The Wedding Thief

by Mary Simses

  We turned and cantered back along the ridge, the clouds chasing us, a breeze picking up and blowing the grass. Anthem pricked his ears forward and snorted. The air was filled with the sharp, metallic scent of ozone.

  We were back in the woods when I felt the tap of raindrops on my arm. Suddenly they were hitting the leaves, pinging my arms and face, landing on Anthem’s coat. Thunder rumbled and the rain picked up and began to pelt us; wind gusted down the trail, shaking the trees. Anthem let out a squeal and lowered his head as we cantered on.

  We’d just reached the Tillys’ barn when the clouds tore open and water fell in sheets, thick and gray, pounding the horses, our helmets, our clothes. I could barely see.

  “Let’s get them inside,” Tate shouted as the rain lashed us.

  We slid out of the saddles and led the horses into the barn. A dull gray light came through the window openings and the holes in the roof, illuminating the empty stalls, the cracked water buckets, an old lawn mower in the aisle.

  The horses settled down, sniffing the new environment, pricking up their ears occasionally at the sound of rain pinging against a metal gutter. Jubilee pawed the concrete floor, and in the dim light we watched the rain cascade in waterfalls over the doorway and windows. I shivered in my wet clothes as I looked for the heart I’d carved on one of the posts so many years before. I told Tate I couldn’t find it.

  “That’s probably good,” he said. “I remember when you had that crush on Gary Decker. I always thought he was a jerk.”

  I laughed. “I never knew that. I was convinced Gary and I would get married someday. The naïveté of a thirteen-year-old.” Anthem chomped on his bit. I stared at the rain.

  “You know,” Tate said, “my mother always told me I should have married you.”

  I stood still and drew in a breath. “What?”

  “Yeah. She thought you and I would have made a good couple.” He paused. “That was a long time ago, before I met Darcy. But she used to say it.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. Why was he telling me this? Did he think he should have married me? Did he wish we’d gotten together years ago? Seeing him again made me wonder what that would have been like. Or could be like now. But my thoughts rushed back to Carter. Maybe Carter had taken up all the room I had in my heart.

  I was about to come right out and ask Tate why he’d told me that when sunlight spilled through the window openings, brightening the inside of the barn.

  “Well, look at that,” Tate said. “Storm’s over. Guess we can go back.”

  We rode the horses up Mom’s driveway, walking them over the wet gravel. They tossed their heads, eager to get to the barn. I was still thinking about what Tate had said, but I couldn’t work up the nerve to ask him about it now that the moment had passed.

  I pulled off my riding helmet and tried to shake my hair loose, but it was stuck to my neck in sweaty clumps. My clothes were soaked, my breeches and boots speckled with mud, and I could feel a layer of grit on my face. I couldn’t wait to get the horses untacked, toweled off and groomed, and put in their stalls so I could take a long, hot shower.

  We were almost to the house when I heard tires on the gravel behind us. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a black SUV moving slowly up the drive. We stopped and watched as the vehicle passed us and pulled up at the front door.

  A driver emerged; he went around and opened the rear passenger door, and a man got out, a little ray of light bouncing off his sunglasses. His gray suit fit so well, it could only have been custom-made. By his favorite tailor in Beverly Hills. He turned and stared at me. Then he took off his sunglasses. “Sara? Is that you?”

  Eighteen months. Eighteen whole months away from him. And now here he was, standing in the driveway, looking at me. My breath caught in my throat and everything around me—the house, the trees, the sky—fell away. Only Carter was there. I wanted to throw my arms around him, press my face to his chest, inhale his scent.

  “Carter.” I said his name. Felt those two syllables leave my mouth. Heard them in the air.

  “Did you get caught in the rain?” he asked, smiling that smile I’d missed for so long.

  The rain. Oh God. I looked down at my mud-spattered clothes, my sweat-soaked shirt, felt my hair hanging around my head like Spanish moss. I wished Anthem would bolt, take off into the field, into the woods, anywhere Carter couldn’t see me looking like this.

