Temporarily out of Luck

by Vicki Batman

  She flicked her hand. “I didn't understand everything the mechanic told me—you know how the service department is. He clearly said the part was on order, which means—”

  “We can't take your car to the convention.”

  Her head nod affirmed my comment.

  “I hate to ask, but could we go in your Jeep?”

  I gave a small smile. “Of course. Just be warned the ride’s a tad bumpy, and the car barely has enough room for our suitcases.” I set a finger to my chin. “Maybe I could borrow my mom's larger SUV.”

  Standing, Miss A. rounded the corner of her desk. “No, no, we won't bother your mother. We don’t need much for overnight. I'll take one suitcase only. And anything I buy at the conference can be shipped to the store. I will gladly reimburse you for gas, etc.”

  “Perfect. If there’s nothing else”—I walked to the storeroom door—“I need to check on the alerts for today.”

  Miss A. waved me on. “Absolutely. And Hattie—”

  I turned back. “Yes, ma'am?”

  “Thank you so much.”

  I saluted. “Sure, Miss A.”

  ****

  Miss A. and I scurried like squirrels all week. Preparations for our trip to the wedding convention in Smithville were finalized. As prearranged, I drove to her townhome Saturday night after work to pick up her. I made space to stow her bag in the Jeep’s back seat while she locked her front door.

  She wheeled her enormous suitcase down the driveway.

  “Hi, Hattie,” she said with a wave. “Shall I load my belongings? Did you remember to pack a tote to fill with giveaways?”

  I lifted a nylon duffle bag. “Think mine is big enough?”

  Miss A. shrugged. “If not, some vendor will have one. No worries. We’ll figure it out.”

  Together, Miss A. and I hoisted her red rollaway into the back seat, where it smashed mine against the car frame.

  I closed the back hatch and looked at my car, then her. “I think I have everything. You?”

  “Splendid. I do like your fun ride,” Miss A. said. “I can’t wait to have an adventure in it.”

  “I promise you”—I crossed my chest—“three hours later, and you’ll beg me to let you out. The car’s fun, but a long ride isn’t for everyone.”

  She bobbed her head. “Good to know.” And with a grandiose wave, she said, “Shall we go?”

  The drive passed fast. Miss A. asked a lot of questions about my family and life in Sommerville. After a peek at her watch and then a consult with her phone’s GPS, she said, “We exit here and take the first right. The hotel is on the corner.”

  I steered the Jeep onto the correct street and turned into the hotel parking lot. Miss A. had booked a large room with double beds. We checked in, and the receptionist informed us where to find the convention center and how it opened the next morning.

  After unpacking, Miss A. said, “Let’s get some dinner.”

  Miss A. and I returned to the lobby and located the hotel restaurant, a low-key affair.

  A woman behind the counter asked, “What’ll it be, ma’am?”

  Miss A. ordered a hamburger, which sounded so yummy, I did as well.

  The girl passed plastic cups and pointed to a beverage dispenser. “Help yourself to your favorite drink.”

  I filled my glass and found seats at a small round bar top. Miss A. sat as well with napkins fisted in her hand. After a few minutes, the young lady set a tray on the counter. The food emanated a wonderful smell, which made my tummy gurgle. I spread ketchup on the meat, dashed on black pepper. The pickles, lettuce, tomato and a thick slice of white onion topped all. I dipped a fry in the ketchup and savored how delicious it tasted.

  “Are you excited about the convention, dearie?” Miss A. asked.

  I wiped my hands on a napkin. “I am jumping out of my skin with excitement. You teaching me the ins and outs of the wedding business is much appreciated.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Miss A.’s playful smile made me grin back. “I know I’ll be overwhelmed with everything. Market at the Apparel Mart exhausted me, yet I was thrilled. Selecting the new clothes, seeing the people—”

  “You told me how sad you were to leave the job.” She drank from her iced tea.

  I waved my hand. “Yes, and the stupid temporary jobs since—”

  A frown crossed her face.

  “I’m sorry, Miss A. I sounded rude. Please don’t think I meant Wonderland—”

  “Of course not, my dear. I am the one smart enough to hire you.” Miss A. patted her lips with her paper napkin. “Shall we get some shut-eye and hit the convention early?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  ****

  A huge “Welcome to Wedding Extravaganza! Find your Blissful Ever After” banner hung over the entrance of the Smithville convention center. The prospect of a new adventure excited me. I had to contain my enthusiasm to keep from dancing like a two-year-old.

