My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding (16 page)

He winked. "Well, that's all right. See you then, Miss Foster." He swept away, tossing her a last lookoh, that was another glint all right, but who was counting?then went to consult with one of the technicians in his group.

Frankie sagged, suddenly drained. It felt like every muscle in her body had gone through a major workout. This was no surprise she'd always had a weakness for performers. Their energy was unique, addictive, and not always good for her.

Better to enjoy it from the safe distance of audience seating than up close andandand ... up close. She grabbed the platter of mushrooms and continued on, picking her way forward over the junk on the floor. Breaking through to the other side of the platform, she made it to the buffet tables.

"I gotta stay away from the showbiz types," she muttered. They were exciting but more often than not came with baggage, or expected her to know all the unwritten rules of their trade. Oh, and egos; don't forget egos. It was a very different world from hers, and the culture shock tended to mess with her head and heart too much.

She'd once wasted six weeks dating a gorgeous but terminally insecure mama's boy. He'd finally picked one fight too many when she hadn't applauded hard enough for his performance as the second murderer in a community theater production of
Macbeth.

The Elvis guy . . . devastatingly hot, but off her menu. She would appreciate his talent from a distance.

Catering was her speed and her life, and she was good at it. She could cook like a demon and calculate the cost (gross and net) for a sitdown feast for a hundred in her head and was able to guide the most nervous of brides through the complex process of planning a wedding supper. Yes, better to stick to what she knew best and not mix worlds.

Of course, it never hurt to peek over the fence at the guest talent now and then.

Frankie took an empty platter from the appetizers table, slipping her full one into place so quickly that the guests filing past hardly noticed. She checked the food levels at the various tables and was pleased (and relieved) to see she'd figured things right yet again. The salad bar was popular. The bridesmaids, all of them railthin magazine models like the bride, were chewing through the lettuce, veggies, and tofu like starved rabbits. That had been a clever call, to find out how many guests were vegetarians and allow for it. Raw green edibles were cheap, allowing one to get fancy with the meat dishes and still stay within the budget.

The prime rib (a costly but popular classic) was steadily shrinking along with the chicken and fish as lines of guests inched by filling their plates. Her secondincommand, Omar, had everything in hand. As the last of the rib vanished, he produced another, expertly carving it up with one of his big knives.

Except for the spill (sticky fruit juice, not pricey wine), this job was going exceptionally well. It was the bride's third time at marriage, so she'd known exactly what she wanted. Planning had been easy, though the numbers had staggered Frankie at first. She'd never done a wedding of this size before and was grateful the bride had opted for a buffet. Frankie didn't have the staff to deal with serving so many tables. Not with food, anyway. There were a number of fleetfooted temps rushing around making sure everyone had their drink of choice. If the staff had to serve food as well it would have been too big a job and Frankie would have had to turn it down altogether.

Which meant she'd have missed meeting the Elvis guy.

"What's he like?"

She tried not to give a start. The question had come from Gramma, who was in charge of the dinner rolls. A nicely preserved seventy, she liked to keep busy and loved helping out on weddings.

"He, who?" Frankie asked.

"The groom. You knowSantiago."

Because she had lots of practice, Frankie kept from making a face at the name she presumed the man had chosen for himself. He was a flashy TV wrestler, big and muscled through and through. Somehow the magic of a tuxedo (a custom extraextralarge fit) had given sophisticated class to his shaved head and the tattoos all over his scalp. "Not my type," she answered.

Gramma made a frustrated noise involving both nose and throat. "Wake up and smell the sweat, girl; he's awesome!" She quivered a bit, not from infirmity but adrenaline. The buckets of testosterone floating around the wedding partyas represented by the groom's many beefcake pals from the wrestling worldhad its effect on her. She was fond of saying, "I'm old, not dead!"

"Still not my type." Frankie shrugged. Santiago put her off, and it wasn't anything to do with his fearsome outward looks. There was something inside him she'd picked up on but hadn't bothered to identify.

Regardless of what was hidden within, the man had netted himself a beauty, a cover model for the slicks who was fast gaining international recognition.

