On the Way to a Wedding

by Stengl, Suzanne

  “That was the first step, and now it’s on the market. I want the Varsity Estates house.”

  Want? When had this happened? “That’s why you want to marry me? For my father’s house?”

  “You shouldn’t drink wine, darling.”

  Odd bits of conversation tumbled through her mind. Greg telling her mother not to worry about money, her mother’s suddenly important renovations.

  “You never intended for us to live in the condo, did you?”

  Toria was aware of Isabelle in the background, sitting with ankles crossed and arms folded, leaning back in the chair. Watching.

  “See what I mean?” Greg said, making it sound like an endearment. “You’re drunk, darling.”

  “I’m not. I had two glasses.” Why was she arguing about how much wine she’d drank?

  He lifted the pill container from the pharmacy. “What is this?” he asked, sounding so reasonable.

  She hated Reasonable. She had lived with Reasonable for too long. “I told you I am not marrying you.”

  “Of course you are.”

  Her breath caught as a suffocating blanket of memories pressed against her. She shook her head and cleared her mind. “Isabelle, in my bedroom on the dresser, bring me that ring.”

  Isabelle popped out of her chair and left the room.

  “Were you angry?” Greg asked.

  “What?”

  “Driving angry? Is that why you—what did you do?”

  Don’t answer the question. He’s distracting you. “I made a sharp turn and hit the ditch.”

  Don’t talk to him!

  She felt the ring, the pinch of the sharp diamond as Isabelle pressed it into her hand. Toria looked at the platinum band, then with the ring on her palm, she held it out to Greg. “Take it. I’m not your fiancée.”

  I’m not your property to manage.

  Greg stared at her for a beat, never looking at the diamond. Then his lip lifted on one side. “I’m not taking that ring. I’d just have to give it back to you.”

  And with that, he calmly stood, and walked out the door.

  Isabelle bounced out of her chair, rushed over to the door and locked it. Then she spun around, with a twirl of her flowery full skirt and with her hands held in front of her, fingertips touching. “That went well,” she said.

  It did?

  Toria held the ring between her thumb and index finger, twisting it in the evening sunlight coming through the balcony windows. The diamond was perfectly cut, Greg had said. Multi carat . . . she should remember the number. And expensive. The light bounced around inside the gem, trapped there.

  “What do I do with this?”

  “We’ll courier it to his office,” Isabelle said. “He’ll have to sign for it.”

  “You’re right,” Toria said. “Good idea.”

  Isabelle took the diamond. “I’ll do it first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter Seven

  Ryder watched from his truck as Greg Lorimer exited the building and got into this year’s model of the BMW Z4 Coupe. A second later, boom boxes cranked up and pounded over the still night air.

  As relief washed through him, he loosened his grip on the steering wheel and tipped his head down. He didn’t know what he would have done if Isabelle had left first.

  Lorimer was driving away, a flash of red and chrome and noise, past the restored Firebird.

  Now Ryder allowed himself to look at the Firebird. The classic muscle car lined up next to the geranium filled flower boxes along the circular drive of Dalhousie Towers. It waited, like a limousine, parked opposite the place where Lorimer had parked his Bimmer. The Firebird glowed in the late evening sunshine.

  The color looked close to the original, a brilliant orange. Headers protruded from the hood, giving the car a commanding presence. He wished he had time to take a closer look at the vehicle . . . wished he knew the owner. Probably some creative teenage genius.

  Besides the Firebird, three other cars remained on the circular drive. A rusty blue Astro minivan, a relatively new Honda Accord—maybe three years old, and an ancient Oldsmobile station wagon. That would be what Isabelle was driving. Or would she take the bus? Probably the bus.

  Maybe she’d spend the night with Toria? That would be good. He could go now. He touched the key in the ignition, but his hand froze and he couldn’t turn the key. He couldn’t turn the engine over. So he didn’t like the guy. So what? Lorimer was typical of Toria and the crazy cast of characters that populated her life. This was none of his business.

