Second Hearts (The Wishes Series) (20 page)

Our journey to his apartment was spent coming up with a game plan. “Don’t let him talk you out of anything – or into anything for that matter,” warned Adam, extending his hand to help me out of the cab.

I was careful not to mention Ryan’s new furniture when we walked in. The fire we were about to start needed no extra fuel. Two new black leather couches took up the space left by the lounge suite we’d pilfered. Yolanda had obviously been a worthwhile investment. They suited the room better than the others had – not that I’d ever tell him.

Ryan sat on one taboo couch and I sat beside Adam on the other, tangling my fingers through his as I braced myself for the conversation ahead. I left all the talking to him, and as expected, Ryan was appalled by the whole idea.

“Why on earth would you want to do something like that?” I wasn’t exactly sure which one of us he was talking to. His eyes darted between us. “What are you thinking? You’re both crazy.”

“If I’d wanted a lecture, I would have told Mom and Dad,” said Adam. “We want you there. All I need from you is a simple yes or no.”

Ryan slapped both hands on his knees, breathing as if he needed more oxygen. “When is this debacle taking place?”

“Wednesday.”

“Christmas Eve? Why Christmas Eve?”

I hadn’t realised we were planning to marry on Christmas Eve. Judging by the glance Adam gave me, he hadn’t either. But he ignored the question. “Will you do it or not?’

Ryan turned his attention to me. “Is he making you do this, Charli? Blink once for no, twice for yes.”

“Idiot,” mumbled Adam.

I shifted in my seat, concentrating on not blinking at all.

“Are you after his money? He’d probably just cut you a cheque if you asked. You don’t need to betroth yourself to him.”

“I love him. That is all.”

My input meant nothing. The speculation continued. “Is it about a green card? Is that why you’re doing this?”

My temper was finally beginning to creak and give way. “Does it look like I care whether I have a green card or not? Working illegally – in
your
restaurant – suits me just fine.”

“Touché, Charlotte,” drawled Ryan, getting on my last nerve. “So, when are you planning to tell the family about this ridiculous turn of events?”

“I believe Christmas Day is traditionally a day of family joy and togetherness,” stated Adam, smirking at his brother.

Ryan’s laugh was positively sinister. “The queen is going to lose the plot. You realise that, don’t you?”

“I know, and I don’t care. I believe in this,” said Adam, smiling as he glanced at me.

“I know you do,” conceded Ryan. “And I support your stupidity.”

“So you’ll do it?”

Ryan sighed heavily, making way for the ridiculously convoluted Décarie phrasing. “I would be honoured to bear witness for my besotted little brother and his enchanting bride.”

I jumped out of my seat and lurched forward, throwing my arms around his neck. “The rumours about you being a selfish pig are not true.”

He broke my grip and pushed me away. “Of course not. Who started that rumour?”

“I did.”

Ryan looked at Adam. “And this is the girl you want to spend the rest of your life with?”

Adam flashed me a devilish grin. “Absolutely.”

17. Star Splinters

Being at work that night was dreadful. Even Bente was at the end of her rope with me.

“Charli,” she hissed, grabbing my elbow and pulling me aside. “Table two are complaining that they’ve been sitting twenty minutes and haven’t even seen a menu.”

I cocked my head, leaning past her to peek at the party in question.

“I’m sorry. I’m a little off my game tonight.”

Bente’s expression softened the instant she smiled. “Honey, I don’t think you have a game. But I’m between a rock and a hard place here. You’re screwing the boss, so I can’t fire you. I’m just trying to work with what I have.”

I couldn’t argue with the truth.

“I need to tell you something,” I said gravely.

“Will baring your soul make you more productive?”

“It’s worth a shot.”

Bente groaned wearily. “Okay, shoot.”

“I’m getting married.” I didn’t say it like a giddy bride. I spoke as if I was about to be dragged to the altar kicking and screaming.

Grabbing my elbow again, she practically dragged me through the kitchen and into Paolo’s office. As usual, no one in the kitchen batted an eyelid.

“Are you freaking kidding me?”

“I love him, Bente.”

Bente sat on Paolo’s chair and buried her face in her hands. “You know something?” she asked, looking up at me. “I actually believe you when you say that. But I think you’re both mad – especially you.”

“Why?”

“A society wedding is a fierce animal. It’s going to take on a life of it’s own, Charli.”

“We’re not having a big wedding. We’re not even planning to tell anyone.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re eloping? His mother will lynch you.”

I shrugged. “His mother hates me anyway.”

“She does,” she agreed. “What are your plans? Tell me everything.”

Clearly, Bente had forgotten about the restaurant she was supposed to be running. Not even the banging and clanging coming from the kitchen alerted her.

“We’re getting married on Christmas Eve.” I said it with meaning, as if we’d chosen the day rather than stumbled upon it by accident. “That’s everything.”

“That’s the day after tomorrow!” she exclaimed. “Charli, how are you going to pull this together in a day and a half?”

“You’re going to help me.” I spoke with absolute certainty.

“I am?”

“Please, Bente. I want it to be perfect.”

She slouched down in the chair, looking up at the ceiling. “You know what I love about you, Charli?”

“My fantastic waitressing skills and sunny disposition?”

“Besides that,” she replied, grinning. “I love your optimism. It hasn’t even entered your head things with your frog might not work out, has it?”

I shook my head. “Nope. I love him with my whole heart.”

“And soul?” she teased. “The transition isn’t complete unless your soul is jacked too.”

“He
is
my soul. Sometimes I think I only breathe because he does. What do you suppose that means?”

Bente wrinkled her nose. “I guess it means the frog is a keeper.”

I could afford to be smug now. “I should marry him then.”

