by Vicki Batman
Allan blew a huge sigh. “Done.” He paused. “Opera?”
I terminated the call. Something-something-something smacked me wrong because he agreed too quickly. I didn’t want to go to the opera. He hated opera. I did, too. Nothing good would come out of this arrangement.
“Three minutes ’til,” Jenny yelled. “Step on it.”
“Allan will need lots and lots of help.” I shoved my feet into driving mocs and grabbed my trench coat. I revisited my conversation with him as Jenny and I dodged drops to her car. We scrambled into the four-door sedan, and I informed her what was what.
“Stuart’s mom is just like him.” Jenny checked her rearview mirror before changing lanes. “Always full of surprises.”
“Wait until I tell you about the opera.”
“Opera?” She canted her gaze toward me very briefly. “You hate the opera unless Bugs Bunny’s singing.”
Jenny knew me too well. Didn’t everybody think The Barber of Seville was the best opera evah?
****
After I entered the studio, I paused to note the expanse of the hardwood floor and the spicy dance music. I blew a disgusted snort. A couple of lessons to go—my ass. My shoulders drooped. Is it horrible to wish for a sprained ankle to get out of this mess?
My conscience didn’t agree, reiterating “for my sister, for my sister” in my head. I dumped my coat and handbag on a chair and turned to face the room with my arms crossed over my boobs.
Jenny did the same except for the “crossing the arms” part.
Ms. Yolanda paired us with the same partners, and of course, Allan did a repeat as mine.
Stuart and Tracey stood at the other end, holding hands, their gazes never leaving each other’s faces. An ecstasy bubble entombed this bride and groom-to-be.
Right now, I thought them rather self-centered to act so ooey-gooey. I swore to God their constant smiles were tattooed on them, and the overwhelming impulse to smack ’em consumed me.
Allan’s expression resembled the cat caught face-planting in a bowl full of cream. He took my hand and set his other to my waist.
I positioned mine in the designated spot on his shoulder. Heat inched into my palm and spread along my arm, my neck, and fanned across my cheeks.
With a smirk, he tugged me closer, letting our bellies rub together. So close, his irresistible pine scent teased my nose. Oh boy.
“Let’s see if we do better this time,” I gritted through clenched teeth.
His devouring-you grin made me twist my mouth. I rolled my eyes. “Stop leering like-like the Big Bad Wolf.”
“Just practicing my tango expression.” He relaxed his hold, and a soupçon of distance crept between our tummies. “The story implies the Big Bad Wolf lusted after Little Red Riding Hood.”
Great.
Ms. Yolanda clapped. “Anda one, anda two…”
Allan and I slid sideways. “I don’t have a red cape,” I said.
“Buy one. We can indulge in fantasy role-playing.”
Role-playing? “Whatever.” Two to three minutes of silence encompassed us as I concentrated on my steps. “How about we change the subject? Exactly what do you have in mind for the rehearsal dinner?”
“I’ve never planned a rehearsal dinner before. I’ve been to a few, but only as a member of the party-hearty gang.” He crinkled his nose. “Any suggestions?”
Arcing my arm over my head, I tilted back and studied the ceiling. Everyone believes the position looks romantic; however, one’s back could go wonky. On the fourth count, I dropped my arm and realigned. “What about a picnic at Sommerville Lake, you know, the spot—”
“On the hill with the best view of downtown. Nice. Very nice.” He stopped moving and took my hands. “What about rain?”
I bent my leg around his calf. “You could rent the Waterworks building on the other side of the lake. If the weatherman predicts sunny weather—yipee. The patio would be ideal. If rain comes, go inside. Or both, depending on how many guests you invite.”
“Class, lunge,” Miss Yolanda said.
I lunged to my left, and Allan did the same toward his right.
“Good. Straighten and lift your arms over your head,” said Ms. Yolanda. “Lunge again. Ladies, point your toes. Wrap your leg around his front calf. Whip away your leg. Wrap a second time.”
I looked at my foot. Toe pointed and wrapped my leg around his calf.
“Faster,” she said.
I whipped faster and kicked his ankle.
Allan hopped on one leg as he kneaded the sore spot on the other.
