Death of a Bachelorette Read online

  “Actually,” he added with a mischievous grin, “I lie. I had no deliveries to make. I stopped by hoping I’d run into you.”

  “Really?” I gushed, practically melting into a puddle of goo at his feet.

  “Yes, I wanted to ask you to dinner.”

  A dinner date with my tanned Tahitian cutie! But I couldn’t get too excited. Time to rein in my enthusiasm and play it cool. Give myself an air of unattainable mystery.

  “Omigod, yes! I’d love it!” I squeaked.

  What can I say? I’m hopeless.

  “I thought you might come over and have dinner with my family.”

  Wait. Whoa. What? His family? I was hoping for a moonlight dinner for two, with lots of hugging and munching for dessert.

  “Yes, you can stop by my village, and I can introduce you to the king of my tribe.”

  “You know the king?”

  “Sorta,” he grinned. “He’s my dad.”

  “Really? Your dad’s an actual king?? Does that mean you’re a prince?”

  “Yep,” he said, with another dazzler of a smile.

  How do you like that? It looked like Spencer wasn’t the only royalty on the island.

  “So what about dinner tomorrow tonight?” Tai asked.

  True, I’d been hoping for that romantic twosome, but chowing down with the king wasn’t too shabby.

  “Sounds fab!”

  “Great! I’ll pick you up at six.”

  Can you believe it? I, Jaine Austen, freelance writer and commoner, had a date with an actual prince!

  I watched Tai drive off in a haze, my imagination in overdrive, already picturing myself arm in arm with Tai, on the cover of People, Princess Jaine of Paratito.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Zombie in a Hawaiian Shirt

  Hi, sweetheart!

  Today was our first lesson with Alonzo, Lydia’s dance instructor. Such a charming young man. So handsome—and versatile, too! Would you believe he works part-time as a Ronald McDonald? Imagine! Clown by day, suave ballroom dancer by night. Talk about your Renaissance Man!

  Frankly, honey, I was afraid I wasn’t going to be able to keep up with the dance steps. I’ve never thought of myself as much of a dancer, but Alonzo said I had “the grace of a mariposa.” (That’s Spanish for “butterfly.”)

  Daddy, on the other hand, was shuffling around the floor doing his usual “zombie in a Hawaiian shirt” impersonation. He routinely ignored Alonzo’s advice and actually had the nerve to give him pointers on doing the limbo, yapping about that case of beer he won hundreds of years ago!

  But Alonzo was very patient with Daddy, thank goodness, and at some point Daddy started to pick up some of the steps.

  All the others were quite nimble on the floor: Edna Lindstrom and her new beau, Roger Nordquist (she met him in water aerobics class when their pool noodles collided; isn’t that the cutest thing ever?); Stan and Audrey Rothman (doing wonderfully well in spite of Stan’s recent hip surgery); and Nick and Gina Roulakis. (Even though Nick, a former high school football star, could stand to lose a few pounds, he was impressively light on his feet.)

  The only real shocker of the day was Lydia, who’d partnered up with Ed Nevins, a recent widower and newcomer to Tampa Vistas. So adept in everything else she does, Lydia was surprisingly awkward on the dance floor and insisted on taking the lead from Ed. Oh, well. At least she wasn’t as bad as Daddy!

  XOXO,

  Mom

  PS. Guess what? Lydia wants us to wear gowns and tuxes for our performance. Just like French royalty! Won’t that be fun?

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Quite an Impression

  Just got back from our first dance lesson, Lambchop, and I’m proud to say I made quite an impression on our dance instructor—a very nice fellow, who told me he’d never in all his life seen anyone dance like me.

  And my stock rose even higher when I told him about that case of beer I won at the limbo contest. I even passed on a few tips on the art of doing the limbo. He kept pulling me aside to chat with me, perhaps hoping to glean some of my dancing secrets. Turns out the guy works part-time as a Ronald McDonald. And I could see how grateful he was when I told him a few knock knock jokes to share with the kiddies.

