Wedding Bell Blues. Charlotte Douglas

and grandmother, and dressed to the nines every time she stepped outside her door.

      Caroline also thrived on being in charge and, unfortunately, my distant nuptials now topped her to-do list.

      “I don’t have time for this now,” I said. “Bill will be here any minute to take me to dinner.”

      Caroline sank onto the sofa and began arranging magazines and fabric swatches on the coffee table. “Good. We can get his opinion.”

      Desperate to be rid of her, I pointed to the gowns on the magazine covers. “Isn’t it bad luck for the groom to see the bride’s dress before the ceremony?”

      Caroline was a stickler for tradition but not to be deterred. “Good thinking. Lock the door, and when he comes, don’t let him in until I’ve hidden what we’ve selected.”

      Unconcerned with superstition, I left the door unlatched. To my sister’s credit, however, I had to admit that her heart was in the right place. She just couldn’t get her head around the fact that I couldn’t care less about wedding dresses or any other aspect of an elaborate ceremony. She lived to shop and believed everyone else shared her enthusiasm.

      “Why don’t you leave those?” I suggested. “Give me a chance to look through them and get back to you.”

      The look she shot me reminded me so much of Mother that I shivered.

      “Now,” she said, “back to business. What about white?”

      “What about it?”

      She cupped her chin in her hand and studied me with a frown. “You are older and probably…uh…more experienced than most brides—” Her expression brightened. “But virginal isn’t a requirement for wearing white these days.”

      “Not only do I not want white—”

      “Good! That’s a beginning.” She grabbed a magazine from the top of the stack. “Here’s a Vera Wang creation that would suit you. And plum is the hot new color for brides.”

      “Plum? As in purple? It turns my skin yellow. If I appear in public in plum, one of Daddy’s doctor friends will place my name on the waiting list for a liver transplant.”

      “Not a problem. It comes in other colors.”

      Arguing with Caroline was like pushing on a rope.

      She thrust the magazine into my hands. “See? What do you think?”

      I studied the picture of a skinny model with flawless shoulders dressed in a strapless fitted bodice and enough fabric in her billowing skirt to clothe a small school and shook my head, as much in disbelief as negation. “Much too formal for what Bill and I have in mind, and—my God! Five thousand dollars for a dress?” I struggled for breath. “You’ve got to be kidding. I paid less than that for my first car.”

      Caroline waved her fingers in a breezy gesture of dismissal. “Mother’s picking up the tab. She can afford it.”

      “Caroline,” I said in my firmest tone, “Bill and I want our wedding to be uncomplicated, simple—”

      “Elegant is the word you’re looking for.”

      “No, I was going for small. Very small. Try minuscule.”

      She looked shocked. “But it can’t be small. Mother’s planning for eight hundred.”

      My knees gave way and I sank into the nearest chair. “I don’t even know eight hundred people.”

      “They’re Mother’s friends.”

      “But this is my wedding.”

      “Would you deny your elderly mother the pleasure of seeing her daughter married in appropriate style?” When Logic Fails, Apply Guilt was Caroline’s motto, aptly learned at dear old mom’s knee.

      “Appropriate style?” I sputtered with frustration. “What you two have in mind is more like a three-ring circus.”

      Anger flashed briefly across Caroline’s perfectly made-up face. She took a deep breath before speaking. “I know you’re suffering from premarital jitters, but—”

      “The only thing making me jittery is the prospect of a wedding fit for Donald Trump.” Desperation made my tone sharper than I’d intended and I felt the stirring of hives beneath my skin, usually brought forth only by having to deal with homicide.

      Caroline’s smile turned catlike. “Trump’s on the guest list.”

      I groaned and buried my face in my hands.

      At the sound of Bill’s car turning into the parking lot, Roger yelped with joy, bounded to the front door, and did his canine version of a happy dance.

      “Bill’s here.” I was thankful for the excuse to give my sister the boot. “No time to hide those bride thingies. You’d better take them with you.”

      Caroline hurriedly stuffed swatches into the shopping bag and gathered up the magazines. “We’ll need to reschedule.”

      How about twenty years from now? “I’ll check my calendar at the office and get back to you,” I lied.

      Caroline bustled out the front door and passed Bill on the walk.

      “Hey, Caroline.” Bill greeted her with more warmth than she deserved under the circumstances.

      “Hi, Bill. Got to run.” She hunched her shoulders to hide the magazines as if they held secrets vital to national security and scurried to her car.

      When Bill came inside, I threw my arms around him. “Thank God. Saved by the Bill.”

      He kissed me, then leaned back to study my face. “Still waging the Battle of the Bride?”

      I nodded. “It’s a standoff. The enemy won’t admit defeat and I refuse to surrender.”

      Bill shook his leg to shed Roger, an equal-opportunity humper. “Maybe you need new rules of engagement.”

      “Engagement is what started this war in the first place.”

      “We could launch a preemptive strike. Pack your bag. We’ll elope.”

      Panic seized me. I wanted to marry Bill, but I wasn’t ready. “Not tonight. I have to wash my hair.”

      He shook his head and laughed.

      “You think this is funny?” I said. “Today I learned that Mother’s planning to invite Donald Trump to our wedding. They serve together on several charity boards.”

      “We can handle Donald,” Bill assured me with a hug. “He seems like a nice guy.”

      “Can you handle half the civilized world? So far Mother’s guest list is at eight hundred.”

      Bill’s confident expression wavered. “I need a drink. Bring Roger. I know just the place.”

      I sipped a vodka-and-tonic slowly to make it last. Since I was driving to interview Julianne Pritchard after supper, one drink was my limit.

      Roger curled in my lap while I lounged in a teak reclining chair on the rear deck of the Ten-Ninety-Eight. Bill manned the grill. Upon retiring from the Tampa Police Department several years ago, Bill had bought the cabin cruiser, named it for the police code for “mission completed,” and moved aboard. After we’d closed on our house, a renovated Cape Cod in Dave Adler’s neighborhood, Bill had suggested we move into it together, but I’d insisted we wait until after the wedding. My decision was one part knowing how much Bill loved living on his boat, another part my belief in old-fashioned values, and the biggest part my continuing reluctance to take that last giant step toward commitment.

      The tantalizing aroma of grouper and an assortment of vegetables mixed with the briny scent of the breeze off the water. Bill turned the food on the grill, grabbed a beer and settled into the chair beside mine. His customary contented expression