A Most Unpleasant Wedding

by Judith Alguire

  Aunt Pearl smirked. “Well, as they say, it’s the thought that counts.”

  Mr. Bole finished his gin and tonic. “Of course, men are more apt to be marriageable when we’re young. We tend to get set in our ways as we get older.” He put his glass down. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, my mouth is watering for Gregoire’s filet mignon.”

  Aunt Pearl turned to her Drambuie chaser. “James Bole is afraid a woman might come between him and his finger puppets.”

  Miss Miller tilted her head. “Aunt Pearl, do you have designs on Mr. Bole?”

  She waved this off. “Hell, no. I’ve known James Bole for years. He’s like a brother to me. Besides being a lousy dancer, he can’t play poker, and has no sense of humour to speak of. I can’t imagine being that desperate.”

  Trevor and Margaret Rudley, proprietors of the Pleasant Inn, were at the front desk as the guests drifted in for dinner. Albert, their large, hairy dog, lay on the rug in the centre of the lobby, rolling over periodically to trip the uninitiated.

  “Mrs. Sawchuck,” Rudley said as she hobbled past the desk, “I wanted you to know that I’ve apprehended the centipede in your bathroom.”

  She gasped, put a hand to her mouth. “You killed it, didn’t you?”

  “You’ll never see that particular centipede again.”

  She sighed with relief. “I couldn’t have slept a wink, knowing it was there.”

  “And if you couldn’t have slept, I’m sure I couldn’t have either.”

  He accepted her effusive appreciation, waited until she was out of sight, and grinned a lopsided grin.

  He’d found the poor creature clinging to the tiles, probably paralyzed with fear by Mrs. Sawchuck’s screams, gathered it into a Kleenex, and released it outdoors.

  “Why a woman who wants to bludgeon every living thing chooses to vacation at a country inn is beyond me,” he said.

  Margaret pulled the menu plan from the shelf. “Out of curiosity, where did you put the centipede this time?”

  “Oh, I found him a rotting log. I’m sure he’ll find it to his liking.”

  “That was thoughtful of you, Rudley.”

  Norman and Geraldine paused on their way to the dining room.

  “By this time tomorrow, you’ll be on your camping adventure,” Norman said.

  “Leaving late afternoon,” Rudley said. “In time to set up camp before supper.”

  “I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time,” Geraldine said. “Norman and I have spent many memorable nights under the stars.”

  Rudley cleared his throat. “I can well imagine.” He waited until they were out of earshot, then added, “Although I will try very hard not to.”

  “What was that, Rudley?”

  “Oh, nothing, Margaret. Just muttering to myself.”

  She folded the menu, tucked it away. “It was nice to see Mr. Carty stop for cocktails. I was afraid he might have trouble fitting in. I don’t think we’ve ever had someone so young. And he seems so bashful.”

  “He’s a respectful young man.”

  “I hope he hasn’t come here to do himself in. I mean, at his age, and all by himself.”

  Rudley crossed his eyes. “Let’s not put a hex on the season. I think he’s just a mature, independent sort.”

  Margaret paused as the Lawrences crossed the lobby. “They seem to be a successful young couple.”

  “Stylish.”

  “Quite a change from our usual clientele.”

  “Once you get past the baggy shorts and dentures, I’m sure they’re much the same.”

  “They seem consumed with appearances.”

  He tilted his head, smiled. “I imagine if we were to put in some hot tubs, a tanning station, some computer outlets in the dining room, we could attract more of their type. We could have the staff in spandex.”

  Margaret had taken an aster from the vase and was in the process of trimming the stem. She hit him over the head with it. “Bite your tongue, Rudley.”

  “You’re right, Margaret. The idea of Gregoire in spandex is appalling.”

  “I think the Lawrences like the inn just as it is. He’s an avid fisherman. She seems keen on the local art community.”

  “Quite right, although I don’t think I’d want an inn full of them.” He paused as Jack Arnold sauntered in. “Or him.”

  Margaret shuddered. “Yes, I’ve noticed him leering at Tiffany and Trudy, and especially at Mrs. Lawrence.”

