Olivia’s insides had dissolved into a warm little pond.
Chapter 11
Ella’s parents and Craig’s father were lodging in a B&B in Lake Forest. They arrived for pre-rehearsal drinks just before four, with Father Gideon in tow. They met everyone on the terrace where the air was cool, the area shaded from the still-intense late afternoon sun. The fragrance of roses drifted from the garden on a soft lake breeze as the day’s shadows stretched over family and friends like a soft veil.
It was a lovely evening, but Olivia knew that things were merely a façade of picture perfect. Ella seemed relaxed and her smile appeared to be authentic. However, as drinks progressed, that smile turned into a grim-looking slash. At first, she’d been tranquil, if not a little animated as she sat with Craig and Pete, speaking in an excited, low voice. The trio glanced in Olivia’s direction for a moment. A shade of anxiety crept upon Craig’s face and then Ella was on her feet, glaring. The Queen was displeased.
The women present stood in a tight little clique. The groomsmen congregated together, their backs a wall of exclusion.
“I don’t like this!” Ella put a balled-up fist on her hip. “This is no way to have a pre-rehearsal cocktail party!”
All conversation ceased. Heads turned to look at the bride-to-be pitching a fit.
“Oh, boy, someone needs a nap,” Martin muttered.
“There’s nothin’ about this on the list,” Tex drawled, pulling the folded weekend directives from his pocket. “What are we doin’ wrong, darlin’?”
“Ah want you people to mingle. Mingle, you hear me? Ah don’t want this separation of the sexes! Mingle! Get to know each other.” She made circles with her hands. “Boys and girls, mingle!”
And no one, besides Tex, paid any attention. They chuckled and simply turned back to their conversations.
“Did you hear me?” Middle-aged Ella stamped her foot like a four-year-old.
Olivia set the pitcher of Mimosa back on the wet bar, handed a refill to Mrs. Thomas and ambled over to the huffing bride. “Okay, Ella,” she said gently, her arms going around Ella’s shoulders, “come inside with me for a minute, I need your help.”
“But they’re not minglin’! Ah want them to mix and mingle!”
Her voice quiet, reassuring, Olivia said, “Come on inside. You need a break. Let’s go sit in the living room for a little while.”
Inside, Ella sank down into an opulently padded taupe chair, shaking.
Olivia gave her a glass of water and sat beside her on the rolled armrest, her right hand making gentle circles between her friend’s shoulder blades. “All right. What is it?” she asked.
“Ah don’t know what Ah’m doing.” Ella’s eyes were huge drops of amber swirled with olive and yellow. She stuffed the empty water glass between her hip and seat cushion and cupped her hands around her mouth. “What am Ah doing?”
“Ella,” she said, “you’re getting married.”
“Oh…my…God.”
“Pretty scary, huh?”
“What does he see in me?” She sounded like Blanche DuBois again. “Look at me. Ah’ve lived by m’self since Ah was nineteen. Ah have certain ways Ah like to do things. Ah haven’t had to considah someone else when Ah spend money or make a decision. Craig hates m’bedroom furniture. He likes onions and Ah hate kissing him when he does. Ah’m not supposed to hate kissing him. Ah’m going to ruin his life and mahn. How do Ah do this? How am Ah supposed to know if Ah’m doing the right thing? I don’t want to end up like you.”
Olivia flinched, the debris of her past splattering like a bug into the windshield. “I know you don’t really mean that, but that’s enough now. Okay?”
Ella slumped back in the chair, closed her eyes and moaned. “Ah’m sorry. Ah didn’t think. That was horrible. Ah sound like Justine.”
“No sweetie, you’re apprehensive and wearing big blocks of ice for shoes right now, whereas Justine is always going to be a bitch. But you’re right,” Olivia chuckled with a self-effacing tone, “who wants to end up like me?”
“Ah don’t know what to do. Mah mind is so full of questions. What do I do Olivia?”
Olivia clasped Ella’s wrist. “Ella, look at me.”
