The Wedding Thief

by Mary Simses

  Two days later he called and asked me out. We went to Balboa Island and walked around eating frozen bananas like tourists. We talked about the elevator rescue and I told him I’d been a lot more afraid than I’d let on.

  “You’re a pretty good actor, then,” he said.

  I thought that was funny, because of the four people in my family, I had the least amount of dramatic talent.

  “I knew when I woke up that morning something good was going to happen,” he told me. “I don’t know how I knew, but I did. And then we met.”

  I remember being surprised, not knowing how to respond. Here was a guy who spoke his mind, wasn’t afraid to say what he felt, wasn’t playing games. How refreshing. I was the luckiest girl in the world. Or so I’d thought at the time.

  Mom dumped the box of penne into a pot of boiling water. “Can’t you, Sara?” she asked.

  “Can’t I what?” I watched the steam rise.

  “Put the past aside.”

  She made it sound as though Mariel stealing Carter was ancient history, but it had been only a year and a half ago. I’d given a New Year’s Eve party at my place in LA, the bungalow with the blue door I rented in Venice. I’d hired a caterer and a bartender, gone all out. My Christmas tree was still up in the living room, the scent of evergreen hung in the air, and a piece of mistletoe decorated the kitchen doorway. I’d dimmed the lights; candles flickered everywhere. The place was packed with guests, and Carter was there, of course. We’d been dating for almost two years by then.

  I was mingling, going from the living room to the den, making sure everyone was having a good time, occasionally dashing into the kitchen to confirm that things there were under control. Once an event planner, always an event planner. Carter and I were pulled in different directions, but every now and then we’d make eye contact. At eleven forty, I went into the kitchen to check on the caterers and get ready for the champagne toast and the cake. The bottles of Veuve Clicquot were on ice, and my old stainless-steel Waring blender was whirring, mixing up a fresh batch of margaritas. Then, suddenly, it was almost midnight.

  The guests began screaming, “Two minutes to go!” At eleven fifty-nine, they started counting down the seconds. I looked for Carter, and I couldn’t find him. I almost went outside, but it was a cold night, and I knew he wouldn’t have wandered out there. Finally, I saw him standing in a darkened corner of the den with Mariel. They were talking, but I could see, even in that crowded room, that something more intimate was going on. They stood too close, smiled too much. Their gestures seemed too familiar; their eyes never strayed from each other. Something had happened between them. Or was about to.

  I walked out of the room, trying to steady myself. Carter. My Carter. With Mariel. My sister. I’d thought they barely liked each other. God, how wrong I’d been. I felt dizzy as I left the house. Outside it was fifty-five degrees, and I shivered in my sleeveless dress. In a daze I headed down the street, a video running in my head: Carter and Mariel, Mariel and Carter.

  When I got to Abbot Kinney Boulevard, it was more hectic than ever, people driving by, honking horns, tooting party blowers, leaning from car windows to yell “Happy New Year,” all a blur of sound. I walked on through the noisy, drunken crowds, passing places I’d seen a million times. Now they looked foreign to me. Finally, I stopped and leaned against the wall of a café, hugging myself in the cold, wondering how all these people could go about their night as if nothing had happened.

  Eventually I went home. After the guests were gone and the caterers had cleaned up and I was left with a pile of tattered party hats and blowers, I confronted Carter. Part of me wanted him to deny it, to convince me I was way off base. But he didn’t. He told me they hadn’t planned it, never wanted to hurt me, that it had been going on for only a couple of weeks, that they were waiting for the right time to tell me.

  When would the right time have been? That’s all I said before I told him to leave.

  I saw them together once, a couple of months later, in Beverly Hills. I was in my car at an intersection, and they crossed the street in front of me. He held her hand, laughed at something she said, gave her a little tug as if she were a child. Four months after that, Mom told me they’d gotten engaged.

  “You want to know why I can’t put the past aside?” I asked my mother now as she gave the pasta a stir. “I can’t put it aside because it’s not the past. They’re together. It’s the present and the future.”