  Rudley sniffed. “The man’s a skirt-chaser. After a few drinks, Aunt Pearl wouldn’t be safe.”

  She gave the aster an encouraging fluff. “I don’t understand how a man turns out that way.”

  “Poor upbringing,” Rudley said. “I, for one, was raised by a father who never entertained a lascivious thought. Except occasionally for my mother, I suppose.” He thought about his father, a straightforward, hard-working, old-time family doctor who saw patients day and night. Wouldn’t have had time for a lascivious thought if he’d wanted one. Went to church on Sundays. Demanded that his children be active and productive. Treated his wife with affection and respect. He had no patience with philanderers.

  “He mentioned he’s divorced.”

  “He would have to be. I can’t imagine any woman in her right mind putting up with his shenanigans.”

  “At least he’s not sneaky about it. I suppose he’s a tragic figure.”

  “I think he’s just a twit who got hooked on swilling booze and bothering girls in high school and never grew out of making a nuisance of himself.”

  “That’s tragic, Rudley.”

  “I suppose.”

  She touched his arm. “We should be ashamed of ourselves for gossiping about the guests.”

  Rudley nodded. “Yes, Margaret, they deserve their privacy. As long as they pay their bills and don’t undress in the lobby.”

  Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson called out a hello as they entered the lobby.

  “Did you have a nice trip to the islands?”

  “Wonderful.”

  “It was quite an adventure, Mrs. Rudley,” said Simpson.

  “How was the new boat?” Rudley asked.

  Miss Miller smiled. “Your craft showed wonderful stability and responsiveness.”

  “Able to recover from a ninety-degree list, I gather.”

  “Heart-stopping,” Simpson murmured.

  “Perfect,” said Miss Miller.

  Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson went on into the dining room.

  “I am so glad they chose to have their wedding here,” Margaret said. She gave Rudley a peck on the cheek. “Isn’t it romantic, having a wedding here?”

  “Yes, Margaret.”

  “I can’t wait to find out which setting they choose.”

  “If Miss Miller keeps doing wheelies around the shoal markers, the wedding’s going to be in the local emergency room.”

  “Bite your tongue, Rudley.” Margaret left to check on the dining room.

  Rudley shook his head. Miss Miller was a spirited young woman — much like Margaret when he first met her. He could still see her sailing over the hedgerows on that chestnut hunter while he stood, hands over his eyes, occasionally taking an anguished peek through his fingers. Margaret was much more sedate these days. Not because she’d lost her spirit, but because she’d come to the conclusion it was unkind to make a horse jump for his oats. She had never supported the fox hunt and had regularly attended meetings and protests with the anti-fox-hunting group at home. That was one of the things that attracted him to Margaret — her kindness.

  He had met Margaret in London, England, while studying hotel management. It was love at first sight. He smiled, did a brisk foxtrot behind the desk, snapped himself back and hastily drew out the register as a group of dinner guests passed through the lobby. Margaret loved his nimble feet. Best dancer west of London. Not bad for a boy from Galt. That was the only reason his father hadn’t disowned him when he decided to become an innkeeper. He was relieved he hadn’t chosen a ca
reer in dance. Fine man, his father. But a bit of a stick-in-the-mud.

  He paused to watch the pace of the wait staff pick up as the dining room filled. Handsome young Tim, Trudy, now a college student, back for the summer, and Mrs. Millotte. “Stiff old fart,” he muttered. “Although she may loosen up now that she’s taken up the bongos.” He drummed out a little beat on the register, smiled, leaned over the desk.

  He and Margaret had owned the Pleasant for over a quarter of a century. The fine old inn with its scattered guest cottages and sublime surroundings was his pride and joy. Everything in apple-pie order, thanks to his strange but incomparable handyman, Lloyd Brawly. The man could have been Dr. Frankenstein’s right-hand man, he thought, but since he could lathe a spindle with the best of them, he could stay as long as he wanted to — probably forever.

