Back Where I Belong: A Wonderfully Witty and Completely Absorbing Love Story (Susan Wade Series Book 3)
Page 13
“I feel absolutely the same.”
14
Male Escort Service
I could barely get any work done for the constant interruptions. Dottie needed this, Anita wanted that, floral issues, registry questions, music choices, bridesmaid issues, groom’s cake…I wanted to scream. If my cell wasn’t buzzing like a vibrator, my office line was flashing SOS in Morse code.
Finally, I marched to Jayne’s desk. “I don’t want you to get a bad reputation, but could you just start telling anyone who calls about anything other than work that I said to go to hell?! Could you just please do that for me?”
She blinked, owl-like, and then burst out laughing. “My last three bosses were vice-presidents. Not a problem.”
“We should have gone to Vegas,” I muttered, flopping back into my chair. I glared at the evil tax forms spread across my desk. Thanks to last year’s gypsy-like migration, I had to file Pennsylvania, Ohio, and North Carolina state taxes. With nearly no personal deductions, I pondered the plausibility of writing off my wedding dress as a business expense. Heaving a great and heavy sigh, I laid my head on my desk and imagined I was somewhere far away—like Fiji or some mystical place where half my annual income didn’t evaporate in a single day.
“Here’s a late arrival,” Mona announced, floating into my office. She primly planted herself in a comfy office chair and took a sip of coffee. “Who is Dr. Stiles? I don’t remember writin’ that one. Is he a client?”
I stared at the envelope for a moment, dumbfounded, but then as recognition dawned, a huge smile unfurled. When I realized there would be about a thousand people on the groom’s side and maybe ten on mine, I’d sent out the invitation on a whim, fully doubting I’d hear anything back. We’d lost touch nearly a decade ago, but I figured what the hell.
“No, she’s an old friend,” I murmured, slipping open the flap. A note fell out.
Dearest Susan,
Presumably, you’re still rather odd. Based on the return address, I can only assume you speak in some unintelligible tongue. And I’m rather certain your dress will be absolutely hideous. However, I’m in need of a good laugh.
Fondly,
Lexi
PS. I still hate your fucking ass.
Lexi had been my college roommate and an odd and surprisingly influential person in my young life. After a five-hundred-dollar frigging donation—aka bribe—to Northwestern’s Alumni Association just to get her address, I’d nearly choked on my own spit when I discovered she was a professor of English Literature and Women’s Studies at Georgetown University.
When my chortling fit subsided, Mona looking horribly distressed, I wiped my eyes and glanced at the reply. She’d checked the yes box; I was nearly giddy. Then I sent up a little prayer. Please, please, please still have purple hair!
“I’ll put her on the bride’s side then.”
“She can have a whole pew.”
Mona made a scoffing sound and then cocked her head in birdlike fashion, appraising me critically, certainly noting the darkening circles under my eyes. “You feelin’ any better today?”
“Just peachy.” I took another swig of lukewarm Coke and fought a yawn.
I was rapidly becoming an insomniac. I’d fall asleep in Pete’s arms, only to wake soon after, roused by any number of recurring nightmares. This had been going on now for nearly two weeks, and I was flat-out exhausted. Late yesterday, Mona had shaken me awake, drool pooling on my desk. My goal today was to stay vertical until sunset.
In the pale darkness, I surveyed Pete’s sleeping form. The very picture of contentment, a vague smile floated on his lips. Conversely, another wave of apprehension broke against my rocky shore. While I should be rejoicing, deep-seated fear once again ran its icy fingers across my scalp, chilling my sweat-drenched body.
Though a year lay between this, admittedly, glowing bride-to-be and the charred and ruined shell that had been me, those dark memories hadn’t faded: the fatal sting of rejection, of him saying I don’t want you anymore. Newborn anxiety was springing from the ruins like a determined weed from a sidewalk crack—the terror of him whispering at the foot of the altar, I’ve changed my mind. And though marriage should offer an overwhelming sense of security, even after vows were pledged, there was truly nothing stopping him from walking away, other than a questionable sense of duty.
