And that, my friends, was the beauty of television, Philip thought.
Though he’d rather let hungry buzzards feast upon his privates than do this special with her, Philip couldn’t deny that he was keenly interested in discovering what made her tick. He might not like the concept of her show, but peep show aside, he sure as hell loved watching her cook. She was a natural in the kitchen, possessed an innate sense of how to marry flavors and compliment a palate. The kind of talent that had been bestowed at birth, not learned, which made her all the more intriguing.
And, Philip thought with a shaky sigh, he was meeting this walking mystery at Mama Mojo’s at six tomorrow night. Ostensibly to put her in her place. Which should be a cool trick considering he was more interested in putting her on her back.
And on her belly.
And on a table.
And against a wall.
Really, the possibilities were endless.
“OKAY,” FRANKIE SALVATERRA announced above the din at the Blue Monkey pub in the famed French Quarter. “It’s time to officially call the Bitch-Fest to order.” Her gaze darted around the table. “Who wants to go first?”
One of the perks to having a day job was never missing or being late for their standing Friday-night pastime—the Bitch-Fest. God knows it had gotten Carrie though many a trying time. Something about sharing her angst among her fellow CHiC friends—Zora, Frankie and April—had made her problems seem a lot lighter. And with good reason—when she shared them, they were divided.
“No takers?” Frankie said when no one immediately responded. “Fine. I’ll go first.” She paused, scanned the faces which held her attention. “I’m tired of being engaged,” she said matter-of-factly. “I want to get married. Now.”
“Now?” Zora parroted, seemingly stunned. “But there’s no way your planner can pull together the ceremony that you and Ross have outlined now. It’s physically impossible.”
Frankie and Ross’s wedding plans had begun to rival that of Charles and Diana’s. She’d commissioned doves, ice sculptures, rare orchids and had hired a local coveted designer—Madame LeBeau, who was rumored to be positively impossible to work with—to do both her dress and the bridesmaids’ ensembles.
April Wilson-Hayes sipped her margarita. “She’s right. Logistically, it’s just not possible.”
“I know that,” Frankie replied archly. “Which is why we’re culling all of those plans and starting over.”
Every woman seated at their table with the exception of Frankie groaned at this pronouncement.
Zora, however, was the first to offer an opinion and predictably, it wasn’t sugar-coated. “That’s insane,” she said, absently rubbing a hand over her very pregnant belly. “You’ve spent a fortune pulling the ‘wedding of your dreams’ together. You wanted something grand and feminine and beautiful.”
No doubt to counteract some of the lingering insecurities wrought by her father, Carrie thought sadly. Geez, that horrible old bastard had really done a number on her. Fortunately she’d met a guy who knew that—knew what she needed—and loved her enough to indulge her.
“What do you mean you’re starting over?” Zora continued, still evidently outraged.
“You know,” Frankie said, “I was really expecting a little bit of support here.” Looking distinctly sly, she dunked the lime floating in her club soda.
Club soda? Carrie thought, squinting thoughtfully. Now that was odd. She’d known Frankie Salvaterra for almost ten years and she’d never seen her drink a club soda. Particularly in a bar. Carrie inwardly gasped, shot her friend a closer look.
Frankie’s lips twitched with a barely suppressed grin. “We’re starting over because if I don’t get married now, I’m not going to fit in my dress.”
April frowned. “Not going to fit in your—”
Zora looked from Frankie’s drink to her smug smile and inhaled sharply. “You’re pregnant!” she breathed, eyes twinkling with unabashed joy.
Frankie beamed and nodded. “I am,” she confirmed proudly.
April squealed, Carrie laughed, and Zora positively glowed. “Oh, Frankie,” she said, taking her friend’s hand. “You’re going to make the best mama.”
Frankie dabbed at her eyes and smiled. “And you guys are going to make the best honorary aunts.” She swallowed, took a deep breath and appeared to be attempting to gather her wits. “So here’s the deal. We want to get married next weekend—Saturday—and I need your help. We’re paring down the guest list from fifteen hundred to fifteen. The people who are important to me are the ones we see on a regular basis. To hell with all the others,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “They’re only showing up for the food.”
Speaking of which, Carrie thought. “I’ll cater,” she promptly volunteered. “It’ll be my gift.”
“And I know the perfect place,” April said. She tucked her hair behind her ears. “You can have Ben’s and my tree.”
The tree in question was a two-hundred-plus-year-old live oak which had held special meaning for them. They’d originally planned to host their own wedding there beneath its sheltering branches, but the timing had been off. Too cold. New Orleans summer heat was notorious, but the shade of that tree would undoubtedly end up being just as cool as a crowded reception room.
“Oh, April,” Frankie said, choking up. “I think that would be perfect.”
“And we’ll designate Ben as the photographer,” she added, then chuckled. “You can bet he’ll have a camera with him anyway.”
“Then all that leaves is the honeymoon,” Zora told her. “And Tate and I would like to have that honor.”
“Zora,” Frankie gasped softly. “That’s too much.”
“I insist,” she said. Which was the last word. When Zora made up her mind, that was it. Conversation over.
Frankie’s dark brown eyes glittered with liquid emotion and her face softened with untold joy. “I knew I could count on you guys.”
Zora reached over and squeezed her hand again. “Always.” She let go a breath. “Now who wants to bitch next?”
April shook her head, shot them all a contented smile. “Sorry. I got nothing.”
And no wonder, Carrie thought. After more than a decade apart, April had been reunited with her special someone, her soul mate, Ben. She had every reason to be happy.
“Stop bragging,” Carrie finally teased. She rolled her eyes. “Sheesh, you happy people are nauseating. All pregnant and in love.”
Zora turned to Frankie. “Has the nausea started yet?” she wanted to know. “Because if it has I can tell you that eating a saltine cracker before I get out of bed and having Tate rub my feet helps considerably.”
“What does rubbing your feet have to do with being nauseated?” April asked.
Zora pulled a negligent shrug and smiled coyly. “Nothing. It just makes me feel better.”
Carrie chuckled. “Very devious. I like it.”
Zora cast her a considering look. “So if our happiness is making you nauseated, does that mean that something’s happened that’s made you unhappy?”
Shrewd as always, Carrie thought, swirling her straw around her drink.
“It’s the Brit, isn’t it?”