  But the highlight of the day (and possibly my whole life) was seeing Lydia (“Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better”) Pinkus make a fool of herself on the dance floor. My god, the woman was like Frankenstein in support hose. My heart went out to Ed Nevins, the poor devil Lydia had roped in to be her partner. Ed just moved to Tampa Vistas a few weeks ago and clearly didn’t know what he was getting into. By the end of our session, The Battleaxe had stomped on his feet so many times, I’m sure the poor guy needed toe surgery.

  For once, I’m actually excited about this stupid Evening in Paris gala. Mom wants me to rent a tux to wear for our waltz, but there’s no way I’m throwing away good money on a tux rental, when I’ve got a perfectly fine tux sitting right in my closet—the very same tux I wore when I married your mom thirty-nine years ago. I’m proud to say I’ve still got the same boyish figure I had back then.

  Well, gotta go and practice my dance moves.

  Love ’n’ cuddles from

  DaddyO

  PS. Mom has been leaving brochures about Colonial Williamsburg all over the house, in a blatant attempt to lure me into taking a vacation with Lydia Pinkus. What a waste of time and brochures. I wouldn’t go to a Starbucks with that woman, let alone Colonial Virginia!

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Of All the Ridiculous Ideas!

  Your father absolutely refuses to rent a tux for the Evening in Paris gala, insisting he can still fit into his wedding tux. Of all the ridiculous ideas! Daddy actually believes he has the same body he had as a twenty-four-year-old. He just tried on his wedding tux and could barely get the darn jacket closed. One deep breath and the button at his tummy will go flying. I swear, he’s going to poke somebody’s eye out.

  XOXO

  from your very irritated

  Mom

  PS. On the plus side, I ordered the most fabulous robin’s-egg-blue sequined gown from the Home Shopping Channel. Only $129, plus expedited shipping and handling! I can’t wait to see those sequins twinkling under the fluorescent lights of the clubhouse! And I ordered one for you, too, sweetheart, in Fabulous Fuchsia—perfect for one of your trendy L.A. cocktail parties. Oh, darling, what an exciting life you’re going to lead now that you’re a genuine TV writer. I can just imagine what a gay whirl you must be having in your South Seas paradise!

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Fits Like a Glove

  Just tried on my tux, Lambchop, and it fits like a glove!

  Love ’n’ snuggles from your dapper

  DaddyO

  To: Jausten

  From: SirLancelot

  Subject: Best News Ever!

  Alert the media! All my frantic flirting finally paid off. I’ve got a date with Brett! Dinner at the beach. Isn’t that the best news ever?

  Ciao for now!

  Lance

  PS. Tiny glitch with the Corolla. While they were trying to get rid of the paint spot on the windshield one of the workers accidentally gouged a scratch on the glass. When they tried to buff it out, there was some sort of mishap with the buffing machine. The bottom line is they cracked your windshield, and now it’s going to have to be replaced. But no worries, hon. They promised they’d have it as good as new in no time.

  PPS. For some strange reason your texts and emails are coming in garbled. Can’t understand a word you’re writing. Must be something wrong with the South Pacific satellite systems.

  Chapter 7

  The rest of the day passed by in a hazy blur, me lost in thoughts of my future life as Tai’s princess bride. So swept away was I that I didn’t even blink an eye when lat
er that night in my bedroom I saw Godzilla scuttling off with a crumb of the peanut butter crackers I’d scored in Vending Machine Roulette.

  I came crashing back to reality the next morning, however, when I read that infuriating email from Lance, pretending my messages to him were coming in garbled. I knew darn well he’d read my emails and texts, demanding that he repaint my Corolla white, but that pigheaded know-it-all was pretending not to be able to understand them. The nerve of that man! And to top things off, those bozos at Senor Picasso’s had actually cracked my windshield.

  As for poor Mom, I only hoped she’d convince Daddy to rent a tux so he wouldn’t show up at the gala in his ancient tux looking like a refugee from Saturday Night Fever.

