“I know. I want to. You guys have some fun there, okay?”
“Thanks. I love you.”
“Love you, too, banana-face.”
Just as I hang up, the bus comes into view. Cameron gathers our bags, and we step to the edge of the sidewalk. The bus squeals to a stop and the doors open with a hiss of air.
“Where’s the Bradham B&B?” I ask the driver as we board. I dig through my purse for some cash to pay our fare.
“We go right past there,” he says. “I’ll stop for you.”
“Thanks so much.”
We find a seat, halfway to the back, between a middle-aged woman in a skirt and blazer and a bunch of high schoolers crowded around a video playing on an iPad. We stow our bags under the seats and sit.
The bus winds through the streets, past huge, old houses with magnolia trees shading expansive lawns. We cross a river, and then we’re flanked by brick storefronts, their glass windows painted. People stroll the sidewalks, and virtually no cars drive past.
We stop twice, letting people on and off. Soon the driver turns a corner and stops in front of a giant Victorian house painted sky blue. “Here you two go, the Bradham B&B.”
The house is beautiful. It has a wide front porch with Adirondack chairs lining it, small tables separating each. The front door is intricately carved wood with an etched glass window set near the top. Inside, the lobby boasts a high ceiling and sculpted molding, with a giant oriental rug covering the hardwood floor. We cross the room to the marble-topped counter and ding the bell.
“Hi!” a voice calls from the back, followed by a petite woman. “Oh, you must be Anna and Cameron!”
“That’s us.”
She removes a key from the wall and waves us toward the stairs. “Well, come on. You’re lucky. We have a wedding party staying here, so we have only one room left. I’m Nancy,” she says as an afterthought before starting up the stairs. She leads us past the second floor and on to the third, where we stop on a small landing with one door on each side. She unlocks the door on the left and we enter the room, which is huge, with a massive four-poster standing in the center. There’s a round table on either side of the bed and a wardrobe against one wall.
“You have your own bathroom through there,” Nancy tells us, “and we serve breakfast from six to nine. If you need anything, I’ll be right downstairs.”
We thank her, and she leaves. “How much do you think your aunt is paying for this?” Cameron asks as soon as he’s sure Nancy is out of earshot.
“Too much, probably,” I say, “but I intend to enjoy it.” I dive onto the bed and wrap myself in the huge comforter. Nestled into the warmth, our late night and early morning catches up to me, and I suddenly feel exhausted.
“I’ll be right back,” Cameron says and slinks out the door before I can say anything. He’s gone less than a minute, and when he returns, his breath is heavy.
“You okay?” I ask, yawning.
He nods and holds up a piece of paper, and I wave him closer. It’s a wedding invitation.
“Where’d you get that?”
“It was on the counter when we checked in. You didn’t see it?”
I shake my head. “And what, you just decided to swipe it?”
“I’ll give it back. I just wanted the details.”
“Why?”
“Because we are crashing a wedding tomorrow night.”
Chapter 24
“Cameron.”
Nothing.
I shake him. “Cameron.”
“Mmmm?”
“Are you awake?”
“No.”
“I’m hungry.”
“It’s dark.”
“Starving.”
“What time is it?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m hungry.”
With a groan, he rolls over and grabs his phone from the bedside table. “Ugh. It’s three fifteen in the morning. Go to sleep.”
“Can’t. I’m hungry.”
“It’s not my fault you went to bed without eating anything.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Oh, really? How do you figure?”
I snuggle into his side and press my mouth to his neck. His pulse beats under my lips. “Because you were so warm and comfy and I didn’t want to move and I fell asleep. Your fault.”
“You’re not going to let me go back to sleep until you eat, are you?”
“Not likely.”
“Fine. Let’s go.”
We sneak from the room and tiptoe down the stairs. The house is dark, only a small lamp emitting light into the lobby. The dining room is just to the side, and we make our way through it to the kitchen.
