14 - J. T. Ellison [83]
Then there was quiet for a few moments before her father and mother came into view, several people at their heels.
Her mother was complaining about the woman who was dressed so similarly to her. The women were simpering back and forth to one another, commiserating. How rude to neglect to check with the hostess about her costume.
The men talked loudly, expansive with drink.
“Win Jackson, you’ve obviously made a deal with the devil,” a dark-haired man brayed.
“Yeah, Win, your own little Manderley, is it? What did you do in a past life to get so goddamned lucky in this one? The judge should have thrown you in jail, not dismissed the charges.” A sandy-haired man with thick black glasses smacked her father on the shoulder. Win laughed.
“Manderley? Shit, let’s just hope the place doesn’t burn to the ground. Kitty would have my head.”
Then one of the men coughed, put his hand up to his mouth….
Taylor fast-forwarded the dream. She remembered the light.
Despite being tucked back in by Mrs. Mize, the music was so loud that she hadn’t been able to sleep. She’d crawled out of bed again, wandered unseen to the top of the stairs and secreted herself in the little space she called her own.
In the foyer of the big house, there was a sparkling lamp, which was built out of a multitude of pretty little chunks of crystal. It sat on a Louis XIII desk, against the damask wallpaper. It was nearly white, there were so many shiny pieces, and it caught the light of the chandelier above it.
Taylor focused on the lamp. She could see the reflections of the people passing by in the ballroom to the left, twirling, waltzing, drinking and sitting.
She could smell the champagne, smell the sweaty reek that wafted up the stairs. It was late, they were deep into the party now. Someone had vomited, she could remember the slight stench coming from the hallway bath.
Her mother had given up—the Marie Antoinette wig was sitting on a ladder-backed chair. She’d taken it off at some point, still miffed at her guest’s gauche behavior. Taylor imagined her mother was still muttering about the fat old cow ruining her look.
Manderley, Manderley, Manderley. There was something…
The room phone woke her. Sunlight was streaming in the windows. She rolled and answered the phone, vaguely aware that something wasn’t quite right. A cheerful voice told her this was the 8:00 a.m. wake-up call she’d asked for. She thanked them and hung up.
What was it? Something from her dream, the party, her parents.
Manderley.
Her heart beat a little harder.
That was the name of Burt Mars’s new company. The Manderley REIT.
Twenty-Six
Nashville, Tennessee
Saturday, December 20
2:00 p.m.
“Has anyone seen my freakin’ veil?”
Taylor was turning in circles, shaking her head in frustration. She scattered a stack of boxes, lifted magazines, opened drawers. No veil. There was so much white around, her dress, her train, the flowers, the chairs—she thought for a moment that a snowstorm had come indoors and piled up in her hotel room.
There was no answer to her question. Where in the hell could it be? She could hear the twins, Maddy and Matt, crying and Sam’s low voice trying to soothe them. Simon spoke, as well, but Taylor couldn’t make out the words. She looked at the clock on the mantel. She was due at the church to walk down the aisle in less than forty-five minutes.
She gave up the search and plopped to the floor, her dress bloating out around her like a mushroom cloud. She could only imagine what she must look like, sprawled on the carpet, but at this point, she couldn’t give a moment to care. She was bloody tired, and all the fuss was making her teeth clench.
The wail of one of the babies was getting louder, and Taylor looked up to see Sam come into the room, a single infant in her arms. Her floor-length white taffeta gown rustled as she moved. A large terry-cloth towel draped toga-style over her shoulder, shielding the dress from any extraneous waste that might appear from either end of her daughter at