The Wedding Thief Read online

  I drove on to the club, my stomach twisting. When I got there, I sat down with George Boyd in his office and gave him the final seating chart for the reception. I’d put all the guests back where they were supposed to be. At least I knew that would be correct. Then I told George I wanted to return to the original menu.

  “So,” he said as he pulled up the file on his computer, “you’re saying you want the filet mignon instead of the burritos, the Dover sole instead of the fish sticks, the—”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” I said. “The pigs in blankets are out, the grilled cheese is gone. We want all the food that was originally chosen.”

  “Hmm.” He squinted at the monitor. “That might be a problem.”

  I froze. “What do you mean?” The food had to work. It just had to.

  “Your original menu included pheasant. Seventy people chose it as an entrée. I can’t get pheasant for seventy people overnight. It has to be fresh, and that’s not nearly enough lead time.”

  No pheasant. I had a vision of my sister’s face as a server set a plate of chicken nuggets and fries in front of her. I told myself to stay calm. “Okay, we can’t do pheasant. Let’s replace it with something else. What can we do? How about Cornish game hens? Can you get those in time?”

  He thought about that for a moment. “I can get them, yes.”

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Fabulous. Great.”

  “You, uh, understand the overnight delivery is going to be expensive.”

  I nodded. I certainly did. I’d be the one footing the bill. I couldn’t foist that on my mother. This wasn’t her fault. Thank God he could get the hens. I couldn’t believe it, but I was shaking. I’d been in these situations before, but this time was different. This was for my sister.

  Sitting in the car in the club parking lot, I tried to reach Cecelia Russo. She wasn’t in, but I spoke to her assistant and explained that Mariel had decided to go with a strictly classical program after all. “Which means the Britney Spears is out.”

  “Pity” was all her assistant said. I couldn’t tell if she was serious or not. I asked her to make sure Cecelia called me.

  I did reach Brian Moran, the band’s keyboardist. “We’re not going to use those songs I called you about,” I told him. “You know, ‘Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover,’ ‘D-I-V-O-R-C-E,’ and those other ones.”

  He assured me he’d remove them from the playlist. “I think that’s probably for the best,” he said. “They might be a little bit of a downer.”

  A downer indeed.

  I checked the band off the list, glad to have accomplished something else. Then I drove into town. At Hilliard’s, I returned the brass bookends with the cigar-holding hands and found some sterling-silver picture frames I hoped the bridesmaids would like. I thought about the day I was there with Carter and how much had changed since then. I also wondered what David was doing. I hoped I’d have a chance to tell him I’d done the right thing after all.

  At St. John’s, the gray stone church my family had attended for years, Mrs. Bukes, who coordinated the weddings, welcomed me into a little office. I was relieved when we went over the timetable and final details for the ceremony. Everything seemed to be in order. That was, of course, after I crossed off “…Baby One More Time” in the wedding program and asked her to please reprint it.

  I went to Cakewalk and left strict instructions with Annette, Lory Judd’s assistant, that they were not to put any of the photos I’d e-mailed on the wedding cake. “Just plain icing,” I told her.

  “Aww, but that picture of your sister with the spaghetti in her hair is so cute,” Annette said, looking disappointed.

  I repeated, “Just plain icing.”

  At Hall’s Florist, I found Ginny working on an arrangement of pink roses and peonies. “You want to go back to the original plan?” She sounded a little gruff. “With the orchids? For Saturday?” She shook her head and frowned as she snipped a stem. “Nope. Sorry, but it’s too late. I can’t get them and do all the arrangements in time. We’ve got three other weddings this weekend. You’ll have to use what you ordered.”

  What I’d ordered? Oh God. Hello, mums. Hello, Benadryl.

  Chapter 27

  The Opening

  I spent Friday tying up the final loose ends for the wedding and running all over the county picking everything up for Marcello’s birthday party. George called me from the club at eleven o’clock to assure me that he had the hens. I was in a pharmacy at the time, buying two dozen travel-size packets of Benadryl that would be stuffed into tiny organza bags, one for Mariel and the others for any of the guests who might need them.

