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The Wedding Thief
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By Mary Simses
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The Harrington sisters have never gotten along. Sara is a Type-A, career-focused event planner, and her younger sister Mariel is the opposite: bohemian, semi-employed, and recently engaged. When Sara’s mother lures her back to Connecticut under false pretenses, she is perturbed to discover Mariel waiting for her, eager to reconcile their relationship — and get some help with the final arrangements before her big day. The two sisters haven’t spoken since the night Sara realized something was going on between Mariel and Sara’s boyfriend, Carter Pryce. And now Mariel is about to marry Carter, the man she stole from Sara, the man Sara still loves.
When Mariel asks Sara to stand in for a bridesmaid who has to cancel at the last minute, Sara realizes it’s the perfect cover to unravel the nuptials and win Carter back. Sara begins to slowly sabotage Mariel’s picture-perfect wedding, but when she crosses paths with David Cole, he challenges her self-image as the jilted second-fiddle to her spotlight-stealing sister. Will Sara realize what a bridesmaid-zilla she’s become in time to fix the damage before Mariel’s big day?
Funny, soulful, and as sweet as buttercream, The Wedding Thief is the perfect summer read.
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Chapter 1
The Lie
It was my motherâs lie that brought me back home that July day. Not some inconsequential fib, the kind she occasionally told when my sister and I were young, like saying that Groverâs was out of chocolate chocolate-chip ice cream when the truth was, sheâd forgotten to put it on the shopping list. This was different. She said her health was failing fast and that she needed to be with her girls. It didnât matter that I was thirty-eight and Mariel thirty-five. We were still her girls.
Of course I believed her. Why wouldnât I?
It was a Monday morning and I was at my desk, working on the arrangements for the fall senior-management meeting. Two hundred fifteen people converging on Scottsdale, Arizona, to hear the companyâs plans for the coming year, get face time with one another, take jeep rides into the desert, have dinners around bonfires, eat too much, drink too much, and, if all went well, leave with a good feeling about Kelly Thompson Pierce Financial.
Iâd just looked up from my computer and was gazing at the traffic on Lake Shore, wondering where all the sailboats in the harbor were off to, when my cell phone rang. It was Mom. Her voice sounded weak, shaky. And strangely distant, as though she were calling from someplace much farther away than Connecticut.
âYou have toâŠcome homeâŠright now,â she said, breathy spaces between the words. âBefore itâs too late.â
âBefore whatâs too late?â
âIâm ill, Sara. Very, very ill. I canât explain itâŠover the phone. I need to see you. Just come home.â
Every nerve ending in my body stood at attention. âIâll get an afternoon flight from OâHare.â I was already searching the internet, my hands trembling, my fingers clumsy and numb when I needed them to be efficient.
âYour sisterâs comingâ was the last thing she said, spoken as though it were a footnote.
It should have been the title.
I tried not to think about that as I booked the flight. Tried not to imagine Mariel packing. It wasnât even seven oâclock in Los Angeles, but I was sure Mom had called her first. She always sought her out first. After eighteen months of not speaking to my sister, I didnât want to think about the two of us being in the same place at the same time. Somehow, Iâd survived last New Yearâs Eve, the first anniversary of the night Iâd realized there was something going on between her and Carter. The night that ended my relationship with him. And with her. But Iâd always thought Iâd have a choice about whether to see her again and on what terms. I was wrong.
On the plane, I stared out the window at the clouds while my brain kept grinding away, wondering what was happening to Mom. I was prepared for the worst when I pulled into the driveway in my rented Jetta, a little after six that evening, Jubilee and Anthem hanging their heads out their stall windows, the late-day sun casting a faded glow on the white clapboard house.
In the mudroom, music drifted from the ceiling speakers, the last few bars of âWhat I Did for Loveâ from A Chorus Line. A stack of newspapers sat in the recycling bin, an edition of the Hampstead Review on top, and sun hats were piled on a shelf. Mom kept those sun hats there even through the winter, displayed as hopeful harbingers of spring. A black-and-white photo of my parents at the Broadway opening of Right as Rein stared down at me, the last play my father produced before his death from a cardiac arrest almost five years ago.
