“Sorry, never heard of you.” Skye watched the occasional episode of
Access Hollywood
and read the tabloids while waiting in line at the grocery store, but the name Belle Canfield didn’t sound familiar. “Whose weddings did you do?”
“I don’t have to prove myself to you.” A tiny crease appeared between Belle’s eyes. “I’ve worked on plenty of celebrity weddings.” Under her breath she muttered, “This is so not fair. I’m way prettier than Paris Hilton, and my family’s way richer, but no matter how much I bust my ass, that ditzy nut job still gets all the media attention.”
“Well.” Skye struggled to keep her expression neutral. Belle had seemed so confident until now, but her insecurity was starting to show. “I’ve still never heard of you.” Why would anyone want to be like Paris Hilton, someone who was famous only for being famous?
“My father is Mickey Canfield.” When Skye remained unimpressed, Belle added, “Of the Canfield Corporation.”
“Okaaay.” Skye drew out the word.
Belle snapped, “Surely, even here in the sticks, you’ve heard of Canfield Hotels and Resorts.” She shot Skye a scornful look and said, “Now can we get to work?”
“I really don’t care who your daddy is.” Skye narrowed her emerald green eyes. How shallow was this woman to think having a famous father would get her what she wanted? “I’m not the person Riley arranged to assist you, so we won’t be getting to work.” With her ebony hair, porcelain skin, and heart-shaped face, Belle may have looked like Snow White, but Skye wasn’t giving in to a spoiled princess who couldn’t take no for an answer.
“Yes, you are,” Belle insisted. “Riley promised me her cousin, Skye Denison, would help me with the local parts of her wedding.”
“Riley said she talked to me about this?” Skye felt as if she were in some alternate universe. “And I agreed?”
“Her exact words were . . .” Belle held up a device the size of a thumb, and Skye heard Riley’s voice say, “Mom talked to Grandma . . .”
Wow.
Skye stared, fascinated by the tiny machine.
Heaven knows what kind of trouble I’d get into with that gadget. I can barely figure out my cell phone.
Although she admired technology, she also feared it.
Focusing, Skye listened to her cousin say, “And Grandma talked to Great-Aunt Cora, and Great-Aunt Cora said Skye will help you with things in Scumble River.”
“Damn!” Skye was getting better at saying no to her mom, but how could she refuse her sick grandmother? “Look, I’m a school psychologist and classes don’t get out for another two weeks, so I can’t do much until then,” she explained, hoping Belle would demand that Riley find someone who was available immediately.
“I’m guessing you aren’t married”—Belle flicked a derisive glance at Skye’s curvy frame and disheveled appearance—“or you’d understand the importance of this event.”
“No. I’m single.” Skye refused to be intimidated by the gorgeous wedding planner. No way could her incredible amethyst eyes be real. The color had to come from contact lenses. “How about you?”
“Why would I get married? Unlike ordinary women, I can have the whole box of chocolates. Men find me irresistible, so why should I tie myself down to a buttercream when I can hook up with a different flavor every night? I only sleep alone when I want to.”
Skye decided that if it was pointed out to her, Belle would just ignore the contradiction of a wedding planner who scorned romantic commitments, so instead she repeated her earlier objection. “Nevertheless, I have a contract with the school district, so I’m not free for the next fourteen days.”
“I told Riley and Nick that I would only agree to put on an event of this size, two thousand miles away from my usual vendors, if I had a local person to assist me.” Belle pulled a cell phone from her purse. She pressed a single button, waited a couple of seconds, then said, “Riley, it’s Belle. No one told your cousin about helping me, and she says she’s too busy. If she won’t help, we’ll have to cancel everything here, postpone the wedding, and move it all back to California.”
Skye cringed. Grandma Cora would be so disappointed. She’d explained to Skye how important it was that Riley get married in Scumble River, since neither she nor her sister Dora was strong enough to travel to the West Coast. Tapping the wedding planner on the arm, Skye asked, “How about Anita? I bet she’d be thrilled to be involved.”
“No!” Belle held the tiny phone to her chest. “I do not have any contact with mothers of the bride. Not after The Incident.”
“I won’t ask what happened.” Skye had had her own episode with a crazy mother not too long ago, and the school lawyer was still hashing it out with that woman’s attorney.
