by Cheri Allan
“Have I upset you?”
“Only by implying I was bald,” he said over his shoulder.
“Carter, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, but I actually know a lot about this condition. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. In fact—”
He stopped abruptly. Turned. “I get it, Liz. You’ve got me figured out. Good for you. But it doesn’t do much for me, does it? It’s like telling me I’ll die someday. True, but what am I supposed to do about it?”
“But, that’s just it. There are treatments available. Counseling. Medications!”
“So now I need a shrink?”
“No, a counselor is someone who can help with executive functioning skills like prioritization of tasks and time management. The research says—”
He held up a hand. “Liz, I’m fine.”
She bit her lip. “Of course you are.”
He blew out another breath. There was probably some truth to what she was saying, but knowing that didn’t make him happy to be analyzed like a lab specimen.
He shook his head then abruptly turned, leaning forward and peering at a point near her left ear.
She stepped back. “What are you looking at?”
“There’s something…” He squinted and leaned closer.
She flicked at the area with her hand. “What? Is there something in my hair?”
“No. It’s… hmm. Wow. You might want to get that checked out.”
“What is it?”
He stepped back. “I’m no expert, but it appears to be a pretty advanced case of over-zealousness. I wouldn’t leave it untreated if I were you.”
She pursed her lips. “Ha. Ha.”
“No, seriously, I wouldn’t fool around with that. I’m sure there are treatments available. Counseling. Medications…”
She had the grace to look chagrined. “Let me know when you need help with that screaming later.”
“Will do.” He watched her walk away, her ponytail bouncing.
Screeding, he corrected. But only to himself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
____________________
“TELL ME AGAIN WHY you’re going to this thing tonight?” Trish asked for the third time since she’d stopped by. She sat on Liz’s bed and half-bounced, half-patted Clara in her lap.
It was Friday afternoon, and Liz had taken a break from working on the house to figure out what she planned to wear to the reunion dinner that evening.
She made a face at herself in the mirror. “I thought it would be fun?”
“Fun like a root canal. And, please, tell me you aren’t wearing that.”
Liz looked down at herself. “I’m wearing this.”
“You won’t even look like a wallflower in that, you’ll just blend in with the wall!”
“Black is slimming,” Liz retorted, albeit feebly. “Besides, I packed for remodeling and cleaning, not dinner dances. This is the best I could do.”
“You look like a post. You owe it to all the overweight, unpopular girls out there to go shopping. You’ve come so far.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Come on, I’ve only got an hour before preschool lets out.”
“I’m not buying a new—”
“Shut-up. I’ve got credit cards, too. We’re going.”
Twenty minutes later, Liz was pushing the baby in her stroller while Trish rapidly sifted through dresses on the racks of the town’s only boutique dress shop. Trish held up a navy shift, shook her head, and popped it back on the rack. “If we don’t like anything here, we still have time to try Second Chances. But consignment shops are so hit or miss, and we don’t have time to get anything cleaned…”
“Dress slacks and a tailored blouse are considered classic,” Liz said as Trish rifled through the hangers.
“Don’t make me vomit. You look like a waiter. We’ll find something. It’s got to be sophisticated, but funky. Not too long, a little sexy... A-ha!” Trish whipped her selection off the rack and thrust it at Liz. “It’s perfect! But it’s the only one, so make it fit.”
Liz frowned at the dress. Okay, so it was rather nice, with a fitted, sleeveless bodice, v-neck and full, just-above-the-knee skirt. It had a retro flavor, but the rich plum silk gave it a modern feel. Still, maybe she should keep things casual. After suggesting Carter get counseling yesterday, it might be better to not get too worked up about tonight.
A few moments later, Liz stepped out of the dressing room.
“It’s perfect!” Trish nearly squealed, yanking the zipper up.
Liz struggled to take a breath. “The bodice is a little snug.”
