Ready & Willing (38 page)

An utter, unmitigated loser like . . . oh, say . . . Natalie.

She’d had plenty of time to plan the party, too, since Clementine had hired her eight months ago, the very week Natalie had hung out her shingle for Party Favors, her event-planning business. And Clementine was hosting the bash on the quintessential evening to have a party in Louisville—the night before the most famous horse race in the world, the Kentucky Derby.
Everybody
in Louisville was in a party mood on Derby Eve. The two weeks leading up to the race were the city’s equivalent of Mardi Gras. Derby parties were easier to plan than birthday parties, because there were no conflicting events. It was Derby. Period. Everyone kept that weekend open for celebrating. Only a party planner who was a pure and profound loser would crash and burn planning a Derby party.

Which made Natalie Beckett a pure and profound loser.

Because even though everything had worked in Natalie’s favor from the beginning for Clementine Hotchkiss’s Derby Eve party two weeks from today, almost no one was planning to come to it. Even though the invitations had gone out six weeks ago—and save-the-date cards had gone out six months ago—Clementine had received few RSVPs in the affirmative. The majority of the two hundred guests she’d invited hadn’t bothered to return the cards at all.

Which, okay, one could interpret to mean those guests might still be planning to come. But Natalie wasn’t going to bank on it, since unreturned RSVPs almost always were negative RSVPs. At this point, even Clementine probably wasn’t expecting much. But she was polite enough—or perhaps deluded enough—to pretend Natalie could still turn this thing around.

That delusion . . . ah, she meant optimism, of course . . . was made evident when Clementine asked, “So what do you think, Natalie? Shall we put the buffet on the left or the right?”

Buffet? Natalie repeated to herself. Oh, she didn’t think they were going to need a buffet. A tube of saltines and a box of Velveeta ought to take care of the catering very nicely. They probably wouldn’t even have to break out the Chinet.

She turned to her client, who was the epitome of a society grande dame relaxing at home with her sleek silver pageboy and black velvet headband, and her black velour running suit, which, it went without saying, had never,
ever
, been worn to run. Clementine had rings decorating nearly every finger—she didn’t abide that silly rule about never wearing precious gems before cocktail hour—and clutched a teeny little Westie named Rolondo to her chest. Rolondo evidently didn’t buy into that precious gems thing, either, because Natalie would bet those were genuine rubies studding the little guy’s collar.

But then, Natalie was no slouch in the fashion department, at least when she was working. As she pondered her answer to her client’s potentially loaded question, she lifted a perfectly manicured hand to the sweep of perfectly styled silver-blond hair that fell to her shoulders—perfect because she’d just had both done before coming to visit Clementine. Of course, by evening, when Natalie arrived home, the nails would be chipped and nibbled, and the hair would be in a stubby ponytail that pulled a little too much to the left. But for now, she used the same perfectly manicured hand to straighten the flawless collar of her flawless champagne-colored suit—which, by evening, would revert to jeans and a
Pinky and the Brain
T-shirt. Then she conjured her most dazzling smile for her client, the one she’d learned in cotillion class as a child and perfected long before she made her debut thirteen years ago.

Her parents had spared no expense when it came to bringing up their only daughter right, after all. And by
right
, Ernest and Dody Beckett meant for her to be the pampered wife of a commodities broker or a commercial banker or, barring that, a corporate vice-president on his way to the top. They’d thought she was crazy, pursuing something as frivolous as a college degree—in, of all pointless majors, business—when she knew she would have access to her trust fund upon turning eighteen and could land herself a perfectly good husband like that nice Dean Waterman, who had been mooning over her for years, and where had they gone wrong, having a daughter who wanted to go to college and start her own business? Merciful heavens.

“Clementine,” Natalie said in the soothe-the-client voice she’d also perfected years ago—right around the time her first business venture went under—“I think we should put a buffet on the left
and
the right.”

Clementine’s eyes went as round as silver dollars. “Oh, my. Do you think that’s wise? I mean, considering how few RSVPs have come back in the affirmative . . .”

