Love Me Crazy Page 9

  I grin as the two lead the way. Dean’s easygoing, eager to please Ellie and would step right off the edge of a flat world to do so, but that makes it damn near impossible for her to make up her mind. His accommodating her every whim breeds indecision, something we don’t have time for.

  Standing on the incline overlooking the pecan grove, I do everything I can to keep from making a WTF-are-you-crazy face. Especially after the way Quinn and I could hardly stand. I suppose the hulls could be raked up.

  “Are you sure you want to say your vows there?” I point between the rows of trees. From afar, they aren’t so bad, but up close, the pecan shells aren’t as crisp green as they could be and the muted color partnered with one-to-many scarred branches, gives off a less-than appealing air. The large oaks with their sweeping branches are more pleasant and would better suit her wish for a Lowcountry wedding. “Might be a safety hazard,” I add. Quinn and I could hardly stand, but it could’ve been because we were already unsteady, due to something other than old slippery shells. “What about the front drive? The oaks are gorgeous.”

  “Dean proposed to me there.” She points out a tree with a bright blue satin bow tied around the trunk. “There were stars and crickets.” She closes her eyes. “And the entire place smelled like flowers, much like it does now.”

  I close my eyes and sniff, trying to ignore the wet shells’ unique earth scent that, to me, smells like wood rot and decay. Blocking my sight lets my olfactory senses take over. It’s much like yesterday when I painted from the edge overlooking the lower fields. Magnolias with their heady full blooms releasing pollen-coated sugar, gardenias and their heavy addictive sweetness, where one sniff is never enough, and jasmine, simple, elegant, and relaxing.

  “Alright, but if you want me to sketch up a few ideas I had for the oaks, I can.”

  “Would you!” She smiles. “You have the best ideas.”

  “No problem.” I check the time. Crap. “We’re supposed to meet the caterer in less than half an hour.” I bolt up the hill.

  “Hold up.”

  “Your mom will have my head on a stake if I’m not there to greet and arrange everything,” I say as I walk backward away from them.

  She catches up and grabs my hand. “You can’t start without me and Dean. Besides, ladies never rush.”

  A lady who wants a paycheck does.

  I right my skirt and tuck in my blouse. Before entering the dining room, I wipe the clay dust from my heels. Hoping I’m not dripping sweat and my makeup isn’t smeared.

  Mrs. Covington has her hands propped against the table. She leans over an assortment of platters. Inspecting, no doubt. She rolls her eyes up to peer over her glasses. “Common courtesy is to let everyone know you’re too busy to meet them at a specified time, Ms. Beck.”

  I grab the tray of cards I’d labeled and set them next to the appropriate platter. “I apologize. I’d asked Ellie to show me where she wants to say her vows.”

  She taps the table with her long nails, then tweaks each placard, either squaring it with the table or moving it over a centimeter. “Hideous.”

  “What? I was top calligrapher in my class.” I’d penned each navy-blue card in gold and tucked them into vintage perfume bottles between sprigs of lavender, rosemary, and baby’s breath. I spent hours getting them perfect.

  “Not the doodads.” She gestures at a card like it’s a pitiful attempt at beautiful. “The grove. If we get rain before the event, Eleanor’s vows will be the last thing on our guests’ minds.”

  I stare in disbelief. Of all things to agree on, this one holds great sentiment for Ellie.

  “What’s the holdup? The girls will be here in seconds.” She straightens her shoulders and walks toward the mantel where several black-and-white photos in tarnished frames sit.

  Annabeth waltzes in and Mrs. Covington welcomes her with a rosy smile and a hug so genuine that if I didn’t know better, I’d guess her to be another daughter.

  “Gorgeous day, isn’t it?” She drapes her arm around Mrs. Covington’s waist as they walk to the table.

  “You’re glowing like sunshine, darling. What has you smiling so?” Mrs. Covington gestures for her to take a chair beside her seat at the head of the table.

  I move around the table carrying a stack of plates I’d prepared the night before. Using my awesome knowledge of fine dining, I’d preset the silverware and found gold chargers tucked deep in the china hutch. I center one plate on each charger and adjust the placemats, squaring the edges to the table.

