On the Way to a Wedding

by Stengl, Suzanne

  Her purse dropped to the floor, and her bundle of mail slipped from under her arm. Too tired to pick it up, she poked through it with the foot of one crutch and saw Chatelaine magazine, the Shaw bill for the Internet, a Royal Bank statement, a brochure from the Bay for crystal stemware and—a large white envelope with big loopy writing and little heart stickers scattered across it.

  She picked it up and left the rest. Carefully, she hobbled to the love seat, propped the crutches on the coffee table and sat down to open the envelope, addressed to Miss Toria Whitney and no doubt from one of her students.

  Then she looked across the room at the bookshelves, at the answering machine—with the light blinking.

  Dread twisted her stomach and the card tipped out of her hands, falling to the carpet.

  That would be her mother’s empty messages, crowding the machine’s memory. Had anyone else called? Better check the messages and delete them. She reached for the crutches, touched one, and then the phone rang.

  Its jarring mechanical sound.

  She jumped, and the crutch slipped out of her fingers. Staring at the insistent phone, she froze on the love seat.

  Don’t answer it. Not now. I can’t deal with her now.

  A second ring, seeming louder than the first. What if it was Greg? Even worse.

  A third ring. Pounding against her mind. Just breathe.

  And finally, the fourth blaring ring and the machine clicked on. The electronic butler, the cultured male voice, answered with the usual You have reached two-eight . . .

  The drone of her number, the invitation to leave a message. We are sorry no one is available to take your call . . .

  And then next would be the promise that if you left a message, we would return your call as soon as possible. We.

  It was a silly trick. Anyone with half a brain could figure out there was only one person living here. Alone.

  But she kept the message. Partly because her mother didn’t like it. She knew it was juvenile but it was a small token of independence.

  The recording finished. The caller came on. “Toria?”

  Instant relief swept over her. A sensation so strong she hadn’t known she was bracing. It was Isabelle.

  Toria reached for the crutch and it toppled.

  “Are you there, dear? Are you all right?”

  The euphoria gave way to fear. Don’t hang up. Hold on.

  She grabbed for the other crutch, but it bounced off the coffee table, landing with a clang on its partner.

  Damn. She dropped to her knees.

  “I was thinking I could bring over some soup,” Isabelle’s voice said, and paused.

  “I’m coming,” Toria told the voice. “Hold on.” She crawled across the floor to the bookshelves, reached for the phone—and knocked it off its cradle.

  “Maybe you’re at your mother’s? I didn’t want to bother her but I was hoping―”

  She grabbed the receiver. “Isabelle?”

  “Toria? Are you all right? You sound out of breath.”

  “I’m fi―” No. I’m not fine. “I don’t know where to begin.” The wedding, the accident . . . the stranger.

  “You’re all right? I heard about the accident.”

  You did? “How?”

  “Someone at the Nose Hill told me.”

  “Who?”

  “One of my friends,” Isabelle explained. “Saw you in Emerg. Remember, dear, I used to work in coronary all those years.”

  Isabelle was a coronary care nurse. A heart nurse. She saved hearts.

  “I feel so bad sending you off in the dark like that.”

  “Isabelle.” How could she think that? “It’s not your fault. Certainly. It’s a bad road. And I think I may have made a wrong turn.”

  “It’s just your ankle then? You’ll be all right?”

  Toria still sat on the floor in front of the bookshelves. “I—will—be all right,” she said.

  “But not yet.”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Oh dear,” Isabelle said, sounding distressed on her end of the line. “This is all so muddled. And they miss you at the school, dear. I was volunteering this morning. They’ve put Mrs. Sidorsky in charge of the grad decorations and she can’t get anyone to do anything.”

  Oh no. Not Mrs. Sidorsky. She wouldn’t let them have any input.

  “They don’t like her theme,” Isabelle went on.

  “And what theme is that?” Toria asked.

  “She wants Beauty and the Beast.”

  No, they wouldn’t like that. Toria shook her head and tightened her grip on the phone. “Tell her to let them pick their own theme.”

