The Wedding Thief

by Mary Simses

  “We need your help,” I said. “David has this sculpture, and it got a little damaged, and we were hoping we could hire you as a kind of consultant to fix it.”

  “You want to hire me to fix a sculpture?”

  I nodded.

  Jeanette gestured for us to follow her and we walked into a small kitchen. “Who made the sculpture?” Jeanette asked.

  “Um, his daughter,” I said, uttering the first thing that came to mind. “A school project.”

  She led us into the next room, where tapestries decorated the walls and shiny diamond-shaped pendants hung from the windows, sending rainbow patterns bouncing everywhere. Two sofas sat on opposite sides of a brightly painted coffee table, and behind each sofa, a row of what looked like giant seedpods hung from the ceiling.

  “I see you’re admiring my pods,” Jeanette said, and I realized I must have been staring.

  “Yes, they’re very, uh, interesting,” I said.

  “They’re made from all-natural materials.”

  “I can tell.” They looked a little scary.

  David peeled the bubble wrap off the hand, revealing the single pointed finger, a finger that seemed to fill the entire room with its presence.

  Jeanette stepped back, crossing her arms. “Mmm. Yes,” she said after a long moment of silence. “I see. I like this. I like it a lot.” She nodded. “A statement against bureaucracy. Against the groupthink of society. Against materialism. Against tyranny of every kind. It’s stunning.”

  “Um, well, it’s not supposed to be giving people the finger.” David turned the hand around to display the bent digits. “It’s just supposed to be a hand. The fingers got damaged. That’s why I need to get it repaired.”

  Jeanette’s shoulders slumped, and her eyes lost their glitter. “Oh. Well, it’s not going to make the same statement, then, is it?” She sat down on one of the sofas, and David and I took seats opposite her. “So what happened to it?”

  “It was in a car accident,” David said. “A little fender bender.”

  “Why isn’t your daughter fixing it? She’s the artist. She’d be the best person to do it.”

  “Uh, well, yes, I realize that, but I don’t want her to know this happened.”

  “And it’s supposed to be in an art show,” I added. “Next week.”

  “Hmm.” Jeanette got up, studied the hand, and ran her fingers over the bent thumb. “It needs a lot of work. Layers and layers of papier-mâché, coats of paint. This isn’t something that can be done in a day, you know. I really don’t have the time. I’m busy with my own work.” She glanced at a couple of the hanging pods. “And then we’ve got our healing businesses. Our natural remedies, oils and herbs. Cadwy and I do that together.” She sat down on the sofa again.

  “You’re healers?” David said.

  “We sure are.” It was another voice that answered.

  I turned and saw a man in faded jeans, a tie-dyed T-shirt, and pink rubber flip-flops. He was short, built like a fireplug. His hair fell to his chin, and his crinkly eyes were half-hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses. I realized why he looked familiar. The stone bust on the porch was him, although a much younger version.

  “Here’s Cadwy now,” Jeanette said, her face lighting up.

  “Didn’t know we had company.” He raised a hand in greeting and then walked over and plopped himself on the sofa next to Jeanette.

  “Sara says she was a high-school student of mine, but I don’t remember her. And this is David, her boyfriend.”

  My boyfriend? I’d never said he was my boyfriend.

  “Cadwy has wonderful skills,” she said. “He’s the one who insisted we get into healing. After my cancer scare. It was the herbs that made it go away.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said.

  Cadwy nodded. “Changed our lives.”

  “We’re certified, you know,” Jeanette said, a note of pride in her voice.

  Cadwy let out a contented sigh. “It’s probably hard to believe, but I used to sell insurance.”

  That was hard to believe.

  “And Jeanette and I—we lived in an ugly little place with a garbage disposal, three TVs, and two cars that guzzled gas. Now we have this wonderful house and a car that runs on cow dung. We’re so much happier.”

  “I can imagine,” David said.

  Cow dung?

  Jeanette clasped Cadwy’s hand. “And so much healthier. Right, honey? Thank God I’ve gotten him on a nutritious diet. For a while we ate only green, you know.”

  “Vegan?” I asked.

