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  “I hate their screeching call,” she told Helen. “But King says it’s the sound of money. That’s why I had my attendants wear peacock blue.”

  A woman in a peacock blue dress marched down the aisle on the terrace and took a seat in a white folding chair on the groom’s side. Her blond hair was longer than her short, tight skirt. Her face was deeply tanned. Dark lipstick crept into the cracks on her lips.

  “Is she a bridesmaid?” Helen asked.

  Honey laughed, her voice rich with contempt. “Her? That’s King’s old girlfriend, Tiffany. She’s a stripper. Tiffany expected King to marry her, but he chose me instead.” Her voice was smug with satisfaction.

  “Tiffany is very bitter,” Honey said. “But King insisted she be invited to our wedding—and she had the nerve to show up.”

  Tiffany had a lean, muscular body with oversized breasts. Helen wondered if she’d worn the skimpy dress to show King—and everyone else—what he was missing.

  “There’s my bridesmaid, Cassie, standing by the palm tree. She is King’s daughter.”

  Helen expected Cassie to be as gross as her father. But the young woman was small and slender with shiny gold hair. She wore only a little pink lipstick. Her peacock blue dress hugged her curves without being too tight. How did the disgusting King spawn this elegant creature?

  The older woman beside Cassie was a classic Boca babe. Even from a distance, Helen could see her forehead was smoothly paralyzed by Botox. Her eyelids were stretched tight from too many surgeries. Her bee-stung lips bulged with collagen. Her dress was almost the same style as Cassie’s, but it didn’t look as good on her.

  “The older one is King’s ex-wife, Posie,” Honey whispered. “She’s furious that he divorced her to marry me.”

  “King invited her, too?” Helen asked.

  “Yes, it’s awkward, but I’m making the best of it,” Honey said. “King invited a lot of sex-industry workers, too. I’m not friends with them, but it’s good for his business. King pays strippers and hookers to find information for his blog and TV show. That’s what keeps this house going.”

  Helen surveyed the huge pink Spanish-style mansion, the long green lawns and bright gardens. The house that sleaze built, one dirty little act at a time.

  “Are your friends from the hospital here?” Helen asked.

  “Uh, no,” Honey said. She hesitated, then added quickly, “They were busy.”

  Or you were busy, Helen thought, dropping the people you knew before you climbed your way to riches.

  “We had room for only two hundred guests,” the bride said. “I’m so glad we have good weather and didn’t have to cram the tables inside. We don’t have a backyard because of the Olympic-sized pool.”

  The pool looked like something in a resort hotel, with a swim-up bar and a waterfall. Pool toys bobbed in the water, including a floating chaise with a drink holder.

  “You can see the problem,” Honey said.

  Nice problem, Helen thought.

  “King bought the house next door and had it torn down so we could have the terrace and the fountain,” Honey said. “We needed to spread out a little.”

  More not-so-subtle bragging. Waterfront houses on Hendin Island started at four million dollars. The land was so valuable it should have been sold by the inch.

  A florist struggled to carry an overwrought bouquet of blue and purple flowers to a bridal arch covered with purple orchids and peacock feathers.

  “That’s a beautiful bridal arch,” Helen said.

  “Thirty thousand dollars, and it will be dead tomorrow,” the bride said. Conspicuous consumption made her glow. A breeze rustled her skirt, and Honey’s sister, Melody, held it to keep it from blowing into the fountain. Helen grabbed the long veil as the wind caught it.

  “Do we have time for more pictures?” Honey asked.

  “Less than fifteen minutes until the wedding,” the photographer said, checking his watch. “You might want to freshen up.”

  Honey gathered her skirts and hurried toward the house, her sister trailing behind her. Miguel Angel followed with his sponge. As Helen closed the makeup case, she heard the sound of a sharp slap. An angry young woman said, “Get your hands off me. You bought my pictures, not me.”

  A red-faced Mireya charged out from under the stucco arches along the side of the house, her dark curls bobbing. King strolled off in the other direction, a red handprint on his cheek. Helen wondered if it would fade before the ceremony.