Pete rolled over, his smile spreading as he mumbled my name. I laid my head on his shoulder, and his arm snaked around me, pulling me closer. I inhaled his intoxicating and ultimately reassuring scent, reminding myself that he did want me; that he’d openly asked me to spend my life with him; that he proclaimed his love for me daily. I closed my eyes in search of peace.
♥
As the countdown continued, the flurry of wedding activity escalated to a level I didn’t think possible. To combat my tattered nerves, which were now raw and living entities, I’d taken to drinking the cinnamon vodka the owner of Tobacco Road Distillery had once given me. Donating the whole case to Jimbo’s stock, it had remained basically untouched until now.
Downing my second martini, which, under my careful tutelage, Hunter had learned to make quite well, I enjoyed its sweet, burning warmth and awaited the calm it would ultimately render.
“When’s your daddy comin’ down?” Joe Pat asked, right after tossing an entire handful of popcorn in his mouth. I shielded myself from the projectile kernels. “Don’t think I’ve ever met the man.”
“You haven’t, or you’d know it,” I said evasively. I’d been thinking about Daddy a lot lately. I resented the fact that he wasn’t here, while at the same time celebrated the simple happiness that surrounded my mother in his absence—her world now lacking his tyranny.
“What’s he think of Pete? Didn’t give y’all any trouble, did he? Why, any man would surely be pleased to have him for a son-in-law. I know I would,” he grumbled. Joe Pat’s daughter had married a banker and was living in Columbia, South Carolina. A permanent resident on the weekly docket, Joe never missed an opportunity to expound on his son-in-law’s less than admirable qualities.
When I didn’t answer, he trudged deeper into my tar pit. “I’m sure looking forward to meetin’ him.”
“Joe—”
“He’s a businessman, judging by you. Probably taught ya everything ya know.”
“Joe, he’s—”
“A busy man, too, I’ll bet. Real important, right? Guess I’ll see him at the wedding.”
Emotion took hold of my reigns. “He’s dead!” I shouted. Suddenly the bar became eerily quiet. “Dead and, and gone.”
After a few beats of shocked silence, remorse painted his face, and he pulled me into a suffocating bear hug. “Aw, Susan, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to… Oh, shoot, honey. When did this happen?”
“Years ago,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. “He died shortly after I graduated from college. Too many cigarettes,” I said, raising a stern brow.
“I’m gonna quit real soon,” he mumbled contritely. On the other hand, Jayne, who was nestled beside him, fiddled with her packet of Marlboros and looked longingly at the patio door.
We sat in relative silence for a moment. I caught Hunter’s attention and tapped my glass. He smiled and nodded, thrilled to have something to do on this fairly dead evening. Pete hadn’t arrived yet. Under the guise of working late, he was most likely biding his time until I’d subdued my increasingly frequent mood swings with alcohol.
When Joe Pat next spoke, he wore a concerned expression. “Susan, if your daddy’s passed on, who’s gonna walk ya down the aisle?”
I literally had not given it one second’s thought. “I guess I’ll walk myself.”
Mona gasped. “You can’t do that, honey. It wouldn’t be right.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s just a silly tradition. It’s not like the world will end if I go it alone.”
“It’s bad luck,” Crystal Ann interjected as she delivered my liquid salvation. This from a woman who’d already divorced twice.
“You know my family’s very small. Both my parents were only children, so I really don’t.”
Thoroughly trapped in this flock of well-meaning, yet ridiculous people, I took another long sip of my drink, wondering how I could get them to scatter.
Suddenly, Joe Pat cleared his throat and sat up rather formally. “Well, if ya don’t have any people, and you’d not mind too much, I’d be honored to stand in for your daddy.”
I don’t know why, but my eyes misted. It was simply the kindest gesture. “You know what, Joe Pat? I’d like that very much. Thank you,” I whispered thickly. “Excuse me, everyone.”
Rather than disintegrate in the bathroom, I hooked a left and burst through the front door and onto the blessedly empty porch. Bracing my hands on the railing, I gasped for air between sobs.
