Unbreakable

by Ruth Buchanan

  This could go one of two ways. Rachel braced herself. “Yes, Jessica?”

  Jessica slanted her gaze toward Rachel and almost, but not quite, looked at her. “I think I know why Petruchio’s plan works. I mean, apart from the fact that Shakespeare makes it work because that’s the premise of the play.”

  Todd squinched up his nose, Shayla’s braids whipped as her head turned, Carl stopped running his hands up and down the sides of his desk, and Chris pulled in his legs and swiveled to face Jessica. Alice smiled faintly.

  Rachel’s spirits rose. This was the pre-disaster Jessica. The annoying, know-it-all saucy-pants who’d tried their patience and dragged a string of hearts behind her down the halls. It was good to have her back. “Do tell.”

  “First,” Jessica said, still staring straight ahead, “Petruchio’s acting the way he does to show Kate how it feels to live with a person who’s violent, bad-tempered, and unpredictable.”

  Rachel nodded. “So you think he’s mirroring her behavior back to herself.”

  “Also, he’s keeping her on her toes, proving to her that she won’t be able to set the terms of their relationship.”

  Chris nodded. “I can see that.”

  “Jessica has a good point,” Rachel said. “And I’d expected nothing less.”

  Jessica’s gaze slid to meet Rachel’s, a tiny smile curling her lips.

  ~*~

  The agenda during Rachel’s afternoon pit stop at Lynn’s that week included more than just coffee. She’d come to hear an update on Operation Best Man. After settling Rachel in with a fresh mug, Lynn pulled out her phone, opened to her internet browser, and began typing. “Here’s what I was thinking. What if you wore a tuxedo dress?”

  Rachel lifted her head from slurping her coffee. “A what?”

  After two more clicks, Lynn extended the phone for Rachel to see. “A tuxedo dress.”

  Rachel gaped at the checkerboard of images. Surely not.

  “Ignore the ones that look like lingerie.” Lynn swept Rachel’s most obvious objection aside. “Look at this one. And this one.” Lynn tapped photos of actual dresses modeled after men’s tuxedos—fitted like jackets across the shoulders, bust, and waist and tapering into slim skirts. “I’ll bet we could find you something like that.”

  “I don’t know,” Rachel said. “I don’t want to look like a man.”

  Lynn chuckled. “Rachel. You could wear an actual tuxedo and no one would mistake you for a man. But don’t worry. I’ll find you the right one. Just leave it to me.”

  “Well, you’d better hurry.” And she wasn’t kidding.

  The wedding was imminent.

  ~*~

  Rachel stood in the domed hall of the botanical gardens, clutching a spool of tulle and gaping at the woman coordinating the afternoon’s events. It was a bit like peering through a wormhole and viewing Sharon thirty years in the future—hopefully, just one of many potential futures. Rachel had a hard time believing anyone married to Lee would end up wound this tightly.

  Topping out at five feet tall, Deirdre Day nevertheless surveyed the room as if she were an ancient potentate overseeing her matriarchal kingdom. When her gaze fell on Rachel, she frowned.

  Rachel hitched the tulle higher and scurried forward, pulling in deep breaths and inwardly reciting Othello’s “put out the light” speech to calm herself. She’d promised Lee that she would keep the wedding weekend running smoothly. As if volunteering to help decorate the hall was a scenario that would lend itself to smooth sailing. Rachel couldn’t even wrap presents without it looking as if someone had attacked them. She could no more decorate a wedding hall than she could perform a spinning back kick.

  She could, however, follow explicit instructions and act as a facilitator, ferrying supplies to and from the car and mediating between the botanical gardens staff and Deirdre Day. This role would fulfill her promise to Lee and assuage Ian’s concerns about her safety and well-being. While the latter hadn’t expressly forbidden her from using scissors, standing on chairs, or climbing ladders, he had indicated that he’d feel more comfortable if she’d refrain from any activity that would subject her to injury.

  The least she could do was keep herself in one piece until after the wedding. She considered this her gift to Lee and Sharon.