Ms. Yolanda glanced over her shoulder.
After he shook his leg loose, he straightened. “Back to the dinner… Chairs and tables inside and outside seem redundant.”
Redundant. Spoken like a reformed accountant. I pursed my lips. “How about setting bales of hay outside for a casual farmhouse feel? Festive and different. Can be recycled for mulch afterward.”
“Another good idea,” Allan said.
Reading Mom’s decorating magazines is paying off.
He flicked a glance at Stuart. “Your future brother-in-law doesn’t look like a farm boy.”
“Hardy har-har. Tracey likes the farmhouse look. Dress the bales in burlap. We—”
“We sounds hopeful.” Allan dropped his arms.
Sliding my arms to my side, I prayed to the one above to find the best response. I ticked off my left hand. “Checkered napkins, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, hot buttery biscuits with homemade strawberry jam. A good ol’ grandmotherly-style meal sounds yummy and not very expensive.”
Allan made a slow, easy smile. “Fried chicken’s one of my favorite foods.”
“See? Easy peasy, too. And a buffet is ideal.”
“Now, you’re talking.”
I inclined my head. “Is Stuart’s mom helping with the moola end?”
“Mrs. Steems said she would pay. She’s out of town and didn’t know what or how to host a rehearsal dinner. As if I would know.” He scrubbed his palms. “What about dessert?”
“I’m glad you mentioned dessert—my specialty.” I thumbed my chest. “How about Texas chocolate sheet cake topped with pecan fudge frosting or peach cobbler and vanilla bean ice cream. Or both. I’d eat both.”
“You do have a sweet tooth. I vote for you to make the food arrangements. I’ll reserve the Waterworks Building and buy—”
Golly, his white toothy grin makes him even more attractive.
“—the hay. I’ll order balloons in their wedding colors— By the way, what are their colors?”
“Colors?” I wrinkled my nose. “Balloons? What for?”
“All celebrations require balloons.” Allan’s face took on a solemn and serious expression. “Lots and lots of them.”
Which explained why every time he gave me a gift bag, he tied on a balloon.
“Tracey’s colors are blue-ish green or greenish-blue, like sea foam, and peony pink. I’ll work on an invitation list, too.” I rubbed the side of my nose. “Who do you want to ask to the reception besides the wedding party and family? You can invite out-of-towners, but you don’t have to.”
Allan pulled me tight into his arms. “Grandparents.”
“Anda one, anda two,” Ms. Yolanda instructed with dips and sways to urge the class.
I resumed my hold. “Perfect. We can send e-vites.”
“I’ll lick the stamps.”
I followed his lead. “Those don’t need stamps, silly. However, you do have a point about paper invitations. Very classy. I can get the guest list from my mom.”
“Can I lick the stamps?”
“No licking stamps anymore. Just stick-ons.” I tilted my head, wondering about his stamp fixation. “Are you being deliberately obtuse?”
“Maybe.”
I snorted. “You can address the invites, too.”
“Your handwriting’s better.”
Allan grazed his cheek along my jaw—on purpose. The rasp from his five o’clock shadow caus
ed funny sensations to revolve in my chest. I relished the feeling and whispered, “You’re welcome.”
He drew back and stared long and hard.
The moment suspended everything as we stared into each other’s eyes. Had he said, “I love you?”
Ms. Yolanda’s clap broke my romantic notions. “Let’s go over the steps again, and then we’ll combine them with what you learned in lesson one. Look at your partner. Anda one, anda two…”
Jolted from our feelings, my partner and I took forward steps and paused. I extended my leg with pointy toes. Joining hands, we lifted our arms.
“Glorious, best man and maid of honor.” Ms. Yolanda bestowed on us a beaming smile. “Simply glorious.”
Glorious—my ass. Off to the side, I noted Jenny collapsing with laughter. I sure hope we don’t have to show off again so the others could study our moves.
I pushed a finger against my thudding temple. Does tango stuff give everyone a migraine?
Chapter Six
The following morning dawned bright and clear, the way most days did in Sommerville. Our rainy moments came in the fall and spring and sometimes, with incredible and violent thunderstorms. Today—I drew a deep inhaling breath—felt exceptional.