  And as it turned out, I wasn’t the only one feeling miffed that morning.

  When I showed up for breakfast, I found myself right in the middle of an eruption from Mount Manny.

  Our cigar-chewing, pastrami-eating producer was on a tear, ranting and raving about “those idiots” at the airport.

  Apparently the plane scheduled to be used in Spencer and Hope’s upcoming parachute jump scene was having mechanical difficulties and, according to the airport mechanics, would not be up and running until tomorrow.

  Furious at the delay, Manny was hardly able to wolf down his mushroom and truffle omelet. (The rest of us got our usual rubber eggs and cement muffins.)

  Eventually, his venom spent and his omelet demolished, our fearless leader headed for his office, chomping on a cigar.

  Meanwhile, Spencer and Hope met with Kirk to learn how to use the parachutes for the parachute jump. According to the script notes I’d read, Hope and Spencer would fly up in the about-to-be-repaired plane, making love chat (or, as Spencer would say, “vole chat”) and then jump from the plane in their chutes.

  Having retrieved the chutes from the prop shed, Kirk gathered Spencer and Hope by the pool and was showing them how to use the contraptions—which cord to pull to release the canopy, and which cord to pull in case of emergency.

  As he explained the workings of the chute, Kirk gazed worshipfully at Hope. But the perky bachelorette, looking particularly adorable in shorts and a floral tank, her hair caught up in a loose ponytail, was utterly oblivious to Kirk, her sharp eyes riveted on the cords of the chute.

  All the while, I was seated on a nearby chaise, ostensibly writing witty banter for the parachuting duo. But now, fully aware of Spencer’s limitations, I settled for coming up with synonyms for “brilliant,” trying to limit each of his royal lamebrain’s lines to three syllables or less.

  And I have to confess I was having a hard time concentrating. By now I’d forgotten about my worrisome emails. Instead my mind kept wandering back to my hunka-licious suitor, Prince Tai. Or, as I had come to think of him, “My Tai.”

  What if the two of us hit it off and fell in love under the tropical stars? What if I wound up an actual princess, like Grace Kelly or Queen Noor?

  True, Paratito Island wasn’t exactly the cosmopolitan center of the universe, but who cared? I was sick of big city living, anyway. All the traffic in L.A. was enough to give the Dalai Lama ulcers. (Especially driving around in a neon-yellow Corolla!)

  How lovely it would be to live in a charming cottage by the sea, with a wraparound verandah, and banana trees in the yard. At last I’d get to dine on fresh fish and island fruits and drop twenty pounds in no time.

  Before long I’d be frolicking along the beach in my string bikini, holding hands with My Tai, taking time out to toss off a novel or two while my bronzed god of a hubby did whatever Paratitan princes did. (Hopefully, topless.)

  I was just settling into a particularly yummy fantasy of me and Tai lying side by side on the sand, the sea lapping at our feet, the sun warming our bodies, caressed by cool ocean breezes. Tai was running his finger along my washboard-flat tummy and up to my chin, turning my face to his for a whopper of a kiss, when suddenly I was yanked back to reality.

  Oh, crud. It was Mount Manny, erupting again.

  “Are you crazy?” I heard him shout. “No way are you leaving this show.”

  He and Justin had joined us poolside, Manny in a terry robe and flip-flops, his face flushed with anger.

  “I give you your first big break in show biz, hire you on the basis of that crummy little student film—”

  “Crummy?” Justin cried, indignant. “Casserole of Broken Dreams just happened to win first prize at the West Covina Film Festival!”

  “I hire you on the basis of that crummy little film,” Manny steamrollered ahead, “and now you want to bail out for a movie deal. Forget about it, kid. It’s not gonna happen. I’ve got it on good authority that Some Day My Prince Will Come is going to be picked up for a second season, and as long as this show is in production, you’re not going anywhere.”

  Justin tried to plaster a conciliatory smile on his face.

  “But, Manny. It’s the career break of a lifetime. Surely you can understand.”

  Manny squashed out his cigar onto an unlucky ashtray.

