Page 61 of Red Hot Harmony

It was Saturday morning. Typically, the roads weren’t too congested at this hour, but the fires that had apparently multiplied and attacked a whole lot of land north of Calabasas had caused several street closures near Woodland Hills and Ojai, so it took me longer that I’d thought it would to get to Porter Ranch.

The sky was dark and ominous, and the sun was just a little orange dot. Flecks of ash floated across my windshield as I passed Chatsworth on my way to 118. Occasionally, I could hear a distant fire truck siren and the beating of helicopter blades, the sounds moving northward, where the smoke seemed to be the thickest. There were black plumes, ugly and intimidating, but the wind the past two days had been calmer, so the fires weren’t spreading at the same speed as earlier in the week.

Part of me felt unsettled about the fact that we were celebrating while thousands of people who lived less than two hours away were being evacuated from their homes.

It seemed...disrespectful.

My parents lived on an old estate edging a road that cut through a small pasture-like piece of land that bordered a local golf course. The property was an inheritance. My father’s family had bought it dirt cheap when they were young and owned horses when there was nothing around these parts for miles. The value had skyrocketed over the years and I suspected that one day, the property would become mine, but I honestly preferred my house because this much foliage and square footage seemed to be too much unnecessary work, even with the hired help.

Which, of course, didn’t mean the property wasn’t beautiful.

The house itself sat on the flat portion of the land. It was surrounded by an abundance of lemon and avocado trees, providing much-needed shade in summer. The back yard was huge, rolling down and then up. It wasn’t a particularly large hill, but I remembered how much I used to like to stare at the sunset from the highest point, studying the patches of trees and watching the ribbon of a road, untouched by the asphalt, weave its way through the faraway mountain.

It had been a peaceful place to grow up.

Today, when I arrived, it was chaotic.

There were people everywhere, carrying stuff, screaming orders, stirring up dust, and waving their phones in the air in an attempt to find reception. Oh, yes, it was one of those places where you could get four bars one minute and zero the next.

I steered through the open gate and past the catering van and parked in front of the house next to my father’s 1968 Corvette. He didn’t really drive it anymore except maybe on select weekends when he wanted to show off, but despite all the ash that had been raining down throughout the week, the vehicle had been cleaned and buffed and looked like new.

“Thank the Lord you’re here!” someone shouted from the porch.

I stepped out of the car and opened the back door to grab the hanger with my dress. “Hey, Aunt Liz. How are you?”

Aunt Liz was old and used a cane. She rushed over to give me a hug and a kiss on my cheek. “You look wonderful, my dear.” She hooked her free arm through mine and pulled me inside the house, then asked, “How old are you now?”

I suppressed a groan. Every relative over forty on my mother’s side had been asking me that question on a regular basis since Ally was born. I’d been reduced to nothing but the number of years I’d been a single mother, and it was starting to piss me off.

“Thirty-four, Aunt Liz.” I smiled through my teeth and patted her withered hand.

“Eloise says you’re seeing a young man now, huh?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”

“How wonderful. I hope he marries you.”

I nearly tripped over the dress I was carrying.

“Who’s getting married?” another voice asked as we walked through the door. It was Renn.

“No one is getting married,” I said, doing my best to keep that fake smile intact.

This was going to be a very long day.

I’d learned how to fix dresses because my profession sort of demanded basic knowledge of stitching. Sure, I could always hire a seamstress, which I typically did, but sometimes...just sometimes...things happened. And I didn’t like not being in control, so I’d taught myself.

I wasn’t certain how my mother had managed to rip her side seam. Something told me Ally might have taken after her grandma in thegetting one size smaller because I like itdepartment, but I didn’t have enough emotional bandwidth to broach the subject. The dress was indeed in disarray and I opted for keeping my head down and quietly doing what I’d been asked to do.

So I spent nearly two hours fixing the damn thing, and by the time I was finished, I’d pricked my finger one too many times and earned myself an early ulcer. I was also sweating and in a desperate need of some food.

And more coffee.

Renn was kind enough to make me a fresh cup upon my arrival, but since my sleep had been cut dramatically short, the increased amount of fuel seemed essential for me to keep functioning.

Once the dress repairs were done, I made my way to the back terrace, where the caterers were setting up a small breakfast area for the staff working the event. To say my parents were very extravagant said little about the measure of effort they were spending on making today as posh, as beautiful, as expensive, and as memorable as possible.

As I was buttering my croissant, I wondered if this undertaking cost them more than the actual wedding. Perhaps it did. They were retired and had saved a lot of money. Why not spend a little?

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