Wedding Fever. Kim Gruenenfelder

      KIM GRUENENFELDER

       Wedding Fever

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      Prologue - Melissa

      Chapter One - Seema

      Chapter Two - Nicole

      Chapter Three - Seema

      Chapter Four - Melissa

      Chapter Five - Seema

      Chapter Six - Melissa

      Chapter Seven - Nicole

      Chapter Eight - Melissa

      Chapter Nine - Nicole

      Chapter Ten - Melissa

      Chapter Eleven - Seema

      Chapter Twelve - Nicole

      Chapter Thirteen - Melissa

      Chapter Fourteen - Seema

      Chapter Fifteen - Melissa

      Chapter Sixteen - Nicole

      Chapter Seventeen - Melissa

      Chapter Eighteen - Seema

      Chapter Nineteen - Melissa

      Chapter Twenty - Seema

      Chapter Twenty-One - Melissa

      Chapter Twenty-Two - Nicole

      Chapter Twenty-Three - Melissa

      Chapter Twenty-Four - Seema

      Chapter Twenty-Five - Melissa

      Chapter Twenty-Six - Seema

      Chapter Twenty-Seven - Melissa

      Chapter Twenty-Eight - Nicole

      Chapter Twenty-Nine - Melissa

      Chapter Thirty - Seema

      Chapter Thirty-One - Nicole

      Chapter Thirty-Two - Seema

      Chapter Thirty-Three - Melissa

      Chapter Thirty-Four - Nicole

      Chapter Thirty-Five - Melissa

      Chapter Thirty-Six - Nicole

      Chapter Thirty-Seven - Seema

      Chapter Thirty-Eight - Melissa

      Chapter Thirty-Nine - Seema

      Chapter Forty - Nicole

      Chapter Forty-One - Melissa

      Chapter Forty-Two - Seema

      Chapter Forty-Three - Mel

      Chapter Forty-Four - Nicole

      Chapter Forty-Five - Seema

      Chapter Forty-Six - Nicole

      Chapter Forty-Seven - Seema

      Chapter Forty-Eight - Melissa

      Chapter Forty-Nine - Nicole

      Chapter Fifty - Seema

      Acknowledgements

      About the Author

      Praise

      Copyright

       About the Publisher

      Prologue

      Melissa

      Is it a really bad sign when the bride has locked herself in the bathroom? Or is it just one of those things that all brides are secretly tempted to do right before the ceremony?

      I am standing in the back room of a beautiful old church in Santa Monica wearing a sparkly satin aquamarine dress with a giant bow at the hip, dyed-to-match aquamarine pumps, and an aquamarine hat so ostentatious it could make Liberace climb out of his grave just to tell me to tone it down a bit.

      Obviously, I’m the bridesmaid. An honor that currently affords me the task of knocking politely on the bathroom door of my good friend Nicole (aka The Bride) and begging her to come out.

      “Nic? Honey,” I say gently, tapping lightly on the door. “Do you want to talk about it?”

      “No,” she whispers to me through the locked door. “I’m an awful, selfish person who doesn’t deserve a wedding, or a marriage, or happiness. And I am going to die alone with a bunch of potbellied pigs.”

      “Pigs?” I ask, confused but trying to sound understanding and sympathetic. “Why would you end up with pigs?”

      “I hate cats.”

      I can’t tell if she’s overreacting or not. I mean, when you think about it, a wedding is an astonishingly big leap of faith. Any ceremony that specifically mentions “sickness,” “poverty,” and “death” as part of the agreement— that should at least give a girl pause. Right?

      Maybe that’s why society has encouraged women to focus more on the glittering diamonds, the gorgeous dress, the flowers, the presents, the cake. . . .

      Oh . . . the cake. After this past week, I’m pretty sure the bride doesn’t even want to hear the word cake, much less look at one.

      Our friend Seema, Nic’s maid of honor, opens the front door of the bridal room and backs her way in, careful to keep the door as shut as possible while she slithers through the doorway. Seema wears the same ridiculous ensemble as I, but her luminous Indian skin can handle the hideous shade of blue Nic has picked for us. And her hourglass figure easily pulls off the lacy décolletage of the V-neck top and the stupid bow at the hip.

      “No, no problem at all,” Seema insists with forced cheer to someone out in the hall. “We just need a few more minutes. The bride . . .” She glances over at me as she struggles to finish her sentence. “. . . smaid!” Seema continues. “The bridesmaid is depressed that it’s never going to be her and has locked herself in the bathroom. We’ll be right out.”

      Seema slams the door shut, locks it, then runs over to me, still camped out at the bathroom door. “I think I bought us a few more minutes,” Seema whispers to me hurriedly. “I don’t think anyone suspects anything yet.”

      My eyes bug out at her. “Who was that?”

      “The church lady. She wants to know why we’re behind schedule.”

      “Why did you tell her that I was the depressed one?” I whine to her in a whisper. “Like I’m not having enough problems today. Do I really need three hundred people thinking I’m holding up a wedding because I can’t get my love life together?”

      “I panicked,” Seema admits in a whisper. “Besides, it could be an excuse.”

      “Did it ever occur to you to use your sorry excuse for a love life as an excuse?” I challenge her. (An outburst that is completely out of character for me but I believe well within my rights.)

      “Fine,” Seema concedes, her tone of voice clearly brushing me off. “So next time, you can go out there, and use me as the excuse.” Seema begins rapping on Nicole’s bathroom door several times. “Nic, drama time’s over,” she says firmly, but ever so quietly. ( Can’t have the wedding guests hear anything in the back room, after all.) “Now come on out.”

      “No!” Nic whispers back urgently through the door.

      “Don’t