Cancel the Wedding

by Carolyn T. Dingman

Elliott moved the thin strap of my sundress off my shoulder and examined the bruise. Having his fingers brush on my bare skin made me shiver. He asked, “Did the tree actually fall on you?”

  “No, it was this giant green pod thing.”

  “You know black walnut trees are really valuable. Buddy’s land is worth a lot of money. I’ve heard that Emory was trying to buy it and get his hands on the old growth.” Elliott ran his finger over the bump on my shoulder, amused by the goose bumps it was causing to sprout on my arm. “I’m not sure it’s safe for you to leave the house. You get hurt every time you venture out.”

  “Very funny. I swear I’m not a klutz. These things just happen to me.” I added, “Through no fault of my own.” I headed toward the kitchen to get my purse.

  He said, “All evidence to the contrary,” as he followed behind me.

  I pushed through the swinging kitchen doors and once again smiled at the very elaborate note hanging from the ceiling. He was surprised that I had left it all hanging there, but looking at it made me happy so I kept it.

  “This is maybe the best note anyone has ever left me. How did you break in here to put this up?”

  “Your door was unlocked.”

  “Really?” I was sure I locked the door every night before we went to bed. I looked around a bit, out of convention, to see if anything was missing or out of place. “I lock it every night.” I was starting to feel like I was being watched. “And you know what else? The maps I was looking for at the library, the exact map pages that I needed, had been cut out of the plat book. The only pages I needed! Now I find out that my door was open? What if someone broke in here?”

  Elliott looked like he was trying not to laugh at me. “You’re losing it. Logan had unlocked the door, not the boogie man.”

  Oh, there goes my conspiracy theory. I said, “Did she tell you that she had opened it?”

  “Yes, she had gone out to get her shoes from the front step.”

  “Are you sure?” I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was trying to put a stop to my investigation.

  He was definitely amused by my quaint but ridiculous suspicions. “I need to make you lose that big-city paranoia.”

  I balled up one of the coffee filters hanging at my disposal and tossed it at his head. “I’m telling you, something weird is going on. First, the journals were gone from the reading room, then the map pages were cut from the book, and now my house was broken into.”

  “Your house wasn’t broken into.”

  “It wasn’t?” It was hard to feel unsafe when Elliott was standing in my kitchen.

  “No, I think you’re just a little bit crazy.” He smiled and leaned back against the kitchen counter. I found myself staring at him, at the lopsided smile on his face, and recognizing the fact that we were all alone here. No Logan to come bursting in to interrupt us. Elliott broke the silence. “Are you ready?” He held his hand out to me.

  I shook some distracting thoughts from my mind. “Sure. Where exactly are we going?”

  “We’re going to Betty Chatham’s garden club party.”

  “We are?” I glanced down at my sundress wondering if it was too casual. “Is it outside? It’s so hot outside.”

  My reaction made him laugh. “It’s a garden party. You can probably count on it being in a garden.” He led me out the front door. “Betty called me and said she wanted you to meet their guest speaker. She didn’t know where you were hiding yourself so she called me.” He glanced at his watch. “We need to be there in ten minutes.”

  We followed Old Post Road outside of town. Elliott turned onto a gravel drive that had been marked by a bouquet of white balloons tied to an old wooden wagon overflowing with bright pink blooming azaleas. The gravel drive led through a canopy of dogwoods and then opened up to a vast green lawn. The dark gray of the gravel cut a curving sliver through the green grass ending in a courtyard in front of a white antebellum mansion.

  The art historian in me was dying to go inside. The house sat on a foundation of dark granite that matched the driveway. The steps and floor of the deep portico were painted gray, offsetting the crisp white of the house. There were six two-story Corinthian columns on the façade sitting atop raised pedestals. The hipped copper roof, weathered to a pale green, sloped gently back to meet the four brick chimney stacks that reached into the sky.