Ella opened her eyes.
“Can you picture your life without Craig?”
“No.”
“Do you love him?”
“My God, yes.”
“There’s your answer.”
Fifteen minutes later, Ella in a slightly more agreeable state, Olivia asked everyone to into the living room. They listened while she explained the mechanics of how the wedding ceremony would unfold.
Suzanne snapped her gum repetitively. Justine twined a length of curl around her thumb and sighed. Mimi jingled. Ella sat on a sofa and pulled on her fingers over and over, as if she were milking them. Her gaze darted between her bridesmaids and her father. Or rather, what was in her father’s mouth.
Mr. Thomas had waving hair like Billy Dee Williams in The Empire Strikes Back, and a damp Corona cigar between his teeth.
Ella glowered at him.
“Sugar, I put it out,” he said, shifting the cigar to his hand. “See? No smoke.”
Ella’s lip curled.
Mr. Thomas stuffed the cigar into his shirt pocket. “Happy now, Button?” The moist end of the tobacco left a blemish on the pale blue fabric above his left nipple. “All this time I thought Pete took after his mother and you took after me, but I swear you are your mother’s daughter.”
Ella burst into tears.
“Dear sweet Lord in heaven.” Mr. Thomas chuckled and put a hand over his mouth.
Olivia moved in between father and daughter, handed Ella a tissue and turned back to the bridal party. “The photographer will have each of you stop in the open doorway to take pictures just before you go out. When he’s through, don’t worry about doing some kind of step-pause, step-pause up the length of the garden path. Ella’s the one who has to do the march of the bride, so do what feels natural, just don’t run. Craig, you and Maxwell…where is Maxwell?”
“He had to—” Pete began to gesture with his thumb and index finger rising to his ear but thought better and dropped his hand. “Em went to the little boys’ room.”
Olivia nodded. “Tell him he’s supposed to be up there waiting with you and Father Gideon. So go on into the garden and wait for us. Jason, you are the first up after Mr. Fulton takes Mrs. Thomas to her seat. Watch for it and then go up the path. Boys go on the right.”
Ella sniffled and coughed demurely as her mother left with Craig’s dad. Olivia glanced at her best friend as her mouth flattened, her widened eyes cutting in the direction of the bridesmaids for emphasis.
“Mimi,” Olivia said, “I’ll have to ask you to not wear your silver charm bracelet. It’s very pretty and looks absolutely lovely on you, but it jingles and might interfere with the cellist.”
“Okay,” Mimi sighed, shrugging in resignation and she brought her hands together in front as if she were carrying a bouquet to travel the length of the garden path to the gazebo.
“Suzanne, you’re next. Count to fifteen after Mimi leaves and go on out. I know fresh breath is really important, Sooze, but please, wait until after the ceremony to chew a piece of gum.”
Justine rose, her tone baby-dollish and hard edged, “What’s next, you’re going to tell me to not wear perfume?”
“No. You can wear perfume. Just don’t giggle.”
The dark-haired beauty leaned forward and looked up with a cat-like squint. “And what is it you have to avoid, Olivia?”
Olivia smiled and squinted back. “Anything that draws attention away from Ella. Now count to fifteen and out you go.”
“Don’t you know not to argue with the Police Watch Commander, Justy?” Martin scolded, shaking his half-empty beer bottle.
“You’re supposed to be out there already, Martin.”
“Right away, ma’am.” Martin went through the door after Justine, muttering something
under his breath that sounded a lot like bossy little bitch.
Olivia turned back to Mr. Thomas and continued with the ceremony’s production. “Mr. Thomas, after I go, you and Ella count to fifteen and wait for the music. Ella knows it and she’ll prompt you. When you get up to the front, just before you hand her over to Craig, please lift her veil and draw it back gently over the top of her head. Then move sideways, so you don’t step on the back of her dress. Okay? Count to fifteen Ella, and then you and your dad come out.”
