good. (She'd considered using the designs that Eduardo had included in the portfolio, but then opted not to. That would mean that he'd seen her dress before she came down the aisle, and while Sam wasn't exactly superstitious, she did believe in making an entrance.)
After the wedding dress designer was chosen, the head seamstress would race with her staff to create her gown so it would be ready on Friday. Sam could only imagine the number of magical elves that would work round the clock. Dee had also made preliminary inquiries of florists, caterers, musicians, wedding cake bakers, and the like.
Sam sighed and watched as her nail tech buffed her new polish. Thinking about what Dee had accomplished on her behalf made her feel guilty. Cammie hadn't done shit, and she was going to be the maid of honor. How unfair was that?
“Hey, would you mind handing me that notebook? And the pen?” Dee asked her nail tech, who was applying a final topcoat of gold polish to her left big toe. She pointed to an open notebook on the white Persian rug.
“Sure.” The nail tech, who sported spiky dark hair and thick eye makeup, handed over the simple black-and-white composition notebook and the gold Cross pen next to it.
“So, let's talk about these gowns,” Dee said, opening the notebook to a dog-eared page and peering at what she'd scrawled. “You're trying a vintage lace Alvina Valenta, a fitted Lazaro with amazing beadwork, a Christos washed silk strapless, fitted under the bust, with an A-line skirt—very figure flattering—and an Ulla-Maija original: it's hand-draped silk satin with a twenty-foot cathedral train.”
“Didn't your boyfriend mock up a bunch of drawings of you in custom-designed gowns?” Cammie asked.
“Fiancé, not boyfriend,” Sam corrected.
“Ah. Yes.” Cammie peered down at her toenails, which were now done in a vermilion shade called Shameless. “Fiancé. So?”
“The drawings were nice. But I don't want Eduardo to see my dress before the wedding. And the bitch Peruvian designer who drew them makes me nervous. I don't want her within three miles of my wedding.” Sam was emphatic.
“Cool. Then go naked,” Cammie quipped. “It's easier, it's hot, and you don't have to worry about anyone else copying you.”
Sam shook her head with a smile. “You're the one who looks hot naked,” she pointed out. “I'm the one who does the wild thing with the lights off. In fact, I'm happiest when there's a power failure and no candles or matches.”
Cammie poured herself some more champagne as the nail tech buffed at another rough spot—how on earth had Cammie gotten a rough spot?—of skin on her opposite heel. “Oh, right. Well, then, you'll want to go with the A-line to hide those hips of yours. I'm just telling you as a friend.”
“That was rude,” Dee said in her breathy little voice.
“I know,” Cammie agreed, sounding not at all bothered by Dee's remark. “It's a sickness. No cure. Oh well.”
For the next ten minutes, the nail techs worked in silence. Finally, the lead tech, who wore a white uniform—her assistants were in black—announced that they were done. All they had to do was pack their traveling valises. “Should we send the bill to the house?”
“Definitely. Add twenty percent for your tips.”
“Thank you, Miss Sharpe. We'll find our way out.”
Once the nail techs were gone, Cammie moved to a cluster of genuine 1950s TV dinner trays across the room near Sam's picture window. “How about some food?” A feast prepared by Jackson's weekend chef, the former tour caterer for Faith Hill and Tim McGraw, was set up on the tray tables. His name was Buck, and Buck had had clearly been in a Thai mood today. There was a huge platter of cold peanut noodles laced with slivers of spicy peppers and grilled chicken. Fresh pineapple salad with a savory cilantro and lime dressing. Cold shrimp spring rolls. A hot pot of yellow curry with potatoes—Sam still felt traumatized by Anna's
After the wedding dress designer was chosen, the head seamstress would race with her staff to create her gown so it would be ready on Friday. Sam could only imagine the number of magical elves that would work round the clock. Dee had also made preliminary inquiries of florists, caterers, musicians, wedding cake bakers, and the like.
Sam sighed and watched as her nail tech buffed her new polish. Thinking about what Dee had accomplished on her behalf made her feel guilty. Cammie hadn't done shit, and she was going to be the maid of honor. How unfair was that?
“Hey, would you mind handing me that notebook? And the pen?” Dee asked her nail tech, who was applying a final topcoat of gold polish to her left big toe. She pointed to an open notebook on the white Persian rug.
“Sure.” The nail tech, who sported spiky dark hair and thick eye makeup, handed over the simple black-and-white composition notebook and the gold Cross pen next to it.
“So, let's talk about these gowns,” Dee said, opening the notebook to a dog-eared page and peering at what she'd scrawled. “You're trying a vintage lace Alvina Valenta, a fitted Lazaro with amazing beadwork, a Christos washed silk strapless, fitted under the bust, with an A-line skirt—very figure flattering—and an Ulla-Maija original: it's hand-draped silk satin with a twenty-foot cathedral train.”
“Didn't your boyfriend mock up a bunch of drawings of you in custom-designed gowns?” Cammie asked.
“Fiancé, not boyfriend,” Sam corrected.
“Ah. Yes.” Cammie peered down at her toenails, which were now done in a vermilion shade called Shameless. “Fiancé. So?”
“The drawings were nice. But I don't want Eduardo to see my dress before the wedding. And the bitch Peruvian designer who drew them makes me nervous. I don't want her within three miles of my wedding.” Sam was emphatic.
“Cool. Then go naked,” Cammie quipped. “It's easier, it's hot, and you don't have to worry about anyone else copying you.”
Sam shook her head with a smile. “You're the one who looks hot naked,” she pointed out. “I'm the one who does the wild thing with the lights off. In fact, I'm happiest when there's a power failure and no candles or matches.”
Cammie poured herself some more champagne as the nail tech buffed at another rough spot—how on earth had Cammie gotten a rough spot?—of skin on her opposite heel. “Oh, right. Well, then, you'll want to go with the A-line to hide those hips of yours. I'm just telling you as a friend.”
“That was rude,” Dee said in her breathy little voice.
“I know,” Cammie agreed, sounding not at all bothered by Dee's remark. “It's a sickness. No cure. Oh well.”
For the next ten minutes, the nail techs worked in silence. Finally, the lead tech, who wore a white uniform—her assistants were in black—announced that they were done. All they had to do was pack their traveling valises. “Should we send the bill to the house?”
“Definitely. Add twenty percent for your tips.”
“Thank you, Miss Sharpe. We'll find our way out.”
Once the nail techs were gone, Cammie moved to a cluster of genuine 1950s TV dinner trays across the room near Sam's picture window. “How about some food?” A feast prepared by Jackson's weekend chef, the former tour caterer for Faith Hill and Tim McGraw, was set up on the tray tables. His name was Buck, and Buck had had clearly been in a Thai mood today. There was a huge platter of cold peanut noodles laced with slivers of spicy peppers and grilled chicken. Fresh pineapple salad with a savory cilantro and lime dressing. Cold shrimp spring rolls. A hot pot of yellow curry with potatoes—Sam still felt traumatized by Anna's
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