  That evening I went to Marcello’s and dropped off the party supplies with Bella, who was thrilled I’d gotten everything done. She presented me with Mariel’s wedding gown, and we settled up on what she owed me for the supplies and what I owed her for the gown. On my way to the rehearsal at the church, my phone rang. It was a Connecticut number but not one I recognized.

  “Is this Sara?”

  The man’s voice didn’t sound familiar. “Yes?”

  “Hey, it’s Jerome, from the Pub Room.”

  “Jerome?”

  “Yes, hi. I was calling to tell you I can do the wedding.”

  “What? You’re kidding!”

  “No. Willow’s husband got called into work at the last minute, so they couldn’t go away. She said she’d take my shift tomorrow. If you still need me.”

  “Yes, I do. But you’re not going to the Cape?”

  “No. I’d like to do the wedding.”

  “Thank you, Jerome. You’re a lifesaver. And please thank Willow for me.” Whoever she was, I was grateful. I gave him the details and told him I’d e-mail the schedule to him when I got to the church. By the time I arrived at St. John’s, I was so happy I was singing.

  The rehearsal went smoothly, and when it was over the group went on to drinks and dinner, but I had somewhere else I needed to go first. My plan was to make a quick tour of Alex Lingon’s show at the Brookside and then head to the restaurant.

  A good-size crowd had gathered at the gallery by the time I arrived, about two hundred people, probably the result of all the publicity, including a huge banner hanging downtown (it was right above the one that said SAVE THE BAKED-GOODS BANDITS!). The place was buzzing with art patrons, local business owners and politicians, media people with press badges, some of them with video operators in tow, and folks who were curious to see what all the fuss was about. Something Cole Porter–ish was playing from the speakers, and the muted lighting cast a warm glow over the room, making the large space feel cozy.

  I glanced around, wondering if David had arrived, hoping I’d get a chance to talk to him so I could tell him he was right about what he’d said the other night and let him know that I was trying to work things out with my sister.

  “Grilled scallop wrapped in prosciutto?” A server approached me with a tray.

  “No, thanks. But can you tell me where the bar is?”

  “It’s in the back, over there.” He pointed across the room.

  I began walking, taking in the art as I headed toward the bar. I paused by a group of people looking at Evolution Number 52, a giant box covered in blue fabric and surrounded by red, arterial-looking tubes. I walked on, then stopped at a place where the floor had been taped off in a ten-foot-by-ten-foot square. Inside the space, large pieces of corrugated cardboard shaped like arms and legs dangled from the ceiling and lay on the floor.

  “Chicken skewer,” someone to my right said.

  I stared at the objects on the floor. “Umm, they do look a little like that,” I said. Then I saw the server at my elbow. “Oh, no, thanks.” Embarrassed, I dashed off, passing two rectangular objects that might have been giant hay bales except they were orange and made of plastic.

  The bar was in sight, and I navigated around people huddled in groups, snippets of conversation falling around me. A daughter’s internship, a husband’s knee surgery, a house bein
g remodeled, the new gourmet shop opening next week, the antiques store that had closed after thirty years. I recognized a few of Mom’s friends, and I noticed Link Overstreet was there. He was a billionaire art collector from Manhattan who flew to Hampstead in his helicopter on weekends.

  As I got closer to the bar, something caught my eye: Alex Lingon’s hand, positioned on a large black block. It looked majestic, those shades of green shimmering under the light, the fingers stretching upward, the cracks and dents and damage relegated to the past. A warm feeling stirred inside me, a proprietary feeling, the kind of feeling I suspected a mother got when her child accomplished something great. I felt like I had mothered that sculpture through quite a lot over the past two weeks. No one else in the room would ever know about that connection. But I would always remember.

  I walked on, skirting around servers with trays of wine and champagne and canapés. I stepped in line behind a dozen other people at the bar. And that’s when I spotted David. Dressed in gray pants, a light gray T-shirt, and a blue jacket, he stood with a small group halfway across the room. How handsome he looked. I watched him as he greeted another man. Watched him laugh at something an older woman said. Watched him nod his head. Watched him…oh God, what was I doing? Everything inside me was bubbling over, my heart pounding. And there was only one explanation: I liked him. As more than a friend. A lot more than a friend. But what was the point? I was wasting my energy. Not only was he in love with someone else, but he was about to become engaged. I couldn’t make that mistake again.

