Someone in editing had bleeped out my swearing.

Noticing the way the deliverymen were staring at me, I followed their avid gazes, discovering I had leaned so close to the cake that my breasts were covered with white buttercream swirls.

By this point, everyone in the room was cracking up. Even Joe was trying manfully to choke back his amusement.

On the TV screen, the reporter asked me a question about the challenges of my job. I paraphrased General Patton, saying you had to accept the challenges so you could experience the exhilaration of victory.

“But what about the romance of the wedding day?” the reporter asked. “Doesn’t that get lost when you treat it like a military campaign?”

“The bride and groom supply the romance,” I replied confidently. “I worry about every detail, so they don’t have to. A wedding is a celebration of love, and that’s what they should be free to focus on.”

“And while everyone else is celebrating,” the reported said in a voice-over, “Avery Crosslin is taking care of business.”

I was shown making a beeline to the back of the church, where the chain-smoking father of the bride was lurking with a lit cigarette in his mouth. Without a word, I took the can of Evian from my bag and extinguished the cigarette while he stood there blinking. Next I was kneeling on the floor, duct-taping the torn hem of one of the bridesmaid’s dresses. Finally the camera panned to the groomsman’s cowboy hat shoved under a chair, where I’d secretly stashed it.

Someone had turned the hat upside down, and Coco was sitting in it. She stared directly into the camera, her eyes bright, her tongue hanging out, while the piece concluded with a grand orchestral finale.

I picked up the remote controller and turned off the TV. “Who put Coco in that hat?” I demanded. “She couldn’t have gotten in there by herself. Sofia, did you do it?”

She shook her head, snickering.

“Then who?”

No one would admit to it. I looked around the room at the entire lot of them. I had never seen them so collectively entertained. “I’m glad you all find this so amusing, since we’ll probably be out of business in a matter of days.”

“Are you kidding?” Steven asked. “We’re going to get more business from this than we can handle.”

“They made me look incompetent.”

“No, they didn’t.”

“What about the frosting?” I demanded.

“You saved the cake,” Steven pointed out. “While at the same time boosting the testosterone level of every guy in the audience.”

“It was a wedding show,” I said. “You, Tank, and Joe are the only three straight men in Houston who watched it.”

“Give me the remote,” Ree-Ann said. “I want to see it again.”

I shook my head emphatically. “I’m going to delete it.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Tank told Ree-Ann. “The station will put it on their website.”

Joe closed his hand over the remote and removed it carefully from my grip. His gaze was lit with amused sympathy.

“I want to be elegant like Judith Lord,” I told him plaintively.

“Avery, there are a million Judith Lords out there, and only one you. You were beautiful and funny on that program, and you gave off the energy of someone who was having a hell of a good time. You accomplished everything Judith Lord did, except that you were a lot more entertaining.” Joe handed the remote to Steven and took my hand. “Come on, I’m taking you out for dinner.”

By the time he and I had reached the front door, they had rewound the interview and were watching it again.

Returning to the studio a couple of hours later, Joe and I encountered Sofia and Steven, who were on their way out to eat.

Sofia was happy and animated, almost illuminated from within. That undoubtedly had something to do with the fact that she and Steven had recently started sleeping together. Sofia had divulged to me that, unlike Luis, Steven knew about foreplay. I could tell from seeing them together that everything was going very, very well. In fact, Sofia and Steven treated each other with a kindness that I wouldn’t have expected, given their past animosity. They had once looked for thousands of small ways to hurt each other, searching for each other’s weaknesses. Now they seemed to share an uncomplicated joy in being unguarded with each other.

“Do you feel better?” Sofia asked, hugging me as I walked in.

“Actually, yes,” I said. “I’ve decided to put that stupid television show behind me and pretend it never happened.”

“I’m afraid you can’t do that,” Sofia said, delight glimmering in her hazel eyes. “The producer called this morning and said you’re all over their Twitter feed, and everyone loves you. And a half-dozen people have asked about adopting Coco.”

I picked up the Chihuahua protectively. Her dry little tongue swiped at my chin.

“I told them we’d think about it,” Sofia continued, her gaze teasing.

Within a week, the segment had been picked up by the station’s national affiliate. The schedule at the studio was crammed with appointments, and both Steven and Sofia were insisting that we needed to hire more people.

On Friday afternoon, I received a text from my friend Jasmine, a command to call her instantly.

Although I always loved talking with Jasmine and hearing about her life in Manhattan, I was reluctant to dial her. If she’d seen the interview, I was certain she disapproved. Jazz had always said it was imperative that a woman maintain a professional façade no matter what. No crying, no displays of anger, no loss of composure. A television appearance in which I had cursed, carried around a Chihuahua, and ended up with buttercream on my boobs was not what Jazz would consider an appropriate work persona.