Though I had few blood relatives, the people inside this mangy bar had become my family. They honestly cared about me, and by God, I loved them for it. No—I just simply loved them. I pulled myself together with that bolstering thought and wiped my face and eyes. The wood railing below me was damp and splattered with tears, but the cool evening breeze would soon remedy that, sweeping away the sadness dissolved within them. My heart lighter, I turned and rejoined my…family.
15
The Best Worst Bachelorette Party Ever
I’d like to tell you my wildest girlfriends chartered a jet and flew me to New York for the bachelorette party of the century, that we danced on top of tables and sucked down Jell-O shots until we passed out on the floor, that we barely made it back in time for the ceremony, but unfortunately, that was not the case. Instead, we had a pleasant dinner at The Charter House, a nice enough establishment that shared a wall with New Bern’s Moo Café. Thinking only of my gorgeous dress, I dreaded talk of dessert.
With the exception of Anita, my wildest—snort—girlfriends were Mona, Ginger, Piper, a handful of middle-aged women, one teetotaler, two minors (eyes glued to their phones), and a small, tiara-sporting, watery-eyed, rat-dog named Lady that stared up accusingly from my lap, clearly miffed that I hadn’t asked her to be a bridesmaid.
After excusing herself to take a “very important” phone call, Dottie burst back into the crowded dining room, shouting at the top of her lungs, “Y’all’ll never guess who’s in town!” Her large bosoms bounced like two overinflated beach balls as she scuttled back to the table. “Tony over at the Beaufort Inn swears it’s her, though she signed in under a fake name. Celebrities do that, yew know,” she stage-whispered. “I can’t believe she’s here!” Hand on her heaving chest, Dottie fell into her seat, panting like the world might end if she didn’t immediately herald these great, glad tidings.
“Who?” everyone shouted in unison. The manager eyed us censoriously, and I was fairly certain we’d soon be kicked out.
Fully ignoring him, Dottie continued at street carnival volume. “I wonder if she’s doin’ a book signin’ somewhere? It’s gotta be here in New Bern, but I haven’t heard a thing about it. I gotta get me a ticket, quick.”
“Who?!” we repeated.
The manager speed-walked to our table. “Ladies, please keep your voices down. There are others in the restaurant.”
Dottie looked up at him like he was simply stupid. “Well, they’ll surely need to know it, too. Daphne Fontaine’s in town!” she hollered. Gasps erupted all around us.
Mildly embarrassed, but highly intrigued, I asked, “Who is Daphne Fontaine?” That’s when the manager looked down at me like I was simply stupid.
“Why, she’s only the most famous writer in the whole world!” Dottie raised an eyebrow then—finally!—dropped her voice back to its normal shrill. “I think she’s bigger than…well, you know who. I wonder if she’s visitin’ him.” There was only one “him” in New Bern, a super-famous author who spent most of his time in Hollywood, turning his books into movies.
“That wouldn’t make sense, ’cause she’d be stayin’ at his big ol’ mansion in town,” Hilda interjected. “I took that Junior League tour last August. He’s got more bedrooms than I do hats.”
Dottie waved a dismissive hand at Hilda and continued my education. “Susan, she’s written over twenty-five of the best, juiciest, steamiest romance novels on God’s green earth. I’ve got ’em all, and I’m findin’ her and begging her to sign every single one! Tony’s keepin’ me posted.”
“Ooh, get me a ticket, too,” Sarah begged.
I rolled my eyes and snorted. I’d never heard of her. Of course, I didn’t read for pleasure, but still. “Hello, person getting married tomorrow… Can we just get back to”—this sad-assed party—“our celebration?” Let me tell you that got their attention. Not.
“She picks out all the male models for her covers,” Dottie gushed, letting out an excited giggle completely at odds with her age. “Nobody gets to do that.”
“Nobody,” Ginger concurred.
“I’m on her fan site,” my mother declared. Yes, my own mother was at my bachelorette party. If that’s not an evening-killer, I don’t know what is.
“Me, too,” Mona chimed in. I gaped at my mother’s bastard child and shook my head.
After nearly an hour more of romance novel gibberish, me watching a small spider slowly scale the wall, the party broke. It was nearly 9:30. I sighed heavily.
“Susan, you need your beauty sleep,” Mom said, kissing my cheek.