  “Yeah, we got a little wet.” I could hear the nervous tremble in my voice. What was he doing here this early? Why hadn’t I known he was coming today?

  He ran a hand through his hair. I ran a hand through my own. I put my helmet back on. Then I took it off again. Then I put it back on. Then I gave up, because there was no way to tame my hair. No improving this picture.

  Anthem tugged on his reins, telling me he’d had enough standing around, that he wanted to go to the barn. Tate was looking at me and I realized I’d ignored him. Just as I was about to introduce him to Carter, the front door swung open and out stepped Mariel, moving like a swan with a breeze at her back, graceful in her dark, stretchy jeans and wedge sandals. Ferragamo? Prada? Fendi? Her top, cornflower blue, made the blue of her eyes pop, and every layer and strand of her hair looked as though it were held in place by magic.

  “Moo-Moo,” she shouted, a big smile on her face.

  Moo-Moo?

  I watched her skip off the porch, her arms reaching for him. I could smell jasmine and rose in her perfume. I could smell the sweat under my arms. I wanted to die.

  Chapter 10

  A Million Ways to

  Ruin a Wedding

  I didn’t see Carter for the rest of the day. By the time Tate and I finished with the horses and I’d showered and changed and gotten myself looking human again, he and Mariel had gone out to dinner with some of her friends, and I fell asleep before they came back.

  But the next morning I was wide awake at seven, my heart drumming in my chest because I knew Carter was in the house. I opened my bedroom door and peeked into the hall. The doors were closed, everything quiet. I was the first one awake.

  I took out my spiral notebook, got back in bed, organized my thoughts, and listed my sabotage ideas:

  Alter the wedding gown

  I put a checkmark next to that.

  Change the transportation plan for the church—get people there late, send some to the wrong church

  Change the flowers for the church

  Change the photo on the wedding program

  Change the music for the ceremony

  Hide or switch the wedding rings

  Change the menu for the reception

  Hide the box with the cards and checks in it

  Change the seating chart for the reception

  Change the music for the reception

  That sounded pretty good.

  A door closed in the hall. Someone was up. I jumped out of bed and opened my door a crack, just in time to see the back of Carter as he headed toward the stairs. I stuffed the notebook under some clothes in a drawer and got dressed. White jeans, a blue linen shirt, some earrings, some makeup, and a little dab of Antonia’s Flowers, my favorite perfume, the one I knew he would remember.

  By the time I got downstairs, I could smell coffee. Carter was sitting at the kitchen table. Dressed in an oxford shirt and khakis, he had a mug in front of him, and he was leafing through the Hampstead Review.

  “Hey, good morning,” he said when I walked in.

  “You’re up early.” I poured myself a cup of coffee and added a shot of milk. “And you made coffee.”

  He stifled a yawn. “I guess I’m still on LA time.”

  I took a sip. “Well, this should fix you right up.” I held up the mug.

  He pretended to look surprised. “Too strong?”

  “No, it’s perfect.” I smiled. He smiled. It was an old joke. His coffee had always been too strong for me.

  He put down the paper. “It’s good to see you, Sara.”

  It was? Did he really
mean that or was he just being polite? “It’s good to see you too. Are you catching up on the local news?” I sat down across from him.

  “I was reading an article about tomatoes.”

  “That doesn’t sound like news.”

  He closed the paper and looked at the front page. “Well, the top stories today are ‘Farmers’ Almanac: Connecticut Winter to Be Colder Than Usual’ and ‘Scavenger Hunt Draws Record Crowd.’”

  “I see your point. Well, it’s a small town.”

  I’d always assumed I’d be the one to bring Carter here on his first visit to Connecticut, that I’d be the one to show him the covered bridges, the hiking paths, the old movie house, the conservation center, the wine trail. I never imagined it would be Mariel.

  “It seems like a nice town,” he said, but I knew from the hitch in his voice that he could never live here.

