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your goddamn eye. Grow up, Aaron.”
“Grow up? You of all people—”
“What about me of all people?” I’d been restraining myself all evening. If he wanted to fight, I was more than ready. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Aaron looked away, and I could see the muscles in his jaw go taut. Then he turned a cold gaze back to me. “Forget it. It’s not worth the trouble.”
And he walked out, leaving me to stew in my own complicated juices. Forget his objection to makeup? Or forget about him and me? I jammed my clipboard into my tote bag and pulled on my coat, muttering savagely under my breath all the while.
“How did it go?” Rhonda Coates, the EMP’s chic and ultra-efficient coordinator for private events, poked her head in from a side door. “Anything I can do to help?”
Only if you’ve got a magic wand to wave, I thought. “We’re all set, Rhonda, thanks.”
“Are you going to stay tonight and cruise the galleries? There’s a new exhibit on honky-tonk artists—”
“Wish I could,” I fibbed, “but I’ve got more paperwork to do tonight. You know how it is.”
“All too well,” she said. “Break a leg tomorrow.”
“That or somebody’s neck.”
She grinned and said good night. I walked up the aisle to the theater exit, and gave a silent groan when I opened the door: Zack was waiting for me right outside, slouching against the wall with his arms folded and his brow furrowed. He perked up visibly when he saw me—a warning sign right there if I hadn’t been too preoccupied to notice. “Are you all done now? We could have dinner in the café here.”
“Oh, I’ve already eaten. But thanks, Zack.”
“Where should we go, then?” He fell in step beside me as I cut through the EMP gift shop, crowded with visitors, on my way to the Fifth Avenue exit and Vanna.
“Go?” I said absently. “I’m going back to my office.”
Our way forward was blocked by a couple of teenagers, oblivious in their headphones at a demo kiosk for CDs. We were surrounded by shelves of souvenirs, coffee-table books, T-shirts and leather jackets, all celebrating rock and roll in one way or another.
As I edged my way around the teenagers, Zack stopped me with a hand on my arm. “You said on the phone that you’d, like, see me tonight. We have a date.”
He looked so hopeful, and vulnerable, that I bit back an irritated reply and said patiently, “When I said that, I meant I’d see you at the rehearsal, that’s all. I thought we agreed that we’re just friends.”
He frowned stubbornly. “I wanted to talk to you about that.”
Oh, lord. “Zack, I’ve got a screaming headache, and a million things to do before tomorrow evening. Let’s talk some other time, OK?”
He began to protest, but I turned my back and fled. I’d filled my quota of ill-tempered individuals for the day, and something told me that the Lamott/Wheeler wedding was going to set a new record.
Chapter Thirty-One
WHAT’S A WEDDING MORNING WITHOUT ONE LAST DISASTER?
Friday night, after a grueling round-robin of tactful phone calls, I persuaded Paul to apologize to Elizabeth on Aaron’s behalf—Aaron himself being incommunicado—and then got Elizabeth to accept the apology and simmer down. By Saturday morning I was checking off details and hitting on all cylinders—food, flowers, liquor, limos, table linens, glassware, music, parking, coat check, gift table, everything, even Corinne’s dress—when I got a call from Todd, the cake baker, at his studio on Queen Anne Hill. The ordinarily terse Scotsman was overflowing with apologies, anxiety, and bad news.
“I never screw up, Carnegie, you know that. I keep my truck tuned like a bloody piano. I’ve got Triple A here, but they can’t start it either, and once they tow it to a garage there’s no telling when I’ll get it back. I’ve been calling round to borrow a vehicle but—”
“No need,” I told him. “I’ll come over there myself. Vanna should be just big enough.”
“Who’s Vanna?”
“Sorry, I mean my van. If you can help me secure the cake in the back?”
“Aye, I’ve got all sorts of padding and tie-downs, we’ll make it work. You’re a bloody angel, Carnegie.” As he said it,
I could picture the relieved smile on Todd’s long, freckly face. “This is the grandest piece I’ve ever done, and I want those on-site photos.”
“You’ll get them,” I promised. “Will you ride down to the EMP with me?”
“I’d rather follow you in my car so I can go tend to my truck afterwards.”
“Fine. I’ll