“We are so happy you could join us, Dennis. Now, what is this monstrosity you’ve got hanging off your arm?” her mother asked, eyeing the bag suspiciously.
Denny’s eyes lit up. “This here is a Marks family tradition.”
Jordan paled. “Oh no, Dad! I don’t think…”
“How lovely! Let’s have a look!” Lorraine replied.
Suddenly, Georgie was thankful for her mother’s Botox face as Denny proudly removed a wrinkled electric blue tuxedo with a ruffled dress shirt and matching trousers.
“Is that a vintage sharkskin tux?” Hector asked.
“Sure is. My dad married my mother in this suit, and I married my beautiful late wife in it. Son, it looks like you’ll be wearing it soon, too.”
Jordan’s gaze bounced between his father and her mother. “Dad, I didn’t even know you still had that.”
“I’d never part with it!” he said, running his index finger tenderly over the ruffled shirt.
“Wow, Denny! That tux is unique,” Georgie said, choosing her words carefully and trying to breathe through her mouth. She didn’t want to hurt the man’s feelings, but the suit was in awful shape and smelled terrible.
“Has that suit been stored in a chemical waste plant, or is that the mothballs I’m smelling?” her mother inquired, her face frozen in a muted state of surprise.
But the woman was right. The garment reeked.
“It’s the mothballs. And there’s more!” Denny answered, his features becoming more animated.
“More?” Lorraine Vanderdinkle repeated, drawing her hand delicately to her nose.
“Yes, ma’am! These are the very mothballs my grandfather used more than fifty years ago.”
Hector demurely pressed his fingertips to his nose and turned to her mother. “You could call it a vintage piece of living history.”
More like smelly history, but she was grateful Hector was trying to put a positive spin on the situation.
“Let’s have Nicolette take it off your hands so you can enjoy the celebration, Dennis!” her mother said with a practiced grin.
Georgie looked around. “Who’s Nicolette?”
“That would be me,” a petite woman with her dark hair in a severe bun answered in a thick French accent.
“And you are?” Georgie asked.
“She’s my personal assistant,” her mother replied with a wave of her hand.
Georgie frowned. “Why would you need a personal assistant? You don’t have a job.”
“Georgiana!” her mother scoffed. “Are you going to stand there and tell me that being a mother isn’t a job?”
“But I’m not a little kid. I’m twenty-seven years old.”
“And don’t I know it! Twenty-seven times more work!” her mother replied with an exaggerated sigh.
Georgie glanced at Jordan, who gave her a slight shake of the head. He was just as perplexed as she was with this Nicolette. Or perhaps it was the stench of the half-a-century-old mothballs.
“Nicolette, I need you to put this someplace special for Mr. Marks,” Lorraine purred.
Denny gazed at the suit. “Shucks, I was thinking of putting it on and wearing it for the party—for old times’ sake.”
Botox be damned! With Jordan’s father’s declaration, her mother’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline.
“No, no, no! We can’t have that and risk this heirloom getting stained or torn.”
“I guess you have a point,” the man conceded as the petite Nicolette whisked the garment out of his arms and sailed out of the ballroom like a member of a seasoned hazmat response team.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I should attend to the guests and check on the champagne fountain,” Lorraine said as her gaze traveled to the CityBeat producer livestreaming to the internet.
Her mother smiled into the camera. “Bobby, Hector, and, dear Barry, will you sweet men accompany me? So much to do! And I think your subscribers would love a behind the scenes sneak peek at Georgiana and Jordan’s party. As you all must know, it’s a mother’s duty to ensure the success of her baby’s special day,” the woman finished with yet another dramatic sigh.
Oh no!
A duty-bound Lorraine Vanderdinkle was never a good thing, but she sure as hell could use a brief respite from her mom and the CityBeat spotlight.
“And, Georgiana?” her mother said, gesturing to a lavish spread of pastries and petit fours.
“Yes, Mom?”
“That tray is off-limits—no sweets for you, pumpkin. The wedding diet starts now,” she added over her shoulder as she flitted into the crowd with Hector, Bobby, and Barry close behind.
Georgie groaned, then stared longingly at a row of delectable eclairs before bristling at the sight of a pineapple display.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Pineapple,” she said, the word alone nearly making her gag. “I’ve never liked it.”
“I didn’t know that,” he answered.
She turned away from the yellow pile of tropical fruit. “Yeah, you don’t even want to know about the pineapple incident of 1999.”
“Why?” Jordan queried with a perplexed expression.
“Let’s just say my mom made me eat a fruit cup containing the awful stuff before one of my pageants, and thanks to some impressive projectile vomiting, I’m no longer welcome at the Little Miss Pineapple Pageant in Honolulu.”
“Forget about the pineapple,” Jordan said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “We’ve got three tubes of vegan cookie dough at home.”
“This is why I love you,” she answered, staring into the eyes of her future husband.
“Oh no! You guys aren’t going to kiss, are you?”
Georgie chuckled, then hugged her favorite freckle-faced fifteen-year-old. “Simon! I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“I came with Mrs. Perry and the girls. My granny said it was okay for me to miss a couple of hours of school to celebrate with my favorite bookshop owner and trainer.”
“Did you get in your workout this morning?” Jordan asked, crossing his arms.
The boy lifted his chin. “I sure did, Mr. Marks. And I did ten extra push-ups.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Jordan answered, giving the kid a high five.
“Dad, this is Simon Bacon. He’s one of my most dedicated students,” Jordan said, introducing the kid to his father.
“How are you doing on the Shakespeare Shuffle prep?” Georgie asked the teen.
Simon had been the first student to sign up for the competition.
“Thanks to Mr. Marks, I’ve shaved thirty seconds off my mile, so I’m not too worried about the race part.”
“And the sonnet recitation? Are you sticking with the one Jordan and I suggested?” she pressed.
“Oh yeah! It’s sonnet one-sixteen every day after school, isn’t it, Simon?” Jordan said, clapping the kid’s shoulder.
The teen nodded. “Mr. Marks has me reciting it, over and over—no matter what exercise he’s got me doing.”
“I’m so happy you went with our suggestion. Sonnet one-sixteen is one of my favorites. It’s all about what love is and what it isn’t,” she answered.