  He saw a flicker of green and orange and red just past the entrance doors. Someone was coming out of the building―

  Isabelle.

  She squeezed her large pink canvas bag tightly to her chest, like she was carrying something important. Her long flowery skirt fluttered in the breeze over top of her purple and orange striped stockings, and her frizzy blonde hair rippled like a flag. Pausing by the entrance, she reached inside her bag and pulled something out. He couldn’t see what it was, it was too small, but she was staring at it, studying it in the light of the setting sun, like she was trying to decide what to do with it. And then she seemed to―

  Yes. She pushed it on her finger. A ring. Something to complete the eccentric wardrobe.

  She fished in the bag again. This time she’d find her bus pass. Maybe he should offer to drive her home? But then, how would he explain still being here? He could say his truck wouldn’t start or―

  A flash of metal in the dimming light. Not a bus pass. She was holding a set of keys. She did have a car, but―

  It couldn’t be. She was getting into the Firebird. The orange Firebird with the headers and the attitude.

  He touched his forehead to the steering wheel and closed his eyes for a second. When he looked up again, she was driving away, spinning the tires momentarily. She probably didn’t realize how much power she had.

  So, he thought, Isabelle was gone. And so was Lorimer. The entrance to the building stood empty. Inviting . . .

  A sense of anticipation swirled around him, lightly touching him, like the first flakes of snow coming out of the sky. Then he remembered. He still had her pink insurance card. He pulled the keys from the ignition. And smiled.

  Not only that, he needed the address for the school. It would be a lot of fun to build that waterfall.

  A moment later, he buzzed her apartment.

  “What!” she snapped.

  Whoa. What’s up with her? “It’s me,” he said. “I forgot to give you―”

  Before he could finish what he was saying, the lock buzzed open. Just like that.

  He opened the door and stepped inside, pausing as it closed behind him. She hadn’t answered when Lorimer had buzzed. What was going on? Were they fighting? The thought made him happy.

  Stupid, thinking that. And no, it didn’t make him happy, he told himself, feeling contented. Just a—what did they call it?

  A lover’s quarrel. Could be anxiety about the imminent wedding. If he was getting married in three weeks, he’d probably feel the same way.

  Except . . . he was getting married in three weeks.

  Right.

  A jerk of realization stunned him. He saw the date in his head, saw it circled on his calendar, like an oil change due date.

  Less than three weeks. It was Tuesday already. Both he and Toria were getting married in two and a half weeks. And now she was having some kind of argument with her fiancé.

  Ryder, on the other hand, never got upset with Catherine.

  Except, well, there was the poodle―

  Then he had an unconnected thought, anxiety for Toria, and a feeling of protectiveness. He frowned.

  How had Lorimer got in? Had someone else let him into the building?

  Must have, he decided, looking around the small lobby. And that was not a good thing. Letting someone in who didn’t belong here.

  He glanced at the old elevator and remembered riding it earlier this evening. A flash of doubt, and he wondere
d if the elevator had passed a building inspection lately.

  He ran up the three flights of stairs. As he entered the hall, the door opposite Toria’s opened, and an old woman with silver hair peeked out and looked at him. Her gray cat wandered into the hall. She bent to retrieve the cat and went back inside.

  Feeling uneasy, he paused, then continued down the hall to Toria’s door. Her neighbor’s door, across the hall, had a peep hole installed. Toria’s did not.

  He knocked lightly on Toria’s door.

  She opened it, still wearing the long dark brown sweater, and leaning on her crutches.

  Again that feeling of protectiveness hit him. “Uh . . .” he said, speaking quietly and not turning around. “Can I come in? I think your neighbor is spying on us.”

  Toria closed her eyes and shook her head. Then she whispered, “Mrs. Toony. She probably let Greg in.” She shuffled back with her crutches, allowing him to come inside.

  He closed the door behind him and leaned against it. Something classical—something light, and airy—was playing on Toria’s old stereo.

