The Wedding Thief

by Mary Simses

  A couple of seconds of silence ticked by, during which I imagined a confused Brian wondering what this wedding was all about. “They want those included, not excluded?”

  “Included. It’s part of an old joke they’ve had going on for years.”

  “Um, okay, sure,” he said, sounding anything but.

  After we hung up, I checked my e-mail and found the catering menu George Boyd had sent, all six pages, complete with selections for children’s parties. After studying it for a few minutes, I wrote some notes in my pad and called George.

  “If you want to review the selections and phone me tomorrow, that’s fine,” he said. “Or we can set up another meeting. Or you can e-mail me your changes.”

  “I think we can do this right now,” I said.

  “Sure. That’s fine too. I didn’t realize you were ready.”

  “Here’s what Mariel’s thinking. She’s decided to make this reception much more down-to-earth. Much simpler.” I scrolled to the children’s selections at the bottom of the menu. “So, for the hors d’oeuvres, we’d like to do the mini–grilled cheese sandwiches, those little pig-in-a-blanket hot dogs, the mini-pizzas, and, let’s see…oh, here it is, baked tofu fingers for the vegans.”

  “Sounds like you’ll be having a lot of children there,” George said. “So those are in addition to the caviar-and-crème-fraîche tartlets, spinach-and-mushroom puffs, lobster toast with—”

  “No, no, they’re instead of those.”

  “Instead of them.” Silence. More silence.

  “Doesn’t everybody like grilled cheese?” I asked.

  “Oh…I…of course,” he said.

  “And for the entrée, she wants the options to be chicken nuggets, macaroni and cheese, fish sticks, and the rice-and-bean burritos.”

  “And are those going to be instead of the pheasant under glass, Dover sole, filet mignon, and saffron risotto with roasted—”

  “Yes, instead of.”

  “This is for a wedding, correct?”

  “Oh yes.”

  I checked off the photos, music, and menu changes on my list, glad to have made some more progress.

  “I’m fine,” Mom said when Mariel and I went to pick her up at the hospital. “Whatever you do, don’t start treating me like an invalid.”

  Although I understood her point, hypertension was serious, and she didn’t have the best diet. Which was why, later that afternoon, I went through all the food in the refrigerator, freezer, and cabinets and tossed out the high-sodium offenders. Cans of soup and frozen pizzas and chicken potpies were just a few of the things that went into the garbage bags.

  On the internet I found some good articles about the importance of diet, exercise, and blood pressure monitoring, including one with the catchy title “Blood Pressure Cuff: Does Size Matter?” I printed out the articles and left them on the kitchen counter along with a note telling Mom I’d ordered her two cookbooks for people with hypertension and a blood pressure monitor that worked with a phone app. I also left some yellow sticky notes on her cabinets: More kale; Say yes to sunflower seeds; Take a pass on pickles. It couldn’t hurt to remind her.

  Mariel walked into the kitchen. “What’s all this?” she asked, looking around.

  “I’m helping Mom with her diet, getting rid of the stuff she shouldn’t eat.”

  “Those two black bags are full of food?” She untied one of them. “Potato chips? And cheese puffs?” She turned to me, horrified. “You’re throwing them out?”

  “Mom can’t eat that.”

  “She can eat a little of it.”

  “Nobody eats a little of it.”

  “Don’t you think you should ask her first?” Mariel said. “She told us not to treat her like an invalid. Maybe she wants to make her own decisions.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m doing her a favor. She needs to get a handle on this.” I knew Mom wouldn’t toe the line without a little push.

  “Well, don’t blame me if she gets mad.” Mariel pulled a big bag of chips from the trash. “I’ll just keep these in my room.”

  “She’s not going to get mad.” I was about to ask Mariel why she didn’t take the cheese puffs as well when her phone rang.

  “You’re still there, Moo?” She opened the bag of chips. “Oh, I don’t know, honey. Can’t you just find something nice and buy four of them? We need to get this done.”

  I started to walk away.