The kitchen is huge, with stainless-steel appliances. It’s shockingly modern in a house filled with antiques. Cameron pulls open the fridge, and light spills out onto the floor.
“Are we supposed to be in here?”
“Probably not,” he says, piling food into his arms. “But if you don’t eat, I’ll never sleep, and I’m tired.” He sets to work assembling a sandwich at lightning speed. He hands it to me, then puts the ingredients back into the fridge.
“Oh my gosh, this is the best sandwich I’ve ever eaten,” I say around a mouthful of food. “Seriously, I want to have this sandwich’s babies.”
“As long as you do it fast.” Cameron grabs my hand and leads me back into the dining room.
Just then, a light flicks on in the next room, and a voice calls out, “Hello? Is someone down here?”
It’s Nancy, who is maybe the nicest woman ever. She probably wouldn’t care that we took some food if we explain how hungry I am, but still, I panic. Dropping to the floor, I pull Cameron with me, and the two of us crawl under the massive dining table. I sit back on my knees and take another bite of the sandwich. Seriously, best ever.
The overhead light flickers to life, and I watch a pair of sock-covered feet round the table and head into the kitchen. “Hello?”
Cameron doesn’t really fit under the table. He looks like a marionette shoved into its box, all long limbs and sharp angles, bent into this tiny space. His head presses against the underside of the table, and he is glaring at me. I stifle a laugh.
I slip my sandwich onto one of the chairs and drop to my hands and knees, lean forward, and press my mouth to his. He kisses me back, and we stay like that, blissfully uncomfortable, until well after the light is turned off and Nancy is back in bed.
Up in our room, nestled into bed, I finish my sandwich. After my last swallow, I say, “Thanks for the food.”
“You owe me.”
“I know.” I wrap an arm over his chest and nestle my head into the hollow of his shoulder to drift off again, safe in his arms.
We sleep in, missing breakfast completely. By the time we’ve showered and gotten dressed, it’s almost lunchtime. The wedding is at four, so we have a few hours to kill before crashing the party.
The B&B is a whirlwind of bridesmaids getting ready, running through the halls half-dressed, their hair in rollers. The bride is set up in the sitting room next to the lobby, a team of stylists circling her, tugging at her hair and touching up her makeup. Her dress hangs in the corner, immaculate and sparkly.
“Did that invite happen to mention a dress code?” I whisper to Cameron. I sound like I’m trying to talk around marbles, but I’m not sure how else to form my words. Accents are even harder when you try to whisper, I’m quickly learning.
“Your British accent is rubbish,” he says in an accent that is, admittedly, way better than mine, if still not exactly British.
“Bollocks.”
“Do you even know what that means?”
“Whatever. What are we supposed to wear?”
He sneaks the invite from behind the camera bag, reading it as he crosses to the counter. He puts it back where he swiped it from then returns to me. “It says black tie optional.”
“Meaning we should probably wear something nicer than anything we brought. We don’t have money
for this.”
“Oh, ye of little faith.” He winks, waving at the bride and her entourage as we exit through the front door.
He leads me through the streets, past storefronts and boutiques, his phone glued to his hand as he follows the directions on-screen. Dresses hang in windows, and I spot at least three that would be wedding appropriate, but Cameron doesn’t slow down. Finally, he stops in front of a nondescript building and points to it with a flourish. “We’re here.”
“Um, okay?” A small wooden sign hangs off the wall, decorative script reading louisa jane. We enter.
The store is small, crammed wall-to-wall with clothing racks. I can’t make out any sort of organization to the chaos. Shiny dresses are smashed next to T-shirts and jeans, which are next to a long pair of footed pajamas. “We’re never going to find anything here.”
An old woman squeezes her considerable belly between two racks and stands in front of us. “Hello, dears,” she wheezes. “What are we looking for today?”
“We have a wedding to go to this evening at Tryon Palace. Black tie optional,” Cameron explains. “We don’t have much cash.”