  King chugged more bourbon and surveyed his kingdom. The rows of white chairs set up on the thick green grass were nearly filled.

  Helen wondered which guests were in the so-called sex industry. She decided the men in the shiny suits were in the business. Some were lean, some were fat, but they all had a hungry, feral look, as if all the sex they could buy wouldn’t satisfy them. Many looked vaguely familiar, but Helen couldn’t put names with the faces. She assumed they were celebrities King had promoted or ruined—or both.

  Peacock blue was the color this season for the women. There were so many dresses in that shade, Helen couldn’t keep the women apart. All had dyed blond hair. Many had leathery, tanned faces, lean bodies, and a slightly dirty look to their skin. Helen decided they were strippers or hookers.

  The Latino photographer and his pretty assistant wandered everywhere with their cameras, taking pictures of the flowers, the food, the musicians and the wedding party. Many of the men gave young Mireya hungry looks, as if they were predators at a watering hole instead of guests at a wedding.

  Phoebe was still giggling with the older gentleman guest.

  “Helen,” Miguel Angel called from a window, “I need you here.”

  Helen hurried upstairs. I hope that worthless Phoebe marries the scrawny old guy with his skinny arms and flabby bottom, Helen thought, as she lugged the heavy case. Serves her right. She’ll work for that man’s money a lot harder than she works at the salon.

  “Hurry, Miguel Angel,” the bride said. “The ceremony is starting soon. We don’t want to keep King waiting.”

  “He might grab someone else,” Helen said.

  Miguel Angel frowned at her. He must have noticed the groom’s wandering hands.

  “Are you feeling better?” Helen asked Honey.

  “Oh yes. My boy has a kick like a soccer star. That’s what I tell his daddy.” Honey paused, then said, “King didn’t mean any harm. He can be a little moody.”

  Moody? Threatening to ruin a man was moody?

  “He shouldn’t have been walking around without his clothes,” Honey said. “He’s so comfortable with me, he forgets sometimes. I’m a nurse, so I don’t count.”

  “I understand,” Helen said. I understand that you will put up with anything for his money, she thought.

  “Look!” Honey pointed out the window at a portly man in black robes. “There’s the judge who is marrying us.”

  Helen remembered the groom’s threat that he knew people in government who could ruin Miguel Angel. King had at least one judge in his pocket.

  “He’s a circuit court judge. King doesn’t associate with criminal judges.” Honey made it sound as if the judges were criminals.

  “There’s Jonathan, the governor’s assistant.” Honey pointed to a pale young man sweating in a gray suit. “See that woman in the coral dress? She’s a city commissioner. The man in the Armani tux with the pretty gray hair is King’s lawyer, Harris. He’s giving me away.”

  “Not your father?” Helen asked.

  “My father’s dead,” Honey said.

  “I’m sorry,” Helen said.

  “It was a long time ago,” Honey said, and shrugged. “The short man in the shiny black suit with the red tie is King’s old partner from the strip club, Wyllis Drifford. He’s suing King.”

  “And he came to the wedding?” Helen said.

  “King says keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

  Helen looked at the colorful panorama spread out below them—the women in je
wel tones, the men in drab suits—and wondered how many were King’s enemies.

  The musicians began “Air on the G String.” Helen thought that choice was appropriate, considering the groom’s interest in strippers and strip clubs.

  The bride got a panicked look, like Cinderella as the clock struck midnight. For one instant, she looked like she might run away.

  “That’s the processional,” Honey said. “I have to be downstairs.”

  Miguel Angel gave Honey’s face one last dab with the sponge and touched up her lipstick. Then he gave her a light kiss on the cheek. Honey squared her shoulders and picked up her white rose bouquet. Melody helped her sister down the carpeted stairs, holding the poufy skirt.

  “Be careful you don’t catch your heel,” Melody said. “Those shoes are high.”

  She tottered downstairs on equally high heels. In the living room, the florist handed Melody a star-shaped bouquet of blue flowers.

  The wedding party lined up. The groomsmen waited by the pink stucco arch. The aisle was white satin, flanked by candles and swags of greenery.