  The gentle music ebbed around him and he let himself relax against the door.

  She stood directly in front of him, close, in the small entrance area. In the kitchen, a single light glowed over the stove. The other one had burned out. The June sun, now low in the sky, still filtered through the balcony windows into the living room. But here, near the door, it was not well lit.

  “I forgot to return your pink card,” he said, still speaking quietly, as though the nosy neighbor could hear them through the door. And the hall, and her own door.

  “Sorry.” She smiled. “You shouldn’t have come back for that. I can’t drive anyway. Well, I can drive but I don’t have a car,” she babbled.

  “And I forgot to ask you which school―”

  “You don’t need to do this.”

  “I would like to.”

  She looked up at him, and again he noticed her eyes.

  The piece of music ended and a new one took its place. Something with the same gentle serenity.

  “I―” he started to explain, but he looked into her eyes, which were several shades of green. Like the green of a quiet lake in the Kananaskis. And mixed with the green, a little gold―

  He caught his breath and blinked. “I didn’t go to my own Grad,” he said. “This might be fun.”

  “You didn’t go to your Grad? Why not?”

  He shrugged. “Juvenile.” He’d never admitted that to anyone. Not even to Pro. “I wanted to piss off my parents.” My father mostly.

  She smiled, like she understood.

  “Which school?” he asked again.

  She paused. A few seconds passed. “Aberton.”

  Aberton?

  “Do you know where that is?”

  “Yeah,” he nodded, watching her mouth. “I do.”

  It was his school. His old high school. Eleven years ago. Light years ago.

  The peaceful music eased into his mind and a sensation of longing floated through him. He should just reach in his wallet, give her the pink card, and leave. But he didn’t want to leave.

  “We didn’t have any of your mother’s cookies,” she said.

  “Milk and cookies time?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sit down,” he said. “I’ll get the milk.”

  He took off his work boots again, dropped his jacket beside them and walked into the kitchen. In the fridge, he found a jug of skim milk, along with a carton of eggs, a package of cream cheese and a jar of marmalade.

  He could drink skim milk. He set it on the counter. Then he opened the cupboard directly above the counter.

  Right the first time. It was the cupboard with the glasses. Two medium sized A&W root beer mugs, a set of crystal bourbon glasses with heavy bases and four clear mugs with shamrocks around the rims.

  The A&W root beer mugs. They’d work. He filled them with milk, walked to the other end of the kitchen, past the small table, and turned into the living room.

  She had a cookie in her hand and her left foot up on the coffee table next to the empty pizza box. “Tell your mother,” she said, licking her lips, “these are very good.” She took another bite.

  He positioned her mug of milk on the coffee table beside her tensored ankle.

  “You have a lot of wedding gifts,” he said, looking at the improvised bookshelves again.

  “Shower gifts.”

  Right. Shower gifts. That came first. “You have a lot of shower gifts.”

  “Yes, I do.” She sounded tired.

  He started to walk around her to sit on his side of the love seat, and then he noticed the envelope on the floor, in the same place as before. A few sparkles flashed in the light from the setting sun. He picked up the envelope, walked around the cluttered coffee table and sat down beside her.

  She handed him a cookie out of the bag. He handed her the heart covered envelope.

  “What’s this?” She took it from him. “Oh, I almost forgot. It’s from a student.”

  The envelope said Miss Toria Whitney. A large envelope, covered with pink and red, shiny and sparkly, heart stickers.

  Her face softened, as if she was giving in to something. She tucked one slender fingertip under the flap, opened the envelope and pulled out the card. A cascade of red and pink hearts showered over them both, like confetti thrown at a wedding.

  He leaned closer, to read over her shoulder. A thread of air separated them.

  “You’re reading my mail.” She nudged him away with her elbow.

  “It’s just a student,” he said. Several of the shiny hearts had landed in the weave of the brown sweater and on the front of her pink blouse.