  “I did,” Isabelle said. “But she won’t listen to them. They want to build a waterfall.”

  A waterfall? “In the gym?” Probably not what they really wanted. They simply wanted to be heard.

  “They’re calling it a Tropical Paradise, but mostly they just want the waterfall.”

  An image played in Toria’s mind, of the overweight Mrs. Sidorsky, with her tidy bun of dark brown hair, trying to organize a group of excited Grade Twelves.

  The poor woman.

  “It’s a major project,” Isabelle said. “And they’ve got less than three weeks to accomplish it. Even if Mrs. Sidorsky lets them try.” And then, “Can you come back?”

  A sigh of longing drifted through her and she closed her eyes. It would be so wonderful to be with her predictable teenagers. Predictable in their unpredictableness. “I’m signed off for the year,” she said.

  “Just for the Grad, not for classes,” Isabelle was saying. Like she could wave a magic wand and make it so.

  “I―”

  “Have you talked to your Aunt Glenda? She knows about the accident?”

  “Uh . . . no.”

  “You’d better call her. She’ll be worried you haven’t shown up yet.”

  Toria waited a moment, knowing Isabelle would not like to hear this. “She doesn’t know I’m coming.”

  “You didn’t tell her?”

  “I couldn’t. Not over the phone. She’d just worry.”

  “Oh Toria,” Isabelle said, distress in her voice. Toria could imagine Isabelle wringing her hands. “And you were all alone on that road. No one knew you were out there.”

  “You did.”

  “I could have died,” Isabelle said. “And no one would have known to look for you.”

  “I don’t think you’re going to die for awhile.” Toria twirled the phone cord over her fingers.

  “But you’re okay now?”

  “Yes. It will all work out. And,” she paused, considering the last twenty-four hours, “it was good. The drive. As far as I got. Because . . .”

  “Because?”

  “I was going to postpone. That was my plan when I left.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I’m not postponing.”

  “Are you sure, dear? You didn’t feel right about the June date and―”

  “I’m not getting married at all.”

  Chapter Six

  Ryder walked into a kitchen filled with cookie smells.

  His mother was pulling a tray of baking from the oven. Flour and cocoa powder dusted three counters. The fridge, as usual, displayed a dozen pictures of his sister’s two daughters, along with a hundred stick-it notes in a rainbow of colors.

  And Pro sat on a stool at the island with a glass of milk and a plate of crumbs.

  “How come you’re here?”

  “Had some time, was in the area,” Pro said, licking his index finger and dabbing it at the crumbs.

  “How are you, honey?” His mother set down the cookie tray. “Pro said you took a day off?”

  Why did they all make it into such a big deal? “I can take a day off whenever I like.”

  “Yes, of course, you can, honey,” she said, half absently, as she nudged cookies from the tray to a sheet of waxed paper. “It’s very busy. Your business is doing well.”

  His mother always said that
. His father never did.

  The microwave timer beeped, the door bell ding-donged, and the phone rang. All at the same time. His mother slid another tray into the oven, set the timer and turned to Pro. “Can you take those out when the timer goes?” She picked up the phone on the third ring. “And get Ryder a glass of milk and some cookies.”

  Like she was giving instructions to a maid, instead of the senior partner at Jones Jamieson.

  Ryder sat at the island and watched her as she hurried to the front door. “Hard to believe she’s a secretary.”

  “Why?” Pro said, getting milk from the fridge.

  Why? The sink full of dishes, the stack of unopened mail balanced next to the coffee pot, the sewing machine set up on the dining room table. Even working only three days a week, his mother could not run the house. “She’s so . . . scattered.”

  “You should see Aunt Tizzy,” Pro said. “That’s scattered. Although,” he added, more to himself, “she has her moments.”

  He carried the milk to the island. “Your mother knows what she’s doing. I’d hire her if she wasn’t already working for Forsythe.” He poured milk for Ryder. “You do want milk, right?”

  “And cookies.”

