near-crash, which in her mind justified a little carb indulgence—and braised beef. A bottle of Riesling nestled in an ice bucket, and fresh-squeezed orange juice filled a frosted-glass pitcher.
But Sam wasn't hungry. Maybe it was nerves over the wedding, or maybe it was nerves over having both her parents in the same city again. That would traumatize anyone. Jackson had taken Dina to brunch this morning at Shutters on the Beach, and Dina had been brought to the estate by limo before they drove off together in the Jensen. Sam had found them in the outdoor kitchen when she'd come down in her robe for coffee. They were chatting companionably and flipping through various sections of the
Los Angeles Times
before they departed—for her mother, the book review; her father, the calendar section. Her father had been dressed in his tennis clothes from his regular early-Sunday-morning game at the Riviera Country Club. Her mother had been on the verge of fashionable, in black sandals, long black shorts, and a long-sleeved red T-shirt. She looked almost pretty. Neither had said a word about the wedding. Instead, they'd smiled thinly as they said good morning. There was no need for them to say more. Sam knew what they were thinking:
Call it off. Now
.
“Miss Sam?”
One of the new maids stuck her head inside the redwood door. She was petite and olive-skinned, with extraordinarily large dark eyes. “April Bloomfield is here to see you. She wants to know if you want to do the menu tasting down in the kitchen?”
Sam turned to Dee. “April Bloomfield?”
Dee smiled broadly. “One of your possible caterers. She just moved here from Chicago to open a restaurant in Santa Monica.
April Dawn?
”
Sam knew about April Dawn. You couldn't get a reservation at April Dawn less than a month in advance. Well, unless you were Jackson Sharpe's daughter.
“How'd you get April Bloomfield?” Cammie demanded. She was clearly impressed.
“I talked to my dad. He told her he'd do the record launch party for his next big CD at her restaurant. Anyway, we'll see what she can do. There are always other options.”
It was Sam's turn to be impressed. Dee's father was a major music producer, responsible for dozens of platinum records and CDs over his storied career. Every year his clients won the top awards at the AMAs, VMAs, and every other acronymed music award show. In Hollywood terms, he was a player.
“Okay, Dee. You get the gold star for the day.” Cammie beat her to the punch with the compliment. Dee beamed.
“The outdoor kitchen, thanks,” Sam decided. Her father's soon-to-be ex-wife, Poppy Sinclair, had recently had an outdoor kitchen built adjacent to the indoor one, accessible via a sliding glass door. Sam liked the kitchen a lot better than she'd liked her dumb, cheating, not-much-older-than-Sam, soon-to-be-former stepmother. It was good to have her out of the house, but it would be better to read about the official divorce in
Variety
. Poppy and Jackson had decided to share custody of their baby, Ruby Hummingbird, and Poppy would get hefty child support.
“Wait. Let's just finish with this list before we go down,” Dee suggested.
“Fair enough.” Sam smiled at the maid. “Please ask her to wait.”
“Fine, Miss Sam.”
The housekeeper departed; Sam made a mental note to ask for her name next time, as Dee flipped a page in her notebook.
“Let me help,” Cammie declared. She punctuated her announcement with a sip of the Riesling. “Here's what you need to cover. Hair.”
Dee looked down her list. “Raymond. No other option. He's taking the day off from his new salon to do you. His treat. Enjoy.”
“Venue?” Cammie asked. “It's short notice. You can always use Bye, Bye Love. First wedding ever there. Would get a ton of press. I'd close the club for you if you wanted. It's not my call alone, but I'm sure Ben would agree.”
“Tempting. Very tempting,” Sam agreed. If she had her wedding there, it'd be
But Sam wasn't hungry. Maybe it was nerves over the wedding, or maybe it was nerves over having both her parents in the same city again. That would traumatize anyone. Jackson had taken Dina to brunch this morning at Shutters on the Beach, and Dina had been brought to the estate by limo before they drove off together in the Jensen. Sam had found them in the outdoor kitchen when she'd come down in her robe for coffee. They were chatting companionably and flipping through various sections of the
Los Angeles Times
before they departed—for her mother, the book review; her father, the calendar section. Her father had been dressed in his tennis clothes from his regular early-Sunday-morning game at the Riviera Country Club. Her mother had been on the verge of fashionable, in black sandals, long black shorts, and a long-sleeved red T-shirt. She looked almost pretty. Neither had said a word about the wedding. Instead, they'd smiled thinly as they said good morning. There was no need for them to say more. Sam knew what they were thinking:
Call it off. Now
.
“Miss Sam?”
One of the new maids stuck her head inside the redwood door. She was petite and olive-skinned, with extraordinarily large dark eyes. “April Bloomfield is here to see you. She wants to know if you want to do the menu tasting down in the kitchen?”
Sam turned to Dee. “April Bloomfield?”
Dee smiled broadly. “One of your possible caterers. She just moved here from Chicago to open a restaurant in Santa Monica.
April Dawn?
”
Sam knew about April Dawn. You couldn't get a reservation at April Dawn less than a month in advance. Well, unless you were Jackson Sharpe's daughter.
“How'd you get April Bloomfield?” Cammie demanded. She was clearly impressed.
“I talked to my dad. He told her he'd do the record launch party for his next big CD at her restaurant. Anyway, we'll see what she can do. There are always other options.”
It was Sam's turn to be impressed. Dee's father was a major music producer, responsible for dozens of platinum records and CDs over his storied career. Every year his clients won the top awards at the AMAs, VMAs, and every other acronymed music award show. In Hollywood terms, he was a player.
“Okay, Dee. You get the gold star for the day.” Cammie beat her to the punch with the compliment. Dee beamed.
“The outdoor kitchen, thanks,” Sam decided. Her father's soon-to-be ex-wife, Poppy Sinclair, had recently had an outdoor kitchen built adjacent to the indoor one, accessible via a sliding glass door. Sam liked the kitchen a lot better than she'd liked her dumb, cheating, not-much-older-than-Sam, soon-to-be-former stepmother. It was good to have her out of the house, but it would be better to read about the official divorce in
Variety
. Poppy and Jackson had decided to share custody of their baby, Ruby Hummingbird, and Poppy would get hefty child support.
“Wait. Let's just finish with this list before we go down,” Dee suggested.
“Fair enough.” Sam smiled at the maid. “Please ask her to wait.”
“Fine, Miss Sam.”
The housekeeper departed; Sam made a mental note to ask for her name next time, as Dee flipped a page in her notebook.
“Let me help,” Cammie declared. She punctuated her announcement with a sip of the Riesling. “Here's what you need to cover. Hair.”
Dee looked down her list. “Raymond. No other option. He's taking the day off from his new salon to do you. His treat. Enjoy.”
“Venue?” Cammie asked. “It's short notice. You can always use Bye, Bye Love. First wedding ever there. Would get a ton of press. I'd close the club for you if you wanted. It's not my call alone, but I'm sure Ben would agree.”
“Tempting. Very tempting,” Sam agreed. If she had her wedding there, it'd be
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