A week later, Kellen found herself crawling through the shrubbery—again. She didn’t mean to be here, among the three-foot-tall azalea bushes that had been trimmed to provide a lush leafy display on top with bare branches beneath. Last time she had crawled through the bushes outside the wine cellar, she’d almost been killed by a falling roof tile. Some might call this childish behavior, but right now, being childish seemed more sensible than dealing with table settings and groom’s cake and gown fittings.
The Di Luca family was everywhere, talking loudly about the grape harvest and giving Max unwanted wine-producing advice. He was unfailingly pleasant, but they weren’t all here yet. In fact, according to Max, the influx had barely begun.
They were arriving from Italy, from the eastern United States, from California’s wine country. They were old, young, laughing, melancholy, but all were nosy and all loud. They kissed and hugged her, spoke in Italian and English, cooked flagrantly and with extensive arguments. They overwhelmed with their exuberance.
Kellen settled, cross-legged, near the far end of the hedge. Occasionally, a pair of feet would wander past on the lawn; someone using a shortcut from the winery to the house, to the bocce ball court, to the tables that had been placed under the cherry trees.
Kellen pressed her back against the winery wall, breathed in the warm scents of bark mulch and vegetation and tried to meditate. But inner peace was elusive. She thought longingly about the door that led into the cool wine cellars, but she didn’t dare make the dash because even if she didn’t get caught before she reached the door, she was sure some of the Di Luca family would be touring. She would be expected to join the tour or, God forbid, lead the tour. That was so not Captain Kellen Adams.
Sometimes it seemed as if she was losing herself, the self she had created out of the remnants of Cecilia and memories of Cousin Kellen, in this wedding onslaught.
She heard the patter of running feet coming across the lawn and tensed.
Rae dived under the shrubs and slid close to Kellen. “Mommy, that man pinched my cheek!”
Kellen found herself instantly ready to kill. “Where?”
“In the yard!”
“No, I mean—where on your cheek?”
“Here!” Rae showed her a red mark on her face.
Kellen relaxed. “Which relative?”
“I don’t know. He had a funny accent.”
“Not Italian then.” Kellen wasn’t joking; they’d both heard so many Italian accents they thought nothing of it.
“No, a funny accent! He said he was from fah away and asked when and where I was bawn.”
“Sounds like he’s from Boston. What did he look like?”
“Like a man. Hair.” Rae ruffled her fingers over her head.
“Brown? Blond?”
“Brown. Dark brown. Brown eyes. He wanted to know my name and all about you and I told him some stuff, but he kept asking and finally I ran away.” Rae cuddled close to Kellen’s side. “Grandma said I can’t punch any of these people in the sternum. Because they’re relations.”
“No, you can’t.” Kellen hugged her. “But we can think about it with great relish.”
Bushes rustled at the far end of the row of shrubs, and to Kellen’s left, along the winery wall, Arthur Waldberg appeared, crawling toward them. He wore a white shirt, a blue tie, black linen pants and his handkerchief had been folded with precision and placed in the pocket of his gray sports coat. Sweat beaded on his shiny forehead. “Miss Adams, Miss Di Luca, I need some answers from the bride and the young maid of honor.”
Kellen moaned and thumped the back of her head against the wall—and tensed. Nothing happened, reality remained within reach, and she mentally cursed the stupid bullet for making the most innocent gesture a trial.
Arthur settled next to Rae, looked around at the well-trimmed branches around them and the dense foliage of leaves above and said, “This is quite pleasant. Rather like the tent I played in as a child. No wonder you hide here.” He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead, then carefully folded the linen into an origami fan and arranged it back in his pocket.
“Yes. To be alone,” Kellen said with emphasis.
“I know, Miss Adams, I sympathize with your desires, but we’re on a truncated wedding schedule and I must know what the bride wants.” He sounded sympathetic but ruthless.
“Why don’t you ask Mrs. Verona Di Luca what I want?” Kellen snapped. She wasn’t bitter, not really. Having Verona be so sure of each decision had made the planning onslaught easier to bear. The only matter in which they had clashed, and Kellen held firm, was—
“Mr. Federico Di Luca says he must have a decision on which wedding gown you will wear,” Arthur said.
Rae whimpered.
He transferred his attention to Rae. “He also wishes to know the real color of the little maid of honor’s gown.”
“I am not wearing any of the frothy frilly lace-ridden gowns he brought on Verona’s command.” Kellen took a deep breath and finished her pronouncement. “Rae is wearing purple. Not lavender. Not blue with a hint of lavender. Purple. Purple, purple, purple!”