  Pro found a small plate in the cupboard, loaded three cookies on to it and set the plate in front of Ryder. “That’s funny, you know.”

  “What?”

  “You marrying the boss’s daughter.”

  “He’s not my boss.”

  “I know. But it’s still funny.” Pro helped himself to one more cookie.

  It was not funny, not in any way. But, Ryder conceded, it was important. To his father. Because his father liked . . . What?

  Status? Could you marry status?

  He wasn’t doing that. He was marrying Catherine. Who just happened―

  His taste buds connected with the warm chocolate chip cookie, dancing a dozen emotions over his tongue. Safety, warmth, caring—and other things he couldn’t quite name. He didn’t have to. Some things were just automatic. Like chocolate chip cookies and good feelings.

  “Pro?” he said, picking up another cookie. “How come you’re not married?”

  Pro thought a moment, swirled the milk in his glass and shrugged. “I’ve never been in love,” he said.

  · · · · ·

  “You mean be a volunteer?”

  “I’m a volunteer,” Isabelle said, like she was defending herself. She picked up the rest of the mail by the door and set it on the coffee table.

  “In my own school?” Baffled, Toria leaned her head back on the love seat and stared at the bookshelves on the other side of the room.

  “Sure. Why not?” Isabelle disappeared into the kitchen with her bulging pink canvas bag. Late afternoon sunlight streamed in through the balcony windows. Since Isabelle had arrived, the clouds had disappeared, like there had never been a storm.

  “And what about . . . What do I tell them about the wedding?”

  Isabelle came out of the kitchen, without her bag. “The one that’s not happening?”

  “That’s the one.” Toria studied the bookshelves, where toasters and towels and tea cups lined up, waiting for thank you notes. “What do I do with all these shower gifts?”

  “We’ll have a party and give them back.” Isabelle sat beside Toria on the love seat and then lifted her feet onto the coffee table. She wore orange and purple striped stockings today.

  “A party?”

  “Everyone buys you what they wish they had themselves,” Isabelle said. “They’ll all be happy to get their gift back. We’ll get a case of wine and some of those appetizers from Magic Mixers.”

  Toria watched as her friend sat there, blithely planning a party out of the ashes of her dismal engagement.

  “We’ll have balloons and streamers,” Isabelle said. “And I’ll bring some peaches. I have this terrific recipe.”

  Peaches. Just what she needed. More peaches.

  The intercom buzzed, announcing a visitor.

  A sudden flutter ran over her skin, a ripple of anticipation. She looked at her watch. Six o’clock. Exactly. It would be Ryder.

  “Do you think that’s him, dear? Your Good Samaritan?”

  Or was it Greg? Could it be him? Her stomach tensed. But no, she didn’t think it could be him. He would be with clients until at least eight, probably nine.

  “Sit still, dear. I’ll get it.” Isabelle hopped off the love seat and bounced over to the intercom. “Come on up,” she said, without asking who it was.

  Just like Isabelle. Never check. “You should ask who it is before you let them in.”

  “We’ll find out who it is when they get here,” Isabelle said. She waited by the door, bobbing her heels up and down like a small child waiting for a surprise.

  “It could be Greg,” Toria said, getting to her feet, lining up the crutches.

  “Oh.” Isabelle frowned and stopped bobbing. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  If it was Greg, at least Isabelle was here. Although, it shouldn’t really matter. She was not afraid of Greg.

  And if it was Ryder? What then?

  “And if this is him, I don’t want you to―”

  “If this is who?”

  “If this is the Good Samaritan. Ryder.”

  The intercom buzzed again. Toria answered it this time. “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” Ryder’s voice said. “I’ve got a delivery for you.” A slight pause. “Is it all right to bring it up?”

  Anticipation and relief collided in her brain. He was checking—to make sure it was all right to bring up the wedding dress.

  A warm feeling washed over her. He knew how to be considerate. And then she remembered the pizza. “Come on up,” she said to the beige box on the wall.

  Isabelle was still at the door, bobbing again and she was smiling, even more than usual.

