He pulled back his hand and moved to the other side of the seat, leaving her feeling rejected and unsatisfied. “Fine. I guess you don’t love me, after all. I don’t know why I’m bothering to be with you if you don’t love me.”
His words were like some horrible magic wand, bringing tears to her eyes. “I do love you.”
“No, you don’t. You haven’t proved it.”
She knew what she had to do to prove it.
You shouldn’t do this. The thought wasn’t strong enough to overcome her desire and the need to show Gerard that she did indeed love him. She slipped out of her panties and closed the distance between them. “Don’t stop, Gerard. Let’s not stop.”
So they didn’t. And from that night on, every date ended with a sexual encounter. They took precautions. Gerard got her some spermicide he said was guaranteed to prevent pregnancy and she believed him. It wasn’t until almost the end of the school year that she missed her period.
“I’m late,” she told him as they sat in a booth at the Dairy Queen with their burgers and shakes.
He looked momentarily confused. “What do you mean late?”
“My period,” she said, blushing.
His face turned as white as his vanilla shake. “Are you sure?”
Her periods had been as regular as clockwork since seventh grade. “I’m sure.”
Now his brows drew together and his mouth dipped in an angry scowl. “You’ll have to do something about it.”
What, exactly, did he want her to do? “What do you mean?”
“Get rid of it, Bobbi. I can’t get married. I have a scholarship to Stanford. Remember?”
“You can still go to school. I’ll work,” she offered.
“While you’re preggers? Use your head.”
This wasn’t the reaction she’d hoped for. She’d dreamed of him hugging her, telling her not to worry, it would be all right. He’d take care of her. She’d even hoped he’d say that he’d marry her, postpone school and get a job. Instead, look what he was asking her to do! She had no idea how to get rid of a baby and no desire to learn.
“Well, I can’t get rid of it. I won’t.”
He pushed away his shake. “Suit yourself.” Then he was scooting out of the booth. “Come on. I’m taking you home.”
The ride back to her house was a silent one. “Are you mad?” she finally asked in a small voice.
“Yeah, I’m mad,” he snarled. “And I’m done. I want my letterman’s jacket back.”
“You’re breaking up with me?” No, this couldn’t be happening.
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re a jerk,” she shot at him, hot tears stinging her cheeks.
“And I think you’re a slut.”
A slut. He’d called her a slut when he was the only boy she’d slept with? She hadn’t even known how to French-kiss when she first met him. “I’ll teach you,” he’d said. Oh, yes, he’d taught her a lot. But just about sex. He hadn’t taught her anything about love.
Of course, her mother hadn’t taught her much about love, either. Her grandma had been the only one who really cared about her, but Grandma had been helpless to turn Roberta’s mother from her plan once Roberta’s secret was out. “You can’t keep it. This is for the best,” she’d insisted. Whose best, she hadn’t specified.
* * *
No one could accuse Roberta of being like her mother. If anyone here had known the woman, which, thankfully, no one had. Roberta had actually cared. She’d loved Daphne with a passion, had wanted her beautiful little girl to have a successful and satisfying life. She’d done everything in her power to make that happen. Growing up, Daphne had it all—Girl Scouts, art lessons from a local artist, piano lessons, a lovely wedding, the kind Roberta herself had dreamed of. And then another. And another.
Through it all, Roberta had stoically stood by her daughter, watching her stumble from one romantic failure to the next, reminding herself that it was Daphne’s life and she was free to choose her own destiny...if you could call such a bumbling mess a destiny.
Where had she gone wrong? Unlike her mother, she’d been supportive, constantly trying to bring Daphne up to her full potential.
Roberta sighed. Mothers always wanted their daughters to be perfect, and their daughters always disappointed them. It never changed from one generation to the next. The only thing that changed was the expectations.
Enough wandering around in the unpleasant past, she told herself. She had a darned good present and that was what mattered. She put the teakettle on the stove to freshen her tea, and as she waited for the water to heat, she gazed out the kitchen window at the grounds.