  “Wait, Sara. Hold on. Carter’s at Hilliard’s getting gifts for the groomsmen. Would you please go down there and help him find something for the bridesmaids? I have to wait here and sign for a package that’s coming. Besides, you’re better at that kind of thing than I am.”

  Her attempt to butter me up wasn’t going to persuade me. Why couldn’t I stay and sign for the package and she go downtown and deal with the gifts? I was about to suggest that, but then I stopped myself. The opportunity to spend some time with Carter had just landed in my lap. And maybe I could do a little more sabotage as well.

  On the way to town, Wade, the photographer, called me back. I explained, as delicately as I could, that we were canceling his services. “She wants to go low-key.”

  “You’re not going to have a photographer there at all?” he asked, sounding shocked.

  “Oh, we’ll have plenty of photographers there. We’re going to ask the guests to take pictures with their phones and upload them to a Dropbox link.” I’d seen couples make that mistake before. They ended up with a few decent photos, if they were lucky, and hundreds more with heads and shoulders in the way, red-eyed people, blurry images, and pictures that were too light or too dark.

  And that’s what Wade said before reminding me that the deposit was nonrefundable.

  By the time I arrived at Hilliard’s, Carter had picked out the gifts for the groomsmen: leather toiletry cases and fancy razors made by some British company.

  “Ah, she told me she was sending the chief,” he said, looking apologetic. “Sorry to drag you down here.”

  “Oh, it’s fine. I don’t mind.” If he only knew how happy I was to have a few minutes alone with him.

  “I have no idea what to get a bridesmaid,” he said. “I didn’t even know what to get the guys.”

  I picked up the razor; its stainless-steel handle was decorated with geometric lines. It was heavy and felt good in my hand. “These gifts are lovely. All you have to do is get some cards, write a nice note to each of them, and you’re done.”

  “What do I do about the bridesmaids?”

  I couldn’t believe Mariel had roped him into that. The guy who negotiated deals for Hollywood A-listers was hunting for bridesmaids’ gifts. I would never have asked him to do that if he were marrying me.

  “Come on, there must be something here,” I said, leading him through the shop. Hilliard’s had always carried an eclectic selection of goods, everything from crystal decanters to neckties to goggles to wear while chopping onions.

  We passed nautical-themed glassware, black agate coasters, porcelain dog bowls, and an inflatable tic-tac-toe game for use in a swimming pool. I’d never seen that before. I picked up the box, which had a cover showing a pink tic-tac-toe grid floating in pale blue water. “This is it. This is what we’ll get them.”

  “Perfect,” Carter said, playing along. “But hold on a second. What if they don’t have a pool?”

  “If they don’t have one, they’ll just have to get one.”

  “Of course. A problem easily solved. Maybe we could slip in a gift certificate to help out.”

  “Yes! Great idea. A gift certificate for a pool. Why didn’t I think of that?” I laughed and put the box back on the shelf, and we moved along.

  “Hey, what about a hat?” Carter said, picking up a white raffia hat with a floppy brim and putting it on my head.

  I pulled it down over my eyes, hoping to look seductive. “Hello, dahling.”

  “Hmm. That actually looks okay on you. But then, you always looked good in hats.”

 
“Do you really think so?” I put the hat back.

  He glanced at the scented candles, picked up a crystal vase.

  “Hey,” I said, “do you remember that store we went into—I think it might have been in San Diego—where they had all those crazy hats upstairs?”

  “Crazy hats?” He put the vase down and walked on.

  “Yeah. I tried on a hat that looked like a birthday cake, remember? It had candles sticking out of the top. I think it was made of felt. And there was one that looked like a lobster. And you tried on a pirate hat, and we took pictures.”

  “Oh, yeah. I do remember. That pirate hat wasn’t me, though. Maybe I just don’t have the pirate personality. Probably because I don’t believe in plundering.”

  I laughed. “No, you’re definitely not a plunderer.”

