A Catered Wedding Read online

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  This was another thing Libby was not happy about. Bree Nottingham, real estate agent extraordinaire and social arbiter of Longely could spot a water splotch on a glass at fifty yards away. As her mom would have said, Bree gave her the yips and had since kindergarten when she’d spotted the smudge on Libby’s blouse and pointed it out to everyone.

  “It’ll be fine,” Bernie consoled her.

  “You’re right,” Libby agreed as she turned north on Ash Street. She desperately wanted to believe her younger sister. “I mean what’s the worst that can happen?”

  “One of the falcons can escape and attack the wedding cake,” Bernie said. “Just kidding,” she added as Libby shuddered. “They only go after living prey. But I guess they could use the cake as a perch.”

  “Why would anyone keep birds like that?” Libby asked.

  Bernie tucked a strand of her hair back behind her ear. “I think they’re kind of cool in a vicious kind of way.”

  “Well I don’t,” Libby said as she darted a glance in Bernie’s direction. “That’s one thing that Leeza and I agree on.”

  Chapter 2

  As Bernie Simmons watched Jura Raid fishing around in the pocket of his jacket for the key to caviar storeroom, she wasn’t thinking about how upset her sister was with her for accidentally knocking the top two tiers off the croquembouche when they’d moved the cake into the kitchen from the van.

  After all, it would just take a couple of minutes to glue the tiers back on with sugar cement. No. Bernie was thinking about Jura and Leeza and how Leeza was going to run this guy ragged, not to mention cost him a small fortune. Well, she’d already done that with the wedding.

  Actually, Bernie decided, she felt a little bit sorry for Jura, even though she normally didn’t feel bad for older guys who married younger women, figuring that they got exactly what they deserved. But Jura wasn’t a player like his younger brother, Ditas, who’d hit on her two minutes after he’d met her. Okay. Maybe she was exaggerating. Maybe it had been ten. Bernie made a face as she remembered how Ditas had shaken her hand and then pressed his thumb into her palm and wiggled it around while he told her how good she looked. I mean how skeevy can you get?

  In any other circumstance she would have smacked the guy really hard, but given how Libby felt about confrontation she’d managed to keep her hands down by her sides and not punch him out. She would have probably split his lip with her silver and onyx ring anyway, and he looked like the kind of guy who would have had her arrested and brought up on assault charges.

  Unlike Jura, who she couldn’t imagine hitting anyone, let alone hitting on them. As she watched him continue to fumble around in his pocket she wondered if he’d ever even been out on a date. Probably not. So when someone like Leeza came along it must have been all over for him. Of course, if the story in the Times was to be believed it was a mutual thing.

  Yeah. Right, Bernie thought. Mutual my ass. It was mutual once Leeza realized how much money Jura was worth. No. As her dad had said, Leeza getting Jura had been as easy as shooting fish in a barrel, which Bernie agreed with even though she didn’t agree with her dad’s phraseology. When she’d pointed out the fundamental illogic of the expression he’d used her father had groaned and reached for the remote. But it was true.

  “Think about it,” she’d told Libby. “You can’t shoot fish in a barrel. You’d have to net them instead. If you shot into a barrel you’d have bullet holes and all the water would run out onto the ground and the barrel would be useless and barrels are expensive.”

  Libby hadn’t looked up from the scones she was making, let alone answered. Even her boyfriend Rob, whom she could usually count on when it came to things of this nature, had told her to get a life. Oh well. It wasn’t her fault that no one else she knew was interested in things like this.

  But even Libby had agreed with her about Jura being ill at ease around women. How could she not? The two times Jura had met with her and Libby he’d been uncomfortable around them to the point of not being able to look either one of them in the eye. At first Bernie had thought it was them but Jura had been like that with his administrative assistant too. In fact, the only female Bernie had seen him relaxed with was Leeza, who’d cooed and batted her eyelashes at him like she was in some fifties movies.

  It was weird. Jura was a big guy and big guys usually own the room. But this guy’s posture was stooped which emphasized his narrow shoulders and big ass. Couple that with his pale complexion, and grayish, blond hair and he looked totally ineffectual.

  But he couldn’t be that ineffectual, Bernie reasoned. Ineffectual men don’t run caviar empires that are worth millions of dollars. But maybe he was one of those guys who are better with numbers and figures than with people. Maybe his brothers handled that end of the business while he stayed in the office and emailed instructions to everyone.

  Looking at Jura, Bernie wondered if all Estonian people were big and blond with prominent cheekbones and slightly slanted eyes. Somehow, she had thought they were short and dark and Jura was some sort of an anomaly, but his two younger brothers, Ditas and Joe looked exactly like him, except they were much better looking.

  When Libby had announced that they’d gotten this job, Bernie had dragged out her old atlas and, ignoring Libby’s eye rolling, looked at a map of the Baltics. It seemed that Estonia was quite close to Finland. For some reason, she’d pictured the country as being near Russia—maybe because it had been occupied by Russia until recently.

  Bernie was trying to remember exactly what she’d read when she saw Libby dart a glance at her watch and start to nibble on her lower lip. Then her sister brought her hand up to her mouth and switched to biting her nails, which Bernie couldn’t help noticing were in desperate need of a manicure.

  Libby is flipping out, Bernie thought as she and her sister exchanged looks. And she could understand why. They still had an enormous amount to do. And if she, Bernie, was concerned she could only imagine how crazed Libby was feeling. And being tired and hung over certainly didn’t help. In retrospect the Cosmopolitans might not have been such a good idea after all. Next time she’d make chocolate martinis instead.

  For openers, she and Libby and Amber, who was coming in her own car, still had to drive the van loaded with all the linen, plates, silverware, and crystal that they were using for the dinner down the embankment to the tent, and offload everything. Which should be lots of fun.

  Driving down that embankment was a pain in the ass when the grass was dry. But now the grass was wet and slippery and given that the van was top heavy—well, Bernie didn’t want to think of the breakage if the van rolled over. The crystal alone cost fifty dollars a glass and they were using how many of them? Leeza was spending more on tableware for one afternoon than the store made in a whole year.

  At least the tables and the chairs were in place. And hopefully the florist would be on time with the centerpieces—white roses and calla lilies. And at least she and Libby and Amber had folded the napkins into swans yesterday and wrapped the chocolate bars in doilies another one of Leeza’s brilliant ideas. But they still had to prep the vegetables, clean the berries, and get the fires in the grill ready to go in addition to plating the caviar and arranging the toast points and foie gras.

  It will all get done, Bernie told herself. It always does. As her yoga teacher used to say: “Negative thoughts lead to negative energy.”

  And Libby had hired a crack crew to work along with Googie, Stan, and Amber so that was good. Bernie reviewed the day’s schedule in her head. The ceremony was taking place at two. Googie and Stan would be arriving at the estate at a little before one o’clock to serve drinks to the arriving guests in the living room, while the rest of the wait staff would arrive half an hour after that to help with the dinner.

  The bar would close when the ceremony began and reopen after it was done, probably three-quarters of an hour, at which point the guests would reassemble in the living room and while away
the time waiting for the bride and groom to refresh themselves by sipping Cristal and eating beluga and foie gras.

  Then when the happy couple emerged, they would lead everyone down to the tent where dinner was being served. What a production, Bernie thought. If she and Rob ever got married, she’d go to Vegas and get married by an Elvis impersonator. Well, not really. Her father would kill her. But she wouldn’t have a circus like this. She’d have a nice little reception at the house.

  No, No, Bernie told herself when she realized what she’d been thinking. Don’t go there. Don’t even think the M word. You’ll jinx everything if you do. She forced herself to pay attention to Jura instead.

  It was nine o’clock in the morning of his wedding day and Bernie was interested to see that Jura was wearing a beige linen jacket, a pink oxford shirt, a tie, and a pair of immaculately pressed navy pants. Not that she’d ever really been around a guy on the day of his wedding—she just imagined someone in his position would be wearing something a little more casual before he changed into what he was going to be wearing for the ceremony. But maybe this was casual for him. Come to think of it, she’d never seen him in jeans or khakis. If he wore them, he’d probably get someone to iron and starch them.

  “Locking the storeroom ensures that no one on my staff is tempted to pilfer,” he explained to the girls as Bernie wondered how he got to be like that.

  “That’s been a problem?” Bernie asked trying to keep her mind off picturing Jura Raid in starched boxer shorts.

  Jura shrugged. “Well naturally. After all, these days beluga is going for almost ninety-six dollars an ounce. That’s a little under sixteen hundred dollars a pound.”

  “Amazing,” Bernie said. She’d read that in colonial days caviar was known as the poor man’s food because the fisherman had given the sturgeons’ roe away for free. The fish had been so plentiful in the Hudson River that they’d exported it to Europe. Now, of course, they were all gone, fallen victim to over fishing and pollution.

  “Yes,” Jura replied. “Of course, people sell beluga for less but they’re selling an inferior product. My company only sells the best from the Caspian Sea.”

  “I thought the beluga sturgeon there were on the CITES list,” Bernie said noting Jura’s look of surprise with a certain amount of pleasure. Not for nothing was she known as the Internet queen.

  He nodded.

  “That’s why it’s so expensive. Every tin we sell has been labeled and authenticated,” Jura told the girls as he finally extracted the key from his pocket.

  Libby turned to Bernie.

  “CITES list?” she asked.

  “It’s the endangered species list,” Bernie explained as Jura Raid fitted the key in the lock, turned it, and opened the door.

  A blast of cold air greeted the girls as Jura motioned for them to step inside.

  “It’s freezing,” Bernie said rubbing her shoulders. She’d wished she’d brought along a long-sleeved shirt or a sweater.

  “Actually,” Jura informed her, “the temperature in here is kept at exactly twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit, the ideal temperature for storing caviar, which as I’m sure you know is extremely perishable. That is why it must be salted, but salt it too much and you take away the taste. Finding the right amount is an art.”

  “Interesting,” Bernie said who always appreciated facts. What had Rob said to her recently about that? Something about her being like a guy in that regard. No. That wasn’t it. She was trying to remember exactly when Libby started talking.

  “I feel as if I’m stepping into a bank vault,” Libby observed.

  “As well you should,” Jura agreed. He gestured around the room. “Ounce for ounce this stuff is more valuable than gold.”

  “Well not really,” Bernie heard herself saying. “Gold is almost three hundred and eighty dollars an ounce right now and I believe you said beluga is under one hundred dollars an ounce.” She would have said more but she realized that Libby was glaring at her.

  Too bad, Bernie thought. So she’d broken Libby’s first dictum: Never contradict the customer. So what? Sometimes her sister was beyond uptight. Or maybe Bernie admitted to herself she was feeling a little crabby from lack of sleep. She must be getting older. When she was in her twenties staying up all night would never have bothered her.

  “I’ve never been around so much caviar in my life,” Libby exclaimed as Bernie decided she should really lighten up on the Cosmos.

  “Normally,” Jura answered, “we don’t keep this much product in the house, but after all this is a special day.”

  “It certainly is,” Libby agreed in her best customer-relations voice.

  Bernie contented herself with looking around as Jura and her sister continued to chat. The storeroom was a small closet-like affair, barely big enough for the three of them to fit in. It was lined in stainless steel and filled from top to bottom with shelves. Each shelf was neatly stacked with tins.

  “Each side holds a different type of caviar,” Jura explained. He pointed to his left. “For example, this side has Iranian caviar which is really the rarest there is, while this side, “here he pointed to his right, “holds Russian caviar. Our company deals in American caviar as well.” Jura pointed out the tins on the back wall. “People buy this because it’s cheap, although it’s really not that good,” he explained in a dismissive tone. “People in this country are trying to farm-raise sturgeon, but I’m sorry to say they really haven’t been successful. And in my personal opinion they never will be.”

  Bernie watched Jura make a millimeter adjustment to his tie before gesturing towards the blue one-pound tins on the bottom shelf. The labels on them read “beluga.”

  “I want you to serve this,” he told her and Libby.

  Bernie was just about to ask him how long before serving they could plate the caviar when Ditas squeezed into the storeroom with them. Great, Bernie thought as he wiggled in close to her. Just the person she didn’t want to stand next to, even if he was really good looking in a big blond kind of way.

  “So what are you giving the guests?” he asked his brother.

  Jura frowned and made another adjustment to his tie. He’s nervous, Bernie thought as she watched him, but then she reasoned why wouldn’t he be? After all, what groom wasn’t on their wedding day?

  “We’ve already discussed this,” Jura told his brother in a voice that Bernie decided would freeze water on a ninety-degree day.

  “I know,” said Ditas.

  “Then why are you bringing this up again?” Jura demanded. “As the oldest of this family I have the right to make these decisions.”

  “That’s what you keep saying.”

  “Because that’s the way it’s always been.”

  Bernie thought she saw a flash of hatred radiate from Ditas’s eyes but it was gone so quickly she couldn’t be sure. Instead he’d plastered a big smile across his face, the kind of smile Bernie had seen on her ex’s face when he was struggling to control himself. A second later Ditas winked at Bernie.

  “The problem is that my brother is crazy,” he told her. “Crazy with love. I told him we should give everyone the American stuff. They won’t know the difference. But Jura, he wants to spend millions on his bride. Now if she were you,” Ditas leered at Bernie, “I could understand it.”

  “Thanks,” Bernie said as she felt his hand on her thigh. “You’re too kind.” She tried to move away from him but there was no room.

  She could feel herself getting angrier and angrier as his fingers crept across her thigh and closer and closer to her crotch.

  You want to play, she said to him silently, completely forgetting about her sister’s injunction to always be nice to the customer no matter what. I’ll play. She smiled at him and put her hand over his.

  Ditas winked at her again, which was when she dug her nails into the back of his hand. After all, Bernie reasoned as she watched him grimace in pain, what’s the point of having fingernails if you can’t use them when you need them. />
  Chapter 3

  Libby ignored Bernie and Amber and concentrated on driving. The van was not happy in the mud, let along going around sharp turns, but since this was the only road that led to where the tent was, this was the road she had to take. And of course she didn’t even want to think about unloading.

  The only good thing Libby reflected was that it was no longer pouring. The rain had turned to a light sprinkle. She rolled down her window and the smells of early summer, grass, roses, and honeysuckle, came flooding in. It is a pretty site, Libby mused as she took in the creek with its drooping willow trees. She had to give Leeza that.

  And she had to admit that the tent did look wonderful. She’d thought Leeza was crazy when she’d insisted on silk instead of something a little sturdier, but the fabric had held up beautifully. When they turned on the lanterns the tent would look . . . what was the word Bernie had used? . . . luminous.

  Everything worked, from the freshly graveled (with special stones of course), rose-lined path down to the tent from the house, to the artfully arranged canopies over the path that would protect the guests from the rain. But no matter how pretty it was Libby decided the fact remained that from a practical point of view getting the food down from the temporary kitchen was going to be a logistical nightmare, something she should have given more thought to before she agreed to take the job on.

  Why had she taken this job anyway? Libby asked herself for the hundredth time this morning, even though she knew the answer. She could have said no. Despite what Bernie had called her she wasn’t afraid of failure. Otherwise they wouldn’t be doing this now. She hadn’t even thought about failure. Libby nibbled on one of her cuticles. It would have been better if she had.

  The truth was she’d gotten caught in delusions of grandeur. She’d lain in bed at night having these fantasies—and not the kind that Bernie had. Her cooking would be so wonderful that it would catapult her into fame and fortune. She would become an icon. Everyone would talk about Libby’s scones and Libby’s muffins.