  “That’s why you have to move on. Or you’re going to stay stuck right where you are. I’m sure Mariel would be willing to put it aside.”

  Of course Mariel would be willing. She wasn’t the one who’d been betrayed. “She’s got nothing to lose. She’s got Carter. She’s not the victim here.”

  Mom turned down the burner under the sauce. “Sweetie, do you know where the word compromise comes from?”

  Oh no. I’d just landed in the world of etymology again. Mom never let me forget she had a degree in English from Yale. Language is everything, she liked to say. Theater, which she’d minored in, was the area she ended up pursuing as a career, but she’d never lost her obsession with words.

  “Well, it includes the word promise,” I said, “so it’s probably something about making promises.”

  “It comes from the Latin compromissus.” She took a colander from a drawer and put it in the sink. “Past participle of compromittere. ‘To make a mutual promise.’”

  “Yes, okay, fine.”

  “Pity you never learned Latin.”

  “I’ve survived so far,” I said. “And I’m not compromising with Mariel in any language.” Didn’t she see how awful this was for me? I’d thought I was going to have love, a wedding, and children with Carter and now here I was, almost forty, without any of it.

  Mom let out a breath like a deflating balloon. “But I know she would forgive you.”

  “Forgive me for what? I didn’t do anything.”

  “For not speaking to her in such a long time.”

  “I haven’t spoken to her because of what she did to me,” I said. “I feel like we’re having two different conversations here. Did I ever tell you you’re like a walking non sequitur?”

  She placed a bowl of salad on the table. “Now, there’s a great Latin phrase! Non sequitur. ‘It does not follow.’”

  “That describes you perfectly,” I said. “Nothing follows with you. You refuse to hear what I’m saying. You always side with her.”

  “Oh, Sara, there must be a way to make this better. It wasn’t really your sister’s fault.”

  That was it. “I can’t talk about this anymore.” I held up my rental-car key. “I’m leaving. You lied to me. There’s not a thing wrong with you.”

  Mom followed me out of the kitchen, her kitten heels clicking on the hardwood floor. “Sweetheart, come on. I’m sorry I brought you here under false pretenses, but this really does break my heart. I wish you’d stay. And not just for Mariel. For me. I want to catch up a little, do some mother-daughter things.”

  “Some other time,” I said. “When she’s not going to be around.”

  I walked down the hall, my mother’s voice trailing behind me as I passed the photos on the wall. Mom in a summer-stock production of A Little Night Music in upstate New York. Mom in The Importance of Being Earnest at a regional theater in Connecticut. Mom in Dragonfly Nights on Broadway. There were dozens of photos. Her wall of fame.

  I stepped into the mudroom, relieved to be getting out of there. I wondered if the Duncan Arms, which was right here in town, had any rooms available. And then the door opened and in walked Mariel. For a second, I didn’t recognize her. Gone was the bohemian look of beaded tunic tops and woven handbags; she’d swapped those for a pair of skinny white jeans and a coral-colored top that looked stunning against her tan skin. Four-inch heels had replaced her flat leather sandals.

  She’d also cut her hair, which for years she’d worn in one length, down past her shoulders. Now it was up to her chin, in layers,
and blonder than it had ever been—platinum. But she could get away with it. She could get away with anything. She’d inherited the beauty gene. When she walked into a room, everyone—men and women—noticed her. And now there was one more thing to notice: that rock she was wearing. Even the plastic stones on the rings I’d worn as a kid during my princess stage weren’t as big as the diamond she was sporting.

  I stood there feeling like a wilted flower in my wrinkled clothes, my hair frizzy from the July humidity, wondering how she could look fresh after traveling all day from the West Coast. For a second, we just eyed each other like a couple of feral dogs.

  “So you’re here,” she said, a little scowl on her face as she pushed a Louis Vuitton suitcase into the room.

  No more nylon zipper bag for her. She’d moved up in the world with Carter. I wondered who’d designed the clothes she was wearing. And the shoes. Jimmy Choo? Prada? I was sure Carter had paid for all of it. At thirty-five, Mariel had never supported herself. And now she’d moved her dependency from the Bank of Mom to the Bank of Carter. She’d never have to stand on her own two feet. “Actually, I’m leaving.”

