The Rejected Writers' Christmas Wedding

by Suzanne Kelman

  She nodded. It was pointless to lie to him. Besides, she needed someone to talk to other than Mr. Darcy. As she retreated to the couch to take off her shoes and he to the kitchen, she shouted back toward him, “Then you can tell me why you’re creeping around my kitchen this evening.”

  “Oh,” he said, poking his head out of the kitchen door and smiling. “Well, that would have something to do with this.” He appeared back in the living room with a vase of her favorite flowers: white lilies.

  She melted. “Where did you get these?” she inquired, having a pretty good idea.

  He laughed. “At the only flower shop in town,” he smiled, handing them to her.

  As he headed back into the kitchen, she inhaled their fragrant scent and smiled at his poor arrangement of them. “How did you get them out the shop without me knowing?”

  “That was the hard part, but fortunately, I’m having a wild, passionate affair with a woman that works there, Mrs. Bickerstaff,” he joked. “And she lets me sneak out flowers whenever I need to.”

  She smiled. She’d just remembered it was Thursday and that the flower shop stayed open late on Thursdays, but Flora had left early for her bridal shower.

  “So I take it this is why you are here and I don’t need to count the silver?”

  He came back into the room and joined her on the sofa. He had made a pot of her favorite peppermint tea and poured her a cup.

  “If you had any silver, then it’s long gone by now. That’s the real reason I’m marrying you, by the way.”

  She smiled as she took a sip of her tea and snuggled up, catlike, next to him. It was true. She had some inheritance after losing both her parents. As the only child, everything had gone to her.

  “Seriously,” he said. “What’s wrong? I can tell you’re unhappy.” He laced his hand in hers, and she sighed.

  “It’s the wedding,” she said without hesitation.

  He pulled back, appearing taken off balance. “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts?” The concern on his face was real.

  “No,” she responded, squeezing his hand and snuggling deep into his shoulder.

  “Phew,” he responded, obviously relieved. “I’m glad, because I already bought my dress.”

  She laughed then and punched him playfully on the arm.

  “What about the wedding?” he asked.

  “When you proposed to me, I had this fairy-tale notion about how it would be. After my mom passed away, I thought that the planning would have been the hardest part of it, yet everybody and their aunt has been more than willing to share their opinion, and it’s driving me mad. Everyone wants to tell me what color my flowers should be, the best bridesmaid dresses, caterers to hire, et cetera, et cetera. I haven’t been left alone for a second to even think about what I really want. I just need some time to catch my breath.”

  “I know what you mean. It’s the same at the garage. Everyone wants to know what color socks and tie I’m wearing,” he said playfully.

  She giggled. “You don’t know how lucky you are. Nobody cares much about the groom, as long as he shows up.”

  “Well, I won’t take that personally,” he said. “I happen to think it’s also pretty important that the bride shows up, too.” He cuddled her then.

  “You know what I mean,” she responded. “I just wish we could run away. At this time of year when I was young, Mom and Dad would take me to a little bed and breakfast in Leavenworth. It was called the Nest, tucked up high in the mountains. I would walk for miles in the snow or enjoy the little wood-burning fireplace in our bedroom, drinking hot chocolate snuggled under blankets. I would take a book and curl up there all day and watch the snow as the wind would take hold of it, blowing it into flurries, making it sway and dance and then fall into drifts. I would close my eyes and listen to the wood crackle and pop in the fireplace. I’d spend blissful afternoons falling asleep that way, with the smell of chocolate and cinnamon infiltrating my dreams.”

  Dan smiled at her and pulled her closer.

  “This is how I became a poet. I would listen to the wind and the fire, and the intoxicating experience started to roll across my mind, becoming words. I know it sounds silly now, but I never felt safer than when I was sleeping in front of those little fires. In fact, when Dad passed away, it was the only place I wanted to go to after the funeral. Mom wasn’t up to it, so I caught the train all the way there and spent a week at the Nest. It was also the place I went to when Mom passed away after Dad, four years ago.” Flora’s voice trailed away.