  One of the elderly volunteers approached Mrs. Day, wringing his hands as she directed one of her minions to drag some potted trees out of the way so that the rows of seats would not have to be slanted. “Oh, no, ma’am, we really can’t allow you to disturb the ficuses! They’re arranged so they’ll receive the perfect balance of sunlight for the season.”

  Mrs. Day inclined her head and regarded the elderly volunteer through the rims of her half-glasses. Rachel could see straight up her nostrils.

  “If they need sun, plant them outside. This is Florida, isn’t it? The Sunshine State?” Sharon’s mom gestured broadly with one arm as if putting the whole state on display. Her little bulb nose quivered. “In this room, we must somehow fit the appropriate number of seats and still leave room at the back for tables to hold food for the reception. The reception at which, apparently, only the bridal party will sit down while the guests are expected to eat standing up. Considering what we’re paying, I hardly think it too much of a sacrifice for you to allow us this one concession.” Having given her final word on the subject, she turned her back on the volunteer and proceeded with directions on moving the plants.

  The volunteer, obviously braver than Rachel would have credited, stepped into Mrs. Day’s line of sight. He raised a wrinkled finger. “You are very astute. But we don’t plan to plant them outside until after the summer rains. Ficuses, you see, do best in drier soil…”

  Deirdre Day stepped around him. He extended a hand as if to tug at her sleeve.

  Rachel dropped the tulle into a nearby chair and skipped forward, sliding her hand into his outstretched one and patting it. She leaned in conspiratorially. “She’s leaving soon to meet with the caterer,” she whispered in his ear. “I’ll help you move them back after she leaves.”

  He gave her a wink, tapped the side of his nose, and then shuffled off to oversee the movement of the ficuses.

  Rachel turned to find Deirdre Day scrutinizing her through narrowed eyes.

  “Robin, isn’t it?” she asked distastefully. “And how do you know my Sharon? I keep forgetting.”

  “I’m a friend of Lee’s. And it’s Rachel.” As she very well knew. They’d only been introduced about a dozen times.

  Mrs. Day sniffed. “Well, Robin, it would have been nice to have some help with the fetching and carrying today. It really is too bad that Lee couldn’t find time to pitch in.”

  “He’s picking up your husband from the airport,” Rachel said, although she suspected the woman knew where Lee was. Rachel’s breath quickened. If this kept up, she’d need someone to run interference between Sharon’s mother and herself.

  “Well,” Deirdre sniffed. “He certainly picked a good time to do it.”

  Rachel wanted to point out that Lee couldn’t very well be blamed for his future in-laws flying down separately at inconvenient times, but she wasn’t sure she could do it without escalating into sarcasm.

  Instead, she took Deirdre Day’s arm and steered her toward the far end of the room and the tall windows overlooking the gardens themselves.

  She spoke calmly, willing the roiling in her chest to die down. “Lee says orienting the service toward this end of the hall will ensure good lighting for the photographer. As mother of the bride, you’ll be seated on this side, of course, and you’ll have a perfect view of the whole bridal party.” Rachel wondered if Mrs. Day had realized yet that she—“Robin”—was the best man. It would probably be best for everyone involved that it not come up until it was too late.

  Fortunately, Rachel’s phone vibrated in her pocket. A glimpse of the ID on the screen sent her heart kicking into overdrive. Ridiculous. She excused herself before her blush gave Mrs. Day sunburn.

 
Not wanting to seem giddy or overly excited, Rachel shifted into her Professional Teacher Mode. She squared her shoulders, flipped her hair back, and lifted the phone to her ear. “This is Rachel,” she said in a calm, measured tone. Then she sneezed. Stupid allergies.

  “Bless you.” Ian’s voice was low, cool, amused.

  Rachel wheezed and wiped her eyes. “Thanks. I need it.”

  “Just calling to check in and make sure you haven’t injured yourself today.”

