On the Way to a Wedding

by Stengl, Suzanne

  She shrugged.

  So did he, and then he bent down, loosened the laces of his work boots and stepped out of them.

  “Toria?” Isabelle said, again. “Sit down.”

  She didn’t need to sit. But she would. And maybe she did feel a little tired. She definitely felt hungry. She crutched over to the love seat and sat.

  Still wearing his jacket, Ryder sat on the other end.

  Instantly his scent touched her, tempting her with something that reminded her of spruce trees and fresh air. And peace. And at the same time, something exciting, and scary.

  He was so close to her on the love seat. But that was the only place to sit since the chair was full of wedding dress.

  “Would you like a drink?” Isabelle asked, standing in front of them, taking on the role of hostess. “I brought over some wine.”

  “Wine? I thought you were bringing soup?”

  “I thought wine would be better.” Isabelle exited to the kitchen.

  “But I don’t drink,” Toria said, into the space that Isabelle had left. “You know that.”

  Isabelle came back from the kitchen with the wine, a cork screw and three glasses. “This will make your foot feel better, dear.”

  · · · · ·

  Toria had a strange mother . . . and an even stranger friend.

  This Isabelle character looked like a born again teenager. The old lady wore a green sleeveless top, a green and orange and red flowery full skirt, and purple and orange striped stockings. She was about a head shorter than Toria, and she might have been anywhere from fifty to a hundred years old. Her long hair was blonde and frizzy, like Rapunzel having a bad hair day.

  And right now she was pulling the cork out of the wine bottle. Both wrists had bracelets made of woven cotton. Friendship bracelets, like his sister used to weave. Isabelle had four on one wrist and three on the other. She knelt on the other side of the coffee table, oblivious to the fact that she’d just dumped what was probably a designer wedding dress in a heap on the only chair in the room. The cork came out with a loud pop.

  She filled the first glass and handed it to him.

  A sparkling pink wine. He tasted it. Light and sweet and slightly exotic. Not bad but, with pizza, he would have preferred beer.

  Should he have brought some beer?

  No. That would have been pushing it. He hadn’t expected to be invited in. Not really. He was just bringing her the pizza and the cookies. And her luggage. And the wedding dress.

  He looked away from the wedding dress and back at Toria, who cradled her glass of wine in both hands as she sat huddled on her side of the love seat.

  She was wrapped in a long, dark brown sweater, still wearing last night’s jeans and the pink blouse. The sweater sleeves were turned up so they didn’t cover her hands. She glanced at him and then looked at her wine.

  Awkward. They sat next to each other on the love seat, fully clothed, and last night they’d slept together on that old couch, practically naked. Nothing to feel awkward about. It had just happened. Because she’d been so cold, and they’d been―

  Stop. He didn’t need to replay that. He shrugged out of his jacket, dropped it on the carpet beside the love seat, and scanned the room. A meager array of furniture—this love seat in red velour, the mismatched light green chair holding the wedding dress, and a garage-sale-style coffee table facing a set of bookshelves. An improvised set of bookshelves—varnished one by tens and blue painted cement blocks.

  To his left, wall to ceiling windows led to a sunny balcony with two rusty lawn chairs, a dented aluminum watering can, and a piece of tree stump acting as a table for a flower pot of pink . . . daisies? He wasn’t sure what they were called.

  To his right, the wall boasted two professionally framed pictures that looked out of place with the rest of the room. The hall at the end of that wall, just past the bookshelves would lead to the bedroom, or bedrooms. He had a feeling this was a one bedroom apartment.

  Taking a moment, he studied the framed prints. Giraffes, made of fabric, silk maybe. Calm, soothing scenes done in browns and greens.

  But his attention was pulled to the makeshift bookshelves in front of him, crowded with what must be wedding gifts waiting to go to their proper home.

  She would move in with her fiancé after the wedding. They didn’t live together now. Somehow, he knew that.

  But then, he didn’t live with Catherine either because she hadn’t wanted him to move in. She wanted them to start fresh in the new house that was still being built.

