Chapter 16
Only You
I wanna be loved by you, by you and nobody else but you... Mickey whistled the tune while adjusting his freshly pressed cravat before a large mirror.
Shaved, showered, and presentable once again, he, Wade, Halden and Garth waited for the bridesmaids in the foyer at the entrance to the dining room. They'd been informed that Candy insisted on a procession to the head table once the majority of the guests were seated, with the bride and groom leading the way. A grim Halden stood off to the side, intently texting on his smartphone.
"You're awfully chipper, Mick," Wade said over Mickey's shoulder to his reflection, "considering it's been a hell of a day so far."
Mickey cocked his head and winked. "I've been thinking about a beautiful bridesmaid."
Garth, big shoulders slumped, lamented, "Yeah, me too. Tiffany still won't let me in her room. She's probably too embarrassed."
Ever cynical, Wade snorted. "Did you manage to empty the restocked mini-bar in her room before she kicked you out?"
Garth paled under his tan. "No. But she wouldn't -- I mean, the paramedic expressly told her no alcohol. I left instructions with Room Service. Food but no alcohol." He straightened. "I should go check on her."
"Too late." Halden laid a firm restraining hand on Garth's bicep. "Here come my lovely bride and the girls."
***
Contrary to Asta's dire prediction that Candy'd ordered vegetarian for the wedding banquet, the guests were offered three main course options: fresh linguini with vegetables and pesto sauce; tiny, succulent quail on a bed of wild rice and a side of baby carrots flavored with Canadian maple syrup; or shelled lobster accompanied by asparagus and tiny purple potatoes.
Not that Mickey paid much attention to the meal with Candy's lovely, quirky cousin seated on his left at the head table. He entertained Rachel with Hollywood gossip. She asked intelligent questions about the movie biz. Seriously impressed by her encyclopedic knowledge of films and those who made them, he enjoyed trying to stump her. A woman with that much passion for film-making belonged in Hollywood.
And, fingers crossed, in his bed after the reception.
When Garth pushed back his chair beside the bride and stood to assume his Master of Ceremony duties, Mickey entwined his fingers with Rachel's. Under his thumb on her wrist, her pulse beat a rapid tattoo. Anticipation, his experience with women suggested. His groin stirred.
The toasts to the bride and groom didn't take long. Asta filled in for the missing Maid of Honor with a sweet welcome to the Armstrong family for Candy, and a toast to her brother's happiness. Glasses clinked. Halden obligingly rose, bent Candy back in a romantic embrace, and soundly kissed his bride.
Garth read his Best Man's speech off of a couple of crinkled sheets of paper. Mickey, Halden's first agent before he jumped to a more prestigious agency, had contributed a humorous anecdote to Garth's speech. Mickey was pleased when Halden chuckled at Garth's retelling of how an early screen test went horribly wrong when the actress kissed Halden and promptly forgot her lines.
Candy, exquisite but paler than usual, had regained her regal composure. Her tinkling laugh rang off key after several guest tributes to Halden's prowess as an actor and producer ignored her completely. The outpouring of warmth from those Halden left behind in Wisconsin and the many new friends he made on his rise to stardom raised the positive energy in the room, lightening Halden's mood.
Mickey surmised he wasn't the only person to realize Halden's guests vastly outnumbered Candy's. Even her own cousin Rachel smiled prettily but had no fond memories to share in public, nor even in private to him. Sad really. He scanned the room for Candy's photographer friend, but was unable to discern Raynald's skinny frame among the formally attired male guests. Likely she'd lost that friend after thrashing him with her bouquet.
From his vantage point facing the rest of the room, Mickey observed with surprise that tonight Wendy sat at a round table with Wisconsin relatives near the head table instead of at the back of the room. Halden must've ordered the switch in table assignments in appreciation for calmly taking control at the photo session debacle, because sure as hell Candy would never have arranged that perk.
In the short time Mickey had known Candy, she'd hired and fired three personal assistants. Come to think of it, maybe they'd quit. The sloe-eyed manner in which Wendy trained big brown eyes on Halden reminded him of how Mopette staked out a tasty treat. Mickey doubted she'd be quitting anytime soon.
After the bride and groom's respective fathers made their toasts and the newlyweds gamely smooched one last time cued by the clinking of glasses, Garth asked Michael Bublé to stand.
"Folks, you all know the Canadian actor, singer and songwriter Michael Bublé, winner of multiple Grammy and international music awards. We are privileged to have Michael and the backup band entertain us in the ballroom for the rest of the evening. Please join us there for wedding cake and dancing."
