He moved with grim determination, a man who'd spotted a crisis from fifty yards away and was already three steps ahead of it. His three-piece suit was immaculate—not a thread out of place—and his expression carried controlled fury that suggested someone, somewhere, was about to have a very bad day.
"Eliza-Grace!" he called, not breaking stride. "The kit from the Savannah Debutante Ball crisis of 2019. Now."
His assistant materialized at his elbow, nodded once, and vanished.
Kendall appeared from around the corner—she must have heard the commotion from the bridal suite down the hall. She was in a silk robe, hair half-pinned in rollers, mascara-streaked and clutching a tissue. She spotted us and waved frantically. "Hunter! Dixie! Oh thank goodness—did you see them? Did you SEE? My beautiful bridesmaids look like they've been dipped in nacho cheese!"
"In Kendall's defense," Beauregard said, appearing at her side with barely a pause, "this is exactly why I recommended a professional colorist from Atlanta rather than a local salon." His gaze found Laverne, who had followed the bridesmaids down the hall. A look passed between them that could have melted steel.
Laverne met it with a smile that was all teeth.
Within half an hour, Beauregard and Laverne worked through all eight bridesmaids with color corrector. They weren't perfect—one bridesmaid's elbows would stay tangerine through the weekend—but they no longer looked like safety equipment.
The boyfriend-meltdown bridesmaid had it worst. Apparently her boyfriend had escalated from their earlier fight by texting a breakup during the color correction. Laverne announced to anyone within earshot that it was "the rudest thing anyone's ever done on a Saturday."
Kendall had stopped crying. "Beauregard, you saved my wedding."
"I saved your wedding from one of its many potential catastrophes, Miss Kendall. Laverne—standard volume hair only. Nothing experimental."
Laverne nodded without arguing.
We made our excuses and headed for the elevator. We'd almost made it when I heard a woman's voice—sharp, panicked—coming from a service corridor where a door had been propped open.
"—I don't care, we need someone NOW. Someone who can handle sugar flowers without crushing them—yes, I know what day it is, that's precisely the problem—"
I knew that voice. The Garrett sisters—Ruby and Pearl—had been running Dough & Arrow bakery since before I was born. Everyone in Bitter Root knew them. I'd eaten their pie at every church social and county fair for thirty years.
I stopped. Through the open door, I could see Ruby pacing in front of a five-tiered wedding cake, phone pressed to her ear, free hand gesturing wildly. Pearl stood beside her wringing a towel between her hands.
Ruby hung up and turned to her sister. "Nobody. Not a single person available on a Saturday morning in February."
"We can do it ourselves," Pearl said softly. "We've done it before."
"Pearl, we have thirty-two sugar flowers to place, a full piping sequence on tiers three and four, and my hands have been shaking since Thursday. My eyes aren't what they used to be."Ruby pressed the heels of her palms against her forehead. "This cake has to be perfect. It's Kendall Blanchette's cake. If we mess this up—"
I started to walk past. Not my problem. I was the groom's brother, not a wedding coordinator. They'd been making cakes for fifty years—they'd figure it out.
I'd almost cleared the doorway when I noticed Dixie.
She was watching Ruby and Pearl through the open door, and there it was again—that intent look from last night when Kendall mentioned the sugar work. Like she was itching to get her hands on it.
"Hey," I said quietly, touching her arm. "You want to help them?"
She blinked. "What?"
"You've been staring at that cake like it owes you money. And you knew exactly what questions to ask Kendall last night." I shrugged. "Just a hunch."
Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe, that I'd noticed. Then she squared her shoulders and walked toward the service corridor.
Ruby looked up, startled. "Can I help you?"
"I might be able to help you, actually," Dixie said. "I have some experience with sugar work. If you'd let me try."
Ruby's eyes flicked to me, then back to Dixie, assessing. Pearl looked up from her towel-wringing.
"Experience?" Ruby's voice was sharp. "This isn't a birthday cake, honey. This is a five-tier wedding cake for Kendall Blanchette."
Dixie didn't flinch. She walked to the nearest tray of sugar flowers and picked one up, turning it carefully between her fingers. The petals were translucent as tissue paper.