“Then skip the bra.” Trish fluffed the crinoline underskirt. “I tell you, it’s perfect. And I have just the necklace to go with it. Did you bring heels? Never mind. I saw some fabulous shoes in the window next door.” She yanked the zipper down again and pushed Liz toward the changing room. “We’ll take it,” she announced to the salesgirl across the shop.
“Thank you. You’re being awfully nice,” Liz said a short while later as she loaded her new purchases into Trish’s minivan. She had refused to let Trish pay after Trish had revealed they were hinting at more lay-offs in Russ’ company.
Trish shrugged and snapped the baby seat into the car. “I kind of jumped ship when we were teenagers. I didn’t get to help you primp for your prom or any of that sisterly stuff.” She eyed Liz’s somber outfit. “And I think it’s high time the world stopped seeing you as just a brain.”
“Thanks.” Liz glanced out the window at passing traffic. She’d missed this, she realized. They’d been closer once—she and Trish. They’d shared a room, secrets. But that was before the awkward, difficult teenage years and life events had pushed them apart.
“So, you’re saying you want the world to see me as a liver and pancreas, too?”
“You always did have a questionable sense of humor.” Trish rolled her eyes and sipped from the travel mug of coffee that followed her everywhere. “You know what I mean. You always shied away from letting people see how pretty you were. Especially men. And, don’t deny it. It’s true. You used your smarts as a shield. Probably still do, but I’m here to put a stop to that.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, really,” Trish said, warming to her topic. “You don’t realize it, but you still dress as if you weighed twenty pounds more.”
“I don’t wear baggy clothes!”
“You don’t wear clothes that draw attention to you, either. Are you afraid you might get noticed? Heaven forbid some guy should take an interest in you. When’s the last time you went out on a date?”
Liz was about to tell Trish she didn’t need help attracting the opposite sex but decided to keep her mouth shut. She didn’t think bringing up Grant would be helpful. And, she certainly couldn’t boast about going out a lot.
“I see it as my sisterly duty to make up for not being there for your prom,” Trish continued.
“I didn’t go.”
“Why not? I did, and I was preggers at the time.”
“No one asked me.” It wasn’t the full story, but it was more than ten years ago now. No doubt, she was the only one who remembered it. Thankfully, she was no longer starry-eyed Beth Beacon anymore.
Trish gave her a stunned look. “That’s—seriously, Liz—that’s so sad!”
Trish pulled out her cell phone and starting tapping the screen. “Well, I guess we’re making up for lost time. I’m calling my hairdresser. She’s fantastic.” She started the car.
“Why do I need—?”
Trish covered the mouthpiece and rolled her eyes. “Honey, stop thinking like a post and start thinking like the life of the party, will you? Meg!” Trish hurriedly uncovered the phone as she pulled blithely back into traffic. “It’s Trish. Clear your schedule. I’ve got an emergency, and I’m heading over...”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
____________________
RUTH PEARSON PULLED the plastic wrap off her tray of hors d’oeurves and
set them on Lydia’s sideboard. She fought not to roll her eyes. Lydia had been a friend for decades, but the woman had the decorating tastes of a five year-old: the brighter, the sparklier the better. What she saw in those majolica eyesores she collected was beyond Ruth’s comprehension. Her dining room hutch looked like a Mardi Gras float.
“Ooh!” Lydia cried. “What did you make today? These look adorable!”
On the other hand, Lydia did have fine taste in food. “Mini cranberry goat cheese balls and blue cheese pops rolled in toasted almonds with pretzel skewers. My grandson, Ian, found me this website with thousands of recipes. I’m trying a new one every day.”
Lydia plucked a cranberry goat cheese ball off the plate and popped it in her mouth.
“Are we eating or playing cards?” Claire wanted to know. Claire was such a sourpuss sometimes.
June shook a box of crackers into a napkin-lined basket and set it on the table. “Both,” she said.
Claire sniffed and rearranged her cards. “I dealt ages ago. Mmm. Hand me one of those nutty ball things. They look good.”
Ruth held out the hors d’oeurves tray as Lydia and June picked up their cards.