“And I should help you organise it,” she conceded, albeit begrudgingly. “What do you need?”

“A dress. I need the perfect dress.”

“Fine,” she replied. “Tomorrow, we’ll hit the shops.”

***

Shopping for a wedding dress was an absolute ordeal.

Bente was surprised to learn that I had very specific ideas on what I wanted to wear when I got married. “I thought this would be over in an hour,” she grumbled, raking through yet another rack of dresses. “You’re supposed to be whimsical and spontaneous.”

“Not about this. My dress has to be just right.”

It wasn’t about vanity or fairy tales. It was about covering all bases. Not only was I notoriously whimsical and spontaneous, I was incredibly superstitious. And it was those superstitions that made finding a near perfect dress a few minutes later bittersweet.

I took the dress and held it up, studying it closely.

“Is that the one?” asked Bente, hopefully. “It’s gorgeous.”

It really was. The simple floor length satin gown was strapless. The sash around the waist was tied in a bow at the back that trailed to the floor. No lace. No beads. No diamantes. It was simple and exquisite.

“It’s almost the one,” I said sadly.

Bente sat on a nearby chair and groaned, loud enough to gain the attention of the snippy sales assistant. The woman approached us – for the third time – and asked if she could help us with something.

“Well, Charlotte?” asked Bente, matching her haughty tone. “Can she help us?”

I held the dress out to her. “Do you have this in any other fabric?”

The woman squinted at me over the top of her glasses.

“Special orders can be arranged on request.”

“Great. Can it be ready by tomorrow morning?” Bente asked.

The woman let out a strange guffaw. “We’re not magicians.” I wanted to call her out on her false advertising. According to the sign out the front, Elspeth’s Bridal Boutique guaranteed a magical wedding day. By rights, she should have been a magician.

I left the shop feeling dejected. Bente wasted no time in questioning me. “What was wrong with the fabric?”

“It’s satin. You can’t have a satin wedding dress. It’s extremely bad luck.”

She hooked her arm around mine as we wandered out on to the street.

“Oh, good grief,” she uttered. “Ninety percent of wedding dresses are satin.”

“Not mine. It’s bad mojo.”

Bente began to laugh. “Charli, I hate to break it to you but you’re running out of time. Isn’t that bad mojo?”

I stopped walking, yanking her to a stop too. She’d raised a valid point. There might have been some ancient superstition that considered disorganisation to be a bad omen.

“We need to fix this,” I said, sounding alarmingly desperate. “Do you know a dressmaker?”

“That can knock out a designer gown in a few hours? I’m not a magician either.”

“Think, Bente,” I urged, shaking her as if that made a difference.

She stared at me for a long time, trying to come up with a solution. “I might know someone,” she said at last. “My sister Ivy’s pretty handy with a needle and thread. We’ll go to her.”

“Excellent,” I replied, breathing a little easier. “Lead the way.”

***

I loved getting out of the Manhattan bubble for a minute, especially with Bente. My first ever subway trip was the short journey to Ivy’s house in Astoria. The modest two story home on a busy street was a world away from the doorman-attended buildings I was becoming embarrassingly used to.

The tiny front yard was decorated with cheesy Christmas ornaments, including a half deflated snowman that Bente kicked on the way up to the porch.

“Bente!”

She shrugged. “The damned thing has been there since last Christmas.”

We stepped on to the porch. Bente pounded on the door, yelling her sister’s name. After a long minute, the door opened and my eyes drifted down to the tiny girl standing there. Bente sweetened her tone. “Hello, princess. Are you going to let Aunt Bente in?”

The little girl stood on the warm side of the screen door, defiantly shaking her head.

“Now, Fabergé,” growled Bente, abandoning the gentle voice.

“Fabergé?” I whispered. “Like the eggs?”

“Yes, absurd isn’t it?” She rattled the handle on the screen door. “Ivy!”

Fabergé was unperturbed. Her chubby hand dug into the bag of chips she was holding and stuffed a handful into her mouth.

Finally, her mother appeared and unlocked the door “Scoot, Fabergé.” She turned her daughter by the shoulders and nudged her away.

“About time,” grumbled Bente. “We’re freezing out here.”

“Well, hurry up and get inside then. You’re letting all the heat out.”

Ivy looked like a grown-up version of little Fabergé. She was a plump brunette woman in her mid twenties with a cherubic face that didn’t quite match her stern disposition. Once the introductions were out of the way, Ivy got straight down to business, asking me what sort of dress I was looking for and chastising me for leaving it until the last minute.

“Look, can you do it or not?” asked Bente impatiently.

Ivy glared, as if the question was absurd. “Of course I can. Go down to the sewing room. I’ll put Fabergé down for a nap and be right there.”

Hearing that there was a room purely dedicated to sewing made me hopeful that Ivy could come through for me. Seeing the room made me nervous all over again. It looked like the backstage area of a burlesque theatre. Everywhere I looked there were glitzy miniature gowns encrusted with rhinestones, beads, feathers or all three. None of the fairies from my childhood imaginings would have ever been caught wearing dresses like that – except the ones hooked on acid.

“I’m not sure this is going to work out,” I said, making Bente giggle.

“Relax, Kemosabe. These are all Fabergé’s. Ivy hand-made every one of these creepy dresses.” She waved her arms around. “Every few months she dolls Fabergé up with fake eyelashes and a spray tan, dresses her in one of these creations and enters her in a pageant.”

It was unfathomable. The little girl couldn’t have been more than four years old. “Who would do that?” I whispered in disbelief.

“Look, you have to at least appreciate the talent. Some of these dresses take her weeks to make.”

I turned my attention to the iridescent lime green creation hanging on the wall behind me. The jewel-encrusted bodice looked like it weighed more than Fabergé did.