  “It’s not LA, I know.”

  He shrugged. “Every town or city has its pros and cons.”

  “I miss it there,” I said.

  “What do you miss? Can’t be the traffic.”

  “There’s traffic in Chicago too. But you’re right, it’s not as bad. No, I miss the people, my friends out there. And I miss the place.” I missed him most of all, but I couldn’t say that. “I miss the neat towns California has. Something for everyone. Remember that time we went to Ojai? How much fun that was?” I’d lived in LA for years and had never been there before I met Carter.

  “I remember carrying a case of olive oil to the car for you.”

  “Yeah, I did buy a case of olive oil. And you bought a pen at one of the antiques shops.”

  “An old Dupont,” he said, staring across the room as though envisioning it. “I still use that pen.”

  My stomach filled with butterflies. He still used it. That had to mean something. “Was that the place where you told the owner you were an attorney and he started asking you about his lease?”

  Carter chuckled. “Yeah. He was in a dispute with his landlord. I think I wrote a letter or made a couple of phone calls for him. Got it straightened out. He was a nice guy. I was glad to do him a favor.” He sipped his coffee.

  “We always said we’d go back there, but we never did.”

  “Things got busy.”

  Things always got busy with Carter.

  I put some more milk in my coffee and took another sip. “I bet you haven’t been back to the ostrich farm in Solvang.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “That’s too bad. See how I broadened your horizons?” I wanted him to think about that, about what he was missing.

  “You did, Sara. I would never have gone to an ostrich farm and fed them if it wasn’t for you. I guess I’m just a boring guy now.”

  I smiled. “You could never be boring.” I could feel my heart skittering. But I couldn’t help it. He was right there, and we were talking about things we’d done together, and it was all I could do not to reach across the table and touch him. And then I heard footsteps and Mariel appeared in a pink robe.

  She stretched; she yawned. “Oh, there’s coffee.” She grabbed a mug and filled it. “Mmm, that’s good, Moo,” she said as she sat down next to Carter and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  I got up and put my mug in the sink. They were huddled over the newspaper and didn’t even look up when I walked out.

  Upstairs in my room, I grabbed the spiral notebook from my drawer. Where did that name Moo come from anyway? What a stupid nickname. Carter hated nicknames. I couldn’t believe he was putting up with that.

  I added some ideas to the sabotage list:

  Rewrite the wedding vows

  Cancel the photographer and instruct guests to take cell phone photos and upload to a website

  Change the flowers for the reception

  Misspell names on place cards

  Have baker print embarrassing photos of Mariel on the wedding cake frosting

  There. That was better.

  Mariel had given me a manila folder containing all the wedding information and had downloaded some other documents onto my flash drive. I opened the folder and saw that she’d thrown everything in there with no order or organization. There were bills and vendor contracts, a list of songs she wanted played, another list of songs she didn’t want played, screenshots of the wedding website Mom had hired someone to create, wedding vows and readings Mariel and Carter had chosen, notes about the cake and the dessert bar, and e-mails with the florist about the flower arrangements.

  There was a seating chart clipped to a printout of a spreadsheet Mariel or Mom must have hired someone to make. The guests were listed, sorted by bride’s and groom’s sides and again by bridal-party members, friends, relatives, and “Hollywood,” as Mom referred to the entertainment-industry contingent from California. There was even a column for the handful of children coming and a note about their ages. The seating chart seemed like a good place to begin, even though I knew there would be last-minute changes.

  I entered all the guests’ names into a seating-chart software program I used and then arranged and rearranged everyone until I’d created a plan I liked. I split up couples, putting them at different tables, and placed single people with guests who weren’t single. The children were supposed to be seated together at one table, probably an attempt to contain the chaos, but I scattered them among the adults, putting four-year-old Cal, whose nickname was Cal the Kicker, next to the actor Chris Grisham, who had a reputation for disliking children.