  She planted her hands on her hips. “What? You’re running out on Mom?”

  I stepped toward the door. “She’s not dying. Not even close.”

  “What are you talking about? She called me and said—”

  “It was a lie. Go ask her. She’s in there making dinner.” I nodded in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Why would she lie?”

  “Why do you think? You’re getting married in two weeks to the guy you stole from me, remember? Mom wants us to reconcile so I’ll go to the wedding. Which I refuse to do.”

  “I didn’t steal him,” Mariel said. “Carter wasn’t in love with you anymore. Why can’t you believe that?”

  “He was in love with me until you stuck your big nose in the picture.”

  She flinched, then touched the side of her nose. “It’s not big. And he started it.”

  “See, this is why I can’t even talk to you. I told Mom she was wasting her time.”

  “I tried to apologize. I called you, I texted you. I wrote you a letter. You sent it back to me with spelling corrections.”

  “You never could spell.”

  “That wasn’t the point.”

  “It was my point. He’s way too smart for you and someday he’ll figure it out. He’ll realize he’s bored, that he needs more than arm candy, and he’ll go on to someone else. Then the shoe will be on the other foot.” I glanced at her four-inch heels. “And don’t try to tell me you didn’t steal him. You’ve been stealing guys from me since you were in middle school.”

  “What? That’s so not true.”

  “Robbie Petler? Does that name sound familiar? He lived on Apple Ridge?”

  “That kid? He just helped me with my homework.”

  “As soon as he thought you were interested in him, he didn’t want to have anything more to do with me. He said you looked like a movie star. How could I compete with that?”

  “Oh, get over it, Sara. If it did happen, it was ages ago.”

  That didn’t matter. It was still relevant. “It proves your history of stealing boys from me.”

  She cocked her hip. “Like you were so perfect. Throwing my Barbie into the pond? Cutting up my favorite jeans?”

  I didn’t remember the jeans, although I had a vague recollection of the Barbie incident. “You could have gotten her out.”

  “She landed next to a snapping turtle, Sara.”

  “Well, you shoved my sneakers down the storm drain. And they were brand-new.”

  “You stuck that rubber snake in my backpack. Scared the hell out of me.”

  “Right,” I said. “But you got Carter.”

  If she had a response to that, I didn’t wait around to hear it. I sidestepped her Louis Vuitton suitcase, opened the door, and walked out.

  Chapter 2

  Collision Course

  I woke up the next morning in a four-poster bed on the second floor of the Duncan Arms, a fireplace and love seat across the room, vintage paper of pink cabbage roses on the walls. At the window, I pushed aside the drapes and raised the sash. The sweet scent of fresh-cut grass drifted through the screen, along with a chorus of birdsong. On the lawn, a man and a little girl were throwing a softball. It might have been a scene from thirty years ago; the man could have been my father, the girl me, and the field the one behind our house.

  In the bathroom I washed my face, brushed my teeth, popped in my contacts, and dragged a hairbrush through my hair. Yikes. There were new grays sticking out on either side of my part. I tried moving the part, then tousled my hair with my fingers to hide it altogether. That looked a little better. Highlights and a cut would be in order when I got back to Chicago. How had my hair gotten down to my shoulders? And where had all those new grays come from?

  I packed my suitcase and got ready to leave. I’d booked a flight back to Chicago at seven in the evening so I could drive upstate and look at a new resort. It might be a good option if I needed to plan an off-site meeting at a quiet place in New England. I rolled my suitcase out the door, the wheels screeching. Not all of us could afford a Louis Vuitton travel bag like Mariel’s. Some of us supported ourselves.

  Why couldn’t I stop comparing my life to hers? I liked being self-sufficient. I was proud of it. Proud of the fact that I didn’t take advantage of Mom’s generosity. Besides, there was nothing wrong with my suitcase. So what if the color had been out of style for a decade? Asparagus green wasn’t all that bad.