  We went down another aisle. Cashmere sweaters, silk scarves, fancy soaps. “Oh, here we are. This is it.” I held up a loofah sponge that looked like an ice cream cone. “And it comes in such a nice box.”

  “Packaging is important,” Carter said. “But I don’t know. I’m not getting the right feeling about it.”

  At the end of the aisle, he waved his arms. “Search is over. We’re done.” He picked up a pair of brass bookends, each one a hand with a cigar between the fingers.

  “Oh, that’s it,” I said. “Any woman would want those. Even if she didn’t smoke cigars. I mean, they’re just…”

  “I agree. They are just…” He winked at me. My heart melted.

  He put the bookends back and took a breath. “All right, what are we really going to get them?”

  Ah. The game was over. And we were having so much fun. Soon we’d be finished here and he’d walk out of my life again. “I think I have a few ideas,” I said. I led him around the store another time, slowly, pointing out some things I’d noticed that I thought were worth considering.

  “I like that,” he said when I showed him a silver jewelry dish.

  “You do? Do you think Mariel will like it?”

  He picked up the dish, turned it over, studied it. “Do you like it?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I do.”

  “Okay, then, it’s settled.”

  At the checkout counter, Carter asked the saleswoman if she had four of the dishes.

  “Oh, I’m afraid we only have this one, but I can order more for you. I take it they’ll be gifts?”

  “Yes, bridesmaid gifts,” he said.

  “You know, you’re the second couple to come in today looking for bridesmaid gifts.”

  “Oh, we’re not a couple,” I said. “We’re—” What were we? Ex-lovers. About-to-be siblings-in-law. So inconvenient.

  “We’re old friends,” Carter said, putting his arm around my shoulder and giving me a little squeeze. His touch made me want to dissolve into his arms.

  “The couple that came in earlier met on vacation in Hawaii,” the saleswoman said. “And he proposed to her two weeks later!”

  “That’s awfully quick,” I said, wondering how long that marriage would last.

  Carter scratched his head. “Two weeks. It took me longer than that to come up with the idea for a proposal.”

  “What in the world did you do?” I asked, realizing too late it would probably break my heart to hear about it.

  He had that little sparkle in his eyes I’d always loved. “I made a movie trailer. With photos and videos of me and Mariel together. And I rented a theater on Sunset and invited…well, a lot of people. She had no idea. She thought she was going to see a movie with a few of her girlfriends. They showed the trailer and brought up the lights and I walked over to her and proposed. She loved it. Everybody went wild.”

  She must have loved it. “That’s really sweet,” I said. Maybe it wasn’t what I would have liked, but I couldn’t imagine how much time and effort had gone into it. And what did it matter what I liked? This wasn’t my wedding proposal we were talking about.

  The saleswoman clicked some keys on a computer. “I’ll need to get your information and a credit card. And then I’ll call and find out what the shipping time will be, and we can talk about how you’d like them sent. When do you need these?”

  I turned to Carter. “Hey, look. I can handle the details here. You get on with your day and I’ll finish up.”

  “Really? You don’t mind?”

  “I don’t mind. I’m the wedding planner, remember?”

  I walked him to the door and watched him cross the street. Then I went back and picked up the brass bookends with the cigar-holding hands.

  “We’ve changed our minds,” I told the saleswoman. “Instead of those silver trays, how many more of these can you get?”

  Chapter 14

  Lessons from the Past

  I spent most of Sunday working on the company sales meeting, the board meeting, and a golf outing the client services’ group wanted to hold for some of the firm’s most important clients. David had come back after his two days in Manhattan, and at five o’clock he picked me up for our drive to Jeanette’s.

  “Glad you could leave a little early,” he said as I got into the van. “We have to go about fifteen miles out of the way.” We were taking a detour so he could look at a piece of property.

  “I’m just happy to get out of the house. I’ve been inside all day.”

  He drove for a couple of miles, then turned and headed northwest. I squinted at the sun, pulled down the visor, and searched my handbag for my sunglasses.

