atrocious, if well-intentioned cooking.
“I better go,” I said finally. “I’ve got a million things to do yet. I’ve got to pack and call Mama and let her know I’m leaving town…”
Manny and Cookie walked me downstairs and out the front door. The temperature had dropped after the sun went down, but it was still in the low sixties. A trolley car full of tourists rounded the square, and we heard the patter of the tour guide over her microphone, explaining the history of Troup Square.
We stood on the street outside Babalu, gazing at the hundreds of tiny twinkling lights that illuminated their storefront.
“I can’t believe anything on Fifth Avenue will be any prettier than this,” I said, giving both men a hug. “Thank you so much for agreeing to take care of all the wedding stuff. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all you’re doing for us. Just remember—it’s only a wedding, right? Not some Broadway extravaganza.”
Manny sighed dramatically. “Well, it’s your party,” he conceded. “But so far your version sounds like a perfectly grim affair.”
“Positively Mormon,” Cookie agreed.
“Or Mennonite,” Manny said.
Chapter 11
Weezie
I squeezed my way through the crowds at LaGuardia’s baggage claim and inched toward the carousel, craning my neck to look for my black suitcase with the jaunty red bow tied to the handle. But two beefy men with European accents and thick gold chains around their necks blocked my vision. I tried to sidestep them, but was cut off by a tall bored-looking blonde in a full-length mink coat and tall, black patent-leather boots with six-inch spike heels.
It was noisy and stuffy, and people were jostling me around like I didn’t exist. Finally I gave up and started jostling back. Fifteen minutes passed. The crowds gathered their luggage and dispersed, until there were only three battered black suitcases circling the conveyor belt—and none of them were mine.
“Excuse me?” The baggage clerk in the Delta office was busily texting on her phone and didn’t look up.
I coughed loudly. “Ma’am? Excuse me. I came in on a flight from Savannah, and my bag wasn’t on the conveyor belt.”
She still didn’t look up. “Flight number?”
I had to check my boarding pass. “Twenty-seven-eleven.”
She finished sending her text, put the phone down, and checked the computer monitor in front of her. “All bags on that flight have been unloaded.”
“Not mine.” I handed her my baggage claim check.
She slid a piece of paper in my direction. “Fill that out. Put your cell phone number or the phone number where you’ll be staying in the city. Also the address. Your flight was full, so maybe your bag is coming on a later flight. We’ll give you a call when it arrives, and have it sent out to you.”
“Today?” I asked hopefully. “All my clothes are in that suitcase.” I’d dressed hurriedly that morning, blue jeans, a white shirt, red cashmere pullover sweater, and my favorite shoes, a pair of gorgeous black crocodile Stuart Weitzman loafers I’d picked up at the Junior League thrift store in Atlanta for five dollars. I was thankful that I’d kept BeBe’s coat with me on the flight.
She shrugged. “Whenever. It’s Christmas season, you know.” Satisfied that she had exerted the absolute minimum requirement for fulfilling the absolute minimum amount of customer service, she looked over my shoulder at the people lined up behind me. “Next.”
* * *
It didn’t seem possible, but the terminal was now even more crowded than it had been an hour ago. I moved with the crowd, like a salmon swimming upstream, heading for the exit doors. I felt a hand tugging my sleeve.
“Miss?” A man I could describe only as short, thin, and swarthy gave me an eager smile. “You are needing a car?” He was wearing a faded black suit coat, white dress shirt, and skinny black necktie. He looked semi-official to my untrained eyes.
“Well, a
“I better go,” I said finally. “I’ve got a million things to do yet. I’ve got to pack and call Mama and let her know I’m leaving town…”
Manny and Cookie walked me downstairs and out the front door. The temperature had dropped after the sun went down, but it was still in the low sixties. A trolley car full of tourists rounded the square, and we heard the patter of the tour guide over her microphone, explaining the history of Troup Square.
We stood on the street outside Babalu, gazing at the hundreds of tiny twinkling lights that illuminated their storefront.
“I can’t believe anything on Fifth Avenue will be any prettier than this,” I said, giving both men a hug. “Thank you so much for agreeing to take care of all the wedding stuff. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all you’re doing for us. Just remember—it’s only a wedding, right? Not some Broadway extravaganza.”
Manny sighed dramatically. “Well, it’s your party,” he conceded. “But so far your version sounds like a perfectly grim affair.”
“Positively Mormon,” Cookie agreed.
“Or Mennonite,” Manny said.
Chapter 11
Weezie
I squeezed my way through the crowds at LaGuardia’s baggage claim and inched toward the carousel, craning my neck to look for my black suitcase with the jaunty red bow tied to the handle. But two beefy men with European accents and thick gold chains around their necks blocked my vision. I tried to sidestep them, but was cut off by a tall bored-looking blonde in a full-length mink coat and tall, black patent-leather boots with six-inch spike heels.
It was noisy and stuffy, and people were jostling me around like I didn’t exist. Finally I gave up and started jostling back. Fifteen minutes passed. The crowds gathered their luggage and dispersed, until there were only three battered black suitcases circling the conveyor belt—and none of them were mine.
“Excuse me?” The baggage clerk in the Delta office was busily texting on her phone and didn’t look up.
I coughed loudly. “Ma’am? Excuse me. I came in on a flight from Savannah, and my bag wasn’t on the conveyor belt.”
She still didn’t look up. “Flight number?”
I had to check my boarding pass. “Twenty-seven-eleven.”
She finished sending her text, put the phone down, and checked the computer monitor in front of her. “All bags on that flight have been unloaded.”
“Not mine.” I handed her my baggage claim check.
She slid a piece of paper in my direction. “Fill that out. Put your cell phone number or the phone number where you’ll be staying in the city. Also the address. Your flight was full, so maybe your bag is coming on a later flight. We’ll give you a call when it arrives, and have it sent out to you.”
“Today?” I asked hopefully. “All my clothes are in that suitcase.” I’d dressed hurriedly that morning, blue jeans, a white shirt, red cashmere pullover sweater, and my favorite shoes, a pair of gorgeous black crocodile Stuart Weitzman loafers I’d picked up at the Junior League thrift store in Atlanta for five dollars. I was thankful that I’d kept BeBe’s coat with me on the flight.
She shrugged. “Whenever. It’s Christmas season, you know.” Satisfied that she had exerted the absolute minimum requirement for fulfilling the absolute minimum amount of customer service, she looked over my shoulder at the people lined up behind me. “Next.”
* * *
It didn’t seem possible, but the terminal was now even more crowded than it had been an hour ago. I moved with the crowd, like a salmon swimming upstream, heading for the exit doors. I felt a hand tugging my sleeve.
“Miss?” A man I could describe only as short, thin, and swarthy gave me an eager smile. “You are needing a car?” He was wearing a faded black suit coat, white dress shirt, and skinny black necktie. He looked semi-official to my untrained eyes.
“Well, a
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