Stand-In Groom

“I totally relied on Miss Anne for everything,” bride-to-be Landry said. “She talked to me about what I wanted and then did everything just like I imagined. No, even better than I imagined.”

Hawthorne, a Bonneterre native, first appeared in the pages of the Reserve twenty-eight years ago as one of five survivors of a commuter plane crash that took the lives of twelve others, including her parents, world-famous photographers Albert Hawthorne and Lilly Guidry- Hawthorne.

According to sources, Hawthorne and Ballantine knew each other as students at Acadiana High School and UL–Bonneterre. Neither Hawthorne nor Ballantine could be reached for comment.

“Nor am I likely to comment.” She tossed the paper aside. At least they hadn’t written anything negative about the event or her company. She climbed out of bed and winced as her sore feet hit the hardwood. She hadn’t even worn heels last night, and her feet still ached.

Thank goodness she’d set the coffeepot up without changing the timer before climbing into bed in the wee hours. She poured a cup of the chocolate-caramel-pecan-flavored brew, stirred in half-and-half and sugar, and padded across to her giant chair-and-a-half. Cradling the blue ceramic mug in her left hand, she grabbed the TV remote and clicked the TV on. The screen came to life showing CNN Headline News.

“…confirmed all the rumors when he announced yesterday he is getting married.” The picture cut away from the cutesy reporter to footage of Cliff’s press conference. She smiled to see George in his butler-esque stance behind him. If George agreed to go into business with her, he’d never have to debase himself the way she’d seen him do with Cliff several times yesterday.

She clicked up one channel. MSNBC. Same story, same footage. Click. Fox News. Different news story—but then the scroll at the bottom of the screen ran the announcement. Click. Regular CNN. A repeat of Larry King Live from earlier in the week—with the announcement of Cliff’s engagement in the scroll at the bottom. Click. E! Entertainment Television. The True Hollywood Story of Cliff Ballantine. Couldn’t be all that “true” since they’d never interviewed her or Aunt Maggie, his employer for four years. Click. The Style Network. The fashion critique of a movie premiere event last night—and chatter between the hosts about the engagement announcement “a few minutes ago.” Click. Bravo Network. A repeat of Inside the Actor’s Studio featuring Cliff.

Okay, maybe she needed to go to a different set of channels. She punched in the number for TBS. They usually ran romantic comedies on Saturday mornings. Commercials. She sipped her coffee. Hopefully something that would put her to sleep. The movie came back on. She squinted to read the caption in the lower right corner. “You’re watching Mountebank.”

She nearly threw the remote at the TV. Cliff’s first movie. The one that had made him a star and her a nobody. She jumped out of the chair, crossed to the armoire-style entertainment center, and grabbed the blue box of the extended edition of Return of the King. Nothing like the Battle of Pelennor Fields and the destruction of the ring to get her mind off things—

“Anne, it’s you!”

She glanced down at the TV. Cliff’s face, ten years younger, filled the large screen. She recognized that expression. She’d seen it when he suggested they get married.

“Anne, you’re the one I love. You’re the one I want to marry—”

She turned the DVD player on, mercifully sending the TV to a blue screen while she inserted the first disc.

No wonder he’d gotten that part. He already had the fake emotions—and the lines he had to say—down pat from practicing on her. She slouched down in the deep cushions of the big chair.

What would his marriage to an overweight, provincial, hometown girl have done for his career ten years ago? He’d spent the past decade creating the image of a happy-go-lucky bachelor, only too happy to have a different starlet on his arm at every red-carpet event he attended. Women turned out in droves to see his action-adventure movies on opening night. Would he have become such a phenomenon with Amazon Anne on his arm at every event?

No. She sighed. Not only would she have hampered his rise to megastardom, she would have hated all the attention; and being honest with herself, the stress of living in the public eye would have driven a wedge between them. She was woman enough to admit they would have been divorced within a few years.

He had an ulterior motive for dating her all those years. Could he be marrying Courtney now to improve his image? He’d gotten lots of press about being a playboy, gracing the cover of several magazines as the Bachelor of the Year multiple years running. Which was fine as long as he made action films. According to several conversations she’d overheard last night, Cliff wanted to be “considered for dramatic roles.” He’d never get those roles and garner an Academy Award nomination as long as he lived a life worthy of the cover of the Enquirer. And he’d wanted to win that particular award ever since she’d known him. He’d even practiced his acceptance speeches on her. “I’d like to thank the Academy, the wonderful casting agent who had the foresight to choose me for this role, the fabulous screenwriters who wrote this role with me as their model, the director who took my advice on every scene….” She’d laughed then, not truly understanding the size of his ego.

Did Courtney really comprehend what she was getting herself into? Could the poor girl ever hope to compete with Cliff’s first love—himself?

The struggle between good and evil on her TV screen no longer interested her, and she turned it off. She needed to have a heart-to-heart with Courtney Landry before things went any further. If the girl got in over her head and ended up brokenhearted when Anne could have done something to head it off…

She went into the kitchen and grabbed her cell phone from her purse. She scrolled down to Courtney’s name and hit the button to dial.

No answer. Her voice sounded so young in her voice-mail greeting. “Hello, Courtney, it’s Anne Hawthorne. I hope you enjoyed yourself last night. You looked beautiful, and everyone in America loves you already. I know—I saw it on all the news channels this morning. Listen, I wanted to schedule a time for the two of us to go to lunch this week. We’ve never really had a chance to sit down, just the two of us, and chat. We’ve got some big events coming up that I’d like to get your ideas for. So just give me a call.” She left her cell, home, and office numbers and hung up.

Out of curiosity, she called into her voice mail at work.

“Ms. Hawthorne, hi, my name is Alaine Delacroix—you’ve worked with my family at Delacroix Rentals and Delacroix Nursery many times. I’m the social scene reporter with Channel Six—” Anne skipped forward and listened to the first few seconds of twenty-three more messages—all from reporters wanting exclusives about the wedding. She deleted them with no remorse.

She needed to go to her office and get her planning calendar. She hadn’t picked it up yesterday morning as she didn’t need it for the engagement party. But for her meeting with Alicia in an hour, she’d need it. So much for a leisurely shower.

She hopped in and out, put a little bit of makeup on so she didn’t look like death warmed over, and drove to the office with the convertible top down so her naturally straight hair would be dry enough to pull into a clip at the back of her head.

She deactivated the alarm at the keypad just inside the back door. She didn’t bother turning the lights on and passed through the dark hall into the front office, lightened enough to see from the bright sunshine outside. Shadows passed in front of the windows. Lots of people out shopping today.

She grabbed the leather planner and glanced out onto the sidewalk. Several people stood outside her storefront. People with huge cameras strung around their necks. Good thing they didn’t have the back entrance covered.

She slipped out the back door and speed-dialed George as she drove down the alley.

“Good morning, Anne.” His voice had an early morning, gravelly quality that sent shivers down her spine.

“You sound like you just woke up.”

“Not exactly. I have to keep regular hours when I’m with Mr. Ballantine. Early morning is the only time I get to myself to read the Bible and spend time in prayer.” He yawned and begged her pardon. “Did you get plenty of rest this morning?”

“Not exactly. Jenn, Meredith, and Forbes practically beat down my door at seven forty-five, wanting to make