My workday began in Wedding Wonderland’s gown room, finishing what Miss A. and I had started the day before—unpacking wedding dresses and toting new goods to their respective places. With the phone tucked under my chin, I listened to my mom float ideas for Tracey's big day. Once she glommed onto my new job and the possible perks I might have, she was all about saving money.
“I’m telling you Tracey needs our advice,” Mom said.
My sister should be paying me big bucks for her defense.
“Mom, come on. Whatever Tracey wants, she should have.”
“Whatever she wants?” Mom asked. “You know what she’ll do.”
God, her nasal tone of voice is annoying. “What?”
“She’ll get what she wants—thanks to you.”
I slit open a box. “Tracey’s your only hope.”
“Looks like she is.”
I could only wish. What Mom categorically implied, she believed me hopeless in the marriage department.
“First, you don’t marry college boy—”
Not again. Not this diatribe for the million trillionth time. “Mom.”
“Then Tracey eloped to Vegas with her first husband, that-that…salesman. She must have been desperate. We’ve despised him since forever.”
I tried to interrupt. “Mom.”
“Then, they divorced. I still hate him.”
Only an act of God could stop her train. I raised my voice a fraction. “Mom.”
“Harriet Lee Cooks, you don’t have to yell.”
I didn’t and wouldn’t after she screamed my full name, which would never be music to anyone’s ears. “Sorry. I wanted to remind you. You were okay with my turning down college boy.” Standing in front of a rod, I shoved aside a gown with my shoulder and hung a dress.
“I’m sorry. Caught up in the moment. You did the right thing about your college boyfriend. You didn’t love him enough, not the way you love Allan.”
Knowing my mother spoke the truth about my feelings worried me. She could just be saying I loved Allan because of her desire to match us. However, lately, with being paired for the tango lessons, Allan and I shared an intimate space and really looked and touched each other. Nevertheless, commenting would only get me in more trouble.
I heard Mom inhale.
“I want Tracey and Stuart’s wedding to be perfect, unlike her first one. Eloping to Las Vegas embarrassed the whole family.”
Most likely, her over everyone else.
“Let’s make a good memory to supersede the bad one.”
“I didn’t know Tracey carried a bad memory. She said she purged everything—you know—when the Funsisters and I burned the piñata which resembled him—”
“Piñata? You burned a-a piñata—without me? Where did you get a piñata? Why didn’t I get invited to hang out?”
Because the piñata was purchased for a girls’ night out, which explicitly meant no mothers. “Mom, I had the piñata made. Then we knocked back tequila shots and a baseball bat was involved. Instead of filling the piñata with poo, like he is, I put in lots of chocolate. We ate and ate, and later, we torched the trashy remains.”
“Sounds a bit violent. I wish you’d asked me, though. I know how to use a baseball bat. A few swipes would’ve been gratifying. Jonson Leggett the Third has no place on planet Earth. I also prefer to drink my tequila in margaritas.”
Because margaritas are more civilized?
“Of course, Tracey has some memories,” Mom said. “How that nasty man treated her would haunt anyone.”
I carried a voodoo doll resembling Jonson Leggett the Third for a long time. While waiting in horrible traffic, I pulled the toy from my car’s console and gouged a three-inch upholstery pin two or twenty times into the body, limbs, and head. How many depended on how long the light stayed red and cars didn’t move.
“Well, no worries now,” Mom said. “Tracey's happy with her beau.”
I tugged my skirt into place. “While we’re talking about Tracy and Stuart, I have good news. I found the perfect gown for her. I’ve already phoned Trace, put the dress on hold, and she said she’ll come in for a fitting. Okay?”
“I hoped—wished—”
Did I hear wistfulness in Mom’s voice? Being sentimental? “Wished what?”
“No way she would wear…mine?”
Before now, Mom had never said she wanted her daughters to wear her wedding gown. The style was so dated. I knew Tracey wasn’t into hers. As gently as possible, I asked, “Tracey know how you feel?”
“Not exactly. I've not asked if wearing my dress interested Tracey, maybe more like hinted. Maybe she already considered mine as an option. I discarded the idea when she didn’t say anything. Kinda makes me sad no one will ever wear my dress again.”
