A Groom With a View by Jill Churchill

planned—"
    “You'll find a place for them," he said.
    Jane could think of a perfect place, but it would be vulgar to suggest it.
    “Mr. Thatcher, I'm sorry to say that just isn't done anymore," Jane said, then recklessly added, "I believe in most circles, it's considered ostentatious and in poor taste.”
    He'd leaned into the car to pick up some paperwork and now turned and glared at her. "You dare tell me—"
    “Daddy!" Livvy all but screamed. "It's my fault. I forgot to tell Jane you wanted the gifts displayed. We'll find somewhere to put them. Maybe on tables in the upstairs hallway."
    “Do whatever you like, Livvy. It's your wedding," he said, clearly not meaning a word of it.
    Now that Jane and Jack Thatcher had pretty well established themselves as enemies, she decided to let him have the bad news as bluntly as possible.
    “Mr. Thatcher, there was a death here last night."
    “
What?"
    “
The seamstress fell down the stairs and died. I'm afraid the police may want to discuss it with you."
    “With me? Why? I don't even know this person.”
    “It did happen on your property," Jane said.
    “Mrs. Crossthwait is dead?" Livvy asked. "That's awful. What happened? What can we do?"
    “It's not up to us to do anything," Jack said. "There was no reason for her to be here that I can imagine. If Mrs. Jeffry invited her, Mrs. Jeffry can sort it out.”
    He strode off, flapping his paperwork angrily against his leg. Livvy gave Jane a frantic, upset look, then went running after her father calling, "Daddy… wait…”
    Shelley took hold of Jane's arm. "Sit down right here and now. You're as white as a sheet. We can't have you fainting from fury."
    “What makes him think he can talk to me like that—" The rest of the sentence stuck in her throat as she swallowed back a sob of frustration.
    “He's just a hateful bastard, Jane."
    “I'm tempted to just pack my bag and go home," Jane said, her voice shaking. "Let
him
put on the damned wedding."
    “You know you won't do that," Shelley said. "You're not a quitter."
    “Neither am I a medieval serf! That… that…”
    “Jerk?”
    Jane shook her head. "Oh, 'jerk' doesn't even come close, Shelley. In fact, the only phrases that pop to mind are things I've heard but never said out loud. One of them starts with 'mother'—”
    Before she could consider revising this lifelong record, the gift van arrived. A harassed-looking young man climbed out and asked, "Where am I supposed to put this stuff?"
    “Ask Mr. Thatcher," Jane snapped.
    Shelley stepped in and said in her kindliest manner, "Do you work for Mr. Thatcher?”
    “I'm afraid I do," the young man said.
    “See, Jane," Shelley said. "Here's someone who has to deal with him more than you do and he's not rolling around chewing sticks and frothing at the mouth."
    “I've come close though," he said with a sudden grin.
    Jane took a deep breath and returned the smile. "Okay, we'll find somewhere to show this stuff off. I hope all the cards are with the proper gifts. I have to give Livvy the list so she can write the thank you notes.”
    Jane stomped off, walking hard on her heels. Fortunately, the people who'd brought the folding chairs had an extra table along, which Jane asked them to put in the side room where the bride's shower was to be held shortly. They draped it with one of the linen sheets that had returned from the laundry the day before and Jane and Shelley hastily arranged the gifts so that the places that had been darned didn't show.
    While they were setting out and drooling over the Steuben and Waterford items, Larkspur returned from the city. "What are you doing? What's this extra table? Am I supposed to floralize it? Is this that scene from
High Society?
Issomeone going to burst into 'True Love' with full orchestration?”
    Jane only picked up on one word and it tickled her. "Floralize? Please tell me you didn't really say that!”
    Larkspur blushed slightly. "A technical term," he said. "This is so tacky,