Wanted Wed or Alive: Thyme's Wedding

by Melissa F. Miller

  “Neither do I. I don’t get it. She’s making a mistake.”

  I tend to agree. But the difference between me and Rosemary is that I would never dream of saying as much to Thyme.

  “We don’t know, Ro. She’s got her reasons, I’m sure. And our job is to support her.”

  Rosemary grumbles something indistinct. I choose to interpret it as agreement. That’s another difference between the two of us. What can I say? Sometimes it’s easier to go along to get along.

  “Have you cancelled your flight yet?”

  She switches gears so abruptly that I feel dizzy. “What? No, Victor only texted us two minutes ago.”

  “Good. Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t cancel your flights. We need to go out there and intervene.”

  “You want to ambush them in Vegas and try to convince Thyme to marry Victor?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  She huffs. “Why not?”

  “Where to start? It’s not our business, for one.”

  “Of course it’s our business. She’s our sister, Sage, and she—”

  My phone beeps, two quick sounds. Bip, bip.

  “She’s calling me.”

  “Take it. Call me back.”

  Rosemary hangs up before I can respond.

  As I swipe the screen to pick up the incoming call, I glance at Roman. He shakes his head and pours himself another glass of iced tea. He’s mildly to moderately amused by my sisterly drama, as usual, but I know he also feels awful for Victor.

  “Hey, Thyme,” I answer with as much warmth in my voice as I can. No matter what, she could probably use a friendly ear right about now.

  “Hi!” she chirps back, entirely too cheerfully.

  Even if she doesn’t know that I know, shouldn’t she be exhibiting some sadness here? If not sobbing, then at least a mournful tone, something? Unless, of course, she really doesn’t love Victor …

  Not possible. I’ve seen her with him. I’ve heard how she talks about him.

  “Are you okay?” Maybe she’s having a breakdown.

  She giggles. “I’m better than okay—I’m getting married!”

  I have no idea how to respond. Finally, I manage to squeak out, “Who’s the lucky guy?”

  The line goes quiet.

  “Thyme?”

  “It’s Victor, you goofball. Who do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I’m so confused. Not ten minutes ago, he texted me and Rosemary and said that you rejected his proposal.”

  “I did! But then I proposed to him—well, kinda, sorta. It’s a long story. But we’re eloping.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes, we’re getting married the day after tomorrow.”

  I struggle to catch up. “In Las Vegas?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you want us to be there, right?”

  “Sage! Why would you even ask that? Of course I do.”

  Roman wrinkles his forehead and shoots me a bewildered look. Tell me about it.

  “I don’t know, Thyme. It’s all so confusing. Why did you say no in the first place?”

  I hear her big inhalation of breath. Then a whoosh as she lets it out. “It sounds silly, but ever since you and Rosemary had your weddings, I’ve been dreading a big wedding with a ceremony and a fancy reception. Not that they weren’t beautiful—they were. I mean, that beautiful meadow and all the blue glass and yummy food, but—”

  “Will you spit it out already?”

  “I don’t want a big wedding. It’s not really feasible for Victor’s extended family to travel here; and Mom and Dad, you know …”

  “They could try to get a set of day passes, like they did for my wedding.”

  “I know. But, I don’t want the fuss. I’m afraid something will go wrong.”

  “Lots of things will go wrong, Thyme. That’s life.”

  “Yeah, I guess. I just don’t want the drama.”

  To each her own. “Okay, so a drama-free elopement it is. All that really matters is you and Victor starting your life together.”

  “Exactly.”

  I can hear the relief in her voice. And there is something romantic about the idea.

  I go on, “I guess as an added bonus, Rosemary and I don’t have to throw you a shower and wear matching dresses.”

  She snorts. “See, everyone wins.”

  I hesitate. “Well, everyone but Mom and Dad. And Victor’s parents. Thyme, are you sure about this?”

  She waits a beat before she answers, but when she does, her voice is firm and clear with no trace of doubt. “I’m positive. Like Victor said, we can have two parties later. One in Brazil, probably in the winter, and one here, after Mom and Dad get released.”