The grass was getting shaggy. She needed to have Hank Hawkins come over and start getting the yard in shape for spring. She picked up the phone and punched in the number for Hawkins Lawn Service. Not surprisingly, it went to voice mail. Hank and his boys were already busy.
Hank had moved to Icicle Falls seven years ago, which meant he was still considered a newcomer. His arrival had coincided with Roberta’s knees getting tired of all the weeding she had to do. She’d hired him and been pleased, and he’d been working for her ever since. She’d recommended him to Pat York and Janice Lind and several other people, and now he was always in demand. Lucky for her she was a highly valued client.
“Hank, I think it’s time to start cleaning up for spring around here. When can you fit me in?”
It turned out that he couldn’t help her right away, even though she was a valued customer. “Sorry, Roberta, I can’t make it until Friday afternoon,” he said when he called her back.
She didn’t like having Hank or his men there on Fridays. She often had clients coming in on Friday afternoons or evenings, or events to set up for.
This weekend was clear, though. “I’ll take it,” she decided. Then, after that, they could get back on schedule and do midweek maintenance.
An unwelcome thought entered her mind after she ended the call. Daphne would be home Friday afternoon. This would not have been a problem if Daphne was happily married. But now...
Hank was a good-looking man, tall and broad-shouldered, but divorced and a bad risk. Daphne was a beautiful woman, a vulnerable beautiful woman, with poor taste in men. Roberta could envision her daughter and her gardener encountering each other by the azaleas and falling madly, stupidly, in love.
She’d have to make sure she found some time-consuming errands for her daughter to run after work; that was all there was to it. Daphne fell in love as regularly as some people ordered coffee at Bavarian Brews.
There would be no ordering up of a certain tall drink of water here. No, sir. Not on Roberta’s watch.
Chapter Twelve
Anne, Wedding Planner and Shrink
“We want to get married at the beach, and we’d like our dogs, Cutie Pie and Commodore, to be in the wedding, too,” said the excited bride. Rika Washington had hired Anne two weeks ago and called her every day since with a new question, concern or inspiration. Today was inspiration day.
The customer was always right, Anne reminded herself. Still, she couldn’t help remembering some of the doggy disasters she’d seen over the years when brides included their pets. There’d been the irritable pooch who’d bitten the groom’s hand when he went to put the ring on his bride’s finger, and the happy mutt who’d done a mating dance with the leg of the bride’s father as he stood waiting to give his daughter away.
The worst one was Bismark, the German shepherd who ran away with the flower girl. The bride had thought it would be adorable to have Bismark tow a flower-bedecked wagon holding the flower girl down the aisle during her garden wedding at Seattle’s Washington Park Arboretum. Her father happily complied and got busy in his wood shop, producing an adorable little wagon.
Bismark seeme
d more than willing to do his part at the rehearsal the evening before. The day of the wedding, however, he spotted another dog at the far end of the park, and instead of walking sedately down the aisle with five-year-old Olivia, he took off at a gallop, the little girl clutching the wagon rails and screeching at the top of her lungs.
“No, Bismark!” yelled his mommy and took off after the dog, her veil flying behind her. Of course, the groom and the groomsmen went after the dog, too, who had a head start since he’d bolted before he’d barely begun to go down the aisle. Half the guests joined in the pursuit as Olivia and Bismark hurtled across the lush lawn, Bismark barking and Olivia screeching.
The wagon tipped, spilling Olivia onto the grass, flowers and all, but Bismark kept going. The owner of the other dog, a highly energetic mixed breed, pulled on his leash, keeping him tightly reined in, while the woman with him made shooing motions and yelled at Bismark to scram.
Bismark had no intention of scramming, and doggy mayhem broke out. After much growling and swearing and threatened lawsuits, not to mention a torn tuxedo, the groom got him and hauled him back.
Other than a grass-stained dress and a missing hair wreath, Olivia was none the worse for wear, but she was still shrieking even after her mother picked her up and carried her back.
