Geek Groom (Forever Geek Trilogy #2)

by Victoria Barbour

  Here’s where we stand. I’m acknowledging that I’m overly sensitive when it comes to my parents and that I’m quick to anger. I’ve also conceded that Evan might make a decent lawyer, if that’s something he wants to explore. But I do believe he’d be better served doing something different. I’ll just keep that to myself right now.

  For his part, Evan keeps trying to reassure me that he doesn’t really think I’m a spoiled snot. He’s also going to stop acting so cocky when it comes to acting like he knows what I’m going to do, since my failure to come home Sunday night scared the hell out of him.

  I have forgiven him, but the forgetting is a bit harder. Let’s just say that I’m trying very hard not to let his words run through my head in quiet moments. But I can’t help who I am. I will dwell on it for a while, although I’m handling it better than Mom, actually. She’s downright frosty with Evan all week, and a few times I’ve seen them in a huddle, Evan nodding and looking subdued while Mom gives him what I imagine is a bit of an earful. He won’t tell me what she says.

  But all that doesn’t matter tonight. The rehearsal went off about as smoothly as it can go. Monsignor Shea was running a bit late, so Mom and Mary provided some comic relief reenacting their fight while Ingrid gave the colour commentary. I can’t help but notice that while our moms are bosom buddies, there is a bit of disconnect between our fathers. Then again, Tories and New Democrats famously don’t get along.

  Want to know who is getting along splendidly? Ingrid and Daniel, Evan’s brother who lives in Texas. I met him for the first time today. And he and Ingrid have been joined at the hip since we picked him up at the airport. They’re out on the patio right now, and I swear to all that’s good and holy that they are giving each other some serious do-me eyes.

  The clinking of a glass makes me look. It’s Evan’s mom.

  “Thanks, everyone, for coming this evening, and thank you so much to Laura and Bruce for letting me use their kitchen to make this dinner tonight. I just wanted to say how happy I am for Evan, and for Jillian. From the first time I met this beautiful young woman, I knew, in the way a mother does, that I’d just met my son’s other half. I’m sure many of you here have heard the story of their very public fight in the middle of the road in the Cove, and for me, that was the moment I knew for sure that they were meant to be.”

  There’s a roar of laughs because by now, everyone has heard that tale.

  “Jillian. Evan,” she continues. “Don’t let anyone tell you marriage is easy. It’s not. It’s hard work. Perhaps the hardest you’ll ever do. But the secret to success is to know when to fight, and when to forgive. You’ll both change a lot in the years to come, but never ever change the way you feel about each other. Never stop believing that you’re meant for each other. And never, not for a second, let pride stand in the way of forgiveness.”

  Well, that toast answers one big question. She knows about what happened this weekend. That was a pretty pointed and poignant speech.

  Everyone is clapping and drinking Evan’s dad’s homemade partridgeberry wine, made just for this occasion.

  “Sounds like we were just given our orders,” Evan says, refilling my glass.

  “It’s good advice.”

  “My mother’s no dummy. Seven kids. One husband. She knows her stuff.”

  “Although, I do like the kiss and make up part the best.”

  “Do you really have to stay here tonight?” He kisses my hand and tucks my arm into his as we head to the backyard, which is draped in white lights and full of tables laden with his mother’s gourmet version of cold plates.

  “It’s tradition.”

  “And when have we cared about that?”

  “This time I care. When you leave here tonight, the next time you see me I’ll be walking down the aisle.”

  “Then I better make sure I see all of you tonight before I leave. Tell me, Professor Carew, have you ever made love in your parents’ house?”

  I pause for dramatic effect, as if I really need to think about this. “Not yet.”

  Call me silly, but before the night is over, that answer might change. If we can get away with it.

  2:07 pm. Saturday, July 6. The Basilica of St. John the Baptist.