“So,” Lydia said, eyeing the box in front of Ruth, “have you finally gotten yours hands on the wedding photos?”
Ruth patted the box in front of her. “You’ll see.”
“Only if you win the hand. You don’t get bragging rights unless you win.” June reminded them all of their unique twist on poker—the prize being the right to repeat any story heard by one’s dearest friends dozens of times without threat of groans or interruption. After all, only the very best of friends would get together faithfully each week to hear the same old stories.
“I can’t wait to see them,” Lydia enthused. ‘I hope you win.”
“Rules are rules,” said Claire. “We stretch them now, all hell will break loose. Who but a bunch of old ladies will want to see every last one of them? But only if Ruth wins.”
“Who are you calling old?” June wanted to know.
Ruth glanced down at her cards and smiled serenely. “Ante up, ladies. We’ll start by playing a round of mystery photo per Lydia’s request.”
“I just love surprises, don’t you?” Lydia said around another cranberry goat cheese ball.
All the women slid a photo face down toward the center of the table. As bidding commenced, more photos—these face up—littered the table top. “I see your record snowfall with a picture of my flooded basement…” said June.
“I’m out,” Lydia announced on the next round.
Claire turned on her. “Don’t you dare fold just because you want to see the wedding pictures! That’s like cheating!”
“If she’s out, so am I,” June said. “Truly, I’ve got a lousy hand.”
“Fine. I call. What have you got, Ruth?”
An appreciative murmur rounded the table as Ruth laid down a full house.
“That’s nothing,” Claire boasted, fanning her own cards on the table. “Read ‘em and weep, ladies. A royal flush. In hearts.”
“It’s happening again!” Lydia squealed. “Quick! Look! Who’s in the pot?” Her silver bangles tinkled madly as she sifted through the pile of photos on the table. “Oh! The mystery photos! I’ll bet the happy couple is hiding in the mystery photos! This is so exciting!”
Claire sniffed. “I can’t believe you still believe that hoo-ha about a royal flush in hearts meaning somebody in the pot will get married.”
“It has happened twice!” Lydia nearly shouted. “That’s more than a trend! What are the odds of a royal flush to begin with? Now three times—?”
“And you think the ‘happy couple’ is in the mystery photos?”
Lydia’s palms hovered over the face-down pictures like a seer at her crystal ball. “I can feel it. They’re in there!”
Claire popped another cheese ball in her mouth. “Let’s see them then.”
Lydia flipped over a photo of a man smiling into the camera, a bottle of wine tipping toward his glass. “I saw it in a travel brochure for a vineyard in California. Doesn’t it look romantic? I’ve always wanted to visit wine country. I wonder if he’s single.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “You and your male models. If they weren’t so easy on the eyes, I’d call you on it. June?”
June flipped over a picture of newborn Lily in a bouncy seat. “Isn’t she gorgeous? I just can’t get over how precious she is! Although, she’s unlikely to be married anytime soon.”
Ruth leaned forward at their shared granddaughter. “I hadn’t seen that one. I gave her that nightgown, you know…” She flipped a picture of her grandson, laughing—and soaked—in a black tux after he and the rest of the wedding party had jumped into the lake. “Carter made such a handsome groomsman, don’t you think? It’s one of my favorites from the wedding. I don’t know why. He has his mother’s smile, I suppose.”
“And he’s single!” Lydia nearly swooned.
Claire looked at each of her friends, then with great fanfare flipped over her picture of…
“A cat?” Lydia cried, clearly crestfallen. “Why would you make your mystery photo a cat? This won’t do at all!”
“I thought he was cute in a rough and tumble sort of way. He has character. Liz found him eating out of her garbage can—”
“What’s wrong with its eye?” Ruth cut in, peering at the photo.
“Battle scar,” Claire said. She looked down at the tuxedoed groomsman and her grandniece’s cat, both appearing to smile mischievously at the camera. “You know, I think you’re right, Ruth. She’d probably be good for Carter, now that I think about it.”