  Miss A. gave a small laugh. “Blissful Ever After—how cute. I should find a slogan for Wonderland. Do you think they coined theirs for the convention?”

  I parked the car and killed the engine. “Makes sense.”

  “How about—Find Your Dreams in Wedding Wonderland?”

  “I like your slogan—a lot. I think you’re on to something. We could put it on the business cards and in our ads.”

  “As always, Hattie, you have great suggestions.”

  Yeah!

  Miss A. and I removed our totes and laptops from the car. Inside the convention center, a helpful receptionist handed us our badges and cheerfully pointed out how to access the venue. Miss A. and I stepped past the entry to study the layout and plot a course of action.

  She nodded. “How about I go to the right, and you take the left. I’ll text you when I’m done, and then we can exchange information over lunch. If we aren’t too tired, we’ll reverse. I go to the left, and you go right.”

  “Excellent idea,” I said. “Later.”

  Slowly, I perused the vendors. I snagged business cards and stuffed goodies in my extra tote. After each stop, I took notes and some pictures of items I thought would work well in Wedding Wonderland. Talking with people about the latest and greatest trends brought back the good ol’ days at Tucker's.

  Two hours passed, and aches and pains consumed my body with every step. I had to sit soon. My phone buzzed—my boss. “Hi, Miss A. Ready for a break?”

  “Oh, dearie, too much to see. I’m thoroughly”—she inhaled—“exhausted.”

  “I kinda wondered. When I attended the menswear market for Tucker’s, often, I couldn’t take another step. I know, let’s get some food. Once our tummies are filled, and we rest, our sanity will return.” I rose to my tippy toes to locate her. “Where are you? Can you see me?”

  Miss A. stood and signaled.

  I waved, turned off my phone, and weaved my way through the convention-goers to the table she found, where I dumped my bags at her feet. With a hand pressed to my spine, I arched my back. “I need some pain relievers, like now.”

  Being a boon compadré, Miss A. passed a travel-sized tube labeled ibuprofen.

  “Thanks.” I swallowed two tablets without water. Not ideal, but I wanted fast relief. I canted my head. “Darn it. You’re wearing your Wedding Wonderland jacket. I should have done the same.” I bit my thumbnail. “I’m sorry, Miss A. I don’t know what I was thinking. Not thinking is more like it.”

  Miss A. wagged her finger. “No worries, dearie. I snatched mine at the last minute. I thought I would look more professional, and it would fight off a chill in case the air conditioning felt cold, which it is. You know how conventions are.”

  “I do.” I pulled a pink pashmina from my tote and draped it over my shoulders, hunching into the warmth. “So how about a Caesar salad and a cup of tomato bisque for lunch?”

  “Splendid. And a bottle of water, please.” Miss A. slid two twenties across the table.

  “No, ma’am.” I pushed the
bills back. “You paid for the trip, the least I can do is buy lunch.”

  She didn’t protest.

  I smiled and made my way to the counter. Within two shakes, our order was ready. Carefully, I carried the tray with my eyes on the table and Miss A.

  I chastised myself a second time for not packing my white jacket. My work at Wedding Wonderland made me proud. I probably could have made super contacts by advertising in this small way. Can’t be helped.

  As I approached our table, I overheard a woman exclaim, “Anna Holcomb—it is you!”

  The color drained from Miss A.’s face. She set her hand to the column of her neck. “Pardon me. Do I know you?”

  “Of course, you do, silly girl,” the stranger said.

  Girl?

  “I’m Ivy Bush, Hon. Don’t you remember? I worked with you in Honolulu.” The silver-headed, tightly permed, and skinny-as-a-stick lady patted the top of Miss A.’s hand and sat in my chair.

  I set the tray on the table, placed Miss A.’s meal in front of her, and stuck out my hand. “How do you do? I’m Hattie Cooks. I work for Miss A. at Wedding Won—”

  “Oh, thank you so much, Hattie, for lunch,” Miss A. interrupted. “Now, if you will excuse us, er, Ivy. We need to eat and get back to work.”