“I’m sorry. Here’s an online idea”—hurrah for Pinterest—“repurpose wedding dresses into christening gowns.”
“Really? Sounds fabulous. Then my dress won’t be wasted. I can have two made, one for her and one for you—”
One for me???
“—anyway, I wanted to be at your store when she tries on the dress—”
When Tracey and I discussed having a trying-on-a-dress party and including our mom, she nixed the idea. A big woo-hoo would never be her style. She and I agreed Mom would critique everything which could possibly make the event less shiny and joyous. The only way to minimize her involvement and our sanity was not to include her. Harsh.
“Mother, she can try on gowns on her own. I'll be there, and Miss A. knows a thing or two. Most likely, she’ll pick a few she likes best. We’ll take pictures, and then she’ll ask you to help her decide. Okay?”
Mom sighed. “I read the trend seems to be a big blow-out with the mom, mother of the groom, and the besties—”
Mom said besties? Crazy.
“—and champagne when trying on dresses. An event she'll remember for the rest of her life. I didn’t get to help the first time, and I really want to for this wedding. She is my daughter.”
Well, rats. I tried. Mom played the mother-daughter-tugging-my-heart card. Maybe something disastrous like a typhoon would prevent her from coming.
Lordy! The store bell chimed the tune “Here Comes the Bride,” signaling a new customer’s arrival. “Work calls, Mom. Gotta go.”
With a smile on my face, I quickly disconnected, only to see strolling toward my desk the most despicable person I knew, the slimiest of slimes my mom and I had just discussed—my ex-brother-in-law, Jonson Leggett the Third. Tracey’s first husband and soon-to-be new hubby to Barbie Fenster.
My disposition soured.
I remembered my sister’s marriage to Jonson lasted one year. One. Miserable. Hellish. Year. Tracey was young, fresh from college. They met at a happy hour, and
Jonson easily swept her off her feet. The swarmy, blankety-blank-blank pool salesman sweet-talked my sissie, and they eloped to Vegas one bright spring weekend four years ago, which almost broke Mom’s heart.
What happened afterward did break Tracey’s.
During the honeymoon, Tracey discovered him doing the nasty with a floozy he picked up while playing craps. My sister hid in the walk-in closet while they banged away—horrible for her.
I only wish Tracey had videoed the twosome so I could have shared his raunchy sex with all humankind.
His shenanigans didn't end in Las Vegas. Hell no. Back at home, he nailed his assistant, then a client, then—Well, everyone got the picture. Unbeknownst to my sissie, I ascertained through friends of friends he’d taken the marital plunge before my sister.
While Tracey stumbled and bumbled her way through their short union, I minded my own business, held her hand, and listened to the never-ending sobbing. I relished the idea of telling everyone how vile he was. But I didn’t. He would have taken revenge on my sister. I couldn’t let that happen.
His betrayal and indiscretions shattered Tracey’s heart, and after the divorce, and lots of time, she eventually healed to ultimately blossom when she fell for Stuart.
Staring hard Jonson’s way, I remembered how I didn’t like him from the moment I met him. Detested. Abhorred. Loathed. Despised. He looked the same—tall, thin, light brown hair, and hazel eyes. He carried an air of savoir-faire. But I knew better. Egocentric. A know-it-all.
Rage scorched through my body. No way did I trust him.
If only he would burn in hell.
Probably hell would chuck him back.
So how come he’s here at Miss Anastasia’s Wedding Wonderland? Then, click. When I interviewed for this job, Miss A. mentioned high-profile clients coming to the store. Undoubtedly, she meant Jonson and Barbie.
My attention focused on the giggling and glowing gal hanging onto his arm. Barbie Fenster was a cute, average height, dark-eyed, and dark-haired honey with Ms. Sommerville Automotive Parts written all over her. She left her tiara and sash at home. Not hard to imagine them in place, though.
I straightened the white work jacket Miss A. gave me when I arrived this morning. She’d embroidered my name in pink. Composed, totally neutral, I fingered a button before speaking. “Welcome to Wedding Wonderland. How may I help you?”