  “I just came off the boat. My parents took us out to see the Morris Island lighthouse. It was beautiful on the water.” Annabeth pulls a chair from the table. “Almost perfect.”

  “We’ll work on that. Don’t you fret about anything.” Mrs. Covington realigns the silverware I’d set out before taking her seat. She smacks her lips together and smiles as the door pushes open and a chatterbox of girls and Dean walk through.

  I step back from the table and take a deep breath, counting heads to make sure there’s enough seating. Quinn rolls in two seconds later, screwing up the numbers and my perfect table setting. I hadn’t counted on his presence. From the sudden silence and the quizzical glances thrown his way, I’m thinking no one else had either. I quickly turn to the china cabinet to grab another place setting. I set up his spot next to his mother.

  Quinn squeezes my shoulders.

  I jump at the contact and attempt to shrug him off. “Shall I call in the caterer?”

  Quinn’s hands don’t lighten, instead, he buries his fingers into the muscles near my spine, coaxing them to relax. Ellie settles across from Kat, and Annabeth jumps into their conversation about serving chicken versus fish on a hot night and food poisoning. Dean greets Mrs. Covington with a brief hug and a kiss to the cheek.

  “Yes, Ms. Beck, the caterer, please.” She claps her hands, breaking up the conversations.

  I signal the kitchen crew and step back from the table to allow Mrs. Covington and Ellie to view their selections.

  “Cassidy, join us. There’s plenty of room.” Quinn pulls out the chair I’d arranged for him and gestures for me to sit.

  “I’m fine here.”

  “Sit,” he says. “I’m sure Ellie would appreciate your input.”

  “Oh, absolutely. Come on, join us.” She waves me over and I don’t dare look in Mrs. Covington’s direction.

  Once I’m seated, Quinn crosses the room, grabs a drably upholstered wing chair and slides it between me and Mrs. Covington.

  “Really,” I say. “I should help serve and take notes on Ellie’s choices.” I push back from the table.

  “Sit, Cassidy,” he drawls. “As my guest.”

  “And mine.” Ellie smiles.

  I glance at Mrs. Covington who’s studying my every move.

  “Don’t you think she should try everything, too? The more advice the better,” Ellie says to her mom.

  “As you wish, Eleanor.” Mrs. Covington glances around the table. As her gaze flits from one Covington to the next, the girls fall in formation like robots.

  Drop of the hands to the lap. Straight backs. Chins high. Chairs tucked. Elbows pinned to their sides. Damn.

  I fidget in my seat as memories of my mom’s ruler tapping my wrists, my elbows, and my chin come to mind. She might as well have stuffed a metal rod up my ass to keep my spine straight, because if I slouched, she’d whack my side with the ruler. I chew on my cheek and stare over the table, wishing like hell I was standing on the outside where I could be me and not the perfect prize of Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Beck.

  I scoot to the edge of my seat and refuse to let my chin or my gaze fall into the red zone. Holding my breath, I keep my emotions in check. “Ellie, to your right you’ll find the poultry dish. Chicken served over rice with a tart citrus glaze. Haricots verts with almonds and rosemary potatoes. Directly in front of you is the salmon you’d requested; recipe rights exclusively granted for your wedding reception—salmon croquettes over kale with mint cr
eam sauce drizzled over top.”

  The girls ohh and ahh as I describe the other choices. I glance at Mrs. Covington who merely nods approval.

  “Where’s the barbecue?” Quinn asks. “No pig pickin’s?”

  “This isn’t one of your beach parties, Quinny. It’s a wedding.” Annabeth smiles. “But maybe we could throw you a welcome home party. Something small. Celebrate all the good news around here lately.”

  Ellie and Dean nod in unison.

  Kat rolls her eyes. “Let’s hold off and save a pig. Who knows if he’ll jet again.”

  Quinn peers at his sister. His teeth clamp tight, making his jaw line sharpen. “Just thought there’d be something less formal at the reception.” He straightens his silverware and puts his napkin across his lap. “But you’re right, Kat, no party’s necessary. Save the pig.”

  Kat drops her gaze from his, almost like she wishes she’d kept her mouth shut, but the bitterness in her eyes doesn’t dull.

  The caterer walks in wiping his hands down his apron front. He explains the dishes in more depth, down to the seasoning, which in all honesty, is boring and means the food is getting cold.