Emerson crept into the living room. He’d heard the tail end of Olivia’s directions to the bridesmaids and caught Martin’s little dig. He edged up behind her. “Sorry, I was, uh…what’d I miss? Where am I supposed to be? Are we walking up together? We don’t do that together do we?”
“No. You wait with Craig. You should be there already.” She gestured over her shoulder without looking at him and moved out onto the terrace. “Go on, get up there.”
“Don’t I get some special instructions like you gave everyone else?” Emerson joined Olivia, falling into step as she went down the stairs. “Don’t pick your nose. Make sure you shave. Don’t plaster condoms all over the bridal car.” He walked beside her along the garden path toward the gazebo.
She glanced at him. “How about, don’t say anything stupid when you make your toast at the reception.”
“Are you mad? Is this about the ice cream this afternoon?”
“No, it’s about you making a phone call in the middle of the wedding rehearsal an—”
“Do you think your rigid nature is why Martin called you a bossy bitch?” One hand went to clasp her elbow, but he missed.
“Usually, I have a very flexible nature, but I’m not fond of having someone swallow my ice cream like a snake or being called names.”
“I seem to recall you didn’t mind wet little rodent.”
“There’s a big difference between rat and bitch.”
“Sure there is. One is small and insignificant; the other’s a dog who bites.”
“Oh, so now I’m a dog?”
“That’s not what I meant. How do you do that? How do you twist things around? Where did you learn this…skill?”
He stopped walking, reached out and grabbed her elbow.
She looked down at his hand at her elbow and back up to his face, smirking. “Drives you crazy doesn’t it?”
“Is that why you do it?”
“Well, make up your mind. Am I a rat or a bitch?” She stopped at the end of the path, right in the middle of the rose garden at the base of the gazebo.
And all eyes were on them.
Chapter 12
After the ceremony rehearsal, once everyone had changed for dinner, Olivia slid behind the wheel of the minivan she’d organized as transport to Donnie’s Joint, a restaurant just over the Wisconsin border.
The wedding party began to board. Justine’s smile was syrupy as she squeezed by Pete. Her overpowering fragrance billowed out like tear gas as he settled in the front passenger seat, waving his hand. “That’s a…heady…bouquet,” he muttered. “So, how the hell are you, Liv?” He adjusted the seat belt and gave her a crooked smile as the nylon strap tried to strangle him.
Maxwell poked his head inside the van and made a face, twisting his mouth, wrinkling his nose. “I guess this isn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” he mumbled and climbed inside. He stood, hunched over behind Pete’s seat and shook his head. “You know, you in that seat is not happening.”
Pete said, “It’s just a van, man. It has lots of windows.”
Maxwell hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s dark out. Come on. Get in back to marinate with the rest of the over-perfumed cattle.”
“Why does Pete have to move? He was here first.” Olivia glanced at Maxwell looming above her headrest.
“It’s easier this way.” Pete shook his head and unfastened the seatbelt. “Unless you want to relive your time in the elevator, Olivia.” He paused for a moment, giving her time to mull over the idea before he rose. “Didn’t think so.” Maxwell made room for him to pass then shifted into the front seat.
Olivia put the key in the ignition and started the engine. The roar drowned out Pete’s chuckle.
A few minutes later, the van, loaded with passengers, drove off the Hutton property toward Waukegan. The nylon edge of the seatbelt chafed at the base of Emerson’s throat and he adjusted the strap. Conversations, laughter and Tex’s distinctive yee-ha floated from behind. He heard bits and pieces, made a few comments, but he was more interested in watching Olivia’s eyes flick between the road and mirrors as she drove. The reflected headlights of passing cars shot a rectangular shaft of soft white light across her eyes. It brought to mind old black and white movies and women like Merle Oberon, Myrna Loy, and Olivia De Havilland.
The little scar near her mouth was more visible in shadowy light than in full sunshine, and all he could think about was how it would feel beneath his lips. Jesus, he needed to distract himself, needed to redirect his attention to something that wasn’t related to kissing or sex. “So,” he said, clawing out some small talk, “why did you quit test driving and racing?”