  “Okay, if that’s what you want.”

  “It is. I don’t know how to explain it, but I feel like a weight’s been lifted off my shoulders. Ever since your wedding, I’ve been carrying around the grim thought of having a wedding of my own someday.”

  She’s so deeply weird, but she’s my sister, so I accept on face value that the prospect of a wedding strikes her as grim. But I need to know why.

  “Why, though?”

  “I can’t explain how I know it, but I know if I plan a wedding reception, something terrible will happen. I can feel it. It’s bad juju.”

  “Now you sound like Mom,” I tell her.

  “I don’t care, Sage. I’m being serious. It’s been a dark, ominous cloud, following me around.”

  The shudder in her voice is like a glass of cold water. There’s nothing funny about this to her.

  “I’m sorry you’ve been feeling that way. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Like what? I’m glad you and Rosemary found the men you want to spend the rest of your lives with, but the idea of getting married horrifies me.”

  Okay, she has a point. That announcement wouldn’t have sat well with me, and it would’ve gotten Rosemary all riled up. I glance over at Roman who appears to be absorbed in some esoteric golf statistics he’s pulled up on his laptop.

  Still, I pick up my mug of hibiscus tea and slide open the door to my small balcony. After I close the door and settle into one of the bright pink Adirondack chairs, I lower my voice and say, “You’re positive that it’s the idea of a wedding that horrifies you, right? Not being married to Victor?”

  She’s been clear about it. But still. This seems like the sort of possibility a person should probe, repeatedly, from all angles, before eloping. I hold my breath and hope she doesn’t bristle at the question.

  Luckily, Thyme seems to understand my reason for asking. “I’m one hundred percent sure. I know it’s the wedding, not the groom. That’s why I’ve been so stressed out. I know I want to be with him, I just didn’t see a way to avoid the whole wedding thing. Running off to Vegas to get married is the perfect solution!”

  The dread that filled her voice moments ago vanishes, leaving behind no trace. I have to smile at the sunny way she sings the words.

  “Great. I’m so happy for you. Do you need me to bring anything?” Like what, I can’t imagine. The idea of getting married on the spur of the moment is antithetical to my love of planning and organizing. I wouldn’t be able to do it. Even thinking about it is making my palms sweaty.

  “No, thanks. Well, actually, yeah. I got a call from, Mr. Doolittle, the property manager at my building—”

  “Doolittle?”

  “Yeah. He said I’ve got so much mail piled up that my mailbox is stuffed and the postal carrier has filled two of those big plastic bins. The building management told him he can’t leave it behind the desk anymore, so I asked him to send it to you. He sent me the tracking; it’ll get there today. I’m sure it’s mostly junk mail, but will you flip through it and bring along anything that looks important?”

  “Of course. But you didn’t stop your mail?”

  “I didn’t think I needed to. I do all my banking and stuff online. I don’t thin
k I’ve gotten more than a handful of mail the entire time I’ve lived in that place. I’m serious.”

  “That’s so weird that you have this avalanche of mail now,” I muse.

  “I must’ve gotten on some list. Anyway, if you could take a look at it and then toss it in the recycling bin, that would be a huge help.”

  I sip my tea, savoring its flowery fruitiness. “You got it.”

  “Thanks. Oh, and one more thing,” she says casually. Too casually.

  “Sure, anything.”

  “Call Rosemary and let her know about the wedding? Kaythanksbye.”

  I’m mid-spit take, spewing herbal tea, when the phone goes quiet in my ear. I try to be irritated with my baby sister, but her maneuver was so masterful, so well played, that the only emotion I can muster is grudging admiration and respect.

  I gaze out at Muffy’s garden, in full bloom this time of year, and finish my tea, steeling myself for the call I’m about to make.