  They all acted as if they planned to stay forever. Sometimes the staff reminded him of a nest of fledglings: They surely had somewhere better to go, but the nest was just too comfortable.

  Take Tiffany, he thought. Talented young woman with a master’s degree in English literature. She’d just had a book of short stories published — by some obscure feminist press. Nevertheless, he considered the publication an achievement. Tiffany had come to him from Toronto for a summer job five years before. Since then, she’d run through half the eligible bachelors in the vicinity. Rather particular. Much as Mrs. Rudley had been. He smiled. Tim McAuley glided past the door of the dining room. The man would have been on stage at the Royal Alex by now if he hadn’t found an outlet for his talent in Margaret’s summer theatre. He’d done a wonderful Henry Higgins in Pygmalion.

  Margaret bustled out from the kitchen with a tray. “Gregoire sent you out some supper,” she said. “There’s no place for you to sit in the dining room.” She deposited the tray on the desk and hurried away.

  Rudley lifted the first lid. Spicy tomato bisque. Nice little avocado side salad. He lifted the lid of the entrée, inhaled deeply. Grilled salmon steak with dilled butter, asparagus spears, potatoes lyonnaise. And — he opened the box containing the dessert — Gregoire’s exquisite pecan pie. One and a half inches of ambrosia, topped with pecans jostling each other for space.

  He pulled up his stool, sat down, spreading his serviette over his knees. Wonderful cook, Gregoire. Damned temperamental though. He sampled the salmon, closed his eyes in bliss. At least he’d stopped experimenting with wild mushrooms. He had to admit they were more flavourful than the cultivated ones, even the ones Lloyd grew in his pile of rotting logs, but they had their drawbacks. We’ll have to get in a mycologist one day, he decided, to map out the location of the more poisonous varieties.

  He sighed. Tried the salad. The past six months had been perfect. Splendid winter with a traditional sleigh-bell Christmas, tobogganing, and ice fishing. Norman had run into the bramble bush. But no serious harm done. He was able to manipulate his fishing gear well enough with one hand and even managed to catch a fish or two, something he seldom accomplished when the lake was open. Maybe he had better luck because the fish couldn’t see him in the winter. “I can imagine it would be rather frightening, staring up into those buck teeth,” he muttered.

  Lovely spring. The lawns covered with tulips and narcissus, crocuses and hyacinth, daffodils and flags. They had put on their usual Easter parade, and, now, with that beautiful period of spring merging into summer, a wedding. Life was good.

  He paused, a perfect piece of avocado hovering. The camping adventure. That was a bit of a bump. But Margaret was enthusiastic. Great girl, Margaret. Impossible to deny her a cherished dream: lying on a damp forest floor, being devoured by mosquitoes. He scowled, then coaxed himself into a smile. In spite of the camping trip, he had to admit the life of an innkeeper was damn near perfect.

  Chapter 2

  Evelyn Hopper looked up as her husband, Carl, paused in the doorway of her office.

  “I’m off,” he said. He gave her a feeble smile.

  “I’ll see you later then.” She returned to her work.

  He hesitated, started to say something, then left.

  Evelyn waited until she heard the door downstairs close, then sat back, tossing her pen onto the desk.

  She knew Carl was disappointed she hadn’t offered to drive him into Middleton for his dental appointment. She shook her head. It was a dental extraction, for heaven’s sake, not brain surgery. Of course, this was the man who wore those ugly glasses because contact lenses tortured his eyes and got upset if his socks had seams across the toes.

  He’d told her he was going to walk the three miles into town. He couldn’t take the car, he said, because he might not be able to drive home after the procedure. She had suggested he take a cab home — he could have taken a cab in, for that matter. It wasn’t as if they couldn’t afford the fare. He could have hired a registered nurse to accompany him, for all she cared. But she wasn’t going to be his chauffeur. And she most definitely wasn’t going to be his nurse. She had work to do. She was expecting a call from a client that afternoon.

  She studied the image on the monitor — a mockup of a living-room design for a client in Toronto. It was a project that required finesse. The client had lots of money and no taste. They had hired her because the man’s boss had recommended her. It would take some sweet-talking to get her way — something she was good at if she wanted to be.