  By the squirm of her butt in the chair, Ivy wasn’t about to go anywhere.

  “Anna, just last week,” Ivy said, “I told my mahjong friends about you. Do you recollect the fun day in Cancun?” She snapped her fingers. ”I must be getting old; I can’t remember the name of the hotel. Anyway, we had a blast on that trip. Remember when we pretended to be well-heeled ladies from L.A. and settled ourselves on one of those lounge beds by the pool? Girl, how we flirted with the cabana boys.” She fanned her face.

  Cabana boys? Flirting? I stared at my boss. I suppose anything is possible like Miss A. flirting.

  “And the mai tais,” Ivy smiled.

  Mai tais?

  Miss A. didn’t utter a word except dip her spoon in the bisque and let the liquid drip into the bowl.

  “And the dancing. My heart still races over the conga line on the beach. Surely, it was a mile long.” Ivy flopped back and waved her face with the convention brochure. “Aw, those were the days.”

  Ivy barely swallowed from her drink. She didn’t need any more caffeine.

  I raised one eyebrow. Dancing? Conga line?

  She fixed on me an all-knowing look. “Oh yes, young lady, Anna can shake a rug. She was once a Rodeo Girl.”

  As in THE Rodeo girl? Like the famous dance team who performed every year in the Thanksgiving Day Parade in New York City—Miss A.? Crazy! From her white curls, perfect diction, and prim outfits—I couldn’t envision a trim Miss A. with shapely legs doing high kicks and contagion ripples.

  Ivy leaned in. “It’s a shame our boss at Miss Misty’s fired you when the till was stolen.”

  A hard, angry look shaped Miss A.’s mouth.

  Before anyone could say anything, someone called a “yoohoo” to Ivy, who returned with a wave and stood.

  “I’m so sorry we couldn’t chat more, Anna,” Ivy said. “Here’s my business card. Let’s reconnect. Email me sometime.”

  Ivy blew a kiss in our direction and skimmed toward her friend. She pointed us out to her companion and filled in the woman. Eventually, they melted into the crowd.

  “So,” I said as I sat, “Ivy. Old colleague, friend Ivy.”

  Without missing a beat, Miss A. swept the business card off the table and crushed it under her foot. She smiled. “Shall we continue?”

  Chapter Twenty

  On the Friday evening, two weeks before the wedding, I drove downtown to the church my family attended. Tracey and Stuart selected the smaller chapel set apart from the rest of the church complex.

  I loved the building, as well. A mossy brick walkway linked the chapel to the main sanctuary. Limestone archways provided a unifying architectural detail. Two dark-stained, heavy oak doors opened into the inner sanctum. The chapel walls soared from floor to ceiling with stained glass windows. In the afternoon, light filtered through the glass, painting the floor with jewel colors. Tiny gold tiles covered the wall beyond the altar railing. A wooden cross dangled from the ceiling in front of the gold-ness.

  I arrived before the others for the rehearsal, which slightly bothered me. Agitated, I checked around for them. Why hasn’t the rest of the wedding party shown?

  Who needed a rehearsal nowadays? What could go wrong? Everyone knew the basic routine. My maid of honor duties included:

  —Help with hair and makeup.

  —Be supportive.

  —Walk the walk.

  —Smile.

  —Stand just so.

  —Hold the bride’s bouquet.

  —Adjust her train.

  —Carry spare tissues.

  I ruffled my hair at the crown and slipped into the second from the front pew to wait. And to think. Think about Tracey and Stuart, their ordeal, my frantic parents. The whole sordid enchilada. How can a problem like my sister's be in any typical suburban family?

  I heard crunchy scuffs on the carpet but didn’t look. When someone paused by my side, I looked up—Allan. “Hey. Why are you here?” Then remembering, I tapped my temple. “Best man.”

  Allan set his hand on the back of the pew. “I guess you don’t know.”

  Did not sound good. “What?”

  “Over kumquats at Super Saver, your mom told my mom, Tracey felt…let’s say…ill.”

  I jumped to my feet and glanced toward the building door. “Tracey’s sick?” Very newsworthy. “She didn’t say a word yesterday. Did she go to the doctor?”

  Allan shook his head. “I…don’t…think…so.”

  “Because…” I rolled my hand.

  He didn't utter a word, just glanced at his shoes and lifted his toes.