  King’s daughter walked down the aisle first, to murmurs of approval from the wedding guests. “Cassie has class, even if her father doesn’t,” Helen said to Miguel Angel.

  Melody was next. She clutched her bouquet as if it might save her from drowning.

  Handel’s “Arrival of the Queen of Sheba” announced the bride’s entrance. Helen thought it fit Honey’s newly exalted opinion of herself. The groom dropped his bourbon bottle in a potted palm and walked out to meet his bride. The bottle seemed nearly empty, but he didn’t stagger.

  The bride promised to love King until death parted them.

  “She doesn’t deserve this,” Miguel Angel said. “She’s too good for him.”

  “But not too good for his money,” Helen said.

  Miguel glared at her.

  “I now pronounce you man and wife,” the judge said. “May I present the new Mr. and Mrs. Kingman Oden?”

  The wedding guests applauded. Someone yelled, “Long live the King!”

  The musicians struck up Handel’s Royal Fireworks “Overture.” Helen wondered if the royal theme was deliberate. She guessed it was better than “Pomp and Circumstance.”

  The triumphant Honey towed her red-faced, sweating groom down the aisle. Helen could see the relief on the bride’s face.

  “Does she know that man is no prize?” Helen asked.

  “Poor Honey,” Miguel Angel said. “Her troubles are just starting.”

  Miguel Angel had delivered a prophesy on the marriage.

  Chapter 4

  “Soon you’ll be the bride in your own receiving line,” Miguel Angel said to Helen. “I could fix your hair like Honey’s.”

  “Not unless you can give me her chin,” Helen said. “My chin disappears when you pile my hair up on my head.”

  She waited for Miguel to disagree. Instead he said,“Maybe it’s better to wear your hair long and loose. But I can do your hair and makeup so you’ll be the most beautiful bride in Fort Lauderdale. It will be my gift.”

  “I’ll take it,” Helen said. “But my wedding won’t be like Honey’s. It will be in Margery’s backyard, with tiki torches, box wine, hors d’oeuvres from Publix, and naked chairs.”

  “Naked chairs?” Miguel Angel looked puzzled.

  “All the chairs at this wedding dinner have rented covers,” Helen said.

  “Then I will sit naked,” Miguel Angel said.

  Melody, the maid of honor, widened her eyes at Miguel’s remark.

  “Uh, that lost something in the translation,” Helen said to Melody, and pasted on a smile.

  They moved quickly past the maid of honor and smiled vaguely at the young bridesmaid, Cassie. King’s daughter looked sulky. At last they stood before the bride, a shining princess in white taffeta.

  Miguel Angel kissed Honey and said,“I know you’ll be very happy.” Then he patted her nose with the makeup sponge again.

  “You look lovely, Honey,” Helen said. At least that was the truth.

  “Please get yourselves a drink and some hors d’oeuvres,” Honey said. “And save room for dinner. You’re sitting at table twenty-nine, near the flower urns.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Helen said. Most brides made the hairstylists and makeup artists eat in the kitchen—if they got to eat at all.

  The groom wrung Helen’s hand like a dishrag. His hand was damp and he’d sweated through his tux. King was so drunk he could hardly stand.

  “Do you think he’s intoxicated by love?” she whispered to Miguel Angel.

  “Love doesn’t smell like a distillery,” he said, and wrinkled his nose.

  A white-gloved server passed a tray of champagne glasses. Helen snagged one, then headed for the appetizer bar. She piled a small plate with spicy shrimp, smoked salmon, and blue cheese canapés with candied pecans. She added a carrot stick, which made her feel virtuous.

  “Are you going to be able to fit into your wedding dress?” Miguel Angel asked.

  “Don’t have one,” Helen said. “I’ve been through the white-wedding routine. Never again. Phil knows he’s not getting a virgin.”

  “You still need a wedding dress,” Miguel Angel said. “I can advance you the money, if you want. Men are romantics, Helen. What Phil knows in his mind is different from what he feels in his heart. He should see you in a special dress.”

  “Thanks, Miguel. That’s good advice.” Helen piled four mini quiches on her already overloaded plate.

  “But you are not going to take it, are you?” he said. “You are stubborn.”