Okay, so clearly Clementine wasn’t as delusional as Natalie had suspected. That just meant Natalie would have to be delusional enough for the two of them.

Piece o’ cake.

She lifted a hand and waved it in airy nonchalance. “Pay it no mind, Clementine. People often wait ’til the last minute to RSVP. Especially for something like a Derby Eve party, when they have so many prospects to choose from.”

Which, of course, was one of the reasons Natalie was such an abject, unmitigated loser when it came to planning this party. Clementine’s Derby Eve party was vying with a dozen, better established, Derby Eve parties when it came to attracting guests. Since those other parties had been around so much longer—decades longer, some of them—they were able to pull in the cream of local society, not to mention the bulk of visiting A-list celebrities. The guests to the Barnstable-Brown party alone—easily the most venerable of Derby Eve parties—could light up Tinseltown, Broadway,
and
the Grand Ole Opry. But the Grand Gala and Mint Jubilee were closing in for sheer star power.

So far, the brightest star power Natalie had been able to harness was a first-round reject of the now-defunct—for obvious reasons—reality series
Pimp My Toddler
. And as it was, little Tiffany was going to have to be home by eight if she wanted to make her bedtime. It would all be downhill after that.

Oh, Natalie was
such
a loser.

“Then you think we should move forward as if the majority of the guest list is coming?” Clementine asked.

“Oh, you bet,” Natalie assured her. She was, after all, even better at harnessing delusions than she was celebrities. “Just you wait, Clementine. A week from today, those RSVPs are going to be pouring in with the little ‘Of course we can come’ boxes checked.” She smiled a coy smile that was even more convincing than her debutante one. “I have a little secret weapon I’m saving for the right time.”

Clementine’s overly painted eyebrows shot up at that. “What secret weapon?”

Natalie lifted her finger to her lips and mimicked a shushing motion. Then she whispered conspiratorially, “It’s a secret.”

Clementine’s expression turned concerned. “Yes, dear, but don’t you think you could share it with me? The hostess?” she clarified. Then, as if that weren’t clarification enough, elaborated, “The hostess who’s signing all those checks?”

Natalie took Clementine’s hand in hers and uttered those immortal words of self-employed people everywhere: “Trust me.” Then, before her client could object further, added, “I’ve been planning parties like yours for eight months now, Clementine. I assure you, I know what I’m doing.”

Which was true, since Natalie knew that what she was doing was failing miserably. Although she had indeed been planning parties for eight months, Clementine’s was by far the most ambitious, way outpacing the handful of birthday parties, two bat mitvahs, one retirement gathering, and a series of bunco nights, at least one of which was best forgotten, since Natalie had misunderstood the hostess of that one and, thinking it was a bachelorette party, had sent a male stripper dressed like a gladiator into a roomful of octogenarians. Not that the party hadn’t received rave reviews afterward, mind you, but Mrs. Parrish’s Bible-reading group really hadn’t come prepared for it. Beyond those events, Natalie had put together an eighth grade graduation, a kindergarten reunion, and one debut, which had mostly served to remind her how awkward and uncomfortable she’d been at her own debut.

Not exactly a success story
, she thought, not for the first time.

“Then the new business is faring well, dear?” Clementine asked.

“Oh, very well,” Natalie said. Figuratively speaking, at least. Provided
very well
figuratively meant
absolute unmitigated failure
.

Under any other circumstances—like, say, if Clementine Hotchkiss had never met Natalie’s aunt—the question would have been perfectly harmless and in no way noteworthy. But there was every chance that Clementine was asking it on behalf of Natalie’s aunt—who would report back to Natalie’s mother—which meant she was fishing for information about the status of Party Favors. And there was no way Natalie was going to give her client information that might find its way right back to her mother. Especially since she’d been sidestepping her mother’s similar inquiries so long and so often that Natalie had invented a whole new dance—the subterfuge samba. If her mother inhaled even the slightest whiff of the stench that Party Favors had become, she’d be circling the steaming pile of Natalie’s latest business failure like flies on horse doody.