  Cliché. That’s what this is. A terrible, terrible cliché. Only instead of the bride being late for the wedding, I’ve just overheard that Evan is missing. Okay. Not just Evan. All the friggin’ groomsmen are with him. What’s upsetting me is that no one will tell me what’s going on. As if frantic whispers and mad dashes in and out of the chapel where I’m waiting are supposed to be calming.

  Even Ingrid, my trusted partner in crime, is avoiding me.

  The only calm person in the room is Mom, who is doing her best to keep me amused by telling me about her wedding.

  I’m not listening because I’m not calm. Not in the least.

  Enough of this. I’m going to find my groom.

  “Jillian, you can’t leave,” Mom says, all her calm disappearing the instant I lay my hand on the door. “Someone might see you.”

  “Let them. I’m going to find Evan.”

  I’m out the door and halfway down the side aisle of the church when Dad comes rushing towards me.

  “It’s all good. They’re here. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Evan is here?”

  “Sure is.” Dad is pushing me back towards the chapel.

  “I don’t believe you.” I’m pushing back. I’m not stopping until I see him.

  “He’s here. I promise. Just give them a second to get—er, to get in place on the altar and we can get going.”

  “What’s going on, Dad?”

  “This is a story only Evan can tell you. But it’s one you’ll never forget.”

  He must be here because I see all my bridesmaids coming towards me, a cloud of wispy soft yellow chiffon floating down the hall. Ingrid is smiling. My sister-in-laws look mad enough to kill.

  I wonder which look I’m going to have when this is all over.

  “Care to tell me what happened,” I say to Ingrid as we stand at the back of the room while Mom makes sure all the girls are in their proper marching order.

  “I told you those swords were a bad idea.”

  “Please tell me no one else was stabbed.”

  “No. Not stabbed. It’s okay. Nothing’s ruined. Evan is here. He’s fine. You’re stunning. I’m possibly in love. This is a perfect day.”

  Sweet Mother of God. Can I handle Ingrid infatuated with my brother-in-law? Only time will tell, because right now the opening strains of Handel’s “Hornpipe” from Water Music on the huge organ are reverberating through the old stone church. I might not be the best Catholic around but I know when to respect tradition and history, and St. John’s Catholics have gotten hitched in this grand old building since 1855. That’s part of why I decided to fight for a church wedding. Plus, it helped reign in some of Evan’s more fantastical wedding suggestions. Landing before him in a hot air balloon was just the tip of the iceberg in those early planning days.

  My stomach is all knots and flutters. The fine silk of my ivory one-shoulder sheath gown is cool on my skin. Until this morning I wasn’t sure which dress I was going to wear. There was this one, and another that had a slight sleeve. It wasn’t that tight but I just knew that I wanted to wear something soft and light and flowing. Plus, it harkens back to my slight fascination with the Duchess of Cambridge and the Jenny Packham toga gown she once wore.

  Plus, there’s the pictures. The stark white of the other gown wouldn’t have looked nearly as nice with the pale yellow bridesmaids dresses and the light taupe pants and vests the boys are wearing.

  At least I hope that’s what they’re wearing. I’ve never actually seen the suits. I showed Evan pictures of what I liked, and he agreed. Another blessing for a church wedding. There’s no way they’ll be clad in togas.

  “Ready, my girl?” Dad’s arm is trembling.

  “Absolutely.”

  You know, I’ve al
ways wondered at the phrase “she felt a smile spread across her face.” But really, sometimes you just smile in spite of yourself. I want to look serene as I walk down the aisle, but I just can’t wipe this grin off my face.

  At the rehearsal yesterday, this walk had seemed to take forever. But now it’s like there’s a magnet ahead that’s drawing me towards the altar. Towards Evan.

  Oh my God! Is that the man I’m marrying? That steaming hot piece of masculine perfection standing there? He looks perfect. Cool and perfect. The closer I get, the better I can see his smile. His eyes meet mine and I can’t look away. Suit be damned. There’s nothing I can see but his face. The way he’s watching me. And walking down the aisle to meet me.