  Rachel snuffled into the phone. Cupping her hand over the receiver, she headed toward the exit at the back of the hall. She swiped a giant white napkin from one of the tables and sneezed again. She accidentally dislodged a tray of cutlery and braced herself for the impact as hundreds of forks hit the ivory tile. To her astonishment, the box of forks fell with considerably less racket than she’d anticipated. Someone—Mrs. Day, no doubt—had purchased the sort of fancy plastic cutlery meant to look like real silver. Rolling her eyes, she lifted the tray of forks and set it atop an identical one holding disposable silver knives. She then ducked out of the room to avoid Mrs. Day’s affronted glare.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing. I haven’t so much as stubbed a toe.”

  “It’s still early. Plenty of time for a few broken bones or a casual stalking or two.”

  “How dare you,” Rachel said in mock offense. She had the satisfaction of hearing a quick outrush of breath. As laughs go, it wasn’t much. For Ian, this was practically hysteria. She imagined his eyelids crinkling at the corners and tripped over the doormat as she exited the hall. She grunted a little as she caught her balance.

  “What now?”

  “It’s nothing.” She cleared her throat and fanned her face with the floppy, oversized napkin. She pushed the door open with her shoulder and stepped out into daylight.

  “Are you coming down with a cold? Because technically that could count as being injured.”

  “I’m not coming down with a cold. For your information, I’m allergic to the botanical gardens.” She lowered her voice. “Also, Sharon’s mother. Probably.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Too bad I have allergies or too bad I’m not coming down with a cold? Because I have to tell you that your comments could be interpreted either way.”

  “If you were coming down with a cold, I would come over tonight and bring you chicken soup.”

  Rachel grinned goofily at the sky. She gave a delicate cough. “My throat is feeling a little scratchy.”

  “Too late. You've already tipped your hand.”

  Through the large-paned windows looking into the main hall, Rachel saw Mrs. Day haranguing the elderly volunteer, gesturing grandly toward the ficuses. She groaned. “I have to go. There’s drama.”

  “Nothing dangerous, I hope.” His tone was dry, so she knew he was teasing.

  “No,” she assured him. “Just ficuses.”

  ~*~

  Rachel didn’t see Ian that night, with or without chicken soup; but she was too caught up in wedding prep to spare herself much time for disappointment.

  She’d only just escaped the botanical gardens when she was press-ganged by Lee and Sharon into helping hand-assemble the wedding programs, which sounded fine until Rachel arrived and saw what the project actually entailed.

  The programs were circular. According to Lee, their shape signified love’s never-ending continuum. Rachel reminded him that the Death Star was also round, but he didn’t appreciate the joke.

  Each circular program needed to be cut individually. Fortunately, Lee had a dye-cut machine left over from his teaching days.

  Since the programs were multi-layered with an embossed overlay, each one had to be affixed with a silver fastener. Before the fastening was done, a small window was cut into each overlay. This created a timepiece effect, with the spinning top layer rotating over the program to follow the day’s chain of events.

  The result was simple, elegant, meaningful, and quintessentially Lee. The process, however, made Rachel want to strangle him. Why couldn’t he just print regular, square wedding programs like a normal person?

  While Sharon ran the dye-cut machine and Lee cut freehand windows into the overlays with a razor blade, Rachel fitted the layers together and pinned them, grumbling all the while that artists with high standards should not be allowed to plan weddings.

  Already grumpy by an afternoon spent wrangling over ficuses with Dierdre Day, she jabbed a fastener through the layers with too much force and stabbed herself in the pad of her thumb. Dropping the program, she hissed and brought her thumb to her lips. The wound wasn’t bleeding, but her thumb turned an angry, pulsing red.

  Sharon cooed with sympathy, but Lee just waved her toward the kitchen. “Get some ice.”

  “I don’t need ice.” Ice would mean she was injured. Partially to distract him and partially because she really did need to know, she asked, “Isn’t your mother’s graduation from rehab coming up?” She thought it was sweet that the treatment program had graduations. Sweet and sad.

  Lee grunted without looking up. “She already graduated. They held a little ceremony and gave her a certificate and everything. She gets released tomorrow afternoon.” His voice was wry. “Just in time for the wedding.” He set down the box cutter and rubbed his eyes.