My mother her charge, Mona dutifully rose as well. Hugging me tightly, she whispered, “Tomorrow’s gonna be the greatest day of your life. Promise.”
After thanking everyone profusely for such a lovely evening, I sank back in my chair, in desperate need of a few minutes of silence—or rather, calm. I was becoming a nervous mess, my wedding angst growing faster than Jack’s beanstalk.
I looked up, surprised to find Anita standing beside the table. She set a very large margarita in front of me and took a seat. “I like Daphne Fontaine as much as the rest of ’em, but right now, I don’t give a damn if she’s here or not. This is a bachelorette party for God’s sake.” She sloshed her margarita against mine and took a large icy gulp. “Let’s get shitfaced.”
I smiled gratefully. “Best offer I’ve had all night.”
♥
Not more than ten minutes had passed, Anita glancing at her phone several times in the interim, when she suddenly downed the rest of her drink, licked her lips thoroughly, and said, “I’ve got a surprise for yew.”
Parked half over the curb in front of the restaurant was an older-model gray limousine. The wiry man leaning against its frame hurriedly opened the door for us. Inside, I found one Tina, dressed like a twenty-dollar hooker: skin-tight red dress, matching fuck-me pumps, glossy lipstick applied to the dripping stage, and press-on talons. I was not a big Tina fan, but at this point, I was starved for excitement, and judging by the way she was dressed, I knew we were on a mission to find some.
From a Target bag, Anita pulled out a white sequined dress with matching glittery shoes and tossed them to me. “Here, put these on. They fit Taylor, so I know they’ll fit you.”
I gawked at the dress and then at her. “You let your daughter try this on?”
“’Course.”
Anita then promptly stripped down to her underwear and yanked off her bra, releasing a very impressive set of boobs, before shimmying into a tight blue number, the hem barely covering the apex of her thighs. My eyes screwed up in pain.
“C’mon, Susan, I know you ain’t shy,” Tina jeered.
I decided, if duty called, I could whore it up with the best of them. And let me tell you, my phone was ringing off the hook.
There was no back to my dress whatever, so my bra joined Anita’s on the generous floor. The plunging neckline folded in layers, the material over my breasts proudly displaying my shrink-wrapped nipples. Harlot red lipstick, kohl eyeliner, and a compact mirror were then tossed in my lap.<
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Anita dropped her head between her knees, mussed her hair vigorously, and began spraying the holy hell out of it. Nearly choking on the fumes, I dropped my window. “Up or down?” she then asked, tossing the can to me.
“Um…down?”
“Wrong answer,” Tina corrected, grabbing my hair painfully. She popped up on her knees and proceeded to gouge my scalp with bobby pins in the name of a quickie up-do. “All men give a shit about is your tits and your ass. Put your hair up so it don’t get in their way.”
The spray came next, and damned if I didn’t look like a middle-tier call girl when she’d finished—that is until Anita affixed a small veil to my head. Then I just looked stupid.
The limo stopped at the outskirts of town, and we climbed out. “Where are we?” I asked, staring at a strip of poorly lit pavement.
“New Bern International,” Anita said, snorting with mirth. “C’mon.” She towed me to a small yellow helicopter. “Y’all stay here.”
While we waited, Tina smoked a cigarette and surveyed me critically. “You’ll do, I guess. You got good legs for a Yankee.”
Biting down on all the wicked things I might volley back, I settled for, “Thanks?”
Anita marched out behind a stocky man with thinning brown hair, browbeating him as he hurriedly zipped up his bright orange flight suit—which also looked really stupid, by the way. “C’mon, y’all. Get in.”
Anita’s giant step up surely showed everything Eve had tried to hide with that fig leaf. She climbed into the cockpit and waved animatedly at us. Tina gave me a small shove. “You ain’t scared of a little helicopter ride, are yew?”
I decided right then and there that whatever that bitch could do, I could do better. I tried for dainty but then decided Anita’s mount was the only way to get into the damned aircraft. As the motor revved, the propeller made a deafening sound like a million locusts begging for heat. I threw up a prayer that after I croaked, Pete would find love again, and then covered my face as the nose violently dipped forward.