***
The requisite cake cutting ceremony was staged in the center of the ballroom on a circular wood dance floor, after which the pastry chef rolled the table out of the room. Waiters in white shirts, black trousers and lavender bow ties served samples of lavender-iced wedding cake and beverages to guests at round tables for six arranged in a U-shape around the dance floor. A long table loaded with a selection of rich desserts and a staffed open bar occupied the inside wall opposite a temporary stage.
The four piece band struck up Once in a Lifetime. Halden escorted his bride onto the polished dance floor to a smattering of applause. Michael Bublé's dulcet croon filled the high-ceilinged room with the glorious love song.
At one of the wall-side tables decorated with lavender-themed flower arrangements and wedding favors, Rachel tugged gently at Mickey's shirt sleeve. He leaned in to oblige.
"Michael Bolton's hit from the 1994 film Only You," she whispered.
Candy moved sensuously to the music in Halden's arms. Every man in the room tracked her svelte figure. Mickey pursed his lips, considered the rapier claws she'd kept sheathed until provoked by Raynald that afternoon. Candy's silvery beauty had tarnished, at least for him. Absently he replied. "Didn't it star Hugh Grant?"
Rachel huffed. "Please. Hugh wasn't the only romantic comedy lead back then. Believe it or not, Ironman Robert Downey, Jr. starred alongside Marisa Tomei."
Mickey grinned at the pretty, intelligent girl at his elbow. "Bet you don't know who wrote the film score?"
"What do I win?"
"A kiss."
"That's it?" Rachel shrugged as if the prize were inconsequential.
His forehead crinkled in feigned surprise, but his heart rate bumped a notch. "You want more than a kiss?"
"Maybe." She fluttered her eyelashes coquettishly.
Man, she was killing him. "Your wish is my command for the rest of the evening. Will that do?"
"Anything I ask, eh? You're on." Rachel shook his proffered hand. "The film Only You was scored by an academy award-winning female composer."
"Name?"
She smiled. "A first name I'll always remember. Rachel Portman."
"And a first name I'll never forget." Mickey dug into his pocket for his phone to buy the song on the spot for a souvenir of the evening, then remembered the device rested on the bottom of Lake Muskoka. Remembered Rachel's long legs wrapped around his waist in the cool water. Heat and an aching tension flooded his body. He ditched his jacket, loosened his tie.
The dance came to an end, and the wedding singer introduced the next song, All of Me. Mickey pulled Rachel to her feet. "Dance with me."
Rachel slipped easily into his arms on the crowded floor. "I'm not familiar with this song."
"That's because it hasn't been in a movie yet," Mickey teased. "This is John Legend's huge hit." He swept her close until her petite but firm breasts pancaked against his chest. Holding one hand, an arm encircling her slim waist, he steered them between couples. The thump-ka-thump of her rapid heartbeat synced with his. Rachel's curves and edges fit to the angles of his body as precisely as parts in a German-engineered Porsche.
"I love it," she murmured.
Her cheek nestled against his shoulder. Soft warm breath stirred exposed skin above his shirt collar. The palm of one hand pressed into his back behind his heart as if physically capturing the organ. She'd already captured his heart that afternoon, in the metaphorical sense. The open question that had him stymied was what he intended to do about it.
The prospect of a one night stand had him more conflicted now than it had the previous evening. Their ardent foreplay in the lake made him uncomfortably aware, in every amorous sense, that even a small taste of Rachel inflamed mind-losing desire. He'd practically dragged her to the pastor that afternoon! Sure, he blamed that crazy impulse on heat exhaustion. But by taking her to bed, by going down that rabbit hole, he'd only get in deeper. Maybe wouldn't even want to extricate himself. That way lay serious commitment. Gads.
Over Rachel's shoulder he perused the dancing couples, several of them with young kids tucked into bed upstairs. At some point in a man's life an instinctual longing kicked in to settle down, father children, raise the next generation of film makers and audiences, and thereby ensure the continuity of the movie biz. That'd explain the magnetic attraction welding his body to the incredible woman in his arms. He'd bedded a dozen gorgeous women and not one had him contemplating the purchase of an engagement ring. Being immersed in wedding fever among a surfeit of happy couples had obviously flipped a biological switch.
Would a single long night of energetic sex satiate lust for Candy's cousin nestled against his chest like she belonged there permanently? He needed to find out, because otherwise he had to make his suggestion to Rachel to study in California a reality.
The difficulties occupied his thoughts until Rachel lifted her lips for a soft kiss. His lips eagerly met hers, his mind filled with the singer's dulcet words of everlasting love.
They swayed to love songs, wrapped close, cheek pressed to flushed cheek until the famous singer announced a break for the toss of the wedding bouquet in a few minutes. The two reluctantly separated and returned to their table to discover that the ice had melted in their water glasses. They drained them, then headed to the temporary bar, joining a line behind Halden and Wendy.