  A tall blonde appeared beside him, her sleeveless white shift showing off her bronzed limbs, her chin-length hair setting off her high cheekbones. Silver corkscrew earrings dangled from her ears. Ana. The photo hadn’t done her justice. She was striking. I watched her say something to David; I saw him reply. They leaned toward each other, so close, so intimate. I stared. My heart was ripping apart, but I couldn’t look away. And then they were gone, swept up in the crowd.

  “Miss? Miss? Do you want a drink?”

  I turned. The bartender was looking at me, waiting. I couldn’t think. What was he saying? A drink? “Oh, uh, no. No, thanks.”

  I walked away and almost collided with a server holding a tray of shrimp toast. He stopped to offer one to me. I waved him off. I didn’t want shrimp toast. What I wanted was David. I wanted him to wrap his arms around me, to hold me and kiss me the way I imagined he did with Ana.

  The music coming from the speakers now was another old tune, Duke Ellington’s “I Didn’t Know About You.” Ella Fitzgerald was singing, giving every syllable of that torch song its due, asking how she could have known about love when she didn’t know about him.

  What was wrong with me? Was I going to spend the rest of my life falling for men I couldn’t have? Was there some Freudian thing going on that would take decades of head-shrinking to figure out? I didn’t want to spend decades doing that. And I didn’t want to spend any more time at the gallery.

  As I looked across the room to make my exit, someone turned down the music and Kingsley Pellinger, dressed in a slim-fitting paisley suit, asked everyone to gather around. The next thing I knew, I was in a swarm headed in Kingsley’s direction. I ended up near the front of the crowd, where I caught sight of David and Ana again.

  “Isn’t this just fun?” Kingsley said. “Well, of course it is.” He grinned. “I see a lot of familiar faces tonight. But for those of you who may not know me—although I don’t see how that would be possible if you live here—I’m Kingsley Pellinger, owner of the Brookside, and I want to welcome everyone.” He made a little bow. So theatrical. Mom would have loved it.

  “I don’t usually make speeches,” he went on, “but tonight I’m going to say a few words. I’m so glad you could all be here at the opening of this wonderful exhibit, this collection of diverse works by the incomparable Alex Lingon.” He paused. Some people applauded. “And of course, we have Alex himself here with us.” The applause grew louder, and a few people whistled. “I’ve known this man for ten years. And do you think I can ever predict where this genius is going? No, I cannot. He’s constantly a surprise, as you can see by the work on display tonight. And he’s standing right here, so without further ado, as they say, I present to you Alex Lingon.”

  There was loud applause as a wiry man in jeans and a black shirt appeared next to Kingsley. Alex looked a little older than in the pictures I’d seen. Early fifties, maybe. His dark eyes scanned the crowd.

  “Thanks, Kingsley. And thanks for coming, everybody. Brookside’s a great gallery. I’ve known Kingsley a long time and I’m glad to have my work here.” He paused and squinted. It looked like he was studying something across the room. “These pieces represent some of my…” He thrust his head forward, staring. Then he pointed. “What the hell is that?”

  The room went silent. Everyone looked to see what Alex was pointing at. The hand.

  “What’s that doing here?” He turned on Kingsley, who drew back with a mixture of confusion and fear in his eyes.

  “I don’t understand. Are you talking about the, the hand? It’s your work. It’s part of the show.”

  “My work? Are you crazy? That’s not mine. Why is it here?”

  Kingsley’s neck and face had turned the color of a ripe peach. “But it was delivered as part of your exhibit. It says Lingon on the bottom.”

  “I don’t care what it says on the bottom. It’s not my work. That thing was made by my twelve-year-old nephew—in his art class.”