In the hallway, I charged past Martha, the housekeeper, who was carrying two boxes wrapped in silver-and-white paper. She looked surprised to see me.
âHow is she?â I asked, but instead of waiting for an answer, I raced toward the stairs.
âYour mother?â Martha called out. âSheâs in the kitchen.â
The kitchen? I thought sheâd be in bed. But I was heartened that she was up. As I got closer, I could smell food. Something cooking. Tomatoes and onions, garlic, red wine. It smelled like spaghetti sauce, although I couldnât imagine Martha cooking spaghetti sauce for my motherâor cooking anything, for that matter. She broiled or boiled the taste out of any food, and Mom had stopped letting her near the stove.
Still, I expected to find Mom at the table, looking peaked and wilted, cloaked in a bathrobe, a little cup of tea in front of her. But she was standing at the Viking range, her back to me, seeming as fit as ever in a pair of pale gray pants and an ivory sweater, an apron around her waist. Her light brown hair shone as though sheâd had it washed and blown out no more than a few hours before. And she was singing along with Frank Sinatraâs âFly Me to the Moon.â
She held the lid of a large pot in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. Empty cans of tomatoes and tomato paste were strewn across the counter. A chunk of onion and a clove of garlic rested on a chopping board. This was not a woman who was on her way out of the world.
âMom?â
She spun around. âOh, there you are!â She put down the lid and spoon and hugged me, squeezing me tight. She hadnât lost any strength, and her weight appeared unchanged from when Iâd been there in March. âIâm so glad you made it.â She studied me. âYou look a little tired. Long flight?â
âMom, I thought youâd beââ
âWell, you can catch up on your sleep here. And see? Iâm making one of your favorite meals. I also picked up a peach pie from the Rolling Pin. I know how much you love their pies.â
I felt as though Iâd just walked into a Twilight Zone episode and Rod Serling was about to appear by the refrigerator: Youâre looking at Sara Harrington, product of a dysfunctional family. Her sister has betrayed her; her mother has lost her mind. Sara thinks sheâs come home. But in fact, sheâs just entered The Twilight Zone.
âMom, whatâs going on? You call sounding horrible and tell me to come home because youâre ill. âVery, very illâ is what you said. So I tell my boss Iâll have to be out for a week, maybe longer. I scramble for a flight. I pack. I get here as fast as I can, and youâre cooking dinner? I thought you were at deathâs door.â Maybe all actors were overly dramatic, especially the ones with a few Tony Awards under their belts. But this was going too far.
Mom dipped a spoon into the pot and tasted the sauce. âNeeds a little salt.â
âMother!â
âI never said I was at deathâs door, sweetie.â
There was a name for the crime of killing your motherâŠwas it matricide? I wanted to have the correct term because I felt I was getting close to committing it. âYes, you did. You said your health was failing fast. You implied you were terminally ill.â My voice was ratcheting up a few decibels with every syllable. âYou said you needed your girls here.â I glared at her until I knew she felt the burn.
She dropped the spoon into the sink. âWell, my health is failing fast. My mental health. Itâs failing very fast, and thatâs because I worry all the time about you and Mariel and why you two canât make up.â
Iâd been frantic for an entire day, missed an important meeting, and spent my three-hour flight next to a guy who snored and drooled the whole way. For this. âYou made me come back to reconcile with Mariel? I canât believe it.â
She took a step closer, her hand outstretched.
I backed away. âNo, you canât bring us together. And look at you, doing it under false pretenses. You made it sound like you were dying.â
Mom put her hand on her chest. âWell, I am dyingâŠof a broken heart. Two weeks, Sara. Your sister is getting married in two weeks, and you refuse to be a part of it.â
Of course I refused to be a part of it. She was marrying my guy, for Godâs sake. The man who used to look at me as though I were the most fascinating and fabulous person in the worldâthe only person in the world. The guy who knew how to make me smile no matter how bad my day or his day had been. The one who understood what I needed and gave it to meâa sympathetic ear, a funny story, a bit of advice, some silence and a gentle touch. The man I could count on to calmly steer the way through any stormy crisis. My rock.
