Finding Holly

by B. E. Baker

  I consider telling Paul about the new artwork in his guest room, but I decide against it. His nephew, his problem. When I walk outside, I glance around. Food, food, food. So many food options that I shouldn’t pursue with Troy, and not much else to do until after the ceremony.

  “How do you guys feel about helping Aunt Paisley draw some fun pictures on the tablecloths? I bet Aunt Mary would be so excited if we did that.”

  The boys jump up and down.

  “I doubt Mary and Luke really want you drawing pictures on their white linen tablecloths,” a deep voice behind me says.

  “Spoilsport,” I say as I turn around.

  Hawk guy is smiling at me. He pulls a pen out of the inside pocket of his jacket. “But since you see them often enough to refer to Luke’s intended as Aunt Mary, I suppose you’d know better than me.”

  I take the pen with a flourish. “Let’s leave a message at Mary and Luke’s table first.” The boys follow me over, hawk guy trailing along behind, probably to safeguard his pen.

  “Mom might get mad at me,” Troy says. “Her face got really red when I wrote my name on her bedspread.”

  Hawk guy stifles a laugh.

  “This is different,” I say. “These are white tablecloths, and I helped with the wedding. I happen to know it was the same price to buy them as to rent them, so they own these. And there’s no way they need two hundred white tablecloths. I promise, if your mom gets mad, I’ll tell her this was all my idea.”

  “What about my mom?” Chase asks, his eyes earnest.

  “Your what?” I ask.

  “My mom,” Chase says. “Will you tell her you told me to do it?”

  My heart expands a little bit when he calls Mary his mom. I mean, she will be his step-mom after today, but I know she wants him to think of her as his mother. Suddenly I know just what to do. “I think your mom would appreciate a little message, maybe right next to her cake plate.”

  The boys follow me over to the raised table where Mary and Luke will be cutting the cake. I point. “Right here. Can you write yet?”

  Chase shakes his head wistfully.

  “Can you sign your name?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Chase says.

  “Okay, then draw a picture of you and your mom here.” I point at the white spot by the cake plate. “And then I’ll write your message, and you can sign it.”

  “Can you say ‘I love you the most, Mom?” Chase asks.

  I’m glad I used waterproof mascara when I write the words like he asked. I swipe at a tear and finish up. Then Chase draws a picture of what appears to be Edward Scissorhands standing next to Mrs. Potato Head.

  “Do you think she’ll like it?” he asks.

  “I think she’ll love it,” Hawk guy says.

  “I do too,” I say.

  Then we move down the table to leave a similar message for Trudy.

  “You’re the best mom,” Troy says. “Can you write that?”

  I take down his message, and then Troy draws himself holding nearly normal sized hands with Trudy. Hawk guy watches with a half-smile on his face.

  “Are you good at drawing dogs, mister?” Troy asks.

  “I can draw a dog,” I protest. “Why didn’t you ask me?”

  Troy scrunches his nose.

  My jaw drops. “Are you saying I can’t draw a dog?”

  “The last time you drew a dog, it looked more like a pickle,” Troy says.

  “A pickle?” I feign outrage, but actually I am a little annoyed. A four year old is criticizing my form?

  Hawk guy laughs and bends over next to the picture, drawing a stupidly cute cartoon dog, featuring a wagging tail and a bandana. He even adds a balloon to Trudy’s hand, making the whole thing look like a carnival caricature.

  “Do you like kids?” I ask him. “Because you draw much better pickles, I mean dogs, than I do. That almost looks like a practiced hand. Are you a professional cartoonist?”

  “Not hardly, but I never really grew up. Maybe that’s the secret.” He shrugs. “I haven’t really been around children often.”

  At least he’s honest.

  “You had better sign it,” I tell Troy. “So your mom knows who left her this note.”

  Troy’s tongue sticks out of the side of his mouth as he scrawls his name down and across the bottom of the picture. He hands the pen to Hawk guy. “Now you.”

  He clears his throat. “I better not. I was only drawing at your direction, after all.”