She tuts, eyeing us from top to bottom. “Spin,” she orders, and we do, bouncing off each other as we turn in the tight space. When we’re facing her again, she stares intently, a slow smile breaking over her face. “I have just the thing. Wait here.”
She disappears into the racks, the only indication that she’s still in the room is the sound of metal hangers clanking against one another. She mumbles to herself. A door slams. I look up at Cameron, questioning, and he shrugs.
The woman comes back, and we follow the line of shaking clothes racks as she makes her way toward us. She has two garment bags draped over her arm. “Black one is for you,” she says, pointing her chin at Cameron. “And the white is yours,” she tells me.
We take the bags. “Do you have a fitting room?” I ask.
She looks at me like I just kicked her puppy. “No need. It fits, I promise.”
“Thanks,” Cameron says, pulling out his wallet. “What do we owe you?”
She waves him away. “Just bring them back tomorrow.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. It’s a secondhand store. Nobody cares if the dresses are a little used.”
We thank the woman again, promising to return the clothes first thing in the morning, and start back toward the B&B.
The dress is stunning. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, turning to admire it from all angles. The shiny fabric is deep purple, almost black. It’s strapless, a black leather band holding the bodice snug just above my bust. It hugs my body, falling to my knees. The woman even put shoes in the bag, black wedges with delicate silver beading.
I tease my hair, trying to add some volume to my waves, then gather it over one shoulder, working it into a loose bun. I slick on some lip gloss and call it good.
Cameron’s standing at the wardrobe when I come back into the room, his back to me. His clothes fit equally well. He’s wearing a slim gray suit and black shoes. He turns.
“Wow,” he says. “You look… wow.”
“You’re not so bad yourself, chap.” Under the gray suit coat, he’s wearing a white shirt, the top button undone.
“You ready?”
The bridal party is already gone, and the house is quiet in their absence. “Cheerio.”
“You really need to go to England sometime to see how they really talk.” Cameron’s accent is subtle and flawless, having been refined throughout the day.
“Pishposh, old boy.”
Outside, Cameron stops me from going down the steps and guides me to one of the chairs. “I called a cab,” he says. “There’s no way we are walking there in these shoes.”
The cab pulls up a minute later, and we slide into the backseat. “Take us to the palace, Jeeves,” I say to the driver.
“Ignore her,” Cameron says and laughs.
Tryon Palace looms over us within ten minutes. The building is huge, standing proud on its neatly manicured lawns. The driver drops us off at the looped driveway. Cameron pays him, and we walk around the building, following a path of flowers and balloons. At the back, an arched trellis is set up, wild flowers woven into it. Rows of white chairs line either side of a grassy aisle. Guests mingle, hugging and kissing cheeks. We make our way to the back row and slip into two seats.
A man stands at the front of the aisle now, under the edge of the trellis, and the guests make their way to their seats. A black woman sits next to me, clutching her purse in her lap. “How do you know Sarah and Jasper?”
“Oh, I don’t, really,” I say, my accent faltering for a moment, “but my boyfriend here went to school with, uh, Jasper.”
“That’s nice. Where are you from, dear?”
“Iowa.” She looks surprised, and I remember the fake British thing I’ve been doing. “I grew up in a small town just outside Manchester, but I came here to live with Grammy and Papi a few years back.”
Music starts playing now, saving me from digging myself further into the hole I’m in. We watch the processional—flower girls and the ring bearer followed by four groomsmen escorting four bridesmaids. Then the bride steps up, her father on one side, her mother on the other, each of them holding one of her hands.
Suddenly, I’m crying. Like, shaking, trying-not-to-sob-out-loud crying. As I watch the beautiful bride make her way to her groom, it hits me that Storm will never get to do this. This wedding is the kind she would have loved—simple and beautiful and outdoors, fancy but understated. This could have been her, five years from now. Less even. Instead, she’s gone, and she’ll never get her perfect wedding.