  “Shall we serve?” I ask him. I rise from my seat, lean over the table, and pick up the spatula, ready to help divvy out the precut portions. Salmon slides off the spatula onto the white tablecloth. I stare at the mess as if it intentionally did that to ruin me.

  “I’ll take that one.” Quinn holds out his plate.

  I salvage what I can and work the mush onto his plate.

  “I think we’ll serve ourselves.” Ellie smiles and I lean back as the girls fight over portions.

  When they’re done, Mrs. Covington leans forward, glances at me, then her plate. Right. I hop up from my chair. Quinn hands me her plate. Once I’ve successfully loaded it up, he sets it in front of her.

  “Great service, huh?” He winks.

  Not helping, Quinn. Shut up.

  “Wow, that’s spicy!” Ellie spits out a hunk of meat onto her plate.

  I almost burst into laughter. That’s definitely not proper etiquette.

  Quinn leans toward me and slides his plate between us. “Share with me, but don’t do that.” He points at Ellie’s plate with his fork.

  “What?” she says. “It’s eating my tongue off.” She grabs her water goblet and gulps the contents.

  Annabeth slide the spicy beef away from their other samples. “So is that one out?” she asks. “Spicy in this heat, and we’re liable to all melt into puddles.”

  “Yes, definitely out.” Ellie fans her tongue.

  “I like the salmon.” Kat licks both sides of her fork, ensuring she doesn’t miss any of the mint drizzle.

  “Agreed. It’s so pleasant,” Annabeth adds. “Quinny, doesn’t it remind you of graduation dinner?”

  “Eh, I like the venison,” Quinn says as Dean nods agreement.

  “Of course you do; you were raised on it,” Mrs. Covington says. The clanking silverware and food discussions go quiet. “Surely you haven’t been gone so long you’ve forgotten your father’s favorite dish. I had the chef prepare it in his honor.”

  Quinn shifts his gaze to the venison.

  Ellie moves it around on her plate.

  Kat takes a bite. “So you want Ellie to serve it on her wedding day to remind us why our lives fell apart? Awesome.”

  “It didn’t fall apart, just got rerouted.” Ellie frowns and Dean coddles her like a kid who lost her blanket.

  Annabeth and Dean ease back their chairs, distancing themselves from the conversation. I try to do the same but Quinn has a death grip on my chair.

  “It’s food. One of our family traditions,” Ellie says as she pops a bite in her mouth. “I think it’s a great reminder of who our father was. Thanks for including it, Momma.”

  “Was,” Kat emphasizes.

  Ellie’s eyes glaze over.

  I grab Quinn’s napkin from his lap and hand it to her.

  She dabs her eyes. “Remember the dock Dad and Quinn built so we could have our own private island in the swamp?” She smiles and drops her gaze to the venison. “Remember the magnolias he’d bring home? He’d put one in each of our rooms while we were sleeping. We’d wake up sneezing but didn’t care because they smelled so good. And remember how he’d stop on the side of the road after cotton-picking season and let us collect leftovers to make angel ornaments?”

  Kat throws her napkin on the table. “I remember him dying. I remember Quinn leaving. I remember this family falling apart.”

  Mrs. Covington clears her throat. “Maybe we should shift our focus back on the select—”

  “I remember forgotten lunches and being left at cotillion classes and having to bum a ride from the teacher,” Kat continues.

  “Surely there’s good in there somewhere,” Annabeth says, trying to be helpful. “Think positive. You have each other now.” She smiles at Mrs. Covington. “We have our family.”

  “You aren’t family,” Kat reminds her. “Just a friend of Ellie’s and Quinn’s ex. Don’t act like his leaving involves you one bit.”

  Annabeth’s eyes round. She turns pale but keeps her posture resolute, like nothing can sway her, least of all Kat’s comments.

  I push back from the table, but Quinn lunges for the arm of my chair and stops me. Our gazes meet. His wide eyes beg me to stay. Without looking away, I settle into the chair. He pulls it closer to his and taps nervously against the wood.

  “Let’s move on,” Quinn says. “Ellie doesn’t need our opinions about what to serve at her wedding.”