The child was eventually calmed and the dog was, well, in the doghouse, on his leash and made to sit with the groom’s father. It didn’t seem to bother Bismark, though, because he spent the remainder of the wedding barking at the other dog, who’d long since departed.
Anne recounted the story of Bismark and Olivia and cautioned Rika that while animals could add a lot to a wedding, they could also be unpredictable.
Rika was unfazed. “Cutie Pie and Commodore will be well behaved. They’re basset hounds. They don’t have the energy to be bad.”
Anne’s family had owned a basset hound when she was growing up, and she knew exactly what the woman meant. “You’re probably right.”
“We’re going to get Commodore a tux and a boutonniere and Cutie Pie a little veil.”
Anne could see the wedding pictures now. They’d be cute...or ridiculous. Anne leaned toward ridiculous, but she wasn’t the one getting married.
“I’m so excited,” gushed the bride-to-be. “This is going to be a beautiful wedding.”
Every wedding was. Even ones that involved flower girls getting unexpected wild rides.
She’d just had time to share Rika’s latest idea with Kendra when her next client arrived for their lunch meeting.
Lisbeth Holmes appeared to be somewhere in her thirties. She worked as a buyer for Nordstrom, and with her cashmere sweater, black pencil skirt and expensive shoes (not to mention the high-end costume jewelry and that Coach purse), she looked like a walking advertisement for the store. She was a tall, svelte brunette, the kind of woman who would make a gunnysack look good. Put her in a bridal gown and she’d be breathtaking.
Her groom was six inches taller, with a football player’s build. He was dressed casually in jeans and a sweater (not cashmere). Maybe he worked for some company that wrote computer software or games and had a more casual work code. Or maybe he was an escaped Seattle Seahawk. But no. It turned out the future groom wrote murder mysteries for a living.
His name was Tad, and he and Lisbeth had been together for the past two years. He’d finally popped the question, and now Lisbeth was ready to start planning the wedding of her dreams. Judging by the modest diamond in her engagement ring, murder didn’t pay all that well. Anne hoped the woman wasn’t dreaming too big.
“We’re talking about February, Valentine’s Day,” Lisbeth said.
They’d have a terrible time getting a table when they went out to celebrate their anniversary, but at least they’d have no trouble remembering it.
“That sounds lovely,” Anne said. “What’s your vision for the wedding?”
Sometimes a bride-to-be would seem a little confused by this question. Not Lisbeth. “I want a traditional church wedding,” she said. “Red and white for my colors. And I’d like to have the reception somewhere with a pretty view.”
Anne nodded, taking notes as Lisbeth talked. And now, before they went any further, she had to ask. “What’s your budget?”
“I’ve been saving for this for the past two years,” Lisbeth said, beaming, and named a figure that pleasantly surprised Anne.
“She’s really good with money,” Tad bragged, helping himself to one of the tea sandwiches Kendra had set out on the desk. “Considering what I make, it’s a good thing.”
“You’ll make more,” Lisbeth assured him. “He’s going to be the next Stephen King,” she predicted.
“But I don’t write horror. And speaking of horror, my parents as well as Lisbeth’s are divorced, and we’ve got a lot of exes and steps, and some of them aren’t talking to one another. How do you work around that?”
“We’ll find a way,” Anne told him. She usually did, although sometimes it was a challenge.
She could see her sister, over at her desk, trying to hide a smirk and tried to forget the time she’d pulled aside an ornery grandma who hated her grandson’s bride and was making a ruckus. Anne had threatened to lock her in the church broom closet if she didn’t behave. Elder abuse, not one of her finer moments. The bride was grateful, though.
“Let’s talk a little more about the big picture,” Anne said, ignoring Kendra.
An hour later they’d made a good start. The bride had given Anne a clear idea of what she wanted. She’d also given her a check.