The bride had been on a photo shoot requiring she be in evening clothes surrounded by wrestlers, the tougher looking the better, and he was the toughest of the lot. Somehow they'd hit it off. Perhaps they'd found common groundso to speakwith their geographically inspired names. Hers happened to be Trinidad.

Frankie wondered if they would continue the tradition of place names for their kids. She had a mercifully brief mental picture of them posing for a Christmas card photo before the fireplace, Santiago with his beefy arm around Trinidad and on their laps little Tierra del Fuego and his sister, Peru.

But somehow Frankie knew that would never happen. Santiago . . . what was it about him?

Frankie had a clear view of him across the crowded room. She didn't do it often since it was sort of like invading another's privacy, but now she was curious. She focused and let it come to her. The smallest nuances of expression and body language took on predictable meaning. Just a bare hint was all she got at this distance, but she had it. Oh, dear. This was bad. He would want Trinidad to stay home, wait on him hand and foot, have babies, and cheer nonstop at his wrestling bouts, her modeling days over.

That wouldn't work with her; she loved her career and had left two exhusbands (a minor rock star and an accountant) in her wake to pursue it.

Well, darn. Frankie grimaced. The split, and there would be one, would start within months of the couple's return from the honeymoon. Any warning Frankie gave wouldn't be believed. They were both past the age of consent, hitched, and happy for now. Matters would take their course.

No one liked a Cassandra, as Frankie had figured out during puberty when her talent for reading people first manifested itself. She didn't always get a handle on a person's future, but she could tell friend from foe. It came in very handy for her business. She could accurately determine who would bounce her check and who would not, thus booting a number of mystified deadbeats out the door long before they ordered anything.

But sadly, she wasn't allknowing. There was the hormone factor. If a man hit all her buttons at the same time, then her talent seized up and stopped working. Like what happened with the actor.

Like what had just happened with the Elvis guy.

No regrets there, and no big problem, since Frankie wouldn't be dating him even if he asked. A nice meal on the leftovers and maybe some shop talk would be the limit. Gramma would get a big kick out of it, though. She adored Elvis and had volunteered to help at this reception as soon as she heard an impersonatorertribute artist had been hired as the wedding singer. This man's resemblance to the original was uncannyat least when seen backstage in low lighting. Maybe a picture or two of Gramma with him could be arranged. He had seemed a friendly sort. . . unless that was just part of his act. Until she could mentally settle down, Frankie wouldn't be reading him.

Hoping to catch a glimpse of him again, Frankie looked across the wide reception hall toward the platform stage. It glittered with gold tinsel and Mylar balloons. A girl in a maroon coat with wide padded shoulders that marked her as one of the musicians was messing around with the drums, while two guys in matching maroon Tshirts checked the microphones and soundboard. A second musician had both acoustic and electric guitars in place onstage and was making sure the latter were hooked up to power. This promised to be more like a concert than wedding entertainment. She caught the group's name from the front of the bass drum: "Coop's CoolCats." The three Cs were linked to one another in a fiftie'sstyle font. Very retro. No sign of the star, though.

"How's it going?" asked a girl who eased up next to her.

"Pretty good, but I don't want to jinx things," said Frankie. The question had come from Aleen, one of the bridesmaids. She actually looked good in her special dress, though tradition held that such things had to be walking eyesores. On Aleen it worked. She went in for piercings, lots of piercings: ears, tongue, and other places that didn't bear thinking about, soot black hair, and tattoos. So what was a little purple satin with flounces against all that? Like Trinidad, Aleen was a professional model. She was very popular for the more edgy fashion layouts. She and Frankie had been best friends since grade school, and she'd suggested Yummy Catering to the bride, for which Frankie was still thanking her. Trinidad had taken quite a chance bestowing her trade on an unknown.

"Trini was so nervous before the ceremony," said Aleen. "Didn't show one flicker of it when she went down the aisle. What a pro."

"Nervous? Five hundred guests, bodyguards, and the tabloid press to juggle, why should she be nervous?" Frankie shook her head.