  Elliott stopped the car at the front steps and a valet opened my door. I found myself just staring up at the gorgeous thing. The house, not the valet.

  Elliott took my hand, pulling me to the side gate. “Come on.”

  I protested. “Can’t we go inside for just a second?”

  “We’re already late.”

  As we walked around the side of the house I was too preoccupied with Elliott’s hand to take any notice of the party. It was such a simple gesture, taking my hand to guide me through the yard, but it felt so intimate. I wrapped both of my hands around his and he squeezed mine in response. We were fully engulfed in the crowd before I even noticed that we had entered the fray.

  Someone was already at the podium speaking. He was right; we were late. The party itself was set up on the rear brick patio, which was hemmed in by a low brick wall. Outside the patio, flanking it to the left and right, were formal French gardens strictly geometrical and meticulously manicured. Leading directly out from the patio was another lined pathway that stepped down to a pool and pool house.

  Elliott guided me around the bar and I finally took full notice of the party guests. I was severely underdressed. The women were all wearing summer suits and elaborate hats.

  Elliott was writing our names on some HELLO MY NAME IS badges as I tried to get my hair to stop sticking to my sweaty neck. It was no use. I whispered, “I should be more dressed up.”

  “You look great. Don’t worry.” He stuck the badge to my sundress and leaned in so that only I could hear him. “At least you’re not the only man at the party.”

  We meandered through the round tables covered in starched white linens and floral-patterned china, looking for our assigned seats and trying to make as little noise as possible. It was made difficult because women kept grabbing Elliott’s hand as he passed by. They were thrilled to see him there, as he was, in fact, the only man at the party. Our progress was followed with a chorus of: Why Elliott, it’s so nice to see you. How’re you doing, Eli? Writing an article for the paper? How’s your sister/brother/father/mother? It’s lovely to see you here, Eli.

  By the time we sat down, the opening speaker had finished with the club’s business and Betty Chatham was standing to introduce the guest. Betty winked in my direction, appearing excited to be sharing this experience with me. A troupe of waiters began to serve iced tea and tiny sandwiches in unison as Betty introduced the speaker, Mrs. Grant Baker.

  Mrs. Grant Baker, or Florence, had been invited to speak to the club at the insistence of Betty Chatham. That sent a murmur of laughter through the crowd; I would imagine it was hard to turn down Betty when she was insisting. Florence was here to speak about her journey from being the premier party planner in North Georgia to the sole owner of the local minor league baseball team.

  Her story was interesting. I just couldn’t figure out what it had to do with me or why Betty had tracked me down to hear it. Florence’s husband, Grant, had grown up playing baseball, including a one-year stint in the majors before doing two tours in Vietnam. He returned from the war, went to law school, and became a tax attorney. But he always wanted in some way to return to baseball. When a minor league franchise became available they took a chance and bought it.

  I glanced around, mostly at Elliott. He looked so nice in his crisp white linen shirt. I was fanning myself with my napkin. Why wasn’t he as miserable as I was? I noticed he was taking notes, always the reporter.

  I stole his pencil and wrote in the margin: I’m melting.

  Elliott: Heat is your kryptonite.

  He was funny. Me: Why are we here?

  Elliott: Not sure. Did you tel
l Betty you were a big baseball fan?

  Me: Yes, I did. I told her I especially like the games in the middle of the day when the sun has exploded and—he wrestled the pencil from me to write something else.

  The two of us were giggling as he turned the paper over looking for a blank spot on which to write. A woman sitting at our table cleared her throat, an indication that she found our behavior terribly rude. Elliott and I gave our full attention back to the speaker.

  Florence and Grant purchased a Class-A team, which was wallowing in low attendance at a dilapidated stadium in Mississippi. Their first order of business was to move the team to Gainesville, Georgia, where together with the state they were able to put together a multi-million-dollar funding deal for a new stadium to be built on the banks of Lake Lanier. The day of the groundbreaking ceremony Grant had a heart attack and died.