Cameron grabs my hand and squeezes it tight. I squeeze back, holding on for all the comfort he gives, for the knowledge that he’s here, missing Storm as much as I do.
But it doesn’t last. Instead of the comfort I expect to feel, my skin crawls, burning where our hands meet. I pull my purse into my lap and extract my hand from his on the pretense of digging out a Kleenex. When my face is dry again, I link my hands in my lap instead of offering one back to Cameron.
The reception immediately follows the wedding, so as soon as those gathered all stand and cheer for the couple, we are ushered into one of the buildings behind the palace. It’s decorated with strands of white sparkly lights, more wild flowers gathered in crystal vases around the room. A dance floor takes up one end, a group of round tables at the other.
We follow the crowd to the tables. Each is filled with name cards. Of course. There’s a door off to the side of the room, and I make my way to it, slipping through quietly. Cameron follows. A man is in the room, putting the final touches on an enormous, ornate cake. He stares at me, the question clear on his face, so I hold up my phone. “I have to make a call. How do I get outside?”
Without a word, he points behind him to a door that is propped open with a box. I rush through it. Outside, I lean against the wall and tap my phone screen.
ME: Hey, it may be late before I can call tonight.
AUNT MORGAN: So call now.
ME: Can I not?
AUNT MORGAN: ??
ME: I’m fine. Just really tired. Still here in New Bern. Nothing new to report.
AUNT MORGAN: Okay, but call in the morning. I have the day off.
ME: Will do.
Cameron stands next to me, waiting patiently until I put the phone back in my purse. When I do, he says, “You okay?”
“I’m brilliant.”
He reaches for my hand, but I pull it back, crossing my arms.
“Anna, what’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“You lie.”
“Bollocks. Let’s just… wait.”
Hurt crosses his face, but he shrugs and makes his way to a bench under the wide branches of a magnolia tree. We sit, not talking. I take my phone back out and scroll through my social media feeds, angling away from Cameron. With a sigh, he leans back, his own phone in hand, and we stay like
that, together but separate, until music starts to thump its way over the lawn.
“Dinner must be over,” he says.
“Great. Let’s dance.”
I allow the music to take me away. As soon as we’re back in the building, I hit the dance floor, soaking up the beat, my body moving with it. It’s a mass of bodies out here, all bouncing together, arms waving and dresses spinning. The DJ keeps us moving, playing four fast songs before slowing things down.
“And now, how about we have Mr. and Mrs. Hepworth out here for their first dance?”
The crowd erupts in cheers, and the bride and groom make their way to the center of the dance floor. The groom holds his bride tight as the opening notes of an old rock ballad play. We all watch as they turn circles around the floor, and then, one by one, other couples join them. I can see Cameron standing at the edge of the floor, watching me.
The man next to me is in his sixties. When he offers me his arm, I take it, and we spin around the floor. The songs blend together, slow, swaying songs melting directly into fast songs, bodies jumping. We do the Chicken Dance, the Hokey Pokey, and the Macarena. Sappy country songs and upbeat jazz.
Halfway through “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life,” I’m dancing with a boy about my age—the bride’s nephew, I learned three songs ago—when Cameron approaches.
“Hey, Anna,” he says, then turns to my partner, “mind if I cut in?”
The nephew, whose name I’ve forgotten, looks confused, like he didn’t realize that this ever happens outside of movies. Probably it doesn’t. But he steps aside, and Cameron sweeps me into his arms. I keep one hand on his chest, forcing some distance between us.
“What’s going on, Anna?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s ridiculous, and you know it. It’s like a wall went up between us during the ceremony, and I want to know why.”
“I just think that we—what we’re doing—”
“Can you cut the accent? I can’t have this conversation with you when you’re talking like that.”
Anger prickles the back of my neck. “Fine,” I say, my voice harsh and all-Iowa. “I think we made a mistake. Is that what you want to hear?”
Someone Else's Summer Page 15
