years, and I didn’t regret it. Yet still I sat here wallowing in self-pity and feeling like the only girl in school who hadn’t been asked to the senior prom.
“You okay, Nina?” came a familiar voice beside me a few long moments later.
I looked over to see my friend Gemma Tanaka. She must have come straight from the diner, as she was dressed in khaki slacks topped by a navy Peaches and Java T-shirt that had a couple of stray flour streaks decorating one sleeve. No doubt she’d come to pick up Jasmine from the show.
For the moment, however, she was giving me a worried frown.
“Really, Nina, is something wrong? You look like you just lost your best friend.”
“I kind of did. I just found out that my ex-husband is getting remarried.”
“Ah.”
Gemma gave a sober nod, her salt-and-pepper locks softly bouncing. “Yes, I saw that in the papers. I figured you already knew. Sorry, I guess it’s a little hard, especially when he’s engaged to someone like Rue McFadden.”
Rue McFadden?
I stared at Gemma in stunned surprise. Harry had said something about Cam’s new fiancée being a sportscaster, though at the time it hadn’t clicked. But even I knew who Rue was.
Tall, blonde, and at least ten years younger than me, Rue McFadden possessed the enhanced lips and boobs that were practically de rigueur for every media female. A fixture on one of the major networks, she had gone from token female interviewer to broadcasting celebrity within months of her first appearance. Currently, she was as famous for her TikTok videos showing her yukking it up with various male athletes as she was for her actual on-air work. Why she’d decided to settle down now, and with Cam especially, I couldn’t guess.
Gemma, meanwhile, was pointedly glancing at her watch.
“Sorry, Nina, I don’t mean to be unsympathetic, but I’ve gotta go. I couldn’t break away from the lunch rush before now, and I’d really like to see Jasmine all dressed up if it’s not too late. She’s supposed to be in the fashion show finale.”
“Right, the big cake finish.” Nodding, I jumped down from my wall seat. “I’ll go with you. I’ve only been out here for a couple of minutes, so that should mean there’s still time before the final dress is modeled.”
We hurried back inside. Faint music from the fashion show greeted us as we headed down the hall toward the gym’s double doors. As we reached that entry, I noticed at the far end of the hallway a tall male figure wearing a purple shirt.
John Klingel?
He was too distant for me to be certain, particularly since I couldn’t see his face. But if it was indeed the florist wandering the halls, then he was violating our exhibitor agreement. The waiver we’d all signed had explicitly stated that, save for the gym and accompanying restrooms, the school was off-limits to everyone except district employees.
By now the man had disappeared down a side hall. Figuring it was none of my business either way, I promptly forgot about him as Gemma pulled open the gym door and we headed inside toward the stage area.
The audience had grown even in the few minutes I’d been gone, so that the only seats remaining were far to the side and back. I glanced over to where I’d been sitting earlier and was relieved to see that none of Harry’s posse had claimed my empty spot.
“There,” I told Gemma as I pointed in that direction. “Why don’t you go sit next to Harry so you have a better view. I’ll grab a chair somewhere here.”
Gemma nodded her thanks and hurried that way. I found a seat near the back next to a glasses-wearing brunette about my age with a preteen girl who was practically her mini-me. Each wore the same black-framed plastic glasses and had the same mousy hair in a tight bun, and both were wearing jeans and a lightweight sweater set—the mom’s beige and the daughter’s pink. We gave each other a smiling nod of acknowledgment and then settled back again to watch the rest of the show.
The wedding dress styles had apparently grown more modern as the show progressed. A dramatic number in black lace was just now leaving the stage, replaced by a pair of models wearing more gender-neutral garb—one a trendy skirted tuxedo in white satin, the other a traditional black tuxedo, the trousers and jacket cut for a female figure. While Katy Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl” played, the two women linked arms and paraded down the catwalk. I heard a few surprised murmurs around me, but judging by the applause, the younger audience seemed to approve the unconventional attire.
Once the couple left the stage, Tina Turner took over the PA. While the music icon belted out the age-old question about what love had to do anything, another of Harry’s prerecorded spiels began. This one described a gown as “our final offering today, straight from London’s Mount Street fashion district.”
A willowy red-haired model came through the parted stage curtains. Her gown was an ankle-length, off-the-shoulder number in white silk with a plunging back and beaded mermaid hem that shimmered with every movement. As the model stepped and turned and stepped again along the catwalk, I joined in the applause. Given the opportunity to wear a dress like that, I told myself, I might consider getting married a second time.
Once the model finally left the stage, Harry’s voice came back over the PA system. “Brides, friends, and relatives, we’d like to end our fashion show with a new trend for wedding receptions. Forget the ice sculptures and chocolate fountains and food boards. Why not surprise your guests with something even more fun?”
A fast-paced smooth jazz piece began to play as the stage curtain pulled open and the oversized faux wedding cake that had been on display earlier came rolling out. It was guided by Jasmine, still in her pretty bronze bridesmaid dress. Her partner was Ms. Saucy Hips, whom I finally recognized as the perky but definitely middle-aged Polly Hauer of PLH Mortgage. I glanced over to where Harry and Gemma sat. The latter waved excitedly to her daughter as Jasmine and Polly rolled the cake across the stage to enthusiastic applause from the audience.
They halted not far from the catwalk. While Jasmine stepped back a few paces, Polly fumbled with the cake’s top layer. A moment later, a fountain of golden sparks erupted like something from the Fourth of July. The audience gasped and then oohed when Polly reached a hand into the sparks, demonstrating that the seeming pyrotechnics didn’t burn like genuine fireworks. Jasmine, meanwhile, bent and did something behind the cake that promptly sent a cascade of pink LED lights chasing around the cake’s tiers, drawing even more applause.
Smiling, Jasmine and Polly let the cake do its acrobatics for a few more moments. Then, looking like the letter turner on a television game show, Jasmine gave the old voilà gesture with one hand while Polly stepped forward again.
By now the fountain of sparks atop the cake had burned itself off. And with that, Polly smiled and tugged the top layer upward.
At least, that’s what she attempted to do. Even from my distant seat I could see that the cake lid appeared stuck. Her smile broadening into a show of gritted teeth, Polly gave it another try. Jasmine jumped in to help, while someone in the audience began a rhythmic clap of encouragement that several others swiftly picked up.
Just when I feared they’d have to give up the effort, the top cake layer went flying backward on its hinges, hanging behind the main cake like an empty hatbox. As for the rest of the faux cake structure, it apparently was hinged from the back, for it abruptly split open like an apple that had been cleaved from top to bottom.
For a confused instant, all I registered was the fact that someone had tumbled out of the cake and sprawled faceup on the catwalk. A stripper? For a bachelor party, maybe—but that didn’t make sense for a wedding reception. And hadn’t Harry said something about flowers?
The momentary ripple of surprised laughter that had accompanied the woman’s unexpected appearance faded to silence as she lay there unmoving. I half rose in my chair, focused now on the fact that the figure was a blonde dressed in a dark-blue suited skirt. Even from where I was, I could see the long strip of purple-and-blue cloth wrapped high around her throat.
“Roxanna!” I gasped out.
I doubted anyone heard me, however, for at the same instant Polly shrieked, “She…she’s dead!”
And with that, Jasmine slapped her hands to her cheeks in an unconscious parody of that iconic scene from Home Alone and began to scream.