  During the hushed whispers of sympathy that followed that statement I tried to dab the sweat on my forehead. I looked around at the women—some of them ancient, in their smartly tailored suits and huge hats—thinking that we were bound to have a man down before this thing was over.

  Florence was going into great detail about how difficult it was when Grant first died and she was alone in the ownership of the franchise. As a minor league owner she had no real responsibility for the baseball aspects of the team. They were affiliated with a major league team that had full authority over which players were sent down and brought up, who would be playing, the coaching staff, all of it. As the construction on the new stadium was coming to an end and her financial woes were coming to a head, one of the coaches said something that changed everything. He told her, “You just have to get bodies in the seats, Flo, and make sure they have a good time. You’re in charge of the experience.”

  Florence realized that this was no different than planning a great party, and she knew how to throw a great party. The crowd murmured their agreement at that, her reputation preceding her. She turned the Gainesville team into the most financially successful franchise in the South Atlantic League.

  There was a round of applause and then everyone began to chatter at the tables. A few people stood up and began milling around the white tent set up at one end of the patio, carrying their iced teas with them. The woman at our table who had shushed Elliott and me asked him what he had been writing.

  He smiled at her. “It’s for the paper.”

  She wasn’t buying it and didn’t approve. “Mm hmm. Eli, you know better than to act like that when someone’s speaking.” She glanced at me, making it clear that she viewed me as the bad influence here.

  She turned her back to us. I whispered to Elliott. “You have to teach me some manners. I was just scolded at a garden party.” Stifling a giggle. “My mother would die.” The pun was unintentional.

  Elliott tapped my nose. “You’re perfect. Don’t change a thing.”

  He was really too nice to be an actual male creature. “Have I thanked you today?”

  “For what?”

  “For helping me with all of this.”

  “I’m happy to do it.” He leaned in, our faces too close for this public venue. “Besides it gives me an excuse to hang out with you.”

  “You don’t need an excuse.” I gave him a very chaste kiss on the cheek causing the ancient Emily Post at our table to huff in disapproval. I ignored her and turned back to Elliott. “What’s in the tent?”

  “Shade. You want to go?”

  I was already standing up.

  Betty Chatham was standing under the tent with Florence Baker introducing her to various mad hatters. When Betty saw me she interrupted the receiving line and dragged Florence straight over to us.

  Betty said, “Elliott, thank you so much for bringing Olivia! Florence, this is Olivia Hughes.”

  Florence was dabbing under her eyes with a tissue, trying to stop the perspiration from destroying her makeup. She put her hand out to me and then for the first time looked at my face. She looked shocked. It was obviously the reaction Betty had been hoping for because Betty was thrilled.

  I held my hand out. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  She didn’t shake my hand so much as hold on to it for support as she leaned in to my face. “You look just like a girl I grew up with.”

  My breath caught in my throat. “Did you know Jane Rutledge?”

  I was immediately assaulted. Florence let out a sort of laughing howl and then grabbed me, hugging me, squeezing me, and crying.

  Florence whispered, more to herself than to me. “I’m so glad she made it.”

  I felt awful having to be the one to tell Florence that Jane hadn’t actually made it, that she had passed away last year. But when I said it Florence didn’t stop smiling. She kept staring at me with tears in her eyes, shaking her head at my apparent misunderstanding of her comment.

  She pulled herself together but never let go of my hand. “I meant she was able to move on.” Patting my hand. “I’m so sorry to hear that she passed though. Oh, it would’ve been so good to see her!” Florence turned to Betty. “No wonder you insisted I come today!” Then back to me. “We need to get into some store-bought air and have a nice long chat. It’s too damn hot out here and I want you to tell me absolutely everything about Janie.” Florence was looking around for someplace to duck off where we could talk. She looked me up and down again, shaking her head. “Aren’t you just the most gorgeous thing?” She glanced at her watch to check the time, apparently not liking what she saw. “I wish Grant were here. He would have loved to meet you. You know he played ball with George and Oliver starting when they were about three years old and all the way through high school.”