But then, Party Favors was only one of many steaming piles Natalie had left in her wake over the past seven years—if one could pardon the crass, extremely socially unacceptable metaphor. Ever since earning her business degree, Natalie Beckett had been trying to launch a business of some kind, always with disappointing results. Okay, okay, always with disastrous results.

What was ironic, though, was that Natalie didn’t have to rely on a business to make her way in the world. The Becketts were one of Louisville’s premier families—Natalie’s parents lived right up the road from Clementine, in the third mansion on the right—and she’d had access to a very generous trust fund from the time she turned eighteen. Natalie didn’t want to rely on a trust fund. She wanted even less to rely on a wealthy husband. Natalie wanted a career. She wanted to be something more than Dody and Ernest Beckett’s daughter and Lynette and Forrest Beckett’s sister. She wanted to do more with her life than volunteer for medical research, social awareness, artistic expansion, educational development, or all of the above. And she wanted to be more than a pampered wife and pampering mother, too. She wanted to be . . .

Successful. On her own terms. Make her own way in the world. Unfortunately, the only path she’d been able to hew through the jungle of life so far had led to failure, with a brief stopover at disaster.

As if she’d just spoken that last thought aloud, Clementine said, “I’m so glad things are working out this time. I confess I had to wonder about the last business venture you undertook. I just couldn’t imagine there being a big demand for doggie massage.”

“Well, there was a little more to it than that,” Natalie began to object. She’d offered poochie pedicure as part of the service, too. Not to mention canine coiffure.

“And what was the one before the doggie massage?” Clementine asked. “Something about the hanging gardens of Babylon.”

“Hanging Gardens of Baby Bibb,” Natalie corrected. At the time, the name had seemed so terribly clever. Now it just seemed to make absolutely no sense. “Organic hydroponics,” she clarified for her client. Not that that would probably clear anything up for Clementine, since the only hydro she probably knew anything about was the alpha hydroxy she bought at the Lancôme counter.

“That was it,” Clementine said. She cocked her head thoughtfully to one side. “You know, Mr. Hotchkiss actually considered investing in that hanging gardens venture.”

This was news to Natalie. Maybe if he had followed through, she could have done a little better with the enterprise, and it would have lasted longer than nine days. “Really?” she asked. “What made him change his mind?”

Clementine smiled, then patted her shoulder. “He sobered up, dear.”

Ah.

“It’s just as well those businesses didn’t flourish,” Clementine said now. With remarkable tact. “Party Favors is something you seem much more suited to. Having been the darling of so many parties yourself over the years, it would make sense that planning them would be something you’re good at.”

Yeah, well, that had been the theory
, Natalie thought. Unfortunately, it had worked about as well as the theory of Communism.

“You always were the center of attention at any celebration,” Clementine recalled further.

Of course, that was mostly because Natalie had also been the center of catastrophe at any celebration. Which, now that she thought about it, was something she should have considered before launching a party planning business.

Gee, hindsight really was twenty-twenty.

Her client sighed with much feeling. “I must confess, Natalie, that I still have a few misgivings about the party.”

Only a few? Natalie thought. Wow, she had way more than that. But she told Clementine in her soothing voice again, “That’s only natural. But don’t worry. Everything is moving along exactly as it’s supposed to.” And although that wasn’t completely true, there were some things that were, and it wouldn’t hurt to remind Clementine of those truths. “The caterers
I
hired for you
eight months ago,
” she said, “are now running a restaurant that’s become one of the hottest tickets in town. Everyone wanted them for their Derby Eve parties, but you already had them, Clementine. And I just found out this week that the jazz band
I
hired
five months ago
are going to be featured in the
Scene
tomorrow as the city’s latest locally grown success who are
this close
to signing with a national record label. Everyone will want them for their parties, Clementine, but you’ll already have them.”

And that, truly, was where Natalie’s talents lay. She could spot talent and predict trends months before anyone else caught on—well, doggie massage parlors and organic hydroponics aside. She knew talent when she saw it, and she’d been hoping that would be enough to move her event planning business ahead of all the others. She truly was suited to this. She really had planned an excellent party for Clementine. They just didn’t have enough clout in the Derby Eve milieu to command big crowds, that was all.