  It wouldn’t be ready on time. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about it.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw the bookshelves again. And all those gifts competing for space. Nesting blue, green, and orange mixing bowls in hard plastic, a teapot that looked like a frog, a crystal vase, several white china tea cups in some delicate pattern, one of those strainers, like his mother had, only in brass—a colander, and then a pile of sheets—beige and navy and still half wrapped with striped yellow wrapping paper. And towels and oven mitts and a toaster oven. All tucked in between a teak based lamp with a white shade, some pitiful pieces of stereo equipment, an old black land line and an ancient answering machine.

  All of it a soothing, comfortable mess. Like at his mother’s. Except this apartment was even more ramshackle than his mother’s house.

  He shrugged. Just now, at this frozen moment in time, he liked it. It was at least familiar. And it wasn’t like he had to live with it. He would be living with Catherine and he’d say one thing for her—she knew how to organize a space.

  Her own and anyone else’s.

  The coffee table was almost as cluttered. The pizza box, the cookie bag, the wine bottle and glasses, the corkscrew, a roll of paper towels, a prescription bottle of pills—probably the 292s, a stack of unopened mail, some woman’s magazine—Chatelaine, same as his mother.

  They subscribed to the same magazine.

  Another piece of mail rested upside down on the light beige carpet. Little pink and red hearts cascaded over the back of the envelope, some of them were sparkly, and some of the sparkles had sifted onto the carpet, winking at him.

  “So will you come back to the school?” Isabelle asked, as she separated a paper towel from the roll. “Just for a few days? To help them with the grad decorations?”

  “Grad decorations?” What was she talking about?

  “Yes,” Isabelle said. “When they finish Grade Twelve they have a special celebration―”

  “You teach high school?” He tried to remember what she’d told him. She’d said a teacher. “For some reason I thought you taught kindergarten.”

  Wrong. He didn’t mean to insult her.

  She laughed, not insulted at all. “I’ve always wanted to teach ECS, but it’s very difficult. And my father was―”

  She stopped. Like talking about her father was a problem.

  “Her father was a history teacher,” Isabelle said. “Before he retired.”

  Her father who now lived in Kalispell. But― “I thought you had a wedding to plan?” Ryder accepted the paper towel Isabelle handed to him.

  “I don’t,” Toria said. And then, “I mean—I do. But my mother—and―”

  “Your fiancé’s mother,” he said. “They’re planning it.”

  “Yes.” She also accepted a paper towel from Isabelle. “That’s right.”

  “Toria is wonderful with teenagers.” Isabelle opened the pizza box. “They’ll do anything for her.”

  “No, they won’t,” Toria said, shaking her head and grimacing. “I just let them do what they want to do in the first place.”

  “And what do they want to do?”

  “They want to build a waterfall,” Toria said.

  “A―” He paused with the wine glass halfway to his mouth. “Why?”

  “For their Grad Dance,” Isabelle explained, as she lifted the first piece of pepperoni, bacon and mushroom from the box, and handed it to him.

  He se
t the wine glass down, and slipped the paper towel under the pizza slice.

  “They’re decorating the gym,” Isabelle said. “It’s happening the last Saturday of June.”

  The thought flashed through his head. That date kept turning up. “The same day as your wedding,” he said, turning to Toria.

  “And your wedding,” she answered.

  Another reminder. Another poke, prodding his mind. Dread. Anxiety. Inevitability. His head ached, his chest tightened and his arm stiffened as he held the pizza. Surprised by the strength of those feelings, he made himself let go of the tension. “Right,” he said.

  He took a bite of pizza, realizing how hungry he was. You can’t fill up on cookies.

  “So,” Isabelle persisted, “you can help them build their waterfall, can’t you, dear?”

  “I don’t know.” Toria accepted a piece of pizza, catching the dripping cheese on her paper towel.

  “I can build a waterfall,” he said, like he would say I can build a deck or a garage or your whole frigging house.

  “You can?” Isabelle pressed her palms together like she was giving thanks. Ahead of time.