"The usual. Third time's supposed to be the charm. She really wants this one to work."

"Then she picked the wrong guy," said Gramma, who had leaned sideways from the bread tray to listen.

"Oh, don't tell me your vibe twanged again." Aleen looked distressed. Of course, it was hard to tell, as her trademark chalkwhiteandgraytoned makeup made her look distressed all the time.

"Like a guitar with a bad string." Gramma pronounced.

"Frankie?"

She nodded agreement. Gramma
had
picked up on Santiago's inner man, just chosen not to mention it. " 'Fraid so."

"You guys are just spooky with that."

"A blessing and a curse," said Gramma, raising her gaze briefly to the ceiling as though to apportion blame; then she resumed dishing out rolls with a smile.

"What's going to happen?"

Frankie haltingly gave what few deductions she'd drawn concerning Santiago.

Gramma backed her up on it, then added: "It won't necessarily turn out that way Things can change."

"How?" Aleen demanded.

Gramma shrugged. "That's up to the happy couple. Maybe Trinidad will suddenly go all domestic; maybe Santiago will join the twentyfirst century and back off from pushing her into being something she's not. The key to any solid relationship is seeing your partner for what he or she is, not for what you've projected onto them. Projections always disappoint."

"But poor Trini," said Aleen. "I feel I should warn her or something."

"Never works. Trust me, it's been tried."

"Is your vibe
ever
wrong?"

"Never. But it's handy. Helped me pick the right man. Helped Frankie's mom do the same. Hopefully she'll have the same good luck if and when she takes a crack at it."

Frankie rolled her eyes. "Just not tonight. I'm too busy." So saying, she hurried to another part of the serving line that was about to run out of potatoes. Aleen remained with Gramma, probably hoping to find a way to save Trinidad's marriage.

"Vibe" had always been Aleen's word for whateveritwas that ran in the distaff side of Frankie's family. Way back when, the women might have called it the Sight or the Eye, if they called it anything. Gramma never made a big todo about it, no more than one would for a birthmark, and just as well. Frankie had grown up with a minimum of trauma attached.

The initial assault of hungry guests was over, with everyone but a few table hoppers seated. The big hall echoed loud with simultaneous conversations, the clink and clank of utensils on plates, the noise visually punctuated by the official photographer's flash unit. Weddings ran more or less on a schedule, even one this large. Next would come the secondhelping crowd, and sure enough, some of the wrestler types were already in line again.

Those were pretty big guys. Frankie hoped she'd allowed enough food for them.

Coop's CoolCats might be out of luck for a postshow meal otherwise.

Everything was under control, though, and running smoothly. The bride would be pleased, and might recommend Yummy Catering to her friends. It wouldn't hurt to have a picture of Trinidad's wedding up in the front office, either. Statuswise, this wedding was a hell of a good windfall for the business.

Frankie was in the kitchen supervising an early start on the cleanup when the loud twang of a very much in tune electric guitar thrummed through the walls, announcing the show. She wiped her wet hands and rushed out for a look. The catering line for the main meal was shut down and cleared. Nothing to do but clean until the cake cutting began. She was allowed a break.

Twaaang
again; then the drummer began thumping a vigorous beat, building for the star's big entrance. Frankie could guess that Gramma would find the best view for the show, spotted her, and stood next to her. They had a clear field to the stage.

"This is sooooo cool," said Gramma, who was able to get away with teentalk simply because on her it was cute, not forced. The glow on her face and spark in her eyes showed that she'd not changed much from that swooning twentyyearold of fifty years past.

"Totally cool," Frankie agreed, having to raise her voice to be heard above the rising fanfare. The group had saxophone and trombone players, both instruments adding to the tapestry of sound, enriching it. She loved live music, done well;

tonight would be a treat. She craned her neck, looking for the first sign of the Elvis guy coming onstage.

" 'Scuse me, pretty ladies."

The
voice.

Frankie gave a jelliedknees start, for the man was behind her and had bent to speak almost in her ear.

Gramma also jumped, gaping, then mouthing a silent
oh, my goodness
at the sight of him. What big eyes she had.