  Dan appeared to feel the pain that filled the room. He took her hand. “I know you wish your mom were here,” he said quietly as he drew her in closely again.

  Flora hadn’t really been feeling sad, but suddenly, from nowhere, silent tears started to slide down her face. “I hadn’t realized that until right now,” she said, surprised by her emotion. She pulled a cotton handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose. “Everyone has been giving me their opinion, but deep down it was just my mom’s voice I wanted to hear.”

  He held her tightly, kissing her gently.

  She cried quietly for a while; then she blew her nose and felt much better. She hadn’t even realized that her mother’s passing was bothering her, but now it seemed obvious as she felt the void.

  “Maybe I can help with your plans,” he said gently.

  She smiled. He was being kind, but she knew he wouldn’t be of any help for what she needed. “Good,” she said coyly. “Tomorrow you can help me pick out the right shade of pink for my roses.”

  He blinked. “There’s more than one shade of pink?” he responded with mock horror.

  She shook her head, thinking about how everything felt just right with the world when she was lying in his arms.

  Chapter 6

  Poopy & Dribble: The Sequel

  The next morning, we stood at SeaTac baggage claim at eleven a.m., waiting for the arrival of the grandbabies. We had both been down to San Francisco many times to stay with Stacy and Chris, and we had just seen them at Thanksgiving. But this was the first time we were going to have them with us for an extended amount of time. Martin had said she’d been vague when he’d asked how long she’d be staying and implied it was longer than just a weekend break. I knew Stacy and Chris had had their ups and downs over the last eighteen months, adjusting to this pair of energy bugs, but I hoped that my suspicions weren’t realized and that the marital stress I had been seeing was not causing them to drift apart.

  I eagerly watched the crowd roll out of the gates—mainly business travelers pulling little suitcases on wheels as they rushed to appointments and jobs. And as I scanned the arrival board, I noticed that Stacy’s plane had landed nearly forty-five minutes ago. What could be taking them so long?

  Martin stood by my side. He had taken the morning off to pick up Stacy and was whistling to himself as he waited. I couldn’t contain my worry.

  “I hope they’re all right and that the babies have not been affected too much by the flight.” I barely finished my sentence when I heard it: a sound like the faint hum of an incoming insect. But as it grew closer, the sound crescendoed into what was unmistakably the wail of two young babies crying at the top of their lungs.

  Martin stopped whistling and smiled wryly. “They sound fine to me,” he said, upbeat. “And they could have a career as a human typhoon warning system, for sure.”

  As the sound of the crying reached a fever pitch, I spotted them. James was slung over on his mother’s hip, his little hands balled up as he punched wildly at Stacy’s shoulder. His face was red and angry, and his tiny mouth screeched the word “No” over and over. In the stroller, Livvy, in pink tights and hair in bunches with bows, was kicking her legs wildly in the air. Her face was angry and blotchy from crying.

  Stacy had a diaper bag slung over her free shoulder, and two other bags hung on the handle of the stroller. A binky was pinned to the front of her creased shirt, her hair was in some kind of mangled bun and she was weari
ng sweatpants. I marveled at what motherhood had done to her. My pristine, had-it-all-together, type A–character daughter was baby mush. It had brought out the best and the worst in her.

  As Stacy spotted us, she said to the kids, “Oh look, there’s Grammy and Grandpa,” which in turn only seemed to escalate the screams to shrieks.

  “Looks like they’ve arrived,” Martin murmured to me. “And don’t they take after their mother.”

  I reprimanded him by tapping him on the arm and girded myself with a smile. I raced to meet them as they passed through security into the main part of the airport.

  Stacy thrust a bucking James into my arms, which only infuriated him more as he started to take his frustration out on me by bending as far out of my arms as he could in a full backbend. His mouth widened in a crimson-faced howl. Martin reached forward and kissed Stacy on the cheek, saying, “Sounds like you’ve had a lovely flight.”