  “I’m a framer. I’ve never built a waterfall but how hard can it be? A little pump. Like people put in their garden ponds.”

  “It doesn’t have to be huge. We were thinking about eight feet with a―”

  “We?” Toria interrupted. “Eight feet?”

  “You know they talk to me,” Isabelle said.

  “I’ll bet they do.” Toria wiped some cheese from her lips.

  “We’ll frame it,” Ryder said. “Cover it with some six mil poly and then Styro foam—or maybe expanding foam. Then we can set up a pump and―”

  “But,” Toria interrupted again, “don’t you have to be at work?”

  Work?

  Right . . . work. He’d forgotten about work. Just for those few moments. Must be the crazy company he was keeping. He glanced at Isabelle.

  But wasn’t that what he was supposed to do? Let go of work? Prove that it didn’t own him? It was the perfect solution.

  “I’m trying out a business partner,” he said. “This will be an opportunity to test him. I need to get out of his way for a few days.”

  · · · · ·

  By eight o’clock, Toria and Isabelle had each eaten a slice of pizza and split one. He’d eaten three slices and discussed grad decoration plans, mostly with Isabelle, since Toria looked sleepy.

  And they’d finished the first bottle of wine. Isabelle was opening a second bottle when the intercom buzzed.

  Toria instantly snapped awake, fumbled her empty wine glass, and dropped it in her lap.

  Isabelle, in the middle of removing the foil top, stopped and said, “Who could that be?” Then she went back to inserting the corkscrew.

  The intercom buzzed again. One long buzz followed by three short stabs. Someone was in a hurry.

  Isabelle set down the wine bottle, with the corkscrew poking out the top, and got to her feet. But instead of answering the intercom, she gathered the wedding dress into her arms and calmly carried it down the hall.

  The buzzer sounded again. Longer, more insistent.

  “Are you going to get that?” Ryder asked.

  Toria didn’t say anything. She was staring at the empty wine glass in her hand, twirling it by its stem. She looked groggy. Either too much wine, or . . .

  The pain pills?

  “I’ll get it,” he said. And then it stopped buzzing.

  Isabelle had returned to the living room and now she was rolling the two suitcases down the hall.

  Like she was hiding them?

  In another moment, Isabelle was back in the room. “Let me take that, dear,” she said, motioning for Toria’s wine glass.

  Toria reached to give her glass to Isabelle and, he saw it then, Toria’s hand was trembling. Why―?

  There was a knock on the door, and both Isabelle and Toria stopped moving.

  Another knock.

  “I’ll get it,” Toria said, with a lot of tiredness in her voice. Or resignation. She set her wine glass on the table and reached for her crutches.

  “Sit down,” Ryder said. “I’ll get it.” He walked to the door and pulled it open.

  “Who are you?” the man in the hall asked. He wore a three piece suit that belonged in an office like Pro’s.

  “Ryder O’Callaghan,” Ryder said, watching the man. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Greg Lorimer.” A slight pause. “Victoria’s fiancé.”

  Victoria? For no reason in particular, Ryder didn’t like the man. Not one bit. Neither of them made a move to shake hands.

  “What are you doing here?” Lorimer asked.

  “He’s with me,” Isabelle said, hustling up beside him.

  What the hell . . . ?

  He almost jerked his head toward Isabelle, but he forced himself to keep his eyes on Lorimer. Maybe this guy was the jealous type. Maybe Isabelle was covering for Toria?

  “He’s a friend of my nephew’s,” Isabelle said, like it was true.

  “Hello, Isabelle,” Lorimer said. “What are you doing here?” He made it sound as if Isabelle had no business spending time with his fiancée. Then he walked into the apartment.

  “Toria hurt her foot,” Isabelle explained and hurried after Lorimer into the living room.

  Feeling ignored, Ryder shrugged and closed the door.

  Lorimer stood on the other side of the small coffee table staring down at Toria. He picked up the empty bottle of Summer Island Cherry Blossom Rosé and read the label.

  “Don’t feed her this stuff, Isabelle. You know it doesn’t agree with her.”

