A woman named Ramona, who had angularly cut, ice-blond hair, harsh gray eyes, and high cheekbones, and was wearing a Chanel suit and very expensive-looking five-inch snakeskin heels, sat opposite them, a large binder on her lap. “Are you telling me,” she said in an intimidating voice, “that you want me to pull together an unforgettable wedding by the end of the week?” Hanna swallowed hard. Maybe calling Ramona, who was supposed to be the best wedding planner in the business—she’d apparently arranged a ton of starlets’ nuptials all over the country—was a crazy idea. So, probably, was asking that she have it at Chanticleer, her favorite mansion on the Main Line. “I realize weddings normally take a while to plan,” she said meekly. “Is there anything you can do for us?” “Oh, I can do anything you want,” Ramona said haughtily. “I’ve planned weddings with far less time. It just means we have to start now.” Then she looked at Fidel, her gaunt, ponytailed, effeminate assistant who’d trailed in timidly behind her.