How could Mom forget the big deal sheâd made about Carter being my boyfriend when sheâd first met him? After I introduced her to him in LA, sheâd said, Oh, Sara, I adore him. Heâs so easy to talk to. I feel like Iâve known him for years. No wonder heâs such a successful lawyer. And heâs clearly smitten with you. I think heâs going to be the one. You make the perfect couple.
âMom, stop the dramatics,â I said. âYou tricked me to get me home. I know very well when Marielâs getting married. And Iâm not staying.â
She grabbed my hand. âOh, honey, come on. You girls have got to put this behind you. Iâve seen you inflict the silent treatment on each other plenty of times, but this situationâs gone on way too long. You two havenât talked in forever.â
âForever wouldnât be long enough.â
âYou donât understand what itâs like to be a mother and be in the middle of your two daughters not speaking with a wedding coming up.â She pulled a box of penne pasta from the cabinet. âI love you both. I just want you to act like sisters again. Why canât you put the past aside and get back to the way you used to be?â
Mom continued to labor under the delusion that Mariel and I had once been close. I wondered if all parents had blind spots when it came to their children. True, this was the longest weâd ever gone without speaking, but there were always old wounds just beneath the surface that never seemed to heal.
And had she seriously asked why I couldnât put the past aside? She made it sound as if it were the kind of tiff Mariel and I had gotten into as kids, like arguing about who would sit in the front seat of the car or which restaurant Mom and Dad should take us to for dinner. My sister had stolen Carter Pryce, the only man Iâd ever really loved, and in two weeks she was going to marry him. I felt as though my heart was about to shatter all over again.
I wanted to rewind the clock and do everything differently so they would never meet. Rewind it back to the day Iâd met Carter, when I was still living in LA, working for Spectacular Events. Iâd gone to Santa Monica to see a bank CEO who had hired us to plan a birthday party for her husband. I left her twelfth-floor office and stepped into the empty elevator, stuffing notes in my briefcase as the car descended and stopped on the seventh floor.
A man got in. Tall, tan, with a full head of blond waves, he looked as though he should have been out racing a sailboat. Except he was wearing a bespoke charcoal-gray suit and carrying a red stapler. The door closed; the elevator descended again. Then the car stopped with a loud clunk. I waited for the door to open, but nothing happened. I pushed the button for the lobby, but the button didnât light up. Several more pushes produced no result except my heartbeat gathering speed.
âNot working?â the sailboat racer asked, pushing the button on his side.
I began to sweat. âI think weâre stuck.â I could hear the tremble in my voice.
The sailboat racer seemed to hear it too. âDonât worry,â he said, laying a hand on my arm. âWeâll get out of here soon. Itâs no big deal.â
He pressed the red emergency button on the elevator panel, and a few seconds later a womanâs voice came floating down from a speaker somewhere above us. âCan I help you?â
âYes, Iâm trapped in an elevator,â Sailor said. âItâs not moving, and the doors wonât open.â He glanced at me. âAnd Iâm with a lovely lady who looks like she wouldnât mind getting out of here as soon as possible.â
Oh God, I hoped I didnât have sweat stains under my arms.
The woman told us sheâd contact the fire department, but she couldnât say how long it would take for them to come.
âItâs okay,â Sailor told me. âWeâll be out before you know it.â He lowered his voice to a whisper and said, âActually, I didnât even need to make that call. I have special skills learned from watching years of MacGyver reruns. And I can get us out of here with just the objects I have on hand.â
It took me a moment to realize he was kidding, and I laughed in spite of my damp armpits and shaky knees.
âLetâs see what Iâve got.â He held up the stapler. âOne Swingline. Red.â He handed it to me and then emptied his pockets, reciting the contents as he displayed them: âOne pack of Doublemint gum, one set of keys on a key ring.â
âWhatâs that other thing on the key ring?â I asked. He told me it was a flashlight. That was very MacGyver-like. Maybe he wasnât kidding.
âOne black leather wallet stuffed with credit cards,â he went on. âOne brown lacquer and gold Dupont fountain pen. One cell phone. And one book of matches. With these, I can create an explosive device thatâll blow the door right off this thing.â
I laughed again. He had beautiful eyes, deep blue, and I sensed there were some well-toned muscles under his suit. âIâm so relieved. How do we start?â
âYou donât think I can do it. I find that a bit insulting, Missâuh, are you a miss?â
âYes, I am. Harrington. Sara Harrington.â
âCarter Pryce,â he said. âIâd shake your hand, but Iâm holding the key components to an explosive device. I donât want to trigger it accidentally.â
I liked his sense of humor. âI understand.â
He wadded up a couple of pieces of gum and stuck them between the elevator doors and the jamb. âThatâs the first step. We need a good seal.â
âRight. And youâre telling me you learned these skills from watching MacGyver?â
âI did.â
I didnât want to tell him I wasnât really a MacGyver fan. I listened to him recount the plot of an old episode, something about a Bigfoot-type creature, and I stopped thinking about the elevator walls closing in on us. All the while he added things to the wad of gumâcredit cards, the ink barrel from his Dupont pen, the battery from the miniature flashlight. âNow all I have to do is set it off with this.â He held up the book of matches. âAre you ready?â
Fortunately, he didnât have to do it, as firefighters from the Santa Monica Fire Department began calling to us from the other side of the doors. Within twenty minutes, we were out.
I remember the feeling of relief when the doors opened and I saw the foyer stretching in front of us with its creamy interior and silvery recessed lights, the receptionist busy behind her desk as if nothing were amiss. But I felt something else as well: the sense that I might have been able to stand being trapped in that elevator a little longer just to be with Carter Pryce.
Two days later he called and asked me out. We went to Balboa Island and walked around eating frozen bananas like tourists. We talked about the elevator rescue and I told him Iâd been a lot more afraid than Iâd let on.
âYouâre a pretty good actor, then,â he said.
I thought that was funny, because of the four people in my family, I had the least amount of dramatic talent.
âI knew when I woke up that morning something good was going to happen,â he told me. âI donât know how I knew, but I did. And then we met.â
I remember being surprised, not knowing how to respond. Here was a guy who spoke his mind, wasnât afraid to say what he felt, wasnât playing games. How refreshing. I was the luckiest girl in the world. Or so Iâd thought at the time.
Mom dumped the box of penne into a pot of boiling water. âCanât you, Sara?â she asked.
âCanât I what?â I watched the steam rise.
âPut the past aside.â
She made it sound as though Mariel stealing Carter was ancient history, but it had been only a year and a half ago. Iâd given a New Yearâs Eve party at my place in LA, the bungalow with the blue door I rented in Venice. Iâd hired a caterer and a bartender, gone all out. My Christmas tree was still up in the living room, the scent of evergreen hung in the air, and a piece of mistletoe decorated the kitchen doorway. Iâd dimmed the lights; candles flickered everywhere. The place was packed with guests, and Carter was there, of course. Weâd been dating for almost two years by then.
I was mingling, going from the living room to the den, making sure everyone was having a good time, occasionally dashing into the kitchen to confirm that things there were under control. Once an event planner, always an event planner. Carter and I were pulled in different directions, but every now and then weâd make eye contact. At eleven forty, I went into the kitchen to check on the caterers and get ready for the champagne toast and the cake. The bottles of Veuve Clicquot were on ice, and my old stainless-steel Waring blender was whirring, mixing up a fresh batch of margaritas. Then, suddenly, it was almost midnight.