  Is this when he’s supposed to do that? I thought we had to be further down. But I don’t care. Still, I speed up, more so that I can reach him faster than for any sense of planned decorum.

  “Stunning,” he says as he reaches us. “You are perfection.”

  Are those tears in his eyes? In my eyes?

  “Take care of my girl,” Dad says.

  “Till my dying breath,” Evan says.

  And now we’re walking together towards the priest.

  It’s all a blur now. I’m repeating things and Evan is repeating things. It’s all church sanctioned words and I know I should be listening, but honestly, I’m in a daze. This is my wedding. Evan is marrying me despite all my neurotic ways. He loves me just as I am, half crazy and all.

  It’s funny how we practiced all this yesterday and now I’m just on autopilot, taking my cues from the priest and Ingrid. We sit to listen to the readings, and now my brain comes back to me. Likely because I’m not looking at Evan anymore, so I can breathe.

  “Are you okay?” I whisper.

  “You were right,” he says.

  “About what?”

  “The swords.”

  Ryan, or I guess right now the Monsignor, gives us a look that says shut-up.

  So what about those damn swords? I said plenty about them over the months. What was I right about? I want to ask him but instead I pay attention and listen to the readings.

  Now we’re getting down to business. It’s time for the vows. We say the vows everyone says because neither of us is creative enough to come up with anything else. But they work for us. Their simplicity, the honesty of them, that’s all we need.

  We exchange rings.

  We sign the register.

  We light a candle.

  And then we stand there holding hands as we’re introduced to our friends and family.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. and Mrs. Sharp-Carew. Jillian. You may kiss your groom.”

  About bloody time.

  The sword incident. Part two.

  Receiving lines are strange things. We are standing on the stone steps of the church while everyone is obligated to hug and kiss us and congratulate us before they are permitted to exit the building. It’s always struck me as odd. But now that I’m here, now that I’m the one getting the well wishes and the lipstick-stained cheeks, I sort of adore it. Not that I love being the centre of attention, but I’d be a liar if I said I’m not basking in this moment.

  It’s not until a small gap appears in the throng of people milling around us that I’m able to see a police van (the paddy wagon, as it’s known) and two police cars from the Royal Newfoundland Constabulary in the parking lot. The officers are standing around gabbing with some of the groomsmen as if they’re old friends.

  “Why are there cops at our wedding?”

  “I invited them.”

  “When?”

  “Oh Jillian,” Auntie Margery says, clutching my hands and kissing my cheek. “What a lovely wedding. And you.” She turns to Evan. “I don’t know what your mother did, but if a man like you existed when I was young, I wouldn’t have quit until I had you.”

  Auntie Margery, you dirty bird!

  As she moves off I repeat my question to Evan.

  “After they finished chasing us, and decided not to arrest us for carrying concealed weapons—Thank you for coming in, Aunt Rose.”

  And another kiss, this time from one of Evan’s relatives.

  “I told you to call the RNC and see if you were allowed to wear those swords.” Aunt Rose might not be out of earshot but I don’t care. If I have to have this conversation with him peppered between kisses and hugs, I will.

  “I know. But every time I called I was put on hold.”

  “You told me it was okay.”

  Don’t shriek. Be calm. Be the Jillian you know you can be. And watch out for Dr. Lester. He’s all hands.

  “I ran into an RCMP officer one day and he said it shouldn’t be a problem,” Evan says with a shrug.

  “The Mounties aren’t our cops!”

  “I know. But I figured it would be fine.”

  Dr. Lester, the head of my department, is shaking Evan’s hand while trying to wrap an arm around my waist. “If I could set a uniform for every female in the department, it would be that gown you’re wearing.”

  “And if I could set a uniform for every male in the department, it would be a codpiece that locked.”

  That shuts him up quickly.

  After all the family and friends and officially invited guests have gone through, five guys and one woman in uniform make their way over to us.