  The misfits table included Mom’s housekeeper, Martha, Mom’s gardener, Joey, and my eighty-eight-year-old aunt Bootsie, whose run-on mouth and refusal to wear a hearing aid were legendary. I moved Bootsie next to Matt Weston Woods, the hot young country singer who’d won all the awards at the last Grammys, figuring she’d have plenty to say to him, and I put Joey next to the model Eloise Cameron. He’d think he’d died and gone to heaven. I wondered what she’d think.

  I reseated every guest, ending with my cousin Gavin. I placed him next to Rick, one of my other cousins. The last time the two of them were together at a family event, eight years ago, they’d gotten into a brawl—something about Rick’s wife, Honey—and they hadn’t spoken since.

  After that, I turned to the music. The Orion String Quartet was coming in from Manhattan to play at the ceremony, and there’d also be a soloist, an opera singer named Cecelia Russo who lived here in town. Orion’s selections included works by Handel and Brahms, Beethoven’s “Für Elise,” and Debussy’s “Clair de Lune.” Nothing unusual there. I pulled out my phone and called Joel Shibley, the first violinist and contact for the group. When he didn’t answer, I left a message saying that I was Mariel Harrington’s sister and wedding planner and asking him to call me about a couple of changes.

  According to her bio on the internet, Cecelia Russo had sung with the Metropolitan Opera, had a PhD from Juilliard, had taught at Juilliard, was an opera stage director, and had won several awards. A note in the folder said she would be singing Puccini’s “O mio babbino caro” and Dvořák’s “Song to the Moon.” I dialed her number and reached her assistant.

  “I’m calling about a wedding Ms. Russo will be singing at,” I told her. “I need to speak to her about making a change to the program.” A minute later Cecelia was on the phone.

  “I’m on my way out the door,” she said after I explained that we had a change to make. “But if you come by this afternoon, we’ll talk.”

  She wanted me to come by? I guessed that was okay. I’d never met an opera star. We agreed on one o’clock.

  The band playing at the reception was called Eleventh Hour; they were from the New Haven area. I found several e-mails in the folder between Mariel and Brian Moran, the keyboardist. I called Brian and left him a message asking him to call me. I also left a message for Wade Wallace, the photographer. I was able to get in touch with George Boyd, the manager of the Hampstead Country Club, and we made an appointment to meet at the club the next day.

  On to the bakery an
d the florist, both of which were in town. I stuffed the wedding folder in my briefcase, grabbed the keys to the car, and left the house.

  Cakewalk was known for creating over-the-top cakes and desserts for special occasions. The bakery had been in business only a year but it had quickly become the go-to place for spectacular confections, so it was no surprise Mariel had chosen it for the wedding. Lory Judd, the owner, a large, soft-spoken woman, came out of the back to meet me at the counter.

  “I’m Sara Harrington,” I said, “Mariel Harrington’s sister. You’re making the cake and doing the dessert bar for her wedding.”

  Lory retied her apron strings. “You’re her sister?” She studied me for a moment. “Yes, I can see the resemblance.”

  I gave her one of my business cards. “I’m also an event planner, and I’m handling all the final preparations for the big day.”

  She looked at the card. “Oh. Well, I’m sure she’s glad to have the help.”

  “Mariel’s got so much on her plate right now. You know how it is. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about a little change she wants to make to the cake.”

  Lory brushed some flour off her sleeve. “She’s changed her mind a couple of times already, but that’s okay. It’s her wedding. So, let’s see…” She tapped the screen of an iPad on the counter. “Here we are. Her last selection was the Grand Marnier cake. And for the dessert bar—”

  “Oh, she still wants the Grand Marnier cake. And the dessert bar can stay the way it is. But she wants to decorate the cake with photos. You know, on the sides of the tiers.”

  “You mean print the photos on the icing?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Perfect. I’ll get the images to you in the next couple of days. And if you’ve got any questions, please call me. Mariel’s under a lot of stress at the moment. That’s why I’m trying to run interference.”