Belle put the phone back up to her ear and listened, then handed the device to Skye. “Your cousin wants to talk to you.”
Reluctantly, Skye took the phone. “Hi, Riley. It’s Skye.”
“Skye, I’m so sorry no one asked you, but I thought Grandma took care of it. Please, please, don’t say no.”
“The problem is I’m tied up during business hours while school is still in session,” Skye clarified.
“Belle has me over a barrel. It’s only a month before the wedding, so it’s too late to rearrange everything. And Grandma would be so upset if the wedding wasn’t in Scumble River.” Riley’s voice took on a cajoling tone. “I know. Give Belle a couple of hours a day until school ends. Then when you’re free, you can act as Belle’s assistant full-time. We’ll pay you the same salary you’d get on your regular job.”
“Well, I do usually work as a lifeguard at the recreation club during the summer, but it’s been such a cool spring, the board decided not to open the beach until the weather gets warmer.”
“See, this will be perfect.” Riley giggled. “Nick’s got scads of money, and as long as I do a few little icky things he likes—thank God I’m double-jointed—he’s willing to spend it on me. Besides, Mom said you’re still trying to fix up that money pit you got stuck with.”
“That’s true.” Skye had inherited the old house from Alma Griggs nearly two years ago. “The upstairs has barely been touched.”
“So you’ll help Belle?”
Could she handle working for a self-important socialite? It couldn’t be any worse than dealing with some of the teen queens at the high school. Wait a minute. That’s what she’d thought when she agreed to be Riley’s maid of honor last November, and now look what had happened.
“Pretty please with sugar on top?” Riley pleaded.
Skye gave in. “Okay. I’ll help her.” She’d probably only have to make a few phone calls, address some envelopes, and keep Anita out of the way. Surely Belle wouldn’t assign her any task that could ruin the wedding.
CHAPTER 3
The Countdown Begins
June
S
kye cringed as the shrill blare of a whistle pierced the silence. It was late Saturday morning, a week before Riley’s wedding, and that strident trill could mean only one thing. Belle was about to pounce on her with another list of jobs that had to be completed yesterday.
When it came to getting what she wanted, the wedding planner was willing to go as far as she had to, and if she had to throw someone under a bus, she made sure it was a double-decker Greyhound.
Belle was relentless, terrorizing everyone in her path. It was a good thing that Skye had worked in public education for five years. After her daily dealings with bureaucratic principals and egomaniacal superintendents, a dictatorial bridal consultant didn’t faze her. She just kept her mouth shut, her head down, and avoided eye contact.
When Skye heard a second whistle blast, she reluctantly stopped what she had been doing and inspected her work space—a cabin at the Up A Lazy River Motor Court. If everything wasn’t just the way Belle wanted it, there would be hell to pay.
Since her arrival three weeks ago, Belle had been living in one of the cottages and using the two adjoining ones as storage. But as of today, the remaining nine rooms were reserved for the bridal party and vendors.
Skye was presently in number five, the cabin housing the reception materials. One of her many duties as Belle’s assistant was to accept, verify, and inventory the daily deliveries of supplies. When she’d heard the first whistle, she’d been inspecting five hundred crystal champagne flutes engraved with the bride and groom’s initials that had arrived a few hours before via FedEx.
Each couple would receive two glasses, a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Rosé, and a box of Godiva chocolates, all arranged in a pearl white wicker basket swathed in pink tulle and tied with gold ribbons. Single guests would receive a smaller version with only one flute. The welcome baskets were meant to convey the wedding’s colors and theme: Pink Fantasy Fairy Tale.
The whistle screeched again, this time much closer, and Skye got up from the floor, dusted off the seat of her jeans, and braced herself.
A few seconds later, the door slammed open and Belle entered the room. Skye estimated that her outfit—a bright fuchsia Juicy Couture cashmere hoodie and sweatpants—cost more than six hundred dollars, and that was without adding the Louboutin moiré espadrilles. Unless bridal consultants made a lot more money than Skye thought they did, Daddy Canfield must be paying for her wardrobe.
“Why, GiGi, why?” Belle’s attention was focused on the cell phone she held clamped to her ear. “I’ve said I was sorry. You’ve got to make him give me another chance.”
Who is she talking about?