  I cock one eyebrow. “Are you afraid that we’ll stalk you, once we know your name?”

  “Oh, oh,” Chase says. “I do know his name.”

  “You’d better share,” I say.

  “It’s Mister Jim. He’s friends with my daddy, and he works at a place that gives money to people.”

  “You give money to people, Mister Jim?” I hold out my hand. “I like money. I’d like to get in line for that.”

  “Actually, people who wipe their own backside usually just call me Jim.” He places his large palm in mine and shakes my hand.

  A much larger thrill shoots up my arm and I drop his hand like it burned me. “That was not money,” I say stupidly.

  He shakes his head. “No, it wasn’t. You’re right. That was just my hand.”

  I swallow. “Sorry about that. I—”

  “Does backside mean the same thing as bum?” Chase asks. “Because I wipe my own bum. All the time. Dad just has to check it to make sure it’s clean.”

  I snort. “I think Mister Jim was making a joke.”

  Troy lifts his eyebrows and pins me with a serious gaze. “You don’t wipe your own bum, Aunt Paiswey?”

  Heat floods my cheeks. “Of course I do.”

  “Then why are you calling him Mister Jim?” Troy looks from Jim to me and back again.

  I open my mouth and then close it again. I toss my hands up in the air. “You caught me.”

  “You should talk to my mom,” Troy says. “She’s good at teaching how to do that.”

  Jim’s laughing so hard I’m worried he’s going to choke. Or maybe I’m hoping he’ll choke.

  “I think it’s about time for us to find our seats,” I say.

  “You should try and catch the flowers when Mom throws them,” Chase suggests helpfully. “Because you don’t have a dad yet, right?”

  I need to find a place to hide. “I do have a dad,” I clarify. “But I don’t have a husband yet.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Jim says. “Maybe that means you won’t mind sitting next to me for the ceremony. I don’t have a wife to keep me out of trouble.”

  Troy’s eyes light up. “That’s perfect! Aunt Paiswey can’t draw dogs, and you don’t have a wife! You could get married and then you can always be around to draw dogs for me.”

  “I’ll certainly take that suggestion under advisement,” James says.

  “I need to get you boys up to the front,” I say. “Because you’re part of the wedding party. And while I’d enjoy sitting next to you, unmarried Mister Jim, I’m also part of the wedding party, so I can’t, not this time.”

  Jim sighs heartily. “I suppose I’ll have to keep trolling around, looking for someone else who can warm the seat next to me then.”

  “Trolling?” Chase asks.

  I shake my head. “Never mind. Let’s go.” I grab each boy by the hand and walk them toward the front. “It was nice meeting you, Jim. Maybe you can save me a spot to stand next to you while they cut the cake.”

  “I’ll be sure to elbow anyone who steps too close until you arrive. And when Mary throws her bouquet, I can give you a boost so you can catch it.” He cocks his head sideways and grins.

  My stomach does a tiny somersault.

  I don’t mean to do it, but I look over my shoulder as I walk toward the front.

  Jim winks at me.

  I gulp in a breath and walk a little faster. We reach the line just in time, Troy’s tiny legs pumping as he runs over to stand in front of Luke.

  Five s
econds after I find my spot, the music starts and Mary appears at the front of the guest house on Trudy’s arm. The two of them had such a bumpy start that they only really had each other. Watching Trudy, who’s almost done with school, and who has a decent job, and who’s taking care of her life so well, arm-in-arm with Mary, my heart swells. Mary has always done exactly what she should. She’s always there for everyone in her life, but she never puts herself first.

  But now she has Luke, and he takes care of her. He puts her first. For the first time in her life, she’s luminous, and I couldn’t possibly be happier. For all of them, really. It’s like a real life fairy tale, complete with two kids and a dog.

  Mary beams at Amy, who’s so excited she’s bouncing up and down on her toes.

  Chase and Troy leave their place in line and rush over to stand in front of Luke, but he doesn’t miss a beat. His hand ruffles the hair on both their heads, and tears flood my eyes. Hydrangeas, white roses, and blue orchids cover every surface. Mary beams at Luke, while he looks longingly at Mary, like without her, he can’t breathe.