  She caught sight of Carl from her office window, trudging along, head down, looking like a whipped puppy.

  She’d thought he’d be happy after they moved out into the country. He’d been such a sad sack that last year in the city. But, lately, he seemed even more down in the dumps and increasingly ineffectual. She sighed. She now appreciated what her grandmother meant when she’d told her never to marry a man who couldn’t fix the plumbing.

  She’d never seen it coming. When she met Carl, he was an up-and-coming advertising executive with plans for launching his own firm. He had a hobby — creative writing. She’d never thought much about it, certainly never imagined it would take over his life. He had a few short stories published, then a novel. Then one day, out of the blue, he announced he planned to make writing his career.

  He’d changed in other ways that last year in the city, had become more melancholy, less interested in social interaction. At first she thought — when she had time to think about it — that his dissatisfaction was related to his job. Then he started complaining about the city feeling claustrophobic. At first, she thought his discontent had to do with some romantic notion of the writer in a pastoral setting, then she realized he merely wanted to escape.

  She clicked the mouse and altered the colour of the drapes in her virtual living room. Not that she had any regret about abandoning city life. Having a permanent home for the horses was worth the inconvenience of living out here. The real-estate agent had extolled the virtues of living in cottage country, but the proximity of the lake had not been a factor in choosing the property — she didn’t care much for the water. Nor did she see any advantage in being close to the various inns. Most of them had been in the same hands for years. And those hands were either unaware of the dowdiness of their establishments, or for some reason, felt obliged to maintain them in their original condition. While she received the occasional contract from the villages in the area, the bulk of her work remained in the larger cities.

  Carl loved the farm. Of course, she thought, he would have loved a shack, anyplace devoid of stress and responsibility. She clicked on the davenport and moved it across the room, added a credenza.

  Their daughter, Terri, she was afraid, had too much of her father in her. She’d given Terri every advantage, but the girl lacked polish and poise. She had chosen a nondescript program in university, a soft degree in the humanities with a few bird courses in the sciences. How she expected to forge a career out of that potpourri, Evelyn couldn’t imagine. Terri was twenty-two, and reasonably attractive — although she would have been more attractive if she’d shed that layer of baby fat. Evelyn had encoura
ged her in sports, but the only thing she’d stuck with was horseback riding. The horses were the slender thread that held them together. Evelyn moved the mouse into the client’s hallway. Terri had terrible taste in men. She shook her head. Maybe that was something else they had in common.

  Chapter 3

  Tim and Gregoire approached the front desk. Tim looked pointedly at his watch. Rudley gave them a long look. “Yes?”

  “Time for you to leave for your camping trip,” said Tim.

  Rudley whipped out a checklist. “Are you prepared to mind the store while we’re away?”

  “You will never know you have been away,” said Gregoire.

  “If someone inquires about reservations, you must check the master list. Margaret has a master plan for each room and cottage. You will be able to tell at a glance what is available and when.”

  “It sounds like a mistress plan,” said Tim.

  Rudley’s eyes crossed. “And dinner reservations.”

  “I can handle that with my eyes closed,” said Tim.

  “I trust you’ve solidified the entertainment plans?”

  “Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson have that in hand,” said Tim. “Mr. Bole will be performing a puppet show as dinner theatre — Waiting for Godot. After dinner, we will proceed to the canasta tournament, and, as the grand finale, Snakes and Ladders.”

  “That should throw Mrs. Sawchuck into a panic.”

  “We’ve prepared a special board for her table,” said Tim. “Slides and Ladders.”

  “Good. The last thing we need is a padded wagon showing up.”

  Norman Phipps-Walker came down the stairs with a bag slung over his shoulder.

  “Ready for the grand excursion, Norman?” Rudley asked.

  “Ready. I have my fishing equipment. Also a camera and a recording device. I understand there’s a good population of owls up at Briar Point.” He paused. “Brilliant of that young lady to start her charter.”