Skye studied the wedding planner, surprised to see that Belle had a weak spot, but there was definitely a hint of desperation in her tone and a suggestion of vulnerability on her face.
Embarrassed at overhearing an obviously personal conversation, Skye turned toward the dresser and adjusted her headband as she tried to tune out Belle’s voice.
“I bet you don’t have your hair colored around here.” Belle grabbed one of Skye’s curls, making her jump. “This shade of chestnut is hard to get right.”
“No, I don’t.” Skye faced her. “It’s natural.” She knew Belle wouldn’t believe her. The wedding planner was so artificial that anything real was beyond her comprehension. She had bragged about all the “work” she’d had done—everything from a boob job to eyeliner tattoos. It was hard to believe that a twenty-eight-year-old had really needed all that plastic surgery, but Skye had to admit, the woman was stunning.
Belle shrugged. “I have either Sally Hershberger or Christophe do me. They come right to my place, the one in Malibu.” She giggled. “I’m a little bit into myself, but that’s not bad or anything.”
“Wow.” Skye assumed an impressed expression, the one she had perfected in the twenty-one days she’d worked for Belle and listened to her name-drop and boast about her celebrity friends. “I’d love to have a hairdresser who made house calls. My bro—”
“Iris is back.” Belle cut Skye off, plainly uninterested in any topic that wasn’t about her. The floral designer, Iris Yee, who had flown in from California the day before, had been in Chicago all morning picking up rental equipment and purchasing supplies. “I was going to send you to help her unload, but I made a teeny suggestion regarding her centerpiece designs and she called me bossy, so now I’m not sure I will.” The wedding planner’s squeaky voice reached a glass-shattering pitch. “I told her I am not bossy; I just know what everybody should be doing.”
Skye said in a neutral tone, “Then should I go help her or not?”
“Obviously.” Belle swished her ponytail. “I just like keeping Iris off balance. She’s totally a creative genius, but she’s so insecure about her work, it’s easy to rattle her, which keeps her prices down.” Before Skye could leave, Belle handed her a manila envelope. “Not so fast. Here’s the list of people who have not returned their response cards. Call them tonight and find out if they’re attending. The caterer needs the final, final count tomorrow before ten a.m. Since you insist on going to church on Sunday, you can drop it off on your way.”
“But the attendants’ party is tonight,” Skye protested. She’d been surprised to learn that the matron of honor and the other two bridesmaids, as well as the best man and three groomsmen, were coming to Scumble River and staying for the entire week before the wedding. However, Riley and Belle had assured Skye that they’d all be busy the full seven days.
“You’ll have to make the calls before you go, or take your cell and do it from the restaurant.” Belle twitched her shoulder. “I can’t do everything. I’m meeting with the linen consultant in a few minutes to make sure all the tablecloths, napkins, et cetera are in order, and after that, the photographer and the DJ are driving in from Chicago to firm up the picture and song lists. Then I have to go to the country club to work with the lighting and tent guy. I suppose you think I should do your job, too.”
“Fine.”
One more week.
Skye silently chanted her new mantra. “I’ll make the calls.” One more week and the wedding would be over and Belle would be on her way back to California. Best of all, Skye would have made enough money to renovate the master bathroom. Heck, the way the hours were piling up, maybe she could have some landscaping done, too.
“Then why are you still standing here?” Belle poked Skye in the shoulder. “Are you hoping Iris will finish without you?”
Skye ground her teeth but managed to walk out the door without slapping the obnoxious woman. Outside, she swept her gaze over the parking lot, searching for the floral designer.
Iris was staying in cottage two, but Skye spotted the tiny woman by the refrigerated storage unit that had been installed in front of number three, the cabin that was being used to assemble her creations.
Iris paused when Skye greeted her, blowing a strand of short dark hair out of her eyes and adjusting her horn-rimmed glasses, but once she gave Skye instructions, they worked in silence.
While Skye helped Iris unload and put away her purchases, she saw signs that the bridesmaids and groomsmen had checked into their cabins. She wondered what they’d be like. Would they resemble Belle, whose continual bragging about her designer clothes, Jaguar convertible, and personal chef precluded any other conversation? Or would they be more similar to Riley, who claimed she wasn’t spoiled, just well taken care of?