  “Right now, I’m hungry,” Helen said. “Look at that wedding cake. It’s like a water slide.”

  The towering cake had seven layers, with auxiliary layers branching off on four sides. The calories in the sugar roses would equal the national debt.

  On a nearby table was a chocolate fountain surrounded by heaping bowls of fresh strawberries, bananas, oranges, nuts and whipped cream.

  Helen heard someone tapping on a glass, and the guests quieted. King’s best man stood at a microphone near the wedding cake, holding a champagne glass. The man leaned as if he were charging into a high wind. Helen suspected he was a sex-industry worker. His face was acne-scarred and flushed with alcohol. His bow tie was undone, and his wrinkled shirt bulged over a purple paisley cummerbund.

  “Hi.” He breathed into the microphone, and there was earsplitting feedback. “Oops.”

  He adjusted the mic. “I’m Barry, the best man. And ladies”—he waggled his eyebrows—“there’s no better man here tonight, now that King is taken. I want to toast the bride and goon—I mean, groom.”

  Helen groaned at the corny joke.

  “Honey met King in bed, which is how King met most of his ladies, but he didn’t have to pay this one.” Helen could see wedding guests squirming in embarrassment.

  “Put your eyebrows down, folks,” Barry said. “The new Mrs. Oden was a nurse, and she met King when he was in the hospital. She looks a lot prettier today, holding roses. When I met her, she’d just stuck a needle in King’s hairy ass.”

  There was a shocked silence. Honey was pale with fury. She didn’t enjoy this memory.

  “I can say this because I’m King’s oldest friend.” Barry stifled a belch. “Speaking of hairy asses, the bride has seen her share—in the line of duty, of course. But those days are over. Now all she has to do is put up with King. That’s not easy, either. I should know. I’m his TV show producer. Now a toast. To King and his Honey.”

  The guests raised their glasses and said, “To King and Honey.”

  King reached for his abandoned bourbon bottle and finished it.

  “Now, everybody, grab a table,” Barry said. “Eat and drink up. King’s paying the bill, and it’s lobster and prime rib.”

  The bride looked relieved that the toasting was over. She was regaining her color. Helen wondered how many sly humiliations she’d had to endure from King and h
is low-rent friends.

  “But wait, folks. One more thing.” Barry was back at the mic, a drunken grin on his face. The mortified bride clutched her bouquet. Helen thought the bouquet hid her shaking hands.

  “Let me give you one more toast, the one my daddy used to say.” Barry paused dramatically:“May you live forever, and may I never die.”

  Some guests raised their glasses again. Others looked confused. The toast made Helen shiver. Before Barry could say more, the musicians started playing Handel’s Water Music.

  Helen had no idea who gave the signal to start the music, but she was glad Barry was drowned out by it.

  The slightly unsteady groom led his drooping bride to the head table. The wedding party followed, two by two. Barry gave maid of honor Melody a lopsided grin and a sneaky grope as she settled into her seat. She inched her chair away from him. Cassie sulked, ignoring her escort, an older man with thin hair and an underslung jaw. She had a small camera near her bouquet, and kept snapping pictures of her father when Honey’s head was turned.

  Helen and Miguel Angel found table twenty-nine. It was as overdressed as the bride. The table had a peacock underskirt, a white linen overskirt, and a centerpiece of peacock feathers and blue carnations. Each place setting was marked with a crystal star. Each chair was covered in white fabric and tied with a blue bow.

  “These are the rented chair covers?” Miguel Angel whispered.

  “Yes,” Helen said. “Get a good look. You won’t see them at my wedding.”

  Phoebe sat on Miguel Angel’s right. “Hi,” she said.

  He ignored her.

  Across from Helen was the older man Phoebe had been flirting with. He sat next to a full-figured brunette in a daring red dress. The gentleman kissed the brunette’s manicured fingers. Phoebe smiled at him and said hello. He looked right past her. Two snubs in less than a minute.

  A white-gloved server brought pasta in a cream sauce for the appetizer.

  “Ew, fattening,” Phoebe said, and pushed hers away. Helen and Miguel Angel dug in.

  The second course was Caesar salad.