Vision in White (Bride Quartet #1)(112)

"Do you want it back now?"

"I know why I'm cheerful this crappy morning, and it's the same reason I haven't had time for breakfast. It's called Let's Share the Shower."

"Happy Girl is also Bragging Bitch."

"And proud of it. Why are you so cheerful? Got a man in your house?"

"Sadly no. But I have five consults booked today. Which is a great start to the week, and comes on the heels of the lovely end to last week with yesterday's tea party wedding. It was really sweet, wasn't it?"

"Our sexagenarian couple exchanging vows and celebrating while surrounded by his kids, her kids, grandchildren. Not just sweet, but also reassuring. Second time around for both of them, and there they are, ready to do it again, willing to share and blend. I got some really great shots. Anyway, I think those crazy kids are going to make it."

"Speaking of crazy kids, we really have to talk about your flowers. December may be far away-she says shivering-but it comes fast, as you well know."

"I haven't even decided on the look for the engagement shots yet. Or looked at dresses, or thought about colors."

"I look good in jewel tones," Emma said and fluttered her lashes.

"You look good in burlap. Talk about bragging bitches." Mac opened the door to the mud room, and since Mrs. Grady was back from her winter vacation, remembered to wipe her feet. "As soon as I find the dress, we'll brainstorm the rest."

"You're the first one of us to get married. To have your wedding here."

"Yeah. It's going to be interesting to see how we manage to run the wedding and be in the wedding." 

"You know you can count on Parker to figure out the logistics. If anyone can make it run smooth, it's Parker."

They walked into the kitchen, and chaos.

While the equitable Maureen Grady worked at the stove, movements efficient, face placid, Parker and Laurel faced off across the room.

"It has to be done," Parker insisted.

"Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit."

"Laurel, this is business. In business you serve the client."

"Let me tell you what I'd like to serve the client."

"Just stop." Parker, her rich brown hair sleeked back in a tail, was already dressed in a meet-the-client suit of midnight blue. Eyes of nearly the same color flashed hot with impatience. "Look, I've already put together a list of her choices, the number of guests, her colors, her floral selections. You don't even have to speak to her. I'll liaise."

"Now let me tell you what you can do with your list."

"The bride-"

"The bride is an asshole. The bride is an idiot, whiny baby bitch who made it very clear nearly one year ago that she neither needed nor wanted my particular services. The bride can bite me because she's not biting any of my cake now that she's realized her own stupidity."

In the cotton pants and tank she'd slept in, her hair still in sleep tufts, Laurel dropped onto a chair in the breakfast nook.

"You need to calm down." Parker bent to pick up a file. Probably tossed on the floor by Laurel, Emma mused. "Everything you need is in here." Parker laid the file on the table. "I've already assured the bride we'll accommodate her, so-"

"So you design and bake a four-layer wedding cake between now and Saturday, and a groom's cake, and a selection of desserts. To serve two hundred people. You do that with no previous preparation, and when you've got three other events over the weekend, and an evening event in three days."

Her face set in mutinous lines, Laurel picked up the file and deliberately dropped it on the floor.

"Now you're acting like a child."

"Fine. I'm a child."

"Girls, your little friends have come to play." Mrs. Grady sang it out, her tone overly sweet, her eyes laughing.

"Ah, I hear my mom calling me," Emma said and started to ease out of the room.

"No, you don't!" Laurel jumped up. "Just listen to this! The Folk-Harrigan wedding. Saturday, evening event. You'll remember, I'm sure, how the bride sniffed at the very idea of Icings at Vows providing the cake or any of the desserts. How she sneered at me and my suggestions and insisted her cousin, a pastry chef in New York who studied in Paris and designed cakes for important affairs, would be handling all the desserts.

"Do you remember what she said to me?"

"Ah." Emma shifted because Laurel's finger pointed at her heart. "Not in the exact words."

"Well, I do. She said she was sure-and said it with that sneer-she was sure I could handle most affairs well enough, but she wanted the best for her wedding. She said that to my face."

"Which was rude, no question," Parker began.