Other than that, the only major things still needing to be wrapped up are finalizing the cake—which I’ll do in a few hours—and then the final dress fitting. The dress is a Phillipe Favreau original that we purchased in Paris after hours of conversation with Phillipe himself. It is insanely expensive, but as Damien reminded me, there’s very little point in having gazillions of dollars if you don’t enjoy them. And I really did fall in love with the design.
Phillipe is custom-making it for me, and it is being shipped from his Paris studio. There were some nerve-wracking delays, but I’ve been assured that all is on schedule now, and it is set to arrive at his Rodeo Drive boutique tomorrow morning. His most trusted associate will make any final alterations tomorrow afternoon and deliver it the next morning—Friday—so that it will be locked up safe in the Malibu house, all ready to transform me into a bride on Saturday.
All in all, things are going reasonably smoothly, and I can’t help but smile. So what if I’ve had a few nightmares? For the most part, I’m kicking serious wedding butt, and I don’t intend to stop.
I breathe deep, content, then fling my feet through the surf, sending the water sparkling. Mrs. Damien Stark.
Honestly, I can’t wait.
“Ms. Fairchild!”
I look up to see Tony, one of Damien’s security guys, hurrying down the beach toward me.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Fairchild, I tried your phone but there was no answer.”
My phone, I remember, is by the bed. “What is it?” I ask, alarmed. “Is it Damien?”
“No, no, nothing like that. But there is a woman at the gate,” he says, referring to the gate that Damien had installed at the property entrance after the paparazzi got all crazy during his murder trial. “Ordinarily, I would simply send her away and insist that she make an appointment, but under the circumstances …”
“What circumstances?”
“Ms. Fairchild,” he says, “the lady says that she’s your mother.”
Chapter Four
My mother.
My mother.
Holy shit, my mother?
My knees go watery and I have to force my arms to stay at my sides so I don’t reach out automatically for Tony. There’s nothing on the beach that I can use to steady myself, and right now I really need steadying, so I stand perfectly still and smile and hope Tony doesn’t yet know me well enough to pick up on the fact that I’m totally and completely freaking out.
“I wasn’t expecting my mother,” I manage to say. “She lives in Texas.”
“I knew she was from out of state, Ms. Fairchild. I checked the lady’s ID. Elizabeth Regina Fairchild, address in Dallas. I assume she’s here for the wedding.”
“Right. I just—she’s not supposed to be here until Friday,” I lie. I conjure what I hope is a bright smile, but I fear it looks like something out of a low-budget Halloween thriller. “So, right. I guess tell her to drive on up to the house. If you could buzz Gregory and ask him to settle her in the first-floor parlor, I’ll run in and get dressed,” I add.
“Of course, Ms. Fairchild.” If he has picked up on my nerves, he is either kind enough or well trained enough not to say anything.
I hurry back up the path and take the stairs to the third floor. I want to ensure that I don’t see my mother until I’m dressed and made-up and looking polished and pretty enough that maybe—maybe—she’ll wait an hour or two before she starts in on me.
Once I’m in the bedroom, the first thing I do is grab my phone off the table and dial Damien. The second thing I do is end the call before it has the chance to connect.