  “No, I mean the color green. Broccoli, string beans, avocado, kale. But that was too hard on him. Cadwy loves his food. Took me forever to get him to give up sugar. I kept telling him, Sugar’s not your friend. It was tough at first, but he’s used to it now.”

  Cadwy stretched his brawny arms over his head. I heard something crack. “Let me tell you, there’s nothing like having your own business. Jeanette handles the orders and I go out and do the local deliveries. Get to meet with our customers, do consultations. We have a lot of customers right here in Connecticut.”

  “We love helping people,” Jeanette said. “In fact, I’ve been noticing, Sara, you look a little tired. Are you having trouble sleeping?”

  “No, I’m sleeping fine, thanks.” At least she wasn’t still asking if I was constipated.

  Her smile wilted as she fixed her gaze on me. “Umm. You don’t look like you are. I’m only mentioning it because we’re having a special right now on valerian-root tea. Good for problem sleepers. Brew a cup at night and you’ll sleep like a baby.”

  “That’s right,” Cadwy said. “Buy one, get one free.”

  “Let me think about that,” I said, wanting to stay on her good side. “Maybe I’ll take some.”

  Jeanette continued to stare, and I wondered what was going through her mind. That I needed more herbal remedies? Or was she back to the IRS bit? Did she think I was there to arrest her? She leaned across the table, narrowing her eyes. “Were you by any chance in my class the year we had the fire?”

  The fire. I couldn’t believe she was bringing up the fire. I hadn’t thought about that in ages. Connor Parish and his lighter. We were fooling around with it, flicking it and…but I’d always thought that was in Mr. Thurm’s painting class. Wasn’t I working on a painting when that happened? Wait a minute. Maybe not. I had a sudden vision of dozens of tiny plastic jars I’d coated with Mod Podge and food coloring. I was making my own interpretation of a Dale Chihuly blown-glass seaform installation. Minus the glass. And the talent. And Connor was there. He’d made a three-foot-tall wooden sculpture that looked like a stick figure.

  “I think I might have been there,” I said, now certain it had happened in her class, hearing my voice climb at the end, the way it did when I was nervous. Did she know? Was this a test to see what I’d say? I felt heat rise in my face.

  “A fire,” Cadwy said. “What fire was this?”

  “There was a boy with a lighter,” Jeanette said, staring across the room as though she could conjure his image. “And a girl sitting next to him…”

  Connor’s lighter. And the paint solvents. We hadn’t meant it to happen. We were just fooling around.

  Jeanette’s mouth was open; she looked like a shark about to chomp down. “You did it. You sat next to him. You were the one!” She pointed at me.

  She knew. She knew the whole story. She was never going to help us now. “Connor Parish,” I said. “That was his name.” There was no point denying it.

  “Connor Parish. Connor Parish,” Jeanette said. “That’s right. How could I have forgotten him? Or you? We’d never had a fire in the art room. Until then. And we never had one after that. I remember the whole school evacuating. The fire engines, the police. The two tables charred.”

  David recoiled. “You caused a fire?”

  “It was very small,” I said.

  “The bomb-sniffing dog,” Jeanette added.

  “And an explosion?” Da
vid stiffened.

  “There was never an explosion. The dog was only there as—I don’t know, as a precaution, I guess.” I wished we could talk about something else.

  “I remember that dog,” Jeanette said. “German shepherd. He had a beautiful coat.”

  “Maybe they gave him safflower oil,” Cadwy added. “Does wonders for dogs’ coats. Do you have a dog? Need any safflower oil? Buy one, get one free.”

  “Please, that was a long time ago. I mean, we’re talking high school. And it was an accident.” David was staring at me as if he’d never heard of anyone causing a fire in an art room.

  Jeanette looked a little shell-shocked, and I was sure this was it—she was going to order us to leave. I was about to stand up and head for the door when she said, “That was no accident, Sara. You can tell the truth. You’re among friends here.” And then she smiled. A warm smile. A conspiratorial smile.

  What was she talking about, telling the truth among friends?