  “You are not the boss of us anymore. You left.” Kat stares him down, then turns toward Ellie. “He’ll leave again after the wedding and all you’ll have are pictures to remind you of how very stupid you were for believing he’d stay.”

  “Enough,” Quinn yells. He bangs the table with his palm. The plates jump and my heart leaps into my throat. He rises to his feet. “I’m sorry I left. I shouldn’t have, but Dad is dead. We are not. Stop living your lives like this family’s doomed, and for crying out loud, quit the bickering. It’s just goddamn venison.”

  I bite my lip and shrink against the chair. Disappear. Disappear. This would be a good time to have a superpower.

  “I don’t care what you serve. It’s your wedding, Ellie; do what you want.” Quinn plops down in his chair.

  Kat and Annabeth pull their chairs closer to the table and busy themselves testing the chicken. Ellie stares at Quinn in disbelief.

  She shakes her head, then rolls her gaze toward me. “I’m not sure I want a sit down meal anymore. Maybe Dean and I should mingle instead of sitting in assigned seats for an hour. Cassidy, what do you think?” Her eyes, puffy from crying, scan mine.

  I glance at Mrs. Covington, expecting her to answer for me, since I haven’t run any suggestions by her. Her eyes, a pale gray compared to the Covingtons’ trademark blue eyes, close. She spins her finger in the air, a gesture I’ve learned means answer, but answer right.

  “I think you’re right, a sit-down dinner hinders socializing and dancing. Heavy hors d’oeuvres are another option if you prefer to mingle, and it might be a way to, you know, calm the fires.” I run my fingers over the tablecloth, thanking God for the numerous dinner parties my parents forced me to attend.

  “Yes. Maybe completely different menus,” Ellie says.

  I turn toward her. “Ellie, this is your wedding. You chose the grove because it held happy memories; make sure the food does, too.”

  Her eyes flick from one placard to the next. “I want a new menu,” she whispers. “But what?”

  I whip out my phone and open my notes app. “What’s the meal you and Dean had on your first date?”

  “Shrimp and cheddar grits for me, filet mignon for him.” She watches me type it in.

  “If you go with the hors d’oeuvres versus sit-down dinner, maybe we offer stemless martini glasses of grilled shrimp. Maybe nix the grits because of the heat, or have it simmering so it doesn’t
congeal. The guests can spoon it over their shrimp if they wish. We can marinate the shrimp in a cayenne sauce and broil cheddar on top. And for another appetizer, filet mignon kabobs with roasted mushrooms?”

  She nods. “I like that.”

  “Name the meal you guys had the night he proposed.” I jump my cursor down two lines and wait for her answer.

  “You’re brilliant!” Ellie beams.

  “No, it’s just I’ve been to plenty of parties where all that’s required is mingling and eating.”

  “Still, what would I do without you? You’re like a wedding goddess and a peacekeeper wrapped into one.”

  That’s a compliment, right? “You shouldn’t be worrying about food, music, flowers, or if everyone’s getting along. That’s my job. Our job.” I glance over at Mrs. Covington.

  Ellie looks beyond me to her mother. “How does everything sound? Doable?”

  “Like you said, she’s brilliant.” Mrs. Covington smiles and a touch of appreciation brightens her eyes and lifts her wrinkles.

  “Is that enough variety, Mrs. Covington?” I ask. “Should we add fruit and possibly chicken?”

  “Yes, I think that would complement the other selections. Maybe a citrus chicken and berries versus melons?” She points at my phone, then rises from the table. “Meet with the caterer and see if the changes are doable, otherwise, we’ll have to see if the kitchen staff here can accommodate the head count. Where are we with numbers?” She tugs on her cardigan and smooths the wrinkles in her linen pants.

  “Five twenty,” I say. “We could forfeit a third of the tables if we go the hors d’oeuvres route.”

  “Let’s cut half and up the number of dance tunes; this will force the guests to mingle. Eleanor, how does that sound to you, darling?”

  “Like a dream. Dean and I’ll work on the song list.” She rises from the table and walks Mrs. Covington to the door. “Won’t you stay for dinner?”

  “I’m going to head back to the town house in a bit. I learned much today and need to digest it over a bottle of wine.” She kisses Ellie’s cheeks. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

  “You know,” Quinn says as he makes his way over to her, “a little SoCo might work faster.”