Page 82 of Save the Date
“Can we have the shrimp? What, are they cooked in beer or something?”
“Boiled in beer, actually,” Layne volunteered.
Harris dropped one on Brooke’s empty plate. “Try this. We gotta have this for the wedding.”
But Brooke ignored the food. “I can’t believe she just invited herself today. ItoldDaddy she keeps trying to run things.…”
Marie put her hand on Brooke’s sleeve. “Let’s just let it go for today, okay? Layne has fixed all this beautiful food for us to try. You can have another discussion with your dad later.”
“It’s so not okay,” Brooke said, stony-faced.
“Honey?” Harris said, soothingly. “C’mon. Just eat something.”
***
They worked their way around the table. For as skinny as he was, Harris Strayhorn’s appetite and enthusiasm knew no bounds. He was every mother’s dream, every caterer’s dream. He loved it all.
For her part, Brooke merely picked at the offerings, despite her mother’s urging.
Marie was busily taking notes and conferring with Layne. “I love the little new potatoes with the caviar and sour cream. Brooke?”
“I’m not really into fish eggs, but if you like them, that’s fine,” Brooke said.
They were ten minutes into the tasting when the shop door opened and Patricia Trapnell swept in.
“Shit,” Brooke said under her breath. Marie shot her a warning look.
Patricia didn’t offer a greeting, or an excuse for her lateness. “You’ve started already?” She glared accusingly at Cara.
“Yes. We did, Patricia. Harris and I have jobs. We can’t wait around all day for you.” Brooke glowered at her stepmother. “Where’s Daddy?”
“Something came up.” Patricia picked up a plate and started down the line, but frowned when she saw the roast beef.
“Layne? I thought we discussed tenderloin, not steamship round. It’ll be so hot that day, and honestly, I think that presentation is so passé. It reminds people of being on a second-rate cruise ship.”
“Well,” Layne began.
“I asked for this cut,” Brooke said. “It’s Harris’s favorite. His dad’s too. And it’s not passé, but even if it were, nobody but you would care.”
“Fine.” Patricia’s lips pursed and she moved on to the next dish. She pointed with her fork at one of the chafing dishes.
“What’s that supposed to be?”
Layne dabbed a bead of perspiration from her forehead. “That’s the roast asparagus you requested.”
“But it’s wrapped in bacon,” Patricia said, her nostrils quivering. “We’re supposed to have prosciutto. Cold-smoked prosciutto. Don’t think I don’t know the difference.”
“For the reception, we’ll use prosciutto,” Layne assured her. “But I have to special-order it from my supplier, and he only delivers on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“We’re going to want to taste the prosciutto before the wedding,” Patricia warned. “It’s an entirely different taste.”
Brooke snorted, and this time, Patricia decided not to let it pass. She whirled around to confront the bride.
“You may not care about these things, Brooke Trapnell, but I can assure you your father and I do care. We’re paying eighty dollars a plate for this reception. And that does not include the bar. So please excuse me if I happen to object when somebody expects me to pay for prosciutto when it’s clearly only bacon. Is that too much to ask?”
Marie hesitated, then stepped between her daughter and Patricia.
“We all want a beautiful wedding, don’t we, Brooke?”
