more times since Anna's plane had safely landed last night. She'd said yes to a marriage in a week under some duress—the impending death of one of her best friends. Honestly, Sam thought in retrospect that if Anna's plane hadn't made it, she would have been at a funeral in New York City in a week and not at her own wedding. But now she was seeing an exchange of vows with Eduardo as some kind of predestined thing. Anna had made it. That was a miracle. Maybe her own marriage was meant to be, too.
Or some such quasi–New Age, it's-all-destiny reasoning.
“We hope you're willing to listen,” her mother added, shifting back and forth on the rose-and-white carpet.
Sam shrugged. “Fine, Dina,” she replied, trying out the first-name thing. It definitely felt better than “Mom.” Dina didn't flinch, and Sam leaned coolly against the yellow marble pillar behind her, waiting for the avalanche to descend.
And so it began. First, three minutes from her father, followed by three minutes from her mother, and not a single surprising statement. You could have torn it out of
Modern Maturity
: what to say when your eighteen-year-old daughter says she's getting married and you think the idea is insane. It was, Sam thought, awfully rich coming from them. What the hell did they know about marriage and family?
When they finished their monologues, Sam did her best to stay cool. “I respect your opinions,” she began. “And I'll consider them.”
Her dad looked surprised. “Well, that's great, Sam.”
It was also a crock of shit, but Sam wasn't about to add that sentiment. “We still don't know what Eduardo's parents are saying to him. Let's go out to the bungalow, have a drink, and we can talk about it together,” she suggested evenly.
“What about the wedding preparations?” Dina pressed.
Yeah, those. Sam had thought about that, too. She had no venue, no caterer, no guest list, no invitations, no wedding gown, no bridesmaids, no maid of honor—who would it be? Cammie? Anna? If it wasn't Cammie, she'd be so pissed. Most Hollywood weddings took at least a year to plan. How was she going to pull this off in time for next Friday night? The idea was preposterous.
But then, her whole Hollywood life was pretty preposterous. Sam had learned, early and often, that the answer to … well, pretty much
anything
was that the application of copious amounts of money solved most problems.
“I'll figure it out,” Sam responded. “Can we just go to the bungalow now?”
“Fine,” Jackson agreed. “But I doubt that your mother and I will change our minds.”
They left the lobby and walked along the gaslit asphalt path through the hotel's fragrant gardens toward the bungalow. Giant bouquets of yellow and orange nasturtiums hung from tall stone planters and perfumed the air. Sam walked a few steps ahead of her parents, but she could feel them behind her, bearing down on her. She clicked along in her three-inch stilettos, and had never walked a hundred yards faster.
Eduardo's father answered Jackson's discreet knock on the door. “Welcome,” he greeted them. “I'm Pedro Munoz.” Eduardo's father was just as Sam remembered him. He had an elegant but friendly-looking face, silver hair and a mustache, and his English was accent-free. Tonight he wore an immaculate gray Canali suit.
“And I'm Consuela,” added Mrs. Munoz, appearing behind her husband in the open doorway. Tall and slender, Consuela wore a simple fitted black Prada dress that fell to just below her knees, and black suede Ferragamo pumps. Her dark hair was twisted off her face into an elegant bun at the nape of her neck. Her inflection only occasionally betrayed that she was not a native English speaker.
“And me you already know,” Eduardo chimed in. He stood, nervously shifting from side to side, a few feet behind his parents. He was attired more casually, in vintage Marc Jacobs jeans, a fitted white V-neck, and a black Dolce & Gabbana velvet blazer. Even so, the
Or some such quasi–New Age, it's-all-destiny reasoning.
“We hope you're willing to listen,” her mother added, shifting back and forth on the rose-and-white carpet.
Sam shrugged. “Fine, Dina,” she replied, trying out the first-name thing. It definitely felt better than “Mom.” Dina didn't flinch, and Sam leaned coolly against the yellow marble pillar behind her, waiting for the avalanche to descend.
And so it began. First, three minutes from her father, followed by three minutes from her mother, and not a single surprising statement. You could have torn it out of
Modern Maturity
: what to say when your eighteen-year-old daughter says she's getting married and you think the idea is insane. It was, Sam thought, awfully rich coming from them. What the hell did they know about marriage and family?
When they finished their monologues, Sam did her best to stay cool. “I respect your opinions,” she began. “And I'll consider them.”
Her dad looked surprised. “Well, that's great, Sam.”
It was also a crock of shit, but Sam wasn't about to add that sentiment. “We still don't know what Eduardo's parents are saying to him. Let's go out to the bungalow, have a drink, and we can talk about it together,” she suggested evenly.
“What about the wedding preparations?” Dina pressed.
Yeah, those. Sam had thought about that, too. She had no venue, no caterer, no guest list, no invitations, no wedding gown, no bridesmaids, no maid of honor—who would it be? Cammie? Anna? If it wasn't Cammie, she'd be so pissed. Most Hollywood weddings took at least a year to plan. How was she going to pull this off in time for next Friday night? The idea was preposterous.
But then, her whole Hollywood life was pretty preposterous. Sam had learned, early and often, that the answer to … well, pretty much
anything
was that the application of copious amounts of money solved most problems.
“I'll figure it out,” Sam responded. “Can we just go to the bungalow now?”
“Fine,” Jackson agreed. “But I doubt that your mother and I will change our minds.”
They left the lobby and walked along the gaslit asphalt path through the hotel's fragrant gardens toward the bungalow. Giant bouquets of yellow and orange nasturtiums hung from tall stone planters and perfumed the air. Sam walked a few steps ahead of her parents, but she could feel them behind her, bearing down on her. She clicked along in her three-inch stilettos, and had never walked a hundred yards faster.
Eduardo's father answered Jackson's discreet knock on the door. “Welcome,” he greeted them. “I'm Pedro Munoz.” Eduardo's father was just as Sam remembered him. He had an elegant but friendly-looking face, silver hair and a mustache, and his English was accent-free. Tonight he wore an immaculate gray Canali suit.
“And I'm Consuela,” added Mrs. Munoz, appearing behind her husband in the open doorway. Tall and slender, Consuela wore a simple fitted black Prada dress that fell to just below her knees, and black suede Ferragamo pumps. Her dark hair was twisted off her face into an elegant bun at the nape of her neck. Her inflection only occasionally betrayed that she was not a native English speaker.
“And me you already know,” Eduardo chimed in. He stood, nervously shifting from side to side, a few feet behind his parents. He was attired more casually, in vintage Marc Jacobs jeans, a fitted white V-neck, and a black Dolce & Gabbana velvet blazer. Even so, the
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