“Yeah!” Rae said. “Can my dress be lace-ridden, Mommy?”
“Of course it can.” Kellen kissed her head and turned back to Arthur. “If Zio Federico can’t manage that, Rae and I will run away from home, go to Portland, find a couple of dresses at Goodwill and wear those.”
“Yeah!” Rae said again.
“As I thought.” Arthur pulled out a small leather notebook held together with a single tiny silver ballpoint pen. He opened it and scribbled a note. “Two days ago, while out of Verona’s hearing, I spoke with Mr. Federico Di Luca, explained the situation and asked that he acquire gowns more fitting to two females of, shall we say, superhero powers.” He shared a smile with Rae. “His rush order has arrived from Milan. He’s ready to do your fittings. Having viewed the gowns, I believe you’ll both find these more to your satisfaction.”
Kellen felt a marvelously warm thrill across her nerves, a thrill contrary to her declared lack of interest in this wedding. “Thank you, Arthur. I appreciate your assistance. But what will Verona say?”
“I spoke to her, Miss Adams. I believe you’ll find no further opposition to your desires in this matter.” Arthur’s phone chirped. He looked at the text, typed a few words.
Kellen heard a rustle of bushes coming from beyond Arthur’s shoulder.
Arthur scooted forward. “Dan Matyasovitch has submitted a list of suggested music for the ceremony and the reception afterward.” He gestured to the right, and the musician was crawling toward her.
With his jeans and collarless button-up shirt and jacket, he looked more at home down here beneath the bushes than Arthur. But really? He was crawling and perspiring so much his sunglasses were sliding down his nose, and sweat dropped off his mustache, his goatee, and circled around his upswept eyebrows. All he needed was a cigar to look like Freud stuck in a sauna.
Kellen slapped at a beetle that crawled up her arm. “Do I have to care?”
Dan worked his way around the trunks of the azaleas to sit next to Kellen’s left knee. “You’ll find leaving the matter in the hands of your mother-in-law will result in an arcane selection of late seventies and early eighties pop rock.”
“I like pop rocks,” Rae said.
Arthur, Dan and Kellen looked at each other over the top of Rae’s head. “Do they still have those?” Arthur asked.
“Apparently.” Kellen made some decisions she didn’t know she’d even considered. She quickly listed her choices, closing with “‘At Last,’ Etta James.”
“Good. I can springboard off those for the rest of the playlist. I’ve hired a talented bass player and a guitarist and am negotiating with a trumpet player. If I can’t get him, I may try for a clarinet. The instrument gives the music a ’40s vibe, but in this case, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.” Dan Matyasovitch turned and crawled back the way he came.
“Dan is a talented actor and musician. You can trust him with this list. When he’s done, you’ll have a reception to remember.” Arthur checked his phone, pushed buttons, made his next pronouncement. “Now, about the food for the reception—”
Kellen began to feel as if she’d been ambushed. “On that, Verona can have her way.” From across the lawn, she heard the thump of footsteps running.
Pearly Perry slid under the shrubbery like a baseball player going in to third base. She was slender to a fault, short and dressed in chef’s clothes so loose they hung on her. She beamed at Rae, glanced nervously at Kellen, looked to Arthur for guidance.
Arthur came through for her. “Pearly, Miss Adams says she wants Mrs. Di Luca to have her way about the food at the reception.”
Pearly’s dark eyes widened in horror. “Yes, Miss Adams, she knows food very well. But her baking leaves much to be desired, and the wedding cake! You must have what you want for your wedding cake!”
“You want to speak to the bakery on my behalf?” Kellen asked.
“I want to make it. I studied for years under a master baker!” Pearly took Kellen’s hands and clutched them earnestly. “I will make you a cake that will be the talk of your friends for years to come.”
“My friends?” Kellen chuckled as she thought about the men and women she had served with in the military overseas and at home. They were coming, all of them arriving the day before, except Birdie who would be here tomorrow for fittings and female bonding. “As long as it’s eatable, my friends will be happy.”
“What about your enemies?” Arthur asked. “What do you want them saying about your cake?”
Kellen exploded in a flurry of irritation. “For sh...pete’s sake, I don’t care what my enemies say about my cake! Why should I care what anyone thinks about my wedding cake? That’s just ridiculous!”