  “There’s a pair of shades in the glove box if you want them,” David said.

  I opened the glove compartment and pulled out a pair of Ray-Bans. “Wayfarers. I’ve always liked these.” I put them on. “They make me think of that old song Don Henley did, ‘The Boys of Summer,’ and that line about the girl having her Wayfarers on.”

  “Great song, great line. And those shades look good on you.”

  We drove for forty minutes, David on business calls most of the time, me happy to gaze out the window. Soon after passing a sign that said ENTERING PUTNEY, SETTLED 1644, we approached a small downtown area where old wooden houses had been primped and painted and turned into businesses. Tranquility Teahouse, Gilded Lily Antiques, Mayflower Grocery. David ended a call, stopped at a traffic light, then answered his phone when it rang again.

  “Hey, Doug, what’s up?” Across the street, two men deep in conversation leaned against a blue pickup truck. “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea,” David said after listening for a moment. “I don’t want to take a chance on it without getting that additional info. Maybe it’s overkill, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.” The light turned green and we drove on, leaving the shops behind us. “Sure,” David said. “I’m on my way there now to take a look.”

  He was still talking a couple of minutes later as the road meandered past fields and trees and streams. “We’d have to bulldoze what’s there anyway. Take it down. Too expensive to keep the…what? Yeah, exactly. Start fresh.” He looked at his GPS. “Hey, listen. I think we’re almost there. I’ll call you later.”

  We turned onto a road flanked on both sides by woods, the street sign obscured by vines. The asphalt was cracked and broken and full of potholes that looked big enough to eat a wheel or break an axle. “What’s in here?” I asked as he maneuvered the van to avoid the craters and bumps.

  “You’ll see in a minute.”

  I couldn’t see anything but woods. Then I noticed a few rose-colored spots between the trees. The road swung left and led to a clearing where a long, three-story red-brick building loomed before us. It must have been at least a hundred years old.

  The bricks had turned all sorts of colors. Some were burnt orange, some rosy pink. Some looked like they’d been hit with a bucket of whitewash. Vines had scuttled up the walls and died, leaving dried stalks, and the windows were empty of glass and covered with green cyclone fencing to deter vandals. The dark holes that remained peered down at us like disapproving eyes. The roof sagged, and the shingles curled like bits of pencil shavin
gs. I felt as though I’d been transported to an industrial ghost town.

  “Wow,” I whispered. “What is this?”

  David turned off the engine. “It used to be a woolen mill.” We stepped outside. Gravel and sand crunched under our feet; birds chattered quietly in the woods behind us. The air seemed hotter there, and stale.

  “When I was in high school,” I said, “I wrote a paper about the history of Connecticut’s textile mills.”

  David smiled. “You must be an expert, then.”

  I was hardly an expert. Although I did remember driving with my friend Whitney Reece to one of the abandoned mills to take pictures. The place gave me the creeps. At least at first. But then I began to think about all the people who had gone through the doors and worked there over the years, all the fabric they’d made, how they’d fed their families and scrimped and saved, and maybe a few of them had even sent a child to college on what they’d earned there. I started to imagine what it had once looked like, how beautiful it must have been, and it made me sad to see it all those years later. Closed. Dead. An eyesore.

  “I’m definitely not an expert,” I said as I stepped closer to the building. “But I do know a lot of these mills were built in Connecticut in the early 1800s and that people came from all over the world to work in them.”

  Bricks had fallen from the building in several places and vines clung to the walls like fingers refusing to let go, but I could tell the structure must have been magnificent in its day. I wondered who had set the dozens of arched windows in place and who had laid the thousands of bricks. Where had those masons come from? Were any of their descendants still alive? If so, did they even know this place existed?

  I ran my hand over the bricks, which still felt warm from the fading sun. “Don’t ask me how I remember this, but the largest thread mill in North America was in Willimantic, Connecticut. The American Thread Company. And here’s a fun fact: it was the first factory to install electric lights and the first to give workers coffee breaks.”