  She was a dervish and was talking so quickly I was having a hard time following her. I asked, “I’m sorry. Who’s Oliver?”

  That question seemed to grab Florence’s full attention and she finally became still. The transformation was alarming. She immediately stopped talking, pausing as if to figure out what to say. “Janie never told you about Oliver?” I suppose the look on my face answered that question for her because she just kept talking. “Oliver was George’s twin brother.”

  Elliott and I shared a look, nodding. Ah, the twin. We knew from the birth certificate that George had been a twin. Now the twin had a name: Oliver.

  I turned back to Florence, explaining, “We literally just found out about George. We saw on his birth certificate that he was a twin but we didn’t know the name.”

  Florence sounded stunned. “Your mom never told you about George?”

  “No, nothing about George or even growing up in Huntley. She never talked about her past. I mean the time before she married my dad. We’re just starting to learn some things about her younger years.”

  Florence looked sad about our ignorance of Oliver but devastated about our ignorance of George. She had stopped the maintenance of her brow and sweat began dripping down her temples. She looked back and forth between Elliott and me, assuming that the “we” I kept referring to was us.

  Elliott seemed to clue in to that. “I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Elliott Tate, from Tillman. I’m helping Olivia research her mother’s story.”

  Florence had managed to compose herself and was adjusting to the fact that I was clueless about my mother. She was backing out of any shorthand or quick name-dropping, knowing that anything she mentioned would require an extensive back story.

  Her voice sounded drained. “And what about your father, dear?”

  I told Florence about my dad and gave her the Reader’s Digest version of my mother’s life with him. When they got married, the places we had lived, her teaching at the university, a tiny bit about Georgia and myself.

  She was genuinely happy to know that my mother had managed to endure George’s death. Happy and surprised. The impression Florence gave me was that one of them could barely survive without the other.

  Florence checked her watch one more time, angry for what it was telling her.

  “I’m so sorry
, Olivia, but I have to get back to Gainesville. We’re in the middle of renegotiating our concession contract.”

  I deflated. I finally had someone in my grasp who had been a friend of my mom’s growing up. Elliott put his arm around me sensing that I would not take this well. I was getting ready to ask for her phone number.

  But Florence saw my face and smiled. “Honey, you can’t get rid of me that easily. I can come back tomorrow.” She grabbed Betty’s attention from the crowd surrounding her. “Betty, can you spare a room at the inn tomorrow?”

  I wrote down the address to my rental house and we made a date for the following afternoon. Florence hugged me three more times before she left and kept saying, “You look just like her,” and shaking her head in disbelief.

  TWENTY

  I had a hard time sleeping after meeting Florence. Finally I went out to the dining room and sat down among the papers and articles we had found since arriving in Tillman and made lists of the things I wanted to ask her about my mother. If I could just get everything out of my head and onto a piece of paper I might get some sleep.

  An hour later I was back in bed and having a dream. My mother, Florence, and I were sitting around a table talking. My mother was a young girl; she sat there angrily pouting with her arms crossed high over her chest, furious that I was interrogating Florence. She stared straight ahead with a scowl on her face. Florence looked exactly the same as she had at the garden party. She was talking nonstop, her hands waving around wildly as she spoke. Sometimes she would say something she found funny and she would laugh, playfully hitting my mom on the back, old friends. I was trying to read her lips as she spoke because there was no sound coming out.

  I woke early the next day feeling not at all rested. I had nothing to do while I waited so I cleaned the little rental house. I scrubbed and dusted and polished until it was shining. Logan was finally dropped off from work and rushed to her room to change before Florence was due to arrive. Elliott showed up with a pad of paper to take notes and a little tape recorder. I looked at my watch again. It was one minute later than the last time I had checked it.