Arthur cut his eyes toward Pearly Perry, who sat there with her head drooping like a lovely flower on a broken stem.
An alert and sorrowful Rae asked, “But, Mommy, what about Martin’s mother? Remember when you did the self-defense class and she was cranky because everybody in camp thought you were so cool? Even her little boy, skinny scaredy-cat Martin?”
Kellen viewed Rae’s reproachful expression and the barely hidden flash of triumph in her brown eyes. This was a conspiracy, and even her daughter played a part. “All right, Pearly. Do what you do best. But I don’t want to hear about it ahead of time. Surprise me. All I demand is purple frosting trim. Purple, not—”
“—blue with a lavender tint.” Arthur scribbled on his list. “You can trust Pearly to amaze and astonish.”
Pearly shook Kellen’s hand, then shook it again, then bowed, then scooted back to allow Claude McKeith to take her place. Over one of his shoulders, Takashi Tibodo bobbed and smiled. Over the other, Mateo Courtemanche offered her a cold bottle of water and a small gift-wrapped box.
Kellen accepted the offerings and opened the box. Inside she found a specialty from the winery and a favorite of hers: Southern cheese straws.
She laughed. She couldn’t help growing more and more amused; this whole under-the-shrubbery wedding conference had a humorous side she couldn’t deny. Before Claude could speak, she held up one hand. “Hire whoever you need, as much staff as you need, for service and cleanup.”
“No limits?” Claude asked.
“Make sure they’re bonded and credible, run them past Mr. Parliman’s security team to make sure their credentials are clean, and no reporters. We’re going to have a lot of wealthy famous people here and the Di Luca family would like to avoid thieves and publicity.” As she spoke, Kellen wasn’t really thinking of the Di Luca family’s privacy; she was considering how easy it would be for an assassin to slip in and take her out, and worse, if someone was so determined to kill her, a lot of people could get hurt or killed.
There had been enough of that already.
She thought she’d been tactful, but Claude winced as if she’d hit a nerve and drew back. “I’ll do my best, Miss Adams.”
Mateo said, “Everyone on Arthur’s staff is equipped to observe, supervise and care for the guests during this special occasion.” He looked at Arthur, who nodded silently, then looked at the ground.
A silence fell that was almost awkward, so Kellen asked, “Takashi, will you sing for us at the reception?”
“I would be honored. I’ll consult with Dan and we’ll come up with something to delight you and your guests.”
Warren Golokin appeared from nowhere, smiling and anxious to please. He unrolled a stiff sheet of 24-by-36-inch drawing paper with a site plan that included tents, tables, decorations and parking.
Kellen rolled it back up, pressed it into his hand, and said, “Do you realize how much I trust you? After seeing your talent, I know you’ll make this wedding a waltz without music.”
Warren teared up. “I won’t disappoint you.”
Kellen realized how exhausted she was when she teared up in response, and had to hug him. “I know you won’t.” She hadn’t been sleeping well; the worry about Rae’s safety and the assassin, the wedding and most of all, about the gray coma that hovered at the periphery of her mind.
Warren backed away, and Kellen asked Arthur, “Are we done now?”
Arthur made a whisking motion with his fingertips, and his cohorts disappeared the way they came. “Thank you, Miss Adams, I promise you you’ll have the wedding of your dreams, and everyone is so much happier knowing your desires in these matters.”
“Everyone is happier except my future mother-in-law,” Kellen said with some humor.
Rae said, “That’s not true!”
“What do you mean?” Kellen asked Rae and turned to Arthur. “What does she mean?”
Arthur gave Kellen one stricken glance and tried to flee.
Just like that, Kellen figured it out. She grabbed his sleeve and brought him to a halt. “This intervention was done on Verona’s behest.”
Arthur sat up very straight. “Absolutely not. Mrs. Di Luca was simply—”
Rae interrupted. “Grandma cried because you didn’t care about our wedding.”
“But I don’t...” Kellen came to a halt, dismayed and confused. “Cried? Why?”
With great precision, Arthur put his notebook and pen into the inner pocket of his jacket. “Mrs. Di Luca doesn’t wish for you to look back on this grand event with regret because it was not to your liking.”
“I won’t! I honestly don’t care!” Why wouldn’t anyone believe her?
Large feet in size twelve white running shoes came to a halt just outside the shrubbery where Kellen had fruitlessly tried to hide. Max leaned over far enough to look at the small group beneath the leafed canopy. “Arthur! Rae! Go on, I’ll talk to Kellen.”