The guests began screaming, âTwo minutes to go!â At eleven fifty-nine, they started counting down the seconds. I looked for Carter, and I couldnât find him. I almost went outside, but it was a cold night, and I knew he wouldnât have wandered out there. Finally, I saw him standing in a darkened corner of the den with Mariel. They were talking, but I could see, even in that crowded room, that something more intimate was going on. They stood too close, smiled too much. Their gestures seemed too familiar; their eyes never strayed from each other. Something had happened between them. Or was about to.
I walked out of the room, trying to steady myself. Carter. My Carter. With Mariel. My sister. Iâd thought they barely liked each other. God, how wrong Iâd been. I felt dizzy as I left the house. Outside it was fifty-five degrees, and I shivered in my sleeveless dress. In a daze I headed down the street, a video running in my head: Carter and Mariel, Mariel and Carter.
When I got to Abbot Kinney Boulevard, it was more hectic than ever, people driving by, honking horns, tooting party blowers, leaning from car windows to yell âHappy New Year,â all a blur of sound. I walked on through the noisy, drunken crowds, passing places Iâd seen a million times. Now they looked foreign to me. Finally, I stopped and leaned against the wall of a cafĂ©, hugging myself in the cold, wondering how all these people could go about their night as if nothing had happened.
Eventually I went home. After the guests were gone and the caterers had cleaned up and I was left with a pile of tattered party hats and blowers, I confronted Carter. Part of me wanted him to deny it, to convince me I was way off base. But he didnât. He told me they hadnât planned it, never wanted to hurt me, that it had been going on for only a couple of weeks, that they were waiting for the right time to tell me.
When would the right time have been? Thatâs all I said before I told him to leave.
I saw them together once, a couple of months later, in Beverly Hills. I was in my car at an intersection, and they crossed the street in front of me. He held her hand, laughed at something she said, gave her a little tug as if she were a child. Four months after that, Mom told me theyâd gotten engaged.
âYou want to know why I canât put the past aside?â I asked my mother now as she gave the pasta a stir. âI canât put it aside because itâs not the past. Theyâre together. Itâs the present and the future.â
âThatâs why you have to move on. Or youâre going to stay stuck right where you are. Iâm sure Mariel would be willing to put it aside.â
Of course Mariel would be willing. She wasnât the one whoâd been betrayed. âSheâs got nothing to lose. Sheâs got Carter. Sheâs not the victim here.â
Mom turned down the burner under the sauce. âSweetie, do you know where the word compromise comes from?â
Oh no. Iâd just landed in the world of etymology again. Mom never let me forget she had a degree in English from Yale. Language is everything, she liked to say. Theater, which sheâd minored in, was the area she ended up pursuing as a career, but sheâd never lost her obsession with words.
âWell, it includes the word promise,â I said, âso itâs probably something about making promises.â
âIt comes from the Latin compromissus.â She took a colander from a drawer and put it in the sink. âPast participle of compromittere. âTo make a mutual promise.ââ
âYes, okay, fine.â
âPity you never learned Latin.â
âIâve survived so far,â I said. âAnd Iâm not compromising with Mariel in any language.â Didnât she see how awful this was for me? Iâd thought I was going to have love, a wedding, and children with Carter and now here I was, almost forty, without any of it.
Mom let out a breath like a deflating balloon. âBut I know she would forgive you.â
âForgive me for what? I didnât do anything.â
âFor not speaking to her in such a long time.â
âI havenât spoken to her because of what she did to me,â I said. âI feel like weâre having two different conversations here. Did I ever tell you youâre like a walking non sequitur?â
She placed a bowl of salad on the table. âNow, thereâs a great Latin phrase! Non sequitur. âIt does not follow.ââ
âThat describes you perfectly,â I said. âNothing follows with you. You refuse to hear what Iâm saying. You always side with her.â
âOh, Sara, there must be a way to make this better. It wasnât really your sisterâs fault.â
That was it. âI canât talk about this anymore.â I held up my rental-car key. âIâm leaving. You lied to me. Thereâs not a thing wrong with you.â
Mom followed me out of the kitchen, her kitten heels clicking on the hardwood floor. âSweetheart, come on. Iâm sorry I brought you here under false pretenses, but this really does break my heart. I wish youâd stay. And not just for Mariel. For me. I want to catch up a little, do some mother-daughter things.â
âSome other time,â I said. âWhen sheâs not going to be around.â
I walked down the hall, my motherâs voice trailing behind me as I passed the photos on the wall. Mom in a summer-stock production of A Little Night Music in upstate New York. Mom in The Importance of Being Earnest at a regional theater in Connecticut. Mom in Dragonfly Nights on Broadway. There were dozens of photos. Her wall of fame.