  Toria stayed on the couch but she held her crutches in front of herself.

  Lorimer set the bottle back on the coffee table, and looked at the pizza box, two pieces left. “So you’ve eaten,” he said. “I thought we were going out.”

  Toria didn’t say anything. Ryder remembered her reaction to the peaches . . . with the brandy. The 292s were making her sleepy. Especially with the wine.

  “How’s your ankle, darling?”

  Standing near the entrance, Ryder listened, the sounds jarring in his head. He frowned. The way Lorimer said darling didn’t sound like . . . darling.

  “Hurts a bit,” she said. “It’ll be all right.”

  “I never had time to find out what happened. Whose fault was the accident?”

  “No, you didn’t have time. You were in the middle of a deal.”

  “Which was quite successful, by the way,” he answered. “So, whose fault was it? Does this mean your insurance rates will go up?”

  “It was no one’s fault. I drove off the road.”

  “Not paying attention, again, Victoria?”

  Victoria? There it was again. How come he called her, Victoria?

  “It’s a bad road. Full of potholes.”

  “Which road?”

  “The one she was on,” Isabelle said, intervening. “Would you like some pizza, Greg?” She offered him the box, bumping it into him.

  Lorimer took the box, stared at it a moment like he didn’t recognize it, and then sat next to Toria with the box in his lap. No one said anything. Lorimer watched the pizza languishing on the cardboard, Isabelle studied the label on the wine bottle with the corkscrew still sticking out of the top of it. And Toria stared at her wedding gifts on the blue cement block bookshelves.

  It seemed unreal. One minute they’d been laughing about how to explain the garden hoses to the janitors, and in the next moment they were acting all guilty, as if her fiancé had caught the three of them playing strip poker. A horrible image when he looked at Isabelle.

  Not a bad image when he looked at Toria. In fact . . . not bad at―

  He should leave. Right away. He had no business being here. Even if he wasn’t imagining a game of strip poker.

  “I’d better be going,” he said.

  And he left.

  · · · · ·

  Ryder was g
one. It was just as well. Before he came back, she would somehow talk Isabelle out of this ridiculous waterfall idea, borrow Isabelle’s car, and drive to Kalispell to see Aunt Glenda. And then maybe Toria could put her life back in order.

  Greg finished the last piece of pizza, then tapped his fingers over his lips, brushing away imaginary pizza crumbs. Isabelle sat in the chair that had held the wedding dress, looking like she was chaperoning.

  “Who is that guy?”

  Someone I actually enjoy being with―

  No. He’s an infatuation. A reaction to the circumstances. Nothing more.

  “A friend of my nephew’s,” Isabelle said, again.

  Isabelle was trying to protect her, as if she needed protection, from Greg.

  A lightness touched her, waved through her, like a window opening to freedom. She smiled, knowing she could deal with Greg.

  But Ryder? What about him? Did she need protection from Ryder?

  Of course not. At least, she hoped not. Just because she had enjoyed having him here, having him sitting next to her, that didn’t mean anything. Did it?

  “We needed him to carry up some wedding things,” Isabelle explained.

  Toria almost laughed, because it was true.

  “I see,” Greg said, dismissing Ryder as any kind of problem. Greg handled problems all day. That was his job—to make problems go away.

  Now he was looking at her bookshelves. “You should start moving that stuff to your mother’s house.”

  Feathery tentacles of fear touched the edges of her mind. But the wine, and probably the pain killers, blunted her response, and it took a moment to get out the words. “I won’t be doing that.”

  “We’ve been over this, Victoria.”

  “I’m not living in my mother’s house.” The words slipped out. Of course she wasn’t living there. She’d never agreed to that particular idea.

  “Don’t worry, darling. She’ll be in a different part of the house. She’ll have her own little suite and she’ll be―”

  “I never agreed to that.” And it’s irrelevant, she thought. “We aren’t―”

  “I’ve put the Eau Claire condo on the market.”

  What? When had he decided that?

  “I thought you were just getting the condo appraised?”