  I wipe away tear after tear as they stream down my face.

  When the pastor starts talking, I glance over to check on Amy, but my eyes catch on something—someone really. Because he’s staring at me.

  Jim.

  It’s so uncool of me to beam at him, but I can’t quite help myself. I haven’t been excited about a guy in over a year. Maybe longer.

  Our eyes meet at least three more times during the ceremony, and he never acts embarrassed or looks away. After Mary says ‘I do,’ and the pastor tells Luke he can kiss his bride, Luke grabs her around the waist and spins her. The audience ooohs. Then Luke dips her and the audience aaaahs.

  When Mary’s veil catches on a vase full of flowers and it crashes to the ground, everyone laughs. That’s the kind of overwhelming sense of joy that saturates this event. No disaster can spoil it.

  Amy’s tiny voice shouts, “Woohoo! Nice one Dad! No one even noticed the flowers, I swear.”

  Everyone, myself included, starts clapping.

  I rush over with Troy and Chase in tow, and Amy trots along afterward. It’s time to cut the cake, and my eyes scan the crowd, searching.

  A deep voice behind me says, “You made it here first, but you didn’t save me a spot.”

  “Did so,” Troy says. “Right here.” He points at a flagstone. “You can even hold her hand.”

  Jim chuckles. “Thanks, young man. I appreciate your vote of confidence.”

  Even though I’m still surrounded by kids, Jim doesn’t shy away. The tiny thrill is back, which means I like him. It’s a good feeling, crushing on a new guy. I lean in to it.

  Amy frowns up at him. “Why is Mister Jim standing so close to you?”

  Chase laughs. “Amy can’t wipe her bum.”

  Troy and Chase collapse in a heap of giggles.

  “You’re going to regret ever making that comment,” I say.

  “They remember everything, don’t they?” Jim asks.

  “Every single thing,” I say. “And if you ever swear within a hundred feet of them.” I shake my head. “Forget about it. They’ll rat you out as the source of the newfound knowledge to anyone who asks, too.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Jim says.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Luke says. “It means a lot to us that so many of our dear friends and family could celebrate with us today.”

  “But we know what you really want is cake,” Mary says. “So we won’t delay.”

  “Cake!” Chase yells. “We do want cake.”

  Mary smiles and lifts the knife. Luke covers her hand with his and they cut the first slice together. When Mary shoves it into Luke’s mouth, smearing frosting on his cheek, Amy gasps.

  “That’s rude,” she says.

  “It’s a wedding tradition,” I say.

  “I’m not doing that at my wedding,” Amy says.

  I shake my head. “Me either. It’s not very dignified, is it?”

  “It sure isn’t.”

  Jim bumps me with his shoulder. “But it’s funny.” His phone is out, and he snaps a photo of Luke’s frosting covered face.

  “How long have you known Luke?” I ask.

  “Years and years,” he says. “Since college.”

  “You’re a Harvard man?” I ask. “I’m surrounded by those now.”

  “You must know Paul, then,” he says.

  “And my dear friend Geo recently agreed to marry Trig,” I say. “Do you know Trig?”

  Jim’s mouth quirks up. “I do.”

  “Whoa, sounds like you may not be on friendly terms.” I look at him sideways. “If I call Trig, would he have nice things to say about you?”

  “Unlikely,” Jim says.

  “But you’re here at Luke’s wedding,” I say. “And no one has punched you.”

  Jim shakes his head. “We got all of that out of our systems years ago, but I’m honestly surprised I got an invite, since the ceremony is here at Paul’s house. He and I don’t get along.”

  That justifies additional investigation. “Paul’s not exactly squeaky clean himself.”

  “Paul?” Troy asks. “He’s my mom’s friend.”

  Jim laughs. “Indeed he is.”

  “I really like his dog,” Troy says. “It will catch a ball and then bring it back, but it’s all slobbery.”

  “That’s a pretty good thing for a dog to do,” I say. “Does your dog do that, Chase?”