  A sign in the lobby said breakfast was being served in the Pub Room. A cup of coffee to go was all I needed, so I headed there. Inside, the tables were covered with red-and-white-checkered cloths. I walked past mahogany bead-board walls displaying paintings of foxhunting scenes and a pen-and-ink portrait of George Washington (had he slept here?). At the buffet, I grabbed a piece of orange-cranberry bread and a cup of coffee.

  Five minutes later I’d checked out and was in the Jetta in the parking lot, sipping the coffee and devouring the bread, wishing I’d taken an extra piece. I was a sucker for pecans. My phone rang; Mom flashed across the screen. The image of my supposedly dying mother looking healthy as she cooked pasta whirled through my head, along with a picture of my soon-to-be-married sister, looking better than ever with her new hair and clothes. And that rock. I let my mother’s call go to voice mail.

  What was up with that rock anyway? I glanced in the rearview mirror and put the car in reverse. That diamond was obscene. Too big to be nice, when you really thought about it. Had Carter picked out that engagement ring himself? Or had Mariel seen a ring like that on the hand of one of his celebrity clients and given him instructions to duplicate it? That would be just like her. I pressed my foot on the gas. Had he gotten down on his knee to propose? The image made my stomach twist. And what had he said? What were his exact words? More twisting, but I couldn’t stop myself now. Did he say—

  Crunch!

  There was a loud cracking sound behind me, like splintering wood. Or was it a splintering car? I gasped. I pulled forward. In the rearview mirror I could see it. I’d hit a picket fence? Where had that come from? And there was a man standing behind my car. Had I hit him too? Oh God, I hoped not. I jumped out. The man, who looked around forty, was dressed in khakis and a dark blue polo shirt. He was standing to the side of the car, tearing bubble wrap off something huge—six feet high, almost as wide, and a few feet thick. I could see green through the plastic.

  “Don’t you look where you’re going?” His brown eyes bored into me. He had the kind of week-old beard I’d never liked. It always made me suspect the guy couldn’t decide whether to really grow one or not.

  “Did I hit you?” I said, my heart speeding up.

  “No, you didn’t hit me. You hit this.” He turned away, continuing to unwrap whatever it was.

  I didn’t appreciate his tone. I knew it was my fault. “I’m sorry I hit your…your thing th
ere.” I pointed. “I didn’t mean to.”

  He had the bubble wrap off now and I could see it was a giant hand, painted in shades of green and made from something that looked a lot like papier-mâché. The thumb, index, ring, and pinkie fingers were crushed and bent at ninety degrees, while the middle finger pointed straight to the sky.

  “What is that?” I asked. “Some kind of a costume?”

  He shifted the hand toward a white van nearby. “A costume? No. This is a sculpture. An Alex Lingon.” He sounded almost insulted that I hadn’t known that.

  “Alex who?”

  He wheeled around, glaring at me. “Alex Lingon. You haven’t heard of him?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “There was a big article about him in the New York Times just a couple of weeks ago. Sunday’s Arts and Leisure section.”

  “I live in Chicago.”

  “They don’t sell the Times there?” That tone of voice again. I could have done without it.

  “I don’t usually read the Times.”

  “Maybe you should, then. He’s been called a national treasure. You ought to look him up.” He stepped closer to the hand, slowly shook his head, and blew out a loud puff of air. “Well, this is ruined. Four fingers bent, smashed.”

  “Look, I’m really sorry. But maybe you should have packed it a little better. I mean, since you’re an art handler—”

  “I’m not an art handler. I’m in real estate development.”

  Well, no wonder. That was a different story. I thought about someone I’d once dated who’d worked for a company that built houses. I wondered if this guy did that. “What kind of real estate development do you do?”

  “What kind?” He took a step away from the hand and considered the question. When he spoke again, he seemed a little calmer. “We buy and sell buildings. Apartment buildings, retail buildings, mixed-use.” He wasn’t talking houses. “Sometimes we build or renovate. It depends on the situation.”