Made of Honor Read Free Page A

peaches and scented with Old Spice, lingered over the cups. I slid my feet back into my shoes—I wanted to kick them off so bad—and tried to be patient. I couldn’t help thinking that a drive-thru would have been faster than this.
    I rubbed my arms. Between the tight sleeves and the cold air, it was a wonder my blood was still circulating. “You got me about the living alone thing. In my defense though, I did suck it up—with the help of a Lane Bryant cheetah girdle no less—and put on this dress. There has to be some points for that. Do I look like Miss Piggy with cornrows or what?”
    Rochelle’s eyes turned into brown, wet suns. She covered her face in anticipation of wild laughter.
    I shook my head. Rochelle could be so silly. Tracey, too. And I was being serious here. When I actually went for funny they just looked confused. “For real, though, did you see anything when my dress flew up?”
    She choked back a giggle. “Not a thing. It looked like a pink sailboat…covered with roses.”
    I pinched her arm. Hard.
    When I turned back, there was Tracey. And the punch bowl. Perhaps I should have taken more time with my cup selection. When would this awkwardness go away?
    Lord, let me be wrong. Let them live happily ever after. Somebody around here needs to.
    Hard to believe the svelte beauty was once chubby, innocent Tracey, whose first experience with men was the warm touch of our personal trainer. Well, her personal trainer. I fired him after the fourth session. Why pay somebody to call you a failure? That’s what friends are for.
    I should know.
    Tracey gave me a “be good” look as her mother-in-law filled my cup halfway. She never did like me and probably never would. No cause to be stingy with the punch though. It was a wedding, after all.
    Ignoring the full serving plus a napkin that Rochelle received, and observing that the mother of the groom had somehow managed to pick a cute dress for herself while uglying up the rest of us, I headed for the nearest chair, tied back neatly in ivory linen. I had picked those chair covers, way back at the beginning, but nobody seemed to remember that. I sat down and brought the cup to my lips, and then froze, half sitting, half standing. Sure the liquid had been yellow instead of red, but I never thought…. The secret punch. She didn’t forget me.
    Rochelle’s hand pressed into my shoulder. I eased down into the chair. Tears stung my eyes. “Tracey used my favorite punch for her wedding?”
    We sat quickly, pretending strangers didn’t flank us on all sides. Rochelle took a long sip, almost longer than my first. “Another drink was planned, but when you never showed up to any of the wedding functions, she thought you were upset and fought with Ryan’s mother to serve your favorite, Pineapple Passion Fruit.”
    I dried my already raw eye. “But how? Daddy doesn’t give anybody the recipe—”
    “He made it himself. Ten gallons. And the ice sculpture, too.”
    That dolphin. I knew it looked familiar. A sob stalled in my throat. That old man. Just when I want to give up on him, on myself, he does something like this. And Tracey, too.
    “Yoo-hoo!” My assistant Renee called to me from where she sat squeezed in between my boss and one of Ryan’s big bosomed aunts, in a dress barely zipped up. They were two tables away, but still too close. Naomi nodded slightly, wearing her game face, permanently plastered on, no matter the occasion.
    And so she should after the way we’d both been kicked out the conference room a few days ago. I’d recovered—with the help of a few bear claws—but Naomi was still sulking over the cancellation of the Java Lava scent project. Apparently, people liked to drink coffee, but weren’t too crazy about smelling like it. I’d have to absorb Naomi’s whirlwind anger on Monday at Scents and Savings, but there was no sense rushing into a tongue-lashing from her now. I stayed put, despite Rochelle’s elbows, also known as hospitality