Olivia didn’t look at him. He figured driving a van full of passengers was different to speeding around a track and required a different sort of concentration. She said, “I thought it was the right time to get out.”
“Did you have an accident you barely survived or something?”
She snorted. “Not like you think.”
The seatbelt tightened and scratched his neck as Emerson shifted, trying to see her expression by the light of the dashboard. “What happened? Why did you stop? From what I read about you, yo—”
“You read about me?”
“Since I neglected to look at your CV before we met, I thought I should play a little catch up and be a good boss, so I read some of your old stats. It seems like you did okay when you were in the sport.”
Another snort came from the driver’s seat. “I had to do everything two times better to be thought of as half as good in a sport dominated by men—like Ginger Rogers dancing all those steps backward in a fluffy dress and heels while Fred Astaire got all the real glory. I did better than okay.”
“You mean the other drivers made it hard because you’re a woman?”
“No. This isn’t one of those I was beaten into submission by a bunch of good ol’ boys things. Of course somebody always made remarks about the chick on the track, but I didn’t care. I was racing, wasn’t I? And I was good. I loved it. I had fun, and if I had continued, I probably would have made more of a name for myself, but I discovered it was even more fun to test-drive new designs. Then eventually I decided I was ready for a different life.”
Nylon dug into his carotid artery and Emerson pulled hard to release the tension reel. “What kind of life was that?”
In the dimness, Olivia glanced at him once. “One with a family.”
“You wanted children?” His disbelief came out sharper and louder, much, much louder, than he expected.
The van suddenly went quiet as conversations ceased, and Emerson knew all focus had shifted toward the front of the van. He actually felt twelve sets of eyes boring into his back. Without the benefit of passing south-bound traffic headlights to illuminate her face, Emerson couldn’t see Olivia’s expression, but he heard the rhythm of her cool, steady breathing.
In the silence, headlights from the car behind the van reflected in the rear view mirror, the light a brilliant swathe across her narrowed eyes, and Pete muttered, “Maybe you ought to let that seatbelt strangle you.”
Situated in a converted warehouse, Donnie’s Joint had booths made out of the back ends of old fin-tailed cars. Vinyl bench seats taken from old Pontiacs and big Buicks were lined up alongside chrome-edged Formica tables. The wait staff wore fashions straight out of 1956 with poodle skirts and greased back hair the most popular look. Signs advertised real chocolate or vanilla coke for five cents. A giant jukebox played three songs for te
n cents.
Emerson had been here before. He knew if someone dropped a dime in the jukebox and played Chubby Checker, the wait staff would stop whatever they were doing. They would put down trays of food, leave dirty dishes on tables, quit taking dinner orders and run out to the two-tone linoleum dance floor in the middle of the joint and do the Twist.
Occasionally, they would drag an unsuspecting guest out with them to dance. Chubby started inviting everybody to come on and do his dance just as members of the Thomas-Fulton wedding party made their way to their table. Since he was at the tail end of the group, there was no way to escape. A short but buxom waitress outfitted in pedal pushers and a coiling, dark ponytail snagged Emerson, clutching his hand and dragging him to the floor as the others found seats.
The beauty of the Twist was that everyone looked stupid doing it. Emerson knew he looked just as goofy as the other restaurant patrons on the floor, but he stayed out there, not even trying to look cool because publicly looking like a fool might put some kind of patch on the last twisting slip of his tongue to Olivia. Dorky dancing was his penance.
Unfortunately, she missed the spectacle of his dancing. She was busy doing something near the entrance, a short box under her arm.
Olivia handed a box of party favors to the hostess decked out in a frilly, mint-toned baby doll pajama set and aqua plastic curlers. “Dimes for the jukebox,” the hostess said. “That’s clever. I’ll have your waitperson hand them out with the drinks.” The ruffles on her nylon pajamas swished as she headed off. Olivia watched the fabric move and her mind swished over strange thoughts of Maxwell and that stupid seatbelt in the minivan.
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