  Chapter 3

  Rosemary

  I wipe the sweat from the back of my neck with a dishtowel and curse the muggy Los Angeles weather. Back home, I’d be rooting for a good thunderstorm to break the heat and wash away the humidity. But I’m in for a long wait if I think my little corner of Westwood is going to get rain. It’s been a hot, dry summer.

  As if he can read my mind, Dave flashes me a crooked grin as he climbs out of the back of the catering truck. “It sure is hot. We should get out of town for a few days.”

  “Yeah,” I crack. “I know, let’s go to the desert.”

  We’ve decided that even though Thyme and Victor’s surprise engagement party is off, we’re going to make the trip anyway.

  In part, because we’ve already arranged for a free four-day weekend. And it’s no small feat for us to align our schedules this way.

  Running my own catering company means my weekends are rarely my own. Parties tend to happen on Friday and Saturday nights. Wednesday morning books are few and far between. I’ve been trying to expand my corporate lunch business to ease the weekend crunch.

  Dave has even less flexibility than I do. Although he has scheduled work shifts, it turns out that people aren’t super-obliging about when they die. Homicide detectives like Dave are pretty much on call, well, all the time. But he called in a bunch of favors and agreed to work the next five weekends, so we’re going to make the most of this one.

  Also, it’s too late to cancel the private house we rented in a small community outside Vegas. There’s no point losing our deposit. So, we’re loading our bags, Mona Lisa’s dog bed and collection of squeakies, stuffies, and ropes into the back of the van. I suppose a catering van seems like an odd vehicle choice for a road trip, but it’s actually perfect—roomy, air-conditioned throughout, and already stocked with kitchen utensils and pantry basics that will come in handy at the rental house.

  Dave brushes his palms against one another. “I think that’s it. Except for Mona Lisa.”

  I hand him her bright purple leash. “Last I saw her, she was sprawled out in the bathtub.”

  One eyebrow shoots toward his hairline. “Seriously?”

  “I think the porcelain or whatever it is must be cool on her belly.”

  He gives me a skeptical look, but her behavior seems pretty reasonable to me. I’d hate to be a black dog living in Southern California.

  “Okay, I’ll get her. You pull up the directions?”

  I lean over and kiss the side of his neck. “You got it, babe.”

  He pulls me in and kisses me back.

  “Ick, you’re all sweaty. “ I push him away, jokingly, but not really.

  He lifts my hair from my damp neck. “Yeah, and you’re … glistening.”

  “Go get the dog. I’ll get the air conditioning running.”

  He jogs toward the apartment, and I slide into the driver’s seat of the van and crank the air conditioning to full blast. I can hear Sage’s voice in my mind, calmly informing me that cranking the A/C doesn’t cool down the interior of the vehicle any faster.

  “Yeah, well, it makes me feel like I’m doing something,” I mutter aloud to the voice in my head.

  It’s probably my biggest flaw. I’m constitutionally incapable of letting things be. I have to exert my will and try to fix it, change it, handle it—whatever it is.

  Intellectually, I know this character trait is probably why Thyme called Sage, and not me, to talk about her heartbreak and, presumably, her breakup with Victor. I know this, but the truth is, it still stings. I want to be there for Thyme, just as much as Sage does.

  My stomach tightens at the thought of Thyme, in the middle of nowhere, New Mexico, in the throes of relationship drama. My baby sister.

  I hope Sage was able to give her some support.

  As if I’ve summoned her by thinking of her, Sage’s name flashes across my cell phone screen as my ringtone sounds.

  I fumble with the phone and answer the call.

  “Hey, how is she?”

  Sage laughs. “Fine. Better than fine, in fact.”

  “She must be in denial. Poor Thyme.” I frown at how dense Sage is being. What she says next turns my frown into an ‘O’ of surprise.

  “No, actually, she’s doing great. She and Victor are getting married.”

  “What? They are?”

  “Yep. The day after tomorrow. In Vegas. You didn’t cancel the house yet, did you?”

  I realize my mouth is hanging open and clamp my jaw shut.

  “Rosie?”

  Oh, right. I have to open it again to speak.

  “Sorry, I’m here. No, I didn’t cancel the house.”