“The pirate cat?” June asked, aghast.
“No, Elizabeth. The cat’s owner. If we believe the cards…” She snorted again—a most unladylike habit—and grabbed another cheese ball. “Although I do have it on good authority from Ellen who’s friends with Sandi who works at Meg’s Super Styles that Liz and Carter are attending a school dance tonight, so you never know. Maybe the cards know something after all.”
Ruth was still puzzling out the trail of gossip when Lydia squealed again. “Ooh! It is happening again! I don’t care now that you won the pot, Claire. I’m so excited! Another wedding! I could kiss these cards! Or do you think it’s us? Do you think we have the power to predict? My great-great-great grandmother on my father’s side was said to have been a matchmaker…” She stared at her coral-tipped fingers in wonder.
Claire washed down her cheese ball with a healthy swallow of gin and tonic. “All right, Ruth. I know I won, but I don’t have anything to talk about, and Lydia here will have a conniption if we put it off any longer, so let’s see those photos. If this grandkid of yours is going to marry my grandniece I want a good look at him…”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
____________________
SKIMMING HER FINGERS over her skirt, Liz glanced at her watch. 7:02. Carter should be here any minute. She bit her lip and tried to decide if she needed more lip tint or mascara.
Truthfully, she hardly recognized herself. Meg was as good as Trish had said, adding soft highlights and lowlights that brightened and added depth to her hair without making it look fake. And, the new, long layers and soft, side-swept bangs made the most of her natural waves.
Liz resisted the urge to tug the hem of her skirt down and practiced smiling casually at herself in the mirror. After feeding Eddie and refilling his water for the second time, then reorganizing the items in the small black clutch Trish had lent her, Liz checked her watch. 7:26. She put her palm over her belly. It fluttered and flipped like the night of Jenny Whitmeyer’s party all over again.
Except this time, it wasn’t raining.
Liz pursed her lips and checked her watch a third time. 7:26. Still. That was okay, right? If they weren’t there right at the dot of seven, wasn’t that considered fashionable? It wasn’t a tax deadline or anything.
She wouldn’t call him. Calling him would seem desperate, an
d really, Carter wasn’t even thirty minutes late yet. There was bound to be some explanation.
As if on cue, a deep rumble sounded from the driveway. Liz peered through the front window. And froze.
Dear God in heaven.
“Sorry about the wheels,” Carter apologized as he strolled toward her up the front walk. “The bracket holding the exhaust pipe on my truck rusted through. It was too hot to wire it up right away, so it’s a good thing it’s warm tonight. You ready?”
Liz stared, mouth agape at the motorcycle that stood in the driveway. “You expect me to ride that?”
“I know it’s not ideal, but consider it an adventure. If you’d driven here instead of flying, we could’ve taken your car.”
“If you’d called me, I would have borrowed my sister’s, but it’s too late for that now.”
“It is? Don’t tell me...” Carter peered at her watch and winced. “Ooh. That late, huh? I’ve smashed so many watches by accident over the years I just don’t wear them anymore. Well, I guess we’d better head out.”
“I’m in a dress, Carter!”
He whistled appreciatively. “And a very nice one, too. Thank goodness it’s short enough to get on the bike.”
“I don’t even have a helmet!”
“You can wear mine. I hope it doesn’t mess up your hair, which, by the way, looks fantastic.”
“Thank you.” Liz stared at the bike nervously. Carter waited. She let out a short breath. “I’ll get my purse.”
He followed her into the living room and lingered while Liz collected her purse and the thin black cardigan she’d decided she might need despite the unseasonably warm evening.
“Ah! Looking at the old yearbook were you?”
Liz blanched and tried to snatch the book before Carter could get to it.
Damn, the man was fast.
“Let me guess,” he teased, pinning her with his eyes. “You were mooning over this page because you had a crush on a certain someone in high school?”
“Give me the book.” Oh God, was she that easy to read?
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