  Stacy rolled her eyes. “You have no idea how bad it was.” She filled us in on all the things the twins had managed to do on the plane, finishing up with, “And they haven’t stopped screaming from the minute I left San Francisco until the moment we got off here.”

  Grabbing two bags from Stacy and picking up Livvy, Martin said, “Let’s get your luggage. Your baggage claim is over here.”

  Making our way to the conveyor belt, there seemed to be no one left waiting from Stacy’s flight, yet the conveyor belt seemed full. Slowly, Martin and I realized that the traveling circus of increments on the belt all belonged to Stacy: two car seats, four suitcases, two play saucers, and another stroller. Martin and I stood with our mouths open in disbelief.

  He whispered to me, “What, no kitchen sink? I’m definitely going to be spending a lot of time in my workshop.”

  I nudged him and snapped back, “Over my dead body.”

  It took two carts and all of us to haul everything to the car.

  “How could two tiny people need so much?” Martin whispered again as he started to pack and shove boxes into the trunk. “I only remember having a stroller when Stacy was young.”

  “Oh, it’s a whole new world,” I said. As we slammed the trunk shut, even with all the doors closed, we could still hear the twins protesting while Stacy strapped them into their car seats.

  My daughter suddenly shouted, “Livvy just threw up on your coat, Mom, I’m so sorry.”

  Martin smirked at me. “Glad I’m still wearing mine. We could run now. We’re right at the airport. Let’s take a plane to Hawaii, let them figure it out for themselves.”

  I was actually tempted.

  As we made our way into the screaming metal box and started the car, Stacy handed me a CD over my shoulder. “Play this,” she said. “it will help.”

  I put the CD into the player as Martin made his way out of the airport parking lot. It was hard to hear anything above the noise—and now there was kicking into the back of my seat. James had apparently decided this was the best way to get Grandma’s attention.

  Martin pumped up the music on the CD player as “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” blared out. The song was just getting to the loud pig noises “on the farm” when Martin wound down the window to pay for parking. The young man taking the tickets looked taken aback by the sheer volume of screaming and music. “Got yourself a regular show going on there,” he commented.

  Martin quipped back, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I went deaf about five minutes ago.”

  “They’re tired,” yelled Stacy as we left the airport and entered the freeway. “Give them about twenty minutes and they’ll both be asleep.”

  Martin looked at me with disbelief, but sure enough, within a short distance, both the twins were sleeping soundly.

  “I had them up so early this morning,” she said as she ran a hand through her wild hair and stared zombielike out the window. She sounded exhausted. I tried to decide if I was going to broach the elephant in the room—or the lack thereof.

  It appeared that Martin had the same thought. “Chris decided not to come with you, then?” he asked quietly.

  The awkward silence that followed confirmed our fears. I turned and saw the tears streaming down her face, and I knew. I reached between the seats and held my daughter’s hand. I’d suspected things were strained ever since we had been down to see them, but now I could see it clearly on her face. Things were not going well at all.

  Chapter 7

  Dusty Old Wedding Dresses & Flemish Nuns

  The next morning, I finally found the ringing phone that one of the twins had tucked into the cutlery drawer. I followed its muffled sound around the kitchen for five rings until I located it just before voice mail clicked in. It was Flora, and something was wrong with her tone.

  “Are you busy today?” she asked. “I could use some support.”

  “Let me see what Stacy has planned, and I will call you back,” I said. I hung up and turned from the kitchen counter just in time to catch Livvy as she was trying to launch herself into the trash can. I picked her up and walked upstairs. As Stacy had only just arrived, the last thing I wanted to do was leave her on her own. Our relationship had been rocky over the years, and I was hoping for some quality time with her while she was with me.

  I caught up with her as she was heading out of the shower, her hair wrapped in a towel turban.

  “Did I hear the phone?” she asked.

  “Yes, it was Flora.”

  Stacy leaned forward and rubbed her hair, drying off the ends. “How are the wedding plans going?” she asked as she flicked her dampened hair back onto her shoulders.