  She turned to David. “That was the year the students were protesting everything. The food in the cafeteria, the color of the gym uniforms, the location of the parking spaces. They put up posters, got out and marched around, walked out on classes. But the fire…now, that was something else again. The biggest protest in all the years I taught there. Of course, I wasn’t a protester back then. I was a little naive, but now I can see it for what it was.”

  Hold on. She thought I’d done it on purpose? To protest gym uniforms? “That’s not what…I mean, I didn’t plan for…it was the cleaning solvents. We weren’t really thinking about—”

  Jeanette held up a hand. “Don’t apologize for being a radical, Sara. The world needs more of us.”

  “That’s right,” Cadwy said. “We’re all here to do our part.”

  “I wish I’d done something meaningful back then like you, Sara.” She slid to the edge of the sofa and raised a fist. “Take on the institutions. Lead the charge. Stick it to the man!”

  I was about to repeat that the fire was an accident, then I thought, What the hell. I stood up, raised my fist in the air, and shouted, “¡Viva la revolución!”

  David stared at me, his eyes wide, and I knew he wanted me to stop, to sit down. But then Jeanette stood up as well: “¡Viva la revolución!” And Cadwy did the same. Which left David the only one sitting. And then even he stood up and said it. I had to bite my lip not to laugh. I wanted to hug him.

  “I’ll tell you what.” Jeanette’s eyes met mine. “I’ll work on your boyfriend’s daughter’s project.”

  “He’s not—oh, never mind.” She was going to do it. I was so elated I was ready to fly.

  “Next week is going to be busy, busy, busy, though. I’ll have to squeeze in your sculpture and get it done over the next few days.” Jeanette closed her eyes. “What’s today? Thursday?” Her finger moved through the air as though she was counting. “Uh, Sunday,” she said, opening her eyes. “I’ll have it done Sunday. Got it on my mental calendar right here.” She tapped her head. “Come back at night, though. Eight o’clock. I’ll need the whole day.”

  “That’s great,” David said. “I can’t thank you enough. That means I can even go home for a few days, get some work done there.” He turned to me. “What about you, Sara? When do you leave town?”

  “Oh, I’ll be around until the end of next week. I’m staying for the wedding.”

  He looked pleased. “Really? You’ve made up with your sister?”

  “Um, well, kind of.”

  “Good for you.” He gave me an affectionate thump on the arm. “And what do you charge for doing this?” he asked Jeanette, handing her his business card.

  “Oh, I don’t know. How about seventy-five dollars an hour plus materials? I’ll have it figured out when you get here. You can pay me then.”

  “Sounds good,” David said.

  “I’m doing it in honor of dissidence,” Jeanette said. “Here’s to the radicals.” She flung her fist in the air again. “Here’s to solidarity.”

  Cadwy raised his fist. “Solidarity!”

  David and I looked at each other. And then we raised our fists as well.

  Chapter 12

  Under Pressure

  I spent the next morning sitting at one of the umbrella tables outside the Full Pot, drinking coffee and working on plans for the annual company picnic. A little before one, I closed my laptop and left to go to my meeting with George Boyd at the Hampstead Country Club. I was on my way there when Mariel called. There was a beat of silence after I said hello. Then:

  “Mom’s in the hospital.”

  Her voice had a shakiness to it that made my stomach do flip-flops, like I’d swallowed a live fish. How could Mom be in the hospital? I’d seen her early that morning and she’d been fine. “What do you mean? Are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m at Ashton Memorial. She’s in the emergency room. I came out because I didn’t want her to hear me talking to you.”

  “Where’s Carter? Is he there?”

  “No, he’s at a meeting in New York.”

  Damn. I wished he were there. He was the best person to have with you in an emergency. “What’s going on?” I pulled into a driveway, turned around, and headed toward the hospital. In my whole life, my mother had been in the hospital only once, when she’d had Mariel, and I didn’t remember that. She was rarely even sick.

  “We were at the farmers’ market. You know, at the park? And Mom was acting a little weird.”

  “What do you mean, weird?”