  “Don’t say just a student.”

  “All right.” And one of the red hearts had fallen on her throat, at the opening of her blouse.

  He wondered what the student had to say, and he leaned close again. His denim covered arm lightly touched her sweater covered arm. Not a problem, he told himself. Easier to read over her shoulder.

  By now she was focused on the card, and she didn’t push him away.

  Dear Miss Toria,

  “Miss Toria?”

  “I like that better than Miss Whitney. And they’re not supposed to call me Toria.”

  We know you said we would be able to handle this just fine but we can’t. Mrs. Sidorsky is not playing fair. She said we could pick our own theme, and then she impositioned her theme on us.

  “Impositioned?” He turned his head, which was right next to hers.

  “They like their own words,” she said, without looking away from the card.

  “What about spelling?” He watched her eyes, her whole expression.

  “They’re communicating.”

  “Yeah, but shouldn’t―”

  “Will you let me read this?” She glanced up at him. Their eyes connected for a microsecond, and then she looked back at the card.

  So did he.

  Mrs. Sidorsky wants Beauty and the Beast.

  He stopped reading, disgusted, and pulled back from the card. “Beauty and the Beast? That’s a fairy tale!”

  “You’d like these kids,” she said, still reading the words.

  He leaned close again.

  Like, we’re going to decorate some fairy tale? We’re not in kindergarten. For Christ cripes sake.

  Oh, and the results from the provincials are coming in. We scored highest in the province, even though you never followed their curriculum. But don’t worry, we never told anyone.

  “I thought you taught history? That’s a provincial exam?”

  “No. It’s not,” she said. “I still teach some history, I started there, but I mostly teach mathematics. That’s a provincial.”

  Mathematics? Toria? It didn’t add up.

  He laughed at his own pun. Normally it would not be funny. Must be Isabelle’s wine messing with his brain. And naturally, Toria, in her scattered way, would not follow the curriculum.

 
Longing wove through his memories. He would have liked a teacher like this, like the one sitting next to him.

  Whoa. Where had that thought come from? He didn’t need a teacher. He kept reading.

  So we were wondering if you could please please please come back? Just to help us get the gym in shape? Otherwise Mrs. S is going to embarrass us. Miss Isabelle said you might be able to fit us in.

  Toria dropped the card in her lap and frowned at the bookshelves. Could she say no to her students?

  “We’ve got to do this,” he told her.

  Lost in thought, she didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she looked at him. “We?”

  The room had darkened. The sun was gone behind the mountains. Twilight. Yesterday, he’d met her, at twilight. He’d found her car in the ditch, almost twenty-four hours ago.

  He had a sense of traveling through time, like he was reliving a memory. Sparkles of hearts twinkled before his eyes and he blinked. Maybe he should turn on the lamp on the bookshelves, assuming it worked.

  His arm still touched her shoulder, and a little chocolate chip cookie crumb balanced on the edge of her lip. She had beautiful lips—soft and full.

  She was staring at the bookshelves now, not seeing them. He watched her eyes, that unbelievable shade of green . . . It was the light, from the leftover sun, playing tricks with his mind.

  He reached out and brushed away the crumb at the edge of her lip.

  “Cookie crumb,” he said.

  She’s getting married. Get out of here.

  She smiled, and blushed.

  And she’s had too much to drink, for her. And never mind that, I’m supposed to be getting married. In a huge wedding that is going to impress the socks off my father.

  He moved away from her, sat forward and drained his mug of milk. Then he got to his feet. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning,” he said, wondering at the same time why he was saying it.

  But it wouldn’t be a problem. In the morning. In the daylight.

  “Why?” She was standing up, too, swaying a little.

  “We can go out to Cochrane and talk to the RCMP. You can check the car, see if there’s anything in it that you want.”

  She swayed a little more as she tried to get her crutches under her arms.

  He wanted to touch her—a bad idea. And anyway, she was steady now. He headed for the door.