  Before Chase can answer, Amy puts a hand on her hip. “Not really, no. Great Pyrenees aren’t very good about playing fetch. They’re too smart for silly tasks like that.”

  Jim laughs silently next to me. “It does seem like a rather pointless game.”

  Troy frowns. “I like it.”

  Amy rolls her eyes. “Little boys like silly things.”

  She’s so gloriously patronizing. “Grown up boys aren’t much better,” I say.

  Jim doesn’t argue with me.

  Once the cake is cut, Trudy and Luke retrieve their children, leaving me free to wander.

  “You’re good with them,” Jim says. “The kids I mean.”

  I shrug. “It happens when your friends all go to the dark side and start popping them out. I’m sure it’ll happen to you, too.”

  “It might, if I had friends.”

  “Everyone has friends,” I say.

  “I only have one,” he says.

  “If that’s true, it’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Jim shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

  “Who’s your one friend?” I ask.

  “Can you guess?”

  “Is it Luke?”

  He nods. “Luke is a really good person, and even though I’m not, he overlooks it. If I knew more people like him, I might try harder to make new friends.”

  “You think people are basically all bad?” I ask.

  “The people I’ve met have mostly been . . . unreliable.”

  “I’m reliable,” I say. “Mostly.”

  “Mostly?” he asks.

  “Occasionally I’m late,” I admit. “But usually only when there’s been a horrifying shoe emergency or something equally serious.”

  “What exactly constitutes a shoe emergency?” he asks.

  “Once my heel broke off in a crack on the pavement,” I say. “And another time, a new pair of shoes rubbed such a bad blister I had to take the right one off and walk four blocks on the pavement, which ended with a piece of glass in my foot.”

  “I might recommend more practical footwear,” Jim says.

  My eyes widen. “You clearly don’t know me very well.”

  He laughs. “Not yet I don’t, but let me grab us each a piece of cake, and I’ll continue my interrogation.”

  I wander over toward a table with empty seats, and Jim joins me a moment later with two pieces. One is chocolate, and one is vanilla.

  “Do I get to choose which I want?” I ask.

  “Nope,” he s
ays. “You get the vanilla. There was only one slice of chocolate left.”

  “Rude,” I say.

  “I’m kidding.” He smiles and offers me the chocolate.

  I shake my head. “As it happens, I actually prefer vanilla.”

  “So you’re not really female?” He narrows his eyes at me. “Because I’m positive I’ve never met a woman who prefers vanilla to chocolate.”

  I snatch the vanilla slice and sit down.

  Jim sits down next to me. “If you don’t like chocolate, then what do your boyfriends do when they mess up?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I dump every guy the second he makes a mistake,” I say. “So it never comes up.”

  “I’ve never actually been dumped,” he says.

  “Oh?” I ask. “You always do the breaking up?”

  He shakes his head. “I’d have to be in a relationship first, and I’ve never had a real one.”

  He’s got to be thirty, at least. He’s never had a girlfriend? “You really are bad news,” I say.

  “What does that mean?”

  Color rises in my cheeks. “I might have mentioned to Trudy that you looked handsome last night.”

  “Ah,” he says. “And she promptly told you not to talk to me.”

  “Something like that.”

  “And yet, you’re talking to me. So, what exactly did she say?”

  “She told me you’re a bad egg.”

  “Was that some kind of Easter pun?” he asks.

  I shrug.

  “Is that all she said?”

  “Well, usually that would be all she needed to say.”

  “And yet here you are.” He takes a big bite.

  I watch him chew. The sight and sound of people eating usually grosses me out. When I was little, I suffered through hours and hours and hours of training in exactly how to take bites, chew, and swallow with refinement. You can’t endure all of that and not become at least a teensy bit critical of the way most Americans gobble, slurp, and chomp. In fact, sometimes, when I’m around sloppy eaters, I intentionally eat as uncouthly as possible to see if they’ll notice. They rarely do. Rob is the worst—I practically eat like a long haul trucker around him and he has never even seemed to notice.