Barbara Daly - You Call This Romance!?

“Oh. Right. I keep forgetting.”

“Tippy won’t wear this same dress, of course,” Faith said. “She’ll wear something similar.” She paused. “Probably a size smaller,” she concluded grimly.

“Oh, Faith, stop it. If you were any thinner you’d disappear. Hurry up and unpack some more. They’re going to call me soon. At least I hope so. My feet are killing me.”

Faith unzipped and reported, unzipped and reported. Another fantastic dress, a white silk pantsuit. Bikinis and cover-ups. “You ought to see this,” she said finally. “It’s a pale-blue satin dressing gown just like the one Lauren Bacall wore in that forties movie, the one about—”

“No underwear?”

Neither Charity nor Hope shared her passion for the romantic old movies and were quick to cut her off when she launched into the plot of one of them. Too used to the maneuver to be offended, Faith riffled through the stack that was piling up on her bed. “No.”

“No tempting teddies, black lace bikinis?”

“No. Of course not,” she said a moment later. “They won’t be photographing Tippy in her underwear.”

“Bummer. I’ll send you some money,” Charity said at once. “Go out and buy yourself some luscious—”

“Absolutely not,” Faith said. “I have plenty of underwear. Just not the kind…” She caught herself. She’d almost said, Just not the kind I’d like Cabot to see me in. It was fortunate Charity couldn’t see her blushing. “Not the kind Tippy will take on her honeymoon.”

“But you’d feel more romantic if you were wearing sexy underwear under those slinky clothes.”

This time when Faith took her deep, stress-reducing breath, she also counted to three. “I don’t need to feel romantic. I don’t want to feel romantic, because it’s not my honeymoon.”

Her impatience faded at once when she was distracted by the note that was attached to one of the handbags in the pile. “Make an appointment at Ricardo’s on Rodeo Drive to be fitted for shoes.”

“Isn’t that thoughtful?” she said to Charity after explaining that her silence was not, in fact, an indication of rage. “My shoes are going to fit.”

“Lucky you,” Charity groaned. “Oops, my turn. Gotta run.”

AT THE SAME TIME he imagined Faith would be trying on her travel wardrobe, Cabot was having an argument with the stylist who would accompany his camera crew to Reno.

“No,” he said. “Absolutely not. That’s going too far.”

“It’s no different from putting a wig on a double.”

The stylist, a young man with a roosterlike haircut and a diamond stud in one ear, sounded waspish. His shrunken black T-shirt rode up to show his navel, which brandished a ring set with a matching diamond. But he was good. He had to be good to afford diamonds that big. He had to be good for Cabot to hire him. Look what he’d done for Tippy already, the way he’d groomed her for those television interviews. Made her look like an angel. But Cabot wasn’t backing down on this one.

“We’re talking about her eyes, Joey,” he said firmly. “I don’t want you messing with her eyes.”

“A pair of blue contacts isn’t ‘messing with her eyes,’” Joey said, rolling his own, which were a suspiciously unnatural shade of turquoise. “Blue contacts and she’ll be a perfect double for Tippy.”

“She doesn’t need to be that perfect.”

“What? What? This is Mr. Has-to-be-Perfect I’m hearing? If you want a good take on the lighting she needs blue eyes. Period.”

“She’s not getting them. Period.” Cabot figured he weighed twice what Joey did. When it came to a showdown, the guy didn’t have a chance. He’d sulk for a day or two, and the whole time in Reno he’d be saying, “Well, if her eyes were the right color…” But Cabot had gotten to be an expert at handling sulky people.

He didn’t want Faith to lose those pearly-gray eyes. That was where he was coming from. When the truth was, it might be a good idea for her to lose them. He was pretty sure he needed to know her better, but that was an indulgence he’d have to postpone until after the dry run, after the wedding, after the honeymoon, after the divorce….

After the confession.

“Well,” Joey said, putting a fist on his hip. “I refuse to back down on the hair. You promised you’d send her to Tippy’s hairdresser.”

“I promised and I’ll send her. If she’s agreeable.” Faith’s hair was already enough like Tippy’s that…There I go again.

Joey tossed his head, but the crisis was over. Cabot went back to scripting the video, plotting potential shots, glancing from time to time at his one-year calendar. October, November. It might be that long before he could even ask Faith to go to a movie with him. The time loomed ahead of him, tedious and lonely.

A FEW THINGS WERE MISSING from the picture. Her mother and sisters should be with her, fluttering around her, making sure she’d remembered everything. While her body zinged with anticipation, what she was anticipating was a weekend of top-level frustration. Her groom had ignored her from the moment she agreed to go on the honeymoon. But she looked uncontrovertibly bridal, even if she didn’t feel that way.

She was dressed in her blue going-away suit; the rest of her clothes were packed in the three-piece set of tapestry luggage with golden leather trim that Cabot had had delivered the day before. The limo she’d hired to take them to the airport would be along soon. Everything was fine, at least as fine as it could be under the circumstances. So why did she have this niggling feeling she’d forgotten something?

Of course she’d forgotten something. She always forgot something. Usually it was something replaceable—toothpaste, panty hose, a nail file. Then again, she’d once left for Europe without a passport, and she’d made that wretched trip to the Gulf Coast without her credit card, had gone to a baby shower without the present and on one memorable occasion, had started out for the travel agency without her skirt.

Fortunately, her landlord had been leaving for the office at about the same time and had mentioned the omission to her in the most tactful way someone could mention a thing like that. He’d said, “I see the micro-mini is back in style.”

So the question was what had she forgotten and could she remember what it was before it was too late to do anything about it.

She stepped swiftly into the kitchen to be sure she’d turned off the coffeepot—she hadn’t—and the iron—that was still on, too. Even then the niggle didn’t go away. If anything, it gained intensity.

She ought to take a coat. Reno could be warm even in February, but one of the restaurants was in the Sierra Nevadas that surrounded the town. She had a yummy new coat, too, a Christmas present. She got it out, tossed it on her pile of luggage and waited for a feeling of comfort to settle in now that she’d checked that item off her mental list. It didn’t.

She lived in this tiny dream cottage behind the Mathiases’ large, elegant house in return for keeping an eye on the house during their frequent absences and watering their dozens of houseplants, since their staff traveled with them. She’d watered the plants thoroughly yesterday afternoon and explained to them exactly how long she’d be gone, since the ficus tree, in particular, was prone to anxiety attacks. She’d set the alarm system and notified the neighborhood security watch that she’d be away for the weekend. It was probably just a bad habit to feel nervous before a trip because of the sure and certain knowledge she’d forgotten something important.

She picked up her little blue clutch bag and the folder that held all their travel information, took a quick peek in the mirror at the slant of her blue straw hat and started for the front door just as the doorbell rang.