  I gasped. Everyone gasped. Kingsley shrieked, his face turning from peach to plum. How could we have spent all that time, money, and effort—not to mention gotten arrested—over a twelve-year-old’s art project? I felt sick. I turned to look for David, but I didn’t see him anywhere.

  “How could you do this?” Alex was inches away from Kingsley. “How can you call yourself a gallerist, an art expert, if you don’t even know the difference between an Alex Lingon and a Larry Lingon?”

  I could feel an undercurrent of panic in the crowd. Kingsley looked as though he wanted to run and hide. “This is h-highly unusual.” He clasped his hands. “A mistake. It was all a mistake. I’m, it’s—” He began to sway. Then his legs buckled like a marionette’s; his body went limp, and he fell to the floor. A woman screamed, and several people rushed to help.

  “Is anyone here a doctor?” someone called out.

  I pulled out my spritzer of Poison. “I’m not a doctor, but I’ve got something like smelling salts,” I said, spraying the perfume near Kingsley. He began to come around and two men helped him sit up. A woman brought him a glass of water. I looked for David again, wondering if he was still here and if he’d seen what had happened.

  Things had begun to quiet down when someone in the back shouted, “I’d like to buy the Larry Lingon. What’s the price?” I heard a collective gasp as people turned to see who it was. Link Overstreet.

  “The price?” Kingsley had now regained full control of himself and, with the help of the two men, was standing up. “Is that Mr. Overstreet?” Kingsley brushed off his suit. “Ah, well, I’m not sure of the, uh, the price. So I guess I’d have to—”

  “I want to buy it,” another man said.

  He was standing to the right of me, in the front. Tall, shaved head, large red-framed eyeglasses. I realized it was Gil Rosenthal. He’d made a killing selling a tech company a few years back. I’d heard there was bad blood between him and Link Overstreet—something about a piece of art they’d both wanted. Or a woman. I couldn’t remember which.

  “I’ll give you ten thousand for it,” Rosenthal said. “Cash.”

  Ten thousand dollars cash? Who walked around with that kind of money?

  “Ah, Mr. Rosenthal. Nice to see you,” Kingsley said. “You want to pay…ten thousand dollars?” Kingsley took a swig of water from a bottle. He looked like he might faint again. “Well, I’m sure we can work something—”

  “Twelve,” Overstreet shouted. “Twelve thousand.”


  “Fifteen,” Rosenthal said, craning his neck to see where his competition was located.

  Then a new voice entered the fray, a woman’s. British. “I’ll pay twenty-five thousand quid—I mean dollars—for the hand.”

  “Twenty-five thou—” Kingsley took a little step back, then righted himself.

  “Thirty,” Overstreet said.

  Kingsley’s head swiveled as he tracked the bids. A man on my left held up his cell phone. “I’ve got a friend on the line from China who will pay forty.”

  “The latest bid is forty thousand,” Kingsley said, looking pleased and eager for more.

  But off to the side, Alex Lingon didn’t look pleased. He looked as though he was barely containing his rage as the spotlight continued to move away from him and toward his nephew.

  “Oh, bollocks,” the British woman said. “Forty-five, then.”

  “Pounds?” Kingsley asked.

  “Dollars, pounds, whatever you like.”

  Link Overstreet raised his hand. “Fifty thousand.”

  “Pounds?” Kingsley asked.

  “No, for God’s sake. Dollars,” Overstreet said. Then he scratched his head. “Wait, am I going against pounds?”

  Photographers were snapping pictures so fast, it sounded like machine-gun fire. Everyone was waiting for the next bid, and the one after that. The bidding finally stalled at seventy-five thousand pounds, Gil Rosenthal’s offer. The room felt like it was vibrating.

  “We have seventy-five thousand pounds from Mr. Rosenthal,” Kingsley said. “Anyone care to make it eighty?” I looked around, but I didn’t see any signs of another bid. “Eighty?” Kingsley asked again. Then he paused. “All right, then. Going once, going twice.” He waited a beat or two, then tapped the top of the microphone a couple of times. “Sold for seventy-five thousand pounds to Mr. Rosenthal.” Gil Rosenthal threw his hands in the air and, to the sound of applause, walked toward Kingsley.