  “My apologies for the delay in your wedding,” the eldest of the group says. He’s the only one with a moustache, which means he’s likely been with the constab for twenty years or more. The rest of the officers with him look our age or younger.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t send them all to the lock up,” I say, accepting his handshake. “Although I haven’t heard the full story yet. Maybe you can enlighten me?”

  The officer, Constable Kennedy, laughs. “We got a call about a fight in Bannerman Park. Two calls, actually. One said it looked like they were armed. Another said it was a gang. I was in the area, and so was another car. Dispatch sent the van because of the gang report.”

  “May I?” Evan asks.

  “Please do,” the cop says.

  “We’re in the park with the photographer and she’s having us do all sorts of stunts with the swords. And of course, we’re carrying on a bit too. And then we see a couple of police coming across the grass, slowly, yelling for someone to stop. Daniel looks behind us to see who they’re yelling at and he sees a couple of young fellas running. They look like hard cases, so Daniel takes off after them. And so we all do. We’re closer than the cops are and figure seven on two is a fair advantage.”

  Gentle God. How were they not shot?

  “Now, if I were first on the scene, I’d probably have recognized what had happened. But Owen here is a rookie, and needs to work on his scene evaluation skills. He radios in for backup and I come up the other side of the park.”

  “Please tell me they weren’t running with their swords in the air.”

  “No. If that were the case this story might not have ended so well. Luckily, not one of them was carrying his little fake sword. They all dropped them when they started running. Cadet Smith,” he looks towards the lone female, “was the one who put it together and radioed for a stand down.”

  “But not before we came face to face with guns drawn,” Evan says, his voice a little shaky at that detail.

  “No, sadly, not before that. We did take them in, and were wondering what the best course of action would be.”

  “Did you call Dad?”

  Please have had that much sense.

  “You bet I did,” Evan says. “You can thank him and Constable Kennedy here for the fact we made it at all.”

  “Those bloody swords.” I look at Evan’s waist where it should be hanging. “Where is yours?”

  “They’re at the station. We can pick them up on Monday.”

  “Is it illegal to have them?” My voice is a whisper.

  “No,” the constable says. “But they were processed through evidence before we got everything worked out.
And I can’t get them out for you until Monday.”

  Finally I know the whole story. After a round of thanks and more apologies, and promises to behave for the rest of the evening and offers for them to come to the reception when they’re off duty, we are ready to move on from the church.

  It’s not until we’re getting into the horse-drawn carriage that something dawns on me.

  “Evan. Please tell me no one told them my mother stabbed your mother.”

  There’s nothing reassuring in the smile he gives me.

  Four days later. County Clare, Ireland.

  “Good morning, wife.”

  “Good morning, husband.” The light from the window above the bed shines down on us. Our first full day in Ireland is off to a bright start.

  My phone vibrates on the night table and I reach out to grab it before Evan can snatch it away.

  “No texting with Ingrid every moment of this honeymoon.”

  “I’ll turn it off. Promise.”

  And then I laugh. “Although this text isn’t for me. It’s for you.”

  I hand him the phone so he can read it.

  I: This message is for Evan. I slept with your brother.

  “This isn’t good news for us, is it?”

  “Has Daniel ever had a stable relationship?” I ask.

  “He’s about as good with relationships as Ingrid is.”

  “Then no. This isn’t going to go well for us at all.”

  “That’s it. No more texts. Write her back and tell her to have fun and leave us alone till we’re home. Then we’re turning off that damn phone.”

  Here’s what I really text her back.

  J: If he’s as good as his brother, you’re in big trouble. Love you. Jill.

  I turn the phone off and run a hand down Evan’s tanned arm. The man turns brown at the first sign of sun. “What do you propose we do today?”

  Since he’s been to Ireland before, I’ve appointed him tour guide. He knows what I want to see and I’ve decided to just let him handle all the details. So long as it’s not all Vikings, all the time, I’m cool with whatever he has planned.