  “We were walking around, and she had a hot dog and some French fries. And then she said she wanted to buy some corn from one of the vendors. She started to give him change, you know, along with the bills, but she couldn’t figure out what coins to use. Then she said she felt dizzy. I took her to a bench and brought her some water.”

  “Did that help?”

  “No, she was still dizzy. And she wasn’t sure where she was, so I took her home. I thought she would feel better if she lay down, but she didn’t. I called Dr. Griffin and he said to call 911 and get her to the hospital.”

  I pictured paramedics putting Mom on a stretcher, putting the stretcher in an ambulance. “Is she conscious? Is she talking?” Maybe she’d had a stroke. Oh God, I hoped not. And why couldn’t the car ahead of me go any faster?

  “She’s talking. But she’s still acting kind of weird. She thought one of the doctors was the guy who comes to fix the air-conditioning system at the house.”

  “You mean Ralph?”

  “Is that his name? She kept asking him to check the vents in the kitchen.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  It’s going to be all right.

  Perspiration trickled down my back as I pressed the pedal and accelerated to fifty on a thirty-mile-an-hour stretch of road. This would turn out to be nothing or, at worst, something minor. Maybe Mom was just exhausted. She’d been helping Mariel a lot with the wedding, and she’d been teaching her class and doing who knew what else. That had to be it. But what if it wasn’t? What if something bad was happening? I waited at a red light, my foot tapping the gas pedal like I was sending an SOS in Morse code.

  At least I was in town. I was grateful for that. When Dad died, I was living in LA, and I still hadn’t forgiven myself for not being here. Mom always told me there was nothing I could have done, that he’d died without warning. As if there were ever really a warning about death. It’s not as though you woke up one day and got a text message that your time was up.

  Four thirty in the morning, West Coast time. That’s when my phone rang. I remembered hearing that ring, thinking I was dreaming. Then I woke up and saw the numbers glowing on the clock on my bedside table. I knew it was going to be something bad. People don’t call at that hour with good news.

  Your dad is gone, honey. He died in his sleep. His heart went. They couldn’t revive him. Then came those raw, painful sounds. The kind of sounds I imagined a dying animal might make. I’d never heard those sounds coming from my mothe
r. I sat there in the dark, trying to picture him, trying to put the pieces of his face together, wishing I could have said goodbye.

  She’ll be all right.

  I made the turn onto Route 395. It had to be exhaustion. And maybe Mom was adding a little dramatic touch. Honestly, when did she not do that? In the grocery store, if one of the employees helped her find the coffee crunch ice cream or the little bottle of lemon extract she couldn’t spot, she’d act like he’d thrown his coat over a broken jar of pickles for her. Oh, you’re too kind. What’s your name again? Scotty? I’ve always loved that name. And you’ve got the most beautiful smile. Mom would give him a hug and then glide on by, the other shoppers watching, poor Scotty not knowing what to say. Yes, she could be dramatic. I was betting that by the time I arrived, she’d be drinking a glass of ginger ale with lots of ice, smiling, ready to go home.

  But what if I was wrong?

  I pulled into the parking lot at the hospital and ran into the emergency room, past an old woman, a couple with a crying baby, and a dour-faced teenage girl and her parents. The receptionist told me Mom was in bed 8, and after getting a visitor’s badge, I rushed into a large room with a nurses’ station in the middle and curtained rooms around the perimeter.

  I found Mom’s cubicle, pulled back the curtain, and stepped inside. She was lying on a bed, an IV in her wrist with a line connected to a bag on a pole. A blood pressure cuff was around her other arm. Wires protruded from the sleeves of her hospital gown and terminated at a monitor on the wall; a small oxygen monitor was clipped to one of her fingertips, and everything around her was emitting beeps and bleeps. She looked pale and tired, but somehow her hair was still coiffed and her makeup mostly intact. I took that as a good sign. Mariel sat in a chair on the other side of the bed.

  “Mom,” I said, relieved to be there. I kissed her, noticing a trace of freesia perfume, a welcome antidote to the smells of bleach and recirculated air. “How are you feeling?”

  She looked surprised to see me. Almost shocked. “Sara? How did you get here so fast?”