  “Things aren’t going exactly to plan.” I paused before emphasizing the words, “Doris Newberry!”

  Stacy smiled knowingly, having had her own encounters with Doris in the past.

  “She was hoping that I might be able to join her for a fitting today, but I told her that you were here and I thought we would probably want to spend time together.”

  Stacy looked uncomfortable. “Actually, it’s OK, Mom,” she said,” I have a friend coming over in a little while to keep me company.”

  I tried not to show the pain I was feeling from a stab in my heart. “Oh,” I exclaimed, taking in a sharp breath. “Friend,” I said, my voice a little tight, knowing full well that Stacy had no friends that I knew of on the island.

  “Annie’s coming over,” said Stacy, walking back into the bathroom to brush her hair. I felt a sharp jab again. So when she’d said her friend, she meant one of my friends.

  “We’re going to watch soaps together,” she added as she pulled a hairdryer out of the drawer. I continued to feel the tightness in my chest.

  I was glad that she and Annie had bonded, but it always felt a little sad that Stacy and I weren’t as close as I’d always wanted us to be. I had hoped that now the babies were here, maybe we’d have some time to get to know each other and get closer.

  “No problem,” I said airily as I tried to push down the hurt feelings that had now taken hold of my throat, “I’ll go hang out with Flora, then.”

  “Wonderful!” said Stacy, obviously glad to finish the conversation.

  I stepped over the top of the stairway gate and made my way down the stairs just as there was a knock at the door. I opened it—it was Annie. I tried not to show my disappointment. I really was glad that Stacy had found a friend.

  “Hi, Annie,” I said, my voice sounding a little more jubilant than normal.

  She came inside. In her arms were bundles of new clothes for the twins, and she’d also knitted two little teddy bears: one in pink and one in blue.

  “Where are my adopted nephew and niece?” she said in a jovial tone.

  “Annie!” shouted Livvy in her sweet little voice.

  “I didn’t realize the twins knew you that well,” I responded, shocked to hear Livvy call out to her like that.

  “Oh, we talk on the phone all the time,” chuckled Annie, shutting the front door.

  Stacy came downstairs with the twins—who
had both been tugging on the stairway gate—and smiled at her friend.

  “I have treats!” said Annie, her eyes glowing. “We are going to see if Richard’s baby is really his,” she said, apparently making some reference to the program they both like to watch.

  As Stacy nodded, I turned to my daughter. “I didn’t know you like soaps so much.”

  She looked exasperated and let out a huge sigh. “There’s not much to do at home in the morning with the twins, so I have become quite addicted,” she said, smiling at Annie. “Annie and I keep up on all of them,” she informed me. “She even sends me the soap magazines.”

  “Soap magazines?” I exclaimed. I had no idea there was such a thing.

  As the twins pattered excitedly behind Annie, they all made their way into the front room, and I made my way out the front door. As I walked down the path toward the car, I couldn’t help wondering to myself, Why don’t I like to knit or watch soaps? I have to admit that I was just a little jealous. I got into the car and called Flora—she needed me. I told her I was on my way, then I headed down my driveway and into town.

  Ten minutes later, I picked up Flora and we arrived at Charlotte’s dress shop in town, which also had a small supply of wedding dresses. Flora waited outside the door patiently as I parked the car. There were only two shops together here on Third Street—the high end of town, as it was called since it was away from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the village. The other shop was a little kitchen supply store that provided the inhabitants of Southlea Bay with every type of kitchen accoutrement.

  I rang the bell; Charlotte’s, being so exclusive, was always locked. Her bleak white face appeared in the doorway. As always, I thought it was odd that the shop owner was called Charlotte. The name didn’t seem to fit her character at all. She had grown up in France with a very Bohemian lifestyle and apparently was related to a duke or a lord in England. She was an elegant thin woman with straight black hair and chalk-white skin. She always wore the latest designer glasses and thick black eyeliner. She was sophisticated, but she had an air about her that seemed to indicate everything bored her, including her customers.