Most of the men in the room, Halden included, had removed their jackets, rolled up their sleeves, and made themselves comfortable for a long night of energetic partying. Dark-haired Wendy wore a figure-hugging scarlet number with a plunging neckline that drew the eye to plump breasts. Real boobs, with a small tattoo of a humpback whale low on the left. It leaped on the swell of her bosom with every indrawn breath.
Surprise, surprise. Candy's competent, dependable personal assistant hid a smoking hourglass figure under the slacks and baggy shirts she habitually wore. For a man who'd tied the knot a few hours earlier, Halden seemed inordinately interested in checking out the scenery. Mickey couldn't avoid overhearing their conversation.
Slightly the worse for wear, Halden braced an elbow on the bar for support, awaited his order. "I don't know how to thank you for what you did today, Wendy."
Dimples popped in Wendy's cheeks as she smiled up, waaaay up, at Halden. Mickey recognized a flirtatious smile on a woman, and Wendy flashed a classic. His eyes skewed sideways to catch Candy's frowning pout from a nearby table adjacent to the dance floor.
"It was nothing," Wendy asserted with a flip of long brown curls over one bare shoulder. "I lifeguarded at the beach summers during college."
"Like in that 90's Babewatch TV series." Halden nodded. "I can definitely see you in one of those swimsuits."
"Baywatch," she corrected. And tittered.
Tittered? Uh-oh. She had it bad. And alcohol had loosened Halden's lips disastrously close to the point of inflaming Candy's temper. The bartender placed a double scotch whiskey, neat, on the polished wood surface by Halden's hand.
Mickey stepped forward and smoothly slid the tumbler along the bar out of Halden's reach. "A large glass of ice water for the groom, my man. Three flutes of champagne for the ladies and one for me."
In short order, Mickey placed a hand between Halden's shoulder blades and propelled him on a circuitous path between the tables and chairs to rejoin Candy. Rachel trailed behind carrying a couple of glasses of champagne.
Mickey set the flute he held on the table before Candy. "Here's your drink, beautiful."
"I requested sparkling water, but what the hell. It's my wedding night." Candy tipped the crystal flute to her lips and downed the expensive French champagne in one go. She snapped her fingers. "Hand me another, Mick."
"Your wish is my command, milady." He nodded to Rachel who set the two flutes she carried on the table before the bride. A couple of drinks might wash away the petulant irritation marring the perfection of Candy's face.
The DJ cued up Beyoncé's Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It). Candy resolutely drained the third glass of expensive bubbly as the wedding planner arrived at their table, a bridesmaid's bouquet in hand. Veronique efficiently guided Candy to the center of the dance floor and thrust a microphone into Garth's hand.
"Single ladies." Garth's gravelly voice boomed over the catchy tune. "Assemble for the bouquet toss. No age limit. Don't be shy. If you're currently unmarried, step right up. Aunt Margery, that means you."
"That means you, too." Mickey palmed Rachel's delectable butt and gave it a gentle shove in the direction of the dance floor.
"Oh, no," she demurred. "Not me."
"Go on. Candy expects her cousin to be in the photos." He pointed to the official wedding photographer at the ready on the sideline.
Indecision flashed across Rachel's face before she capitulated. "Alright then." She kicked off her heels and padded over to join Wendy and five guests, including a grey-haired matron in floor-length lime green polyester, in the spot lit center of the room. Mickey followed her to the edge of the dance floor for a better view.
"Are you ready, gorgeous ladies?" Garth announced the countdown. "Candy, on three." Candy turned her back to the women and prepared to catapult the bouquet over her head.
"One. Two. Three!" The bouquet arced high. Wendy leaped like a well-fed gazelle, hooked it out of the air, waved it triumphantly. Mobile phone and tablet cameras clicked. Cameras flashed.
"That was amazing," Rachel said to Wendy over the music and applause.
"I played baseball in high school," Wendy explained. "Right fielder."
Candy stalked their way, a thunderous expression clouding the perfection of her features.
"Wicked witch." Wendy inhaled a fortifying breath and held it.
"Wanda," Candy spat. "What the hell do you think you're doing with my bouquet? You're my assistant, not a guest. This is... this is..." A vein bulged beside the left lowered eyebrow as she searched for an appropriate word to express outrage. "You're fired."
She dismissed the blanched PA, turned to Rachel, and hissed in a low voice because the song had ended, "And you, cousin," arrogant disdain implying Rachel existed lower in the pecking order than a beetle. "How dare you participate in the bouquet toss? You're merely --"
"Who wants to dance?" A familiar voice warbled in the musical lull, cutting short whatever Candy planned to say.