  “All I understand is you’re under contract to me. Try to break it, and I’ll sue you big-time. Trust me. It won’t be a pretty picture.”

  With that, he whipped off his robe to reveal his big-bellied body in an eeny-weeny Speedo. (A sight, I can assure you, high up on the Not a Pretty Picture list.)

  Then he dove into the pool, creating a tsunami of a splash.

  I jumped up just in time to avoid the downpour.

  Justin stalked off, fuming, steam practically oozing out from under his baseball cap.

  And over by the parachutes, I could hear Spencer saying: “So which cord do I pull in an emergency? Don’t know why, but I keep forgetting.”

  Oh, man.

  With this guy in line to inherit the throne of England, all I could think was, “God save the queen!”

  Chapter 8

  That afternoon I got to see Manny’s pride and joy—“the most thrilling moment of the show”—the Royal Lei Ceremony.

  In this scene, shot on the mansion’s gazebo, Spencer would place orchid leis around the neck of two lucky bachelorettes, while the third would be sent home packing.

  Polly and I wandered over to the gazebo together.

  Bursting with excitement, I told her about my upcoming date with Tai.

  “I can’t believe I’m going out with a real live prince!”

  Polly gasped from under her fringe of bangs.

  “Way to go, girl! Every woman on the set has had her eye on Tai. Not to mention a few of the guys.”

  “To think,” I sighed, sailing along on Cloud Nine, “he picked me!”

  “And unlike the dimwit Brit,” Polly said, “Tai’s an actual prince. Of all the gals on Paratito Island, you’re the one who hit the jackpot, honey.”

  “Whoa, hold on. We haven’t even gone on our first date yet. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  Yeah, right. I was already planning the honeymoon. (Venice. Two weeks. Moonlight kisses in a gondola.)

  When we arrived at the gazebo, the crew was busy setting up for the shoot—Justin giving orders, but clearly phoning it in. His stock response to any question from the crew seemed to be, “Sure, fine, whatever.”

  Periodically he shot filthy looks at Manny, who was lounging in a director’s chair reading the latest edition of Cigar Aficionado.

  The bachelorettes showed up, fresh from hair and makeup, Brianna’s boobs making a spectacular appearance in a skin-tight spandex affair. Dallas sported a slinky white satin gown, setting off her creamy olive complexion, and Hope looked surprisingly sophisticated in a simple black column dress, her blond hair pulled up in a svelte chignon.

  A table with a floor-length tablecloth had been set up in the center of the gazebo, with two leis lying in wait for their lucky recipients.

  Thank heavens, I didn’t have to write any new dialogue for this scene.

  All Spencer had to say was, “Will you accept this royal lei?” And after all these weeks of pr
oduction, Polly assured me, he’d finally got that line down pat.

  The would-be prince was looking quite the English aristo in a white linen suit, his tawny hair slicked back with gel.

  I had to admit he was one hunk of a dyslexic mama’s boy.

  By now the lights were set, the cameras ready to roll.

  Justin, with a bored sigh, called for action.

  Spencer picked up one of the leis on the table, strung with lush purple orchids, and held it out.

  A moment of hushed anticipation before he said:

  “Dallas, will you accept this royal lei?”

  Dallas squealed with delight.

  “Yes, yes! Of course!” she said, racing over to Spencer, who lovingly draped the lei around her neck. I remembered what Dallas said the other day, that Spencer had already asked her to marry him. From the way he was looking at her now, love shining in his eyes, I believed every word of her claim.

  Beaming, Dallas threw her arms around the handsome Brit, planting a big wet smacker on his lips.

  Now it was zero hour.

  Only one lei left, and two bachelorettes.

  Brianna winked at Spencer, breasts thrust out like fishing bait bobbing in a river. Hope smiled bravely, a tiny vein throbbing in her temple.

  Spencer creased his brow, his idea of looking thoughtful, and waited several endless seconds—seconds which in production would be filled in with tension-inducing drum beats—before he said: