Page 117 of What Doesn't Kill Her

“I don’t know. He had a funny accent.”

“Not Italian then.” Kellen wasn’t joking; they’d both heard so many Italian accents they thought nothing of it.

“No, afunnyaccent! He said he was fromfahaway and asked when and where I wasbawn.”

“Sounds like he’s from Boston. What did he look like?”

“Like a man. Hair.” Rae ruffled her fingers over her head.

“Brown? Blond?”

“Brown. Dark brown. Brown eyes. He wanted to know my name and all about you and I told him some stuff, but he kept asking and finally I ran away.” Rae cuddled close to Kellen’s side. “Grandma said I can’t punch any of these people in the sternum. Because they’re relations.”

“No, you can’t.” Kellen hugged her. “But we can think about it with great relish.”

Bushes rustled at the far end of the row of shrubs, and to Kellen’s left, along the winery wall, Arthur Waldberg appeared, crawling toward them. He wore a white shirt, a blue tie, black linen pants and his handkerchief had been folded with precision and placed in the pocket of his gray sports coat. Sweat beaded on his shiny forehead. “Miss Adams, Miss Di Luca, I need some answers from the bride and the young maid of honor.”

Kellen moaned and thumped the back of her head against the wall—and tensed. Nothing happened, reality remained within reach, and she mentally cursed the stupid bullet for making the most innocent gesture a trial.

Arthur settled next to Rae, looked around at the well-trimmed branches around them and the dense foliage of leaves above and said, “This is quite pleasant. Rather like the tent I played in as a child. No wonder you hide here.” He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead, then carefully folded the linen into an origami fan and arranged it back in his pocket.

“Yes. To bealone,” Kellen said with emphasis.

“I know, Miss Adams, I sympathize with your desires, but we’re on a truncated wedding schedule and I must know what the bride wants.” He sounded sympathetic but ruthless.

“Why don’t you ask Mrs. Verona Di Luca what I want?” Kellen snapped. She wasn’t bitter, not really. Having Verona be so sure of each decision had made the planning onslaught easier to bear. The only matter in which they had clashed, and Kellen held firm, was—

“Mr. Federico Di Luca says he must have a decision on which wedding gown you will wear,” Arthur said.

Rae whimpered.

He transferred his attention to Rae. “He also wishes to know therealcolor of the little maid of honor’s gown.”

“I am not wearing any of the frothy frilly lace-ridden gowns he brought on Verona’s command.” Kellen took a deep breath and finished her pronouncement. “Rae is wearing purple. Not lavender. Not blue with a hint of lavender. Purple. Purple, purple, purple!”

“Yeah!” Rae said. “Can my dress be lace-ridden, Mommy?”

“Of course it can.” Kellen kissed her head and turned back to Arthur. “If Zio Federico can’t manage that, Rae and I will run away from home, go to Portland, find a couple of dresses at Goodwill and wear those.”

“Yeah!” Rae said again.

“As I thought.” Arthur pulled out a small leather notebook held together with a single tiny silver ballpoint pen. He opened it and scribbled a note. “Two days ago, while out of Verona’s hearing, I spoke with Mr. Federico Di Luca, explained the situation and asked that he acquire gowns more fitting to two females of, shall we say, superhero powers.” He shared a smile with Rae. “His rush order has arrived from Milan. He’s ready to do your fittings. Having viewed the gowns, I believe you’ll both find these more to your satisfaction.”

Kellen felt a marvelously warm thrill across her nerves, a thrill contrary to her declared lack of interest in this wedding. “Thank you, Arthur. I appreciate your assistance. But what will Verona say?”

“I spoke to her, Miss Adams. I believe you’ll find no further opposition to your desires in this matter.” Arthur’s phone chirped. He looked at the text, typed a few words.

Kellen heard a rustle of bushes coming from beyond Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur scooted forward. “Dan Matyasovitch has submitted a list of suggested music for the ceremony and the reception afterward.” He gestured to the right, and the musician was crawling toward her.

With his jeans and collarless button-up shirt and jacket, he looked more at home down here beneath the bushes than Arthur. But really? He was crawling and perspiring so much his sunglasses were sliding down his nose, and sweat dropped off his mustache, his goatee, and circled around his upswept eyebrows. All he needed was a cigar to look like Freud stuck in a sauna.

Kellen slapped at a beetle that crawled up her arm. “Do I have to care?”

Dan worked his way around the trunks of the azaleas to sit next to Kellen’s left knee. “You’ll find leaving the matter in the hands of your mother-in-law will result in an arcane selection of late seventies and early eighties pop rock.”

“Ilikepop rocks,” Rae said.

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