Necks craned to view the speaker at the entrance to the ballroom. Tiffany, palely beautiful despite mussed blond hair, a bandage on her forehead, and a crumpled bridesmaid's dress, held fast to the door frame.
Conversations ceased. Halden's robust curse echoed in the high-ceilinged space. "Of all the gin joints, in all the world, she walks into mine," he groused, misquoting Humphrey Bogart's line in Casablanca when Ingrid Bergman shows up in the nightclub.
Candy clamped palms to non-existent hips, thin arms akimbo -- a fierce stance at odds with the delicate femininity she projected on the runway and in the fashion magazines. "Some idiot supplied her with booze against my orders," she screeched loud enough for the entire room to hear. "Garth, get that bitch out of here before she ruins the reception too!"
Mickey quickly closed the ten feet between himself and Rachel on the dance floor, laced her long fingers though his. "That's our cue to exit, kid. We'll give Tiffany's keeper a hand."
Rachel pointed at the Best Man weaving around tables toward the starlet like a quarterback dodging offensive tackles. "Garth's on it." They watched Garth swing Tiffany up into his arms and carry her out of sight.
Rachel nibbled her bottom lip, lipstick long gone. "Do you think Tiff is plastered? Candy will blame the hotel for supplying her with liquor."
Mickey shrugged. "Tiffany drinks too much, sure, but she's also addicted to attention. She's double trouble."
Mickey wanted to sign a talented rising star to his new agency, not an attention-seeking alcoholic who'd cause nothing but aggravation on set and negative publicity off it. He towed Rachel toward the ballroom entrance. "Let's follow them and find out which it is this time."
On the way he detoured to retrieve his jacket and shrug it on. Rachel slid on her heels, snagged her bag of wedding favors and stuck it down her bodice where he'd earlier noticed the room key card she carried everywhere peeking over the top of the fabric. Lucky bag. Lucky card.
They caught up with Garth and Tiffany at the lobby elevator. Tiffany sobbed brokenly into the crook of Garth's thick neck. "I need a drink, baby. Only one. Take me to the bar, honey. Please. I'll -- I'll do anything you want."
Garth's Nordic blue eyes glistened above the golden curve of her head. "I'm gonna help her beat this, Mick. I'll pay for a month in a residential addiction facility up here in Canada. The studio making the Bond picture will never find out what went down today."
Mickey gripped Garth's shirt-sleeved shoulder. "You're a real hero, my friend. But if you think word won't get back to studio execs and casting directors in California, think again. She's not signed to the picture yet." He thumbed in the direction of the ballroom studded with film stars and wait staff. "A dozen witnesses are probably tweeting the news this very minute."
"You're a cynic, Mick. Halden's friends and family are loyal. I happen to know the hotel staff signed confidentiality agreements. If anything leaks, I'll see to it that he or she is fired."
Rachel emitted a horrified squeak. "C-Candy doesn't have too many friends in that room."
Garth thrust forward a determined lantern jaw. "Tiffany has friends."
Mickey bit back an acerbic comment. Despite her acknowledged talent, unless the starlet cleaned up her act neither Garth nor any other friend had the power to protect Tiffany from the consequences of her behavior in public and on set. Instead he reached out. "Anything I can do to help her recover, you know I've got your back."
"Sure." Garth frowned impatiently at the static number above the elevator doors. "There are only three floors in this inn. What's taking so long?"
Mickey threw an arm around Rachel's shoulders, drew her alongside for moral support. Although he sympathized with Garth's besotted intention to sober Tiffany up, placing her on an international film set before she conquered her addiction risked irrevocable damage to her reputation and career.
His gut insisted that he make a difficult decision based on practical realities, not loyalty to his friend. Though he was well aware that by doing so he'd antagonize a powerful producer. Hollywood was built on relationships. He crossed his fingers that Garth would thank him for what he was about to do.
Eventually.
"Buddy, there's one caveat." From the inside pocket of his jacket with his free hand Mickey extracted the contract he'd carefully dried with a hair dryer after its dunking in the lake the previous night.
His throat thickened. Breaking bad news was never easy, at least not for him. Making himself heard over Tiffany's tearful entreaties to be lowered to the floor, he said, "Just so you know, I won't be signing Tiffany York after all. She's in no shape to withstand the pressure of a Bond girl role."
"What the hell, Mick?" Garth exploded.
At his outburst, Tiffany stilled in Garth's arms. "Bond girl?" she slurred. "That's me."
"Not after your behavior today," Mickey predicted under his breath. He released Rachel to fiercely rip the sheaf of paper crosswise and length-wise. The fragments fluttered to the bottom of a trash basket.
As if on cue, the elevator doors slid apart. Garth stepped inside with his burden.
"Tiff will prove you wrong," Garth thundered. "You'll pay--" The closing doors cut off his threat.