  Maddening man. I squinched my eyes into slits. “Something’s going on, and you better tell me. Now.”

  Allan sighed. “Here’s the short story. Your mom, dad, Stuart, and Tracey are, er, missing the rehearsal. We’re”—he motioned from himself to me and back—

  “standing in for them.”

  Un. Be. Lieve. Able. My jaw dropped. This wedding will be the death of me. “Stand in for them—again? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  He leveled on me his best no-nonsense look. “Do I look like a comedian?”

  He didn’t. Fanning my hands wide, I paced six feet to my right, spun about, six feet to my left. “I’ve tried on Tracey’s dress. I’ve stood in for their tango dance…” I rotated fully to face him. “No. I won’t do it. I won’t be a stand-in at her wedding rehearsal. Period.”

  “Our mothers say Trace is a little…embarrassed.”

  “Embarrassed? What’ll she do on the day of the real I Dos?” I stood and brushed past Allan to the altar railing. Once there, I paused and studied the cross, praying for divine wedding intercession. I wheeled about and stepped closer to him, so close, I nearly hugged him and almost forgot why I was so mad. “I’ll show her embarrassed—”

  Stepping back, I smacked my hand against my forehead. “How could I forget. I know why. It’s because of you. You questioning Tracey at the station and your ineptness in finding the real murderer.” Did I say murderer in church? Lordy. I set an evil eye on him. “Thanks bunches…pal.”

  Allan walked to the first pew and sat. He dropped his forearms to his thighs and stared near the vicinity of his perfectly polished oxfords. He raised his head a fraction. “You know, Hattie, your blame game is old.”

  Blame game? Before I could speak one word, the chapel door burst open. I snapped my gaze toward the entry. In walked the rest of the party—at a high-octane chattering pitch—followed by the minister, Reverend Walsh, the same guy who baptized Tracey and me, all sober and dressed in a no-nonsense dark suit.

  “Hi, Hattie.” Trixie pointed at Allan, who stood and faced the group. “Oh, look, everyone. It’s Allan Wellborn—”

  The girls
tittered. Truly, tittered.

  “Detective”—Trixie sauntered down the aisle—“Allan Wellborn, the dirty rotten rat.”

  Mr. Saintliness glowered.

  Calling him “rat”—not popular.

  Jenny, who followed Trixie, looked at Allan, then me. A glance of understanding passed through her eyes.

  She mouthed, “You okay?”

  I nodded.

  I stepped past the bridesmaids collected in the aisle, still giving Allan their best “go to hell and burn” glare.

  Looking way too cheerful, Reverend Walsh smiled, scrubbed his hands, and placed himself in front of the altar railing. “Shall we get to it?”

  Allan stood, jamming his hands in his pants’ pockets.

  Trixie looked to the entry. “What about the other groomsmen?”

  “We have one; he’ll have to do. I'm sure you ladies have played the role before and can help the young men when need be. All standard stuff.” Reverend Walsh waved to the Funsisters. “Please, take your places in the narthex.”

  Leisurely, Kella and Jenny led the way up the aisle to the narthex, sharing silly stuff the whole way.

  Trixie shot Allan another from her Book of Nasty Looks, then followed our girlfriends.

  With a tight smile, Allan watched them.

  So not a proper wedding. I lagged behind the others. Anger issues over Tracey and Stuart and Allan made irritableness consume my head. Who wouldn’t be irritated with everyone's interference in my life?

  In the foyer, I skirted my friends to stand by the door. Yup, time for a vacation. An extended retreat to a Pacific island with no phones, a state-of-the-art spa, and glorious sunny days. Never mind not having the money to go. I’ll figure something out.

  At “uh hum” and a signal from Reverend Walsh, the bridesmaids aligned themselves in the predetermined order to advance down the aisle. Once he saw us organized, the minister raised his finger like a conductor. “Ready?”

  The Funsisters nodded.

  He sang, “Tumtum ta tum, tumtum tat um.”

  Trixie proceeded first. She stood regally while holding her pretend bouquet. One by one, the other bridesmaids marched slowly and intently in perfect time as the minister hummed the traditional wedding march. Their hands clasped nonexistent bouquets at their waists. Mostly, they looked demure, except for Trixie. She never looked demure. She still looked…pissed off.