  Great! I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

  Back when we thought we were going to Las Vegas to celebrate our sister’s engagement, we’d agreed to arrive the day before to catch up and hang out. Dave and I are adding one extra day on to the original plan by leaving today.

  “Sure, but I don’t understand. The wedding’s in two days?”

  “Right.”

  “What is she thinking?”

  “Here’s the thing—the reason she initially told Victor no is she doesn’t want a big wedding.”

  “Okay, but even a small wedding will take us more than forty-eight hours to pull together. I mean, even if we split up the tasks among the six of us, I don’t think there’s any way ….” I trail off, envisioning a color-coded spreadsheet with target deadlines. I’m going to have to run back inside and grab my laptop.

  Then my brain catches up, and I switch gears. “Wait. How does she expect anyone other than us to be able to attend this wedding? Mom and Dad need time to make arrangements. And Victor’s parents are in freaking Brazil.”

  Sage’s voice is gentle. “They want a private ceremony and then a nice dinner with us. That’s it, Rosemary. No reception, no other family, no friends. They say they’ll have a big party later, after Mom and Dad have been released. And I guess they’ll go to Brazil and do it again.”

  “But why?”

  A long whoosh of air, then she says, “She’s convinced something terrible will befall her if she plans a wedding.”

  “What, like a hoodoo curse?” I can’t resist poking at Sage.

  “Or, like, being abducted by a loan shark and held hostage in a storage container,” she pokes right back.

  I shrug. To an outsider, Thyme’s conviction that a wedding reception will bring bad luck may sound unhinged. But, frankly? Given our family track record, I can see why she’d want to avoid one. I decide to get on board.

  “Okay, but I’m baking them a cake.”

  “Ro—”

  “It’s nonnegotiable.” I use my big sister voice.

  She makes a small sound, as if she’s choking back a laugh. “That’s fair. I’ll let her know to call you if she has any flavor requests.”

  Dave’s headed out of the building, Mona Lisa bounding along beside him.

  “I have to run. Have a safe flight, Sage.”

  “Thanks, see you tomorrow. A
nd, Rosie?”

  “Hmm?”

  “She’s making the right decision for her. It might not be the one either of us would make, but—”

  “I know. I sure hope it works out the way she’s envisioning.”

  Sage chuckles. “What could possibly go wrong? All she needs to do is get the marriage license.”

  As I end the call, I tell myself she’s right. Still, though, a weird sense of foreboding settles around me.

  Chapter 4

  Thyme

  By the time we roll into the Arizona retirement community where Victor’s next interviews are scheduled, the orange sun is low in the sky.

  “The marketing coordinator said you’re welcome to use the community pool or gym while I talk to the Mortensons.” Victor parks the rental car in a spot in front of the residential sales office and flashes me a smile.

  As I scoop up my messenger bag and step out of the car, I spare a longing gaze at the brilliant blue water in the deserted Olympic-sized pool.

  “It looks so inviting, but I better not. I’m going to boot up my laptop and apply for the marriage license online so we can pick it up in the morning when we get to Las Vegas.”

  At the mention of marriage, a surprisingly shy expression crosses his face.

  “Are you blushing?”

  He makes a tsking noise. “What? No!”

  I twist my lips into a skeptical bow and examine him. “You totally are. Who knew you’d be the blushing groom?”

  He wraps an arm around my waist and reels me close. “My secret’s out. I’m head over heels for you, Thyme Field.”

  I stare up into his warm, dark eyes. “Your secret’s safe with me,” I whisper.

  “Only for another day. After that, the whole world will know.”

  I smile as the excitement in my chest threatens to bubble over. “Go, do your interview.” I kiss him hard and send him on his way.

  He’s only gone about ten feet when a sudden worry pops into my mind.

  “Wait!”

  He turns back. “What’s wrong?”

  “I need your driver’s license or passport … or I don’t know … how do I apply for a marriage license for a naturalized citizen? What if you need additional paperwork? What if—?”