Eternal Vows. Rochelle Alers
a figure that would rival a woman decades younger. Her short coiffed honey-blond hair, flawless peaches-and-cream complexion and her makeup were in keeping with someone who had achieved grande dame status. It was only on a rare occasion she would be seen in the upscale unisex salon.
“Welcome, Miss Blackstone. When one of my technicians told me you needed an appointment for a bridal package I knew I had to come and personally meet you. I had Iris move several clients to another day.”
Earlier that morning Peyton had complained to Ryan that being a Blackstone in horse country was more of a disadvantage than an advantage, but apparently she’d been wrong. She knew she’d been given an appointment when she told the receptionist her name; the woman called her back to inform her that someone had cancelled and they would be able to fit her and Celia in.
“Thanks so much for being so accommodating,” Peyton said, smiling.
Barbara inclined her head in acknowledgment. Her brown eyes shifted from Peyton to Celia and then back. “Who is the bride?”
Celia flashed a dimpled smile. “I am. And Peyton is my maid of honor.”
“You’re both lovely girls. My husband and Sheldon are very good friends. He was part owner in one of Sheldon’s Thoroughbreds that made Grainger a very wealthy man. So, there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for a Blackstone. I know you didn’t request it, but I’m throwing in full-body massages for both of you.” She winked at Celia. “A bride should be completely relaxed on her wedding day. Do you ladies have a favorite fragrance?”
Peyton exchanged a puzzled glance with Celia. “Anaïs Anaïs.”
Barbara smiled. “And you, Celia?”
“Trésor.”
“I asked because I know the wedding begins at four, so you’ll be able to shower and apply your fragrance before we do your hair and makeup. This way when you return home you’ll just have to slip into your gowns.” She motioned to a young woman dressed in a flowing black smock with her name stitched on one pocket and Unique Creations on the other. “Ingrid, please take care of
Ms. Blackstone and Ms. Thomas.”
Peyton and Celia gave each other fist bumps, as they followed Ingrid to a dressing room where they left their street clothes in a locker and were given plush black velour robes and matching slippers. Soft, relaxing Zen-like music coming from concealed speakers competed with the hypnotic sound of flowing water in a large corner waterfall filled with stalks of bamboo. They were brought into the massage room; scented candles and diffused light threw soft shadows on the walls and ceiling. Peyton felt as if she’d entered a cave or a grotto. The masseurs stepped out while they exchanged the robes for a towel, then lay facedown on the heated massage tables.
Both women lost track of time when they were simultaneously massaged and kneaded from head to toe. The massage was followed by a facial that left their faces cool and tingling. Peyton was almost listless when she was told she had to take a shower. They headed back to the massage tables where the masseurs applied scented body creams in their favorite fragrances. Dots of perfume were applied to all the pulse points. Her entire body glistened and glowed from the ministration.
Peyton slipped back into her robe, accepted a mug of steaming herbal tea, and as soon as she finished it she was seated in a shampoo chair. She ignored the conversations going on around her, luxuriating in the feel of strong fingers massaging her scalp. Every service was performed in precision like an assembly line. The highly skilled technicians knew exactly what to do, and there was no wasted motion. Her pedicure was completed when she sat in the chair with her hair slathered in a rich avocado-based conditioner under a plastic cap. Following the conditioning treatment, her hair was blown out and styled in a loose twist behind her left ear.
Her eyes met Celia’s in the mirror as they sat next to each other. Celia’s raven curls were set on large rollers, and then blown straight, brushed off her face and pinned into a chignon on the nape of her long, smooth neck. Celia had decided to wear flowers in her hair instead of the traditional veil or headpiece, while Peyton had chosen pearl and crystal hairpins.
Glancing at a wall clock in the glass and mirrored salon, Peyton noted the time. It was minutes before two. All that remained was a manicure and makeup. Although the invitations read four o’clock, Celia insisted the ceremony begin no later than four-thirty.
The manicurist noticed her staring at the clock. “Don’t worry, Ms. Blackstone. Someone will be applying your makeup while I do your manicure.”
* * *
“What’s going on?” Celia asked when Peyton maneuvered into the driveway at Nicholas’s house. A woman dressed in a black pantsuit with a pair of oversize sunglasses perched on the top of her reddish-pink hair was shouting into a walkie-talkie at the top of her lungs. The color in her face went from pink to bright red in seconds. She beckoned them to get out of the truck.
Peyton came to a stop, shifting into Park. “She has to be the planner.” Within seconds of getting out of the pickup two young women wearing similar pantsuits appeared as if out of nowhere.
The woman stepped forward, extending her free hand. “I’m Danielle Lawson, the event planner. We’re working on a very tight time frame, which means you have to go with the bridal attendants who will help you get ready. The groom and best man are dressed, so we’re only waiting for you. By the way, you look very nice.” She put the walkie-talkie to her mouth. “Get someone here to move this truck to the parking area.”
Celia and Peyton followed the two women around to the back of the house, entering through a rear door. A small storage room off the pantry had been converted into a makeshift dressing room. Both gowns, covered in clear plastic, hung from wall hooks and a full-length mirror was propped against one wall; the wedding flowers, boxes with shoes, lingerie and jewelry were set out on a cloth-covered table.
The bridal attendants worked quickly and efficiently when they helped Peyton and Celia out of their clothes and into their wedding finery. Both women stared wide-eyed at themselves in the mirror as jeweled hairpins were secured in Peyton’s hair, while Celia’s attendant tucked tiny pink rosebuds into the ebony coil of the bride’s hair.
Celia had chosen a platinum silk sheath with embroidered tulle, a sweetheart neckline, short cap sleeves, beading, sheer back and a sweep train. Peyton’s gown was similar, a darker gray and designed without the train. The simplicity of the gowns, hairstyles and dramatic eye makeup was perfect for a summer afternoon wedding.
Slipping her feet into a pair of charcoal-gray silk rhinestone-studded sling-blacks, Peyton added four inches to her five-three height. Celia had decided on a pair of satin pumps with a lower heel in a becoming platinum shade. She’d admitted if she was going to be up on her feet for hours, she much preferred a two-inch heel rather than a higher one. Standing five-eight in bare feet, four inches would have put her at the six-foot mark.
“Please hold out your left hand, Miss Blackstone.”
Peyton complied, her eyes widening as Celia’s attendant looped a bracelet with princess-cut diamonds around her wrist, securing it with a double safety catch. Peyton looked at Celia. “We didn’t order this.”
Celia’s dimpled smile was dazzling. “It’s my gift to you for being an incredible maid of honor.” She held up her hand when Peyton opened her mouth. “Please let me finish. It’s the least I could do for you, because you arranged and paid for the beauty makeover. You also got your cousin to agree to let Reverend Merrill officiate. And you’ve also kept me sane. So please be gracious and accept it.”
She wanted to be gracious, but the weight of the white metal and the size of the stones in the bracelet probably cost more than some people earned in six months. “It’s exquisite, Celia. But it’s too—”
“Please stop it, Peyton,” Celia implored, interrupting her. “Nicholas and I grew up with trust funds, and our parents taught us it’s gauche to talk about money.”
Peyton’s smile did not reach her eyes. She may not have been a trust-fund kid