  Toria adjusted the crutches. “It’s my Good Samaritan,” she said, confirming what Isabelle must have guessed. “And Isabelle―”

  Isabelle stopped bobbing, looked at Toria, and raised one carefully plucked eyebrow.

  “Don’t say anything about me cancelling the wedding. All right?”

  Isabelle blinked. “Why ever not?”

  Yes, a little voice inside her asked. Why ever not? She didn’t want to think about that. “I just don’t want to tell him. Not right now.”

  “If you say so.”

  Having the impending wedding there was like . . . a shield. She needed a shield around a man like Ryder. He couldn’t get close to her if she was getting married.

  Where had that come from?

  Not that he would try to. After all, he was getting married, too. It was just that she’d felt so close to―

  What was she thinking?

  Her ankle ached, shooting pain all the way up her leg.

  “Are you all right, dear? Maybe you should take another one of those pills.”

  No more pain pills. She felt woozy enough. “I’m fine,” she said, automatically. And then, “No, not fine.” I will quit being fine. “It just hurts, a little.”

  She made herself breathe. She’d never felt this way about Greg. Never. Greg was like a fairy tale, a Prince Charming, taking her to fancy restaurants in his sleek red sports car, bringing her roses and jewelry and theatre tickets.

  And Ryder? Certainly not your standard Prince Charming. Ryder was full of rough edges and impatience. None of Greg’s smoothness.

  Or phoniness.

  But what did that matter? Ryder was getting married. In three weeks. So why did she keep thinking about him?

  Maybe it was a reaction from finally deciding to get Greg out of her life. Maybe it was a protective mechanism her brain employed to keep her from thinking about Greg?

  That must be it.

  But, the little voice in her head prodded, if Ryder is getting married in three weeks, why is he helping you? Why is he being so nice to you?

  Because he’s a nice person, another part of her argued. Can’t people
be nice without having ulterior motives?

  Did Greg have ulterior motives?

  A knock sounded on the door.

  Her heart raced. She took a step closer to the door . . . then stopped . . . and breathed. And gathered her wits.

  Isabelle opened the door.

  He wore his navy blue jacket over the denim shirt. And the jeans, and the heavy work boots. He was pulling the suitcase on its wheels, with the smaller one piggy backed on it. In his other hand, he balanced a pizza box with a brown paper lunch bag on top of it.

  The wedding dress draped over his shoulder.

  He looked at Isabelle, and then over Isabelle’s head at her. And he smiled, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  Isabelle had that affect on people.

  “Hi,” Isabelle said, sticking out her hand. “I’m Toria’s friend, Isabelle.”

  And then even Isabelle seemed to realize he had his hands full. She reached for the pizza box.

  “Hi,” Ryder said, smiling down at her. “I’m―”

  “Ryder. I know. She told me.”

  Toria had told Isabelle Ryder’s name, his first name. Not his whole name—Ryder Michael O’Callaghan—the name she’d seen on Pro’s prenup agreement at the cabin.

  And she’d told Isabelle that Ryder had rescued her from the side of the road last night, taken her to his cabin, and then drove her back to Calgary this morning.

  Isabelle, thankfully, had not asked for details about the overnight stay at the cabin.

  Taking the pizza box and the bag into the living room, Isabelle set them on the coffee table.

  “Cookies from my mother,” Ryder said. “She was baking and thought you’d like some.”

  “I—tell her thank you. That was very kind.”

  Isabelle was back, snatching the dress off Ryder’s shoulder and bundling it into her arms as natural as could be. Like men often showed up at the door with billowy wedding dresses over their shoulders. Isabelle dumped the wedding dress in the chair.

  “Have a seat,” she said, taking the suitcase handle from him, and then rolling it part way down the hall. She parked the suitcase next to the wedding dress. “And sit down, Toria. You look faint.”

  Ryder glanced at her.

  Was he checking to see if she really did look faint? She did feel a little weak. Or was he checking to see if it was all right if he stayed?