“When you have a chance, go to the website and download our timetable and checklist. You’ll find them both very helpful,” Anne said. “I’ll get some ideas together and email you a few helpful links.”
“Great,” said Lisbeth. She smiled at her future husband, and he grinned back and took her hand.
“Man, I can’t believe we’re actually doing this,” he said.
“It took both of us a while to decide,” she confided in Anne. “We don’t want to end up...”
“Like our parents,” he finished. “I don’t want to spend a bunch of money on a wedding just to end up in divorce court.”
“You’re not spending anything,” his bride said, her voice slightly condescending.
His cheeks flushed. “Well, I’m paying for the honeymoon.”
She rolled her eyes. “I can hardly wait to see where that’ll be. Tukwila probably.”
The flush deepened. “Hey, I’ve been saving, too.”
Oh, boy, here was a chink in the armor. Financial inequality could be a recipe for disaster. Anne hoped they’d also been saving for premarriage counseling.
“It’s okay,” said his bride. “Someday, when you’re really successful, you can take me to Italy.”
If they lasted long enough.
But what happened after the wedding wasn’t her responsibility. She couldn’t promise a couple a perfect marriage. Her job was to create the perfect wedding. And that she could do.
She was feeling happy about her calling in life until Laurel Browne walked into her office. And Laurel wasn’t smiling. Which meant that soon Anne wouldn’t be, either. Mothers of brides should be caged until after the wedding. Well, okay, not all of them, just some of them. Laurel in particular. Why was she here? She didn’t owe Anne money, and any question she or her daughter had at this point they could ask via phone or email.
Anne forced her lips to turn up at the corners. “Hi, Laurel. What brings you here?” I wish I didn’t have to ask.
“My daughter has a new idea. She saw it online. Or read it in a book. Or something.”
“Oh, boy,” said Kendra under her breath.
“Sit down.” Anne took a seat behind her shabby-chic desk and motioned Laurel to one of the chintz chairs across from it.
“
I think I’ve been more than reasonable,” Laurel began as she sank into the chair.
Compared to what? Anne schooled her face into a supportive expression.
“But I draw the line at goldfish swimming in vases on the tables at the reception. What am I supposed to do with all those goldfish afterward? And what if one of them dies and...floats? That’ll be appetizing for our guests.”
“I do see your point,” said Anne. This happened sometimes. Brides spent too much time on Pinterest and pretty soon they wanted to incorporate every idea they saw into their weddings.
“Well, I put my foot down. I had to. But...” That was as far as Laurel got. Her face crumpled and her eyes were suddenly awash in tears. “We’re not speaking. My daughter and I are not speaking,” she repeated on a sob.
Oh, dear. Now Anne knew the real reason Laurel had come to the office. She didn’t need a wedding planner. She needed a shrink. Or just a sympathetic ear.
Anne reached across her desk and laid a comforting hand on Laurel’s arm. Kendra, thinking in practical terms, placed a box of tissues in front of Laurel and murmured, “I’ll get some coffee.” And with that she disappeared, leaving Laurel in Anne’s capable hands.
Capable as she was, seeing Laurel’s meltdown unnerved Anne. Her own mother-of-the-bride mantle was still new, with no rips or tears, but here was Laurel, living proof that anything, even something as small as a goldfish, could rip that mantle to shreds.
Everyone had mother-daughter disagreements, as she well knew. She and Laney certainly had when Laney was growing up. There’d even been a time when they weren’t speaking. The fact that it was short-lived hadn’t made it any less horrible.
Anne had said no to Laney staying out all night after her senior prom. Of course she’d been accused of being the meanest mother on the planet, the only mother unfeeling enough to ruin her daughter’s big night. Anne had insisted Laney come home after the post-prom cruise, threatening dire circumstances if she didn’t. Voices rose to the point that Anne was sure someone in the neighborhood was going to call the police. Anne had the last word. Literally, because then the stony silence fell.
A Wedding on Primrose Street (Life In Icicle Falls Book 7) Page 13