I stepped into the mudroom, relieved to be getting out of there. I wondered if the Duncan Arms, which was right here in town, had any rooms available. And then the door opened and in walked Mariel. For a second, I didnât recognize her. Gone was the bohemian look of beaded tunic tops and woven handbags; sheâd swapped those for a pair of skinny white jeans and a coral-colored top that looked stunning against her tan skin. Four-inch heels had replaced her flat leather sandals.
Sheâd also cut her hair, which for years sheâd worn in one length, down past her shoulders. Now it was up to her chin, in layers, and blonder than it had ever beenâplatinum. But she could get away with it. She could get away with anything. Sheâd inherited the beauty gene. When she walked into a room, everyoneâmen and womenânoticed her. And now there was one more thing to notice: that rock she was wearing. Even the plastic stones on the rings Iâd worn as a kid during my princess stage werenât as big as the diamond she was sporting.
I stood there feeling like a wilted flower in my wrinkled clothes, my hair frizzy from the July humidity, wondering how she could look fresh after traveling all day from the West Coast. For a second, we just eyed each other like a couple of feral dogs.
âSo youâre here,â she said, a little scowl on her face as she pushed a Louis Vuitton suitcase into the room.
No more nylon zipper bag for her. Sheâd moved up in the world with Carter. I wondered whoâd designed the clothes she was wearing. And the shoes. Jimmy Choo? Prada? I was sure Carter had paid for all of it. At thirty-five, Mariel had never supported herself. And now sheâd moved her dependency from the Bank of Mom to the Bank of Carter. Sheâd never have to stand on her own two feet. âActually, Iâm leaving.â
She planted her hands on her hips. âWhat? Youâre running out on Mom?â
Genre:
- "Fans of Sophie Kinsella will note the similarities between Sara and the Shopaholic series heroine - stubborn but ultimately willing to do the right thing. Simses' charming exploration of family roles and shared history is a delightful piece of summer escapism."âBooklist
- "If you're attracted to the title The Wedding Thief, you'll absolutely love this book. It delivers a great sister vs sister story that overflows with warmth and especially humor. Mary Simses is one of our best new storytellers."âJames Patterson
- "If you've ever wanted to sabotage a wedding -- and who hasn't? -- you should definitely read this book. In fact you should read it anyway, because it's funny, smart and highly entertaining."âDave Barry
- "With each page turned, The Wedding Thief reminds us that the intricacies among sisters and mothers are unlike any other challenges. Mary Simses's new novel is a smooth and engaging ride, replete with female rivalry, female bonds, and the quest for romantic love."âSusannah Marren, author of A Palm Beach Wife
- "Wedding planning is almost always fraught with minefields, but this wedding takes the cake. Sara Harrington, the story's protagonist/event planner, could definitely use a few etiquette lessons. But then, so could her sister. Mary Simses' engaging, lively book takes the reader on a wild ride toward a wedding like no other."âPeggy Post, Director Emeritus, The Emily Post Institute
- "The perfect romantic comedy -- The Wedding Thief is a fun-filled romp with delightful twists and turns. It's sure to steal your heart!"âJamie Cat Callan, author of Parisian Charm School
- On Sale
- Jul 7, 2020
- Page Count
- 320 pages
- Publisher
- Back Bay Books
- ISBN-13
- 9780316421621
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