  Rachel’s heart squeezed. She wanted to comfort him, but before she could speak, Sharon leaned over Lee and set a small hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m glad she’s coming to the wedding.” Sharon’s eyelashes barely fluttered. “She’s your mom. And I know you’re worried she’ll cause a scene or create problems, but I don’t care. Problems or no problems—she should be there.”

  Smiling, Rachel reached for the program she’d dropped. She fixed the fastener in place. Turning it in her hands, she stared at the little window Lee had cut, marveling at the precise edges. She slowly moved the window clockwise, studying the events of the wedding day and wondering if—against all odds—everything could possibly run as smoothly as planned.

  Nothing ever did.

  She slowly spun the overlay and stopped the window over the words Exchange of Vows. There she paused, thinking. Before she’d fastened the overlay in place, all of the events of the wedding day had been fully laid out before her. Once the overlay was in place, however, she could view only one event at a time. While adding beauty and complexity to the program, it nevertheless had the effect of limiting her view of the big picture. Now in order to see what else was planned for the day, she had to keep rotating the window, moving it through the sequence, one by one.

  She rotated the wedding program. What must it must feel like for God, to have all time spread out before Him, able to turn it at His will?

  She spun the program in her hands.

  God, of course, could see without the overlay. He knew both what lay behind and what lay ahead. Her job was not to spin the dial. Her job was to deal with the segment laid bare before her as she waited to see what the next panel revealed.

  This was how life worked. One thing at a time.

  My times are in Your hand. The words rang in Rachel’s mind. Where had she heard them? Wracking her brain, she dimly remembered having jotted them down in the sermon notes section of her resolutions notebook.

  Lee’s voice cut through the fog. “If you’ve slowed down because of your injury,” he said dryly, “you should know that I don’t pay workman’s comp.”

  Rachel looked up from the program, still reeling from her moment of clarity. Was this what it felt like to have prayers for wisdom answered? She curled her hands around the circle of paper, feeling her spirits rise.

  “What does that look mean?” Lee asked.

  “Nothing.” She waggled the program at him and smiled at Sharon. “I can keep this, right?” She leaned down to slip it into her bag at her feet.

  “Well, sure,” Sharon said slowly. “Although you can get one the day of the wedding.”

  Rachel sniffed and reached for another fastener. “I’m in
the wedding party. I probably won’t get a program. And I want to keep one.”

  She saw Sharon’s misty smile dawn and felt a little guilty, knowing Sharon probably interpreted this as a show of sentiment.

  Sharon wasn’t entirely wrong. Rachel did want to remember this moment. Not because she wanted to remember hand-assembling programs for a former-student-turned-coworker-turned-beloved-friend’s wedding.

  Instead, she wanted to commemorate the day she sensed her prayers being answered.

  21

  The morning of the rehearsal dawned bright and warm, the coolness of winter having passed some weeks ago into Florida’s pre-summer heat. The day—not to mention the entire weekend—would be long, exhausting, and fraught with tension, so Rachel skipped her early-morning workout in lieu of an extra two hours of sleep. She awoke to texts from both Ann and Coach Donovan telling her she was lazy (Ann) and she needed to be consistent in order to build up her teep-kicking skills (Donovan). She ignored them both.

  She arrived for school Friday morning feeling groggy and lethargic, hardly able to believe she had to wade through an entire work day before diving headfirst into what was sure to be an exhausting weekend. Not even her favorite class could perk her up.

  “Are you feeling all right, Miss Cooper?” Todd raised an index finger to push up his glasses and blink at her owlishly. He couldn’t be more of a stereotype if he'd tried.

  Rachel clutched her Sneaky Coffee. “I’m fine.”

  Chris regarded her from beneath his bristling brows. “You don’t have to pretend with us, Miss Cooper.”

  “Pretend—what?”

  “We know what’s bothering you.”

  “You do?” She sipped her coffee. This should be amusing. Or horrifying.

  “Mr. Martin’s getting married this weekend.”

  “Yes,” Rachel maintained a bland expression as she stared at him over the rim of her mug. “It’ll be very busy.”

  Shayla tilted her head sideways in sympathy. “You know what he means.”