You Call This Romance!?: You Call This Romance!? / Are You For Real. Barbara Daly

cell phone and reached her at her new job, then let Charity patch in Hope, who was shopping for office space in New York. She and her new love were going into business together, and Hope was the Real Estate Task Force.

      “What’s up?” Hope said briskly, while Charity said, “You okay, Faith?”

      “Oh, I’m fine,” Faith said. “I was just wondering what you wear in Reno in February on your honeymoon.”

      It really made her crazy when they squealed like that at the same time. She held the phone away from her ear until the squealing faded a little and then said, “Not my honeymoon. Ha. Gotcha.”

      “You twit,” Hope said.

      “Whose honeymoon?” Charity said.

      “Tippy Temple’s.”

      “Tippy Temple’s getting married?” Charity’s tone was hushed and reverent.

      “You know her?” Faith asked.

      “Who’s Tippy Temple?” Hope asked.

      “Someday you should take time to catch up on pop culture,” Charity scolded her. “Tippy Temple’s in that movie…”

      “…’A Kiss to Build a Dream on,’” Faith supplied.

      “…and she’s fantastic. So sweet…”

      “…and I’m going to Reno to fill in for her.”

      “Wait a minute,” Hope said.

      “Oh, Hope,” Faith said, “not on their real honeymoon. This is just a rehearsal.”

      “A rehearsal for what?” Hope was clearly in a militant feminist mode. Faith had imagined that falling in love would change Hope a little, but apparently she’d been mistaken.

      “For the video. I mean…” she halted, realizing she was getting in deeper with every word that came blabbing out of her mouth. “Hope,” she said firmly, “it’s business. You’ll just have to trust my judgment.”

      “Who’s the groom?” Charity said.

      Faith couldn’t stop herself. “Oh-h-h,” she said, sighing, “you mustn’t tell a soul, of course, but he’s a publicist named Cabot Drennan, and he’s everything Tippy deserves, the stuff dreams are made of—tall and tanned, strong and forceful, successful and…”

      In the silence, she realized what her sisters already knew, that her judgment was not to be trusted, especially not by her.

      4

      “I’VE GOT AN ANSWER FOR YOU.” Charity sounded abrupt. That meant she was not at her new job, but at one of her remaining modeling sessions and wearing shoes that were too tight.

      “Oh, thanks,” Faith said. “What was the question?”

      “What to wear on a honeymoon in Reno. I was talking to the stylist, and he—”

      “It’s a moot point now,” Faith said, cutting her off. “My trousseau just arrived, courtesy of Cabot Drennan, ‘Publicist to the Stars.’”

      “Wowie. He’s doing it up right,” Charity said. “Well, come on, tell me, what’d you get?”

      Feeling like Cinderella, Faith unzipped one bag after another. “There’s a pale-blue silk suit. With a matching straw hat. And clutch bag.”

      “Your going-away suit,” Charity said, sounding dreamy for once.

      “Tippy’s going-away suit,” Faith corrected her. “And here,” she said, unzipping another bag, “is a…oh, I see, it’s a layer of crumply silk over a layer of satin. The color of vanilla ice cream. And a cashmere shawl that matches.” She pulled the shawl around her shoulders and snuggled into it, relishing the softness of the wool.

      “A dinner dress for your wedding night.”

      Faith took a breath. “A dinner dress for Tippy’s wedding night.”

      “Oh. Right. I keep forgetting.”

      “Tippy won’t wear this same dress, of course,” Faith said. “She’ll wear something similar.” She paused. “Probably a size smaller,” she concluded grimly.

      “Oh, Faith, stop it. If you were any thinner you’d disappear. Hurry up and unpack some more. They’re going to call me soon. At least I hope so. My feet are killing me.”

      Faith unzipped and reported, unzipped and reported. Another fantastic dress, a white silk pantsuit. Bikinis and cover-ups. “You ought to see this,” she said finally. “It’s a pale-blue satin dressing gown just like the one Lauren Bacall wore in that forties movie, the one about—”

      “No underwear?”

      Neither Charity nor Hope shared her passion for the romantic old movies and were quick to cut her off when she launched into the plot of one of them. Too used to the maneuver to be offended, Faith riffled through the stack that was piling up on her bed. “No.”

      “No tempting teddies, black lace bikinis?”

      “No. Of course not,” she said a moment later. “They won’t be photographing Tippy in her underwear.”

      “Bummer. I’ll send you some money,” Charity said at once. “Go out and buy yourself some luscious—”

      “Absolutely not,” Faith said. “I have plenty of underwear. Just not the kind…” She caught herself. She’d almost said, Just not the kind I’d like Cabot to see me in. It was fortunate Charity couldn’t see her blushing. “Not the kind Tippy will take on her honeymoon.”

      “But you’d feel more romantic if you were wearing sexy underwear under those slinky clothes.”

      This time when Faith took her deep, stress-reducing breath, she also counted to three. “I don’t need to feel romantic. I don’t want to feel romantic, because it’s not my honeymoon.”

      Her impatience faded at once when she was distracted by the note that was attached to one of the handbags in the pile. “Make an appointment at Ricardo’s on Rodeo Drive to be fitted for shoes.”

      “Isn’t that thoughtful?” she said to Charity after explaining that her silence was not, in fact, an indication of rage. “My shoes are going to fit.”

      “Lucky you,” Charity groaned. “Oops, my turn. Gotta run.”

      AT THE SAME TIME he imagined Faith would be trying on her travel wardrobe, Cabot was having an argument with the stylist who would accompany his camera crew to Reno.

      “No,” he said. “Absolutely not. That’s going too far.”

      “It’s no different from putting a wig on a double.”

      The stylist, a young man with a roosterlike haircut and a diamond stud in one ear, sounded waspish. His shrunken black T-shirt rode up to show his navel, which brandished a ring set with a matching diamond. But he was good. He had to be good to afford diamonds that big. He had to be good for Cabot to hire him. Look what he’d done for Tippy already, the way he’d groomed her for those television interviews. Made her look like an angel. But Cabot wasn’t backing down on this one.

      “We’re talking about her eyes, Joey,” he said firmly. “I don’t want you messing with her eyes.”

      “A pair of blue contacts isn’t ‘messing with her eyes,’” Joey said, rolling his own, which were a suspiciously unnatural shade of turquoise. “Blue contacts and she’ll be a perfect double for Tippy.”

      “She doesn’t need to be that perfect.”

      “What? What? This is Mr. Has-to-be-Perfect I’m hearing? If you want a good take on the lighting she needs blue eyes. Period.”

      “She’s