Wanted Wed or Alive: Thyme's Wedding

by Melissa F. Miller

  “You do? Then why don’t you enlighten me?” As far as I know, I’m not up to anything, despite my eldest sister’s frosty demeanor.

  She sighs deeply and twists her mouth into a little bow of disapproval but doesn’t elaborate.

  Two can play this game. Well, the two of us can. Thyme cannot. She surrenders at the slightest hint of confrontation, unwilling or unable to stand the thought of being in conflict with either of her sisters.

  I fold my arms over my chest and cock my head to the side. I wait.

  She arches her eyebrows. She waits.

  After a thousand years—or maybe a minute and a half—my left cheek starts to itch. I try to ignore it, but the more I focus on not focusing on it, the itchier it becomes. I dig my fingernails into my palms, which somehow makes the itchiness in my face intensify. How is this even scientifically possible?

  I could ask my sister, the former scientist, but that would mean speaking first. So I stare at her and will myself not to rake my fingers across my face. I’m not sure why I decide not scratching has to be part of this battle of the wills, but I’m rolling with it now. Even if it feels as if fire ants have taken up residence on my face.

  Finally, finally, Rosemary breaks the silence.

  “Promise me you aren’t scheming to get in touch with Mom and Dad,” she says, lowering her chin and fixing her eyes on me like lasers.

  “Argh, ahhh,” I answer, maniacally scoring my fingernails across the side of my face. “Oooh, yeah ….”

  “Take your time; I’ll wait.”

  “Sorry, had to scratch an itch. But to answer your question, no, I’m not ‘scheming.’ I am offended, though.” I draw myself up and square my shoulders.

  She laughs. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I’m not, and I’m sort of confused as to why she’d think I am. Then it hits me. Like, hits me, physically, as if she punched me in the gut. Ooof.

  “This is about what happened at your wedding, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Sage. Going behind my back and secretly inviting our parents to my wedding caused a lot of problems. You remember, right?”

  I exhale, letting go of my urge to defend myself along with my breath, and face her squarely, my palms up and open in a gesture of reaching out.

  “I do remember. And I’m sincerely sorry. I hope you know that. And I hope you know I meant well—I thought you’d regret it someday if you looked back at your wedding day and Mom and Dad weren’t there.”

  I still think this, but there’s no way I’m going to tell her that in her current mood.

  Her face softens, but only for a moment. Then she arches a brow. “Do you think I’ll look back with regret on my wedding day and recall that Mom and Dad were there and got arrested?”

  “I don’t know, Rosie. Honestly? I think it’s for the best that they’ve faced the music and are doing their time. Don’t you?”

  She nods reluctantly. “I do, actually. And I’m glad they worked it out so they could get day passes to be at your wedding.” She pauses meaningfully, then says, “Because I know it really mattered to you. But you can’t impose your feelings on Thyme. Understand? She’s said she’ll have a party after they’re released. Don’t sneak off this afternoon to call and tell them she’s eloping. Just … don’t meddle, okay?”

  I blink at her. When I answer her, I speak slowly. “I have no intention of trying to get in touch with Mom or Dad this afternoon to fill them in on Thyme’s plans.”

  “Good.”

  “Besides, you know as well as I do, that we have to go through the proper channels with the Bureau of Prisons to set up a call. I can’t just steal away and make a quick call while you’re looking at china patterns or something.”

  “First of all, like we’d buy Thyme and Victor china. Second of all, that’s a fair point. I’m sorry for being so cranky and distrustful. I know you want our family to be close —or at least less dysfunctional. And, believe it or not, I want that, too. But you have to let me and Thyme manage our own relationships with Mom and Dad.”

  She manages a smile, but it’s a bit wobbly, and her eyes fill. I throw my arms around her.

  We hug for a long moment. Then she pulls back and wipes at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater.

  “Come on, let’s go shopping.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” I infuse my voice with cheer to match her perky tone.

  I meant it when I told her I had no intention of getting in touch with our parents today. I don’t plan to call them. I don’t need to.

  I took care of that yesterday before I left Hilton Head Island.

  Chapter 10

  Thyme

  Doctor Pridemore’s office is unlike any dentist’s office I’ve ever visited. In my experience, dental practices tend to the sparse and utilitarian, making no pretense at dressing up what they are or what they do. Beige walls, hung with posters showing the anatomy of the tooth—or, if the decorator was really inspired, nature prints. The waiting rooms are cramped and noisy, with wall-mounted televisions blaring daytime talk shows or, worse, cable news. And the magazine selection is nearly always … vintage.

  I’ve encountered two exceptions to this rule, both, oddly enough, on Hilton Head Island, where Sage lives.

  Once, during a visit, she was taking Muffy and Chip’s kids to the pediatric dentist and I tagged along. The place looked like what would happen if a LEGO factory and a rainbow had a baby, which was then adopted by a video game company. Bright splashes of primary color everywhere, seating that looked as if it had been constructed out of plastic bricks, and tablets, gaming consoles, and handheld games scattered around the various play zones.

  The other time, after we had lunch together in town, Sage popped into the dental studio frequented by the adult Moores to pick up Muffy’s forty-dollar charcoal toothpaste (don’t ask). That office screamed ‘spa.’ The waiting lounge was painted in soothing sea foam greens and sky blues, soothing sitar music played softly, pink Himalayan salt rocks and fragrant earthy-smelling oils were placed strategically around the space, and a fancy tea and coffee bar ran along one wall. While Sage acquired the toothpaste, I sank into a plush chair and imagined I lived a life in which a dentist’s appointment doubled as a mini-vacation.

  But this place—in an ordinary commercial building in the heart of a flyspeck of a town—is in a class of its own. One of a kind. I’m not even sure I can describe it. Judging by the way Victor’s gaping as he turns in a slow circle, he’s having a similar reaction.

  The space itself is ordinary enough. Pale yellow paint on the walls, cream-colored chairs, the ubiquitous TV on the wall. There’s a long counter and a receptionist seated behind it.

  But across from the reception desk, there’s a second counter with glass shelves fronting it. Behind this counter are wall-to-ceiling shelves. It reminds me of an arcade alley prize display—a lot, actually. Only instead of stuffed animals, cheap plastic toys, temporary tattoos, and gold-plated jewelry, this case contains a dizzying assortment of … stuff. Patterned leggings, quilted purses, natural cleaning supplies from brands I don’t recognize, and colorful kitchen implements. On the wall behind the counter, in the place of honor normally reserved for the largest stuffed animals, knock-off iPhones, and remote-controlled drones, there are rows and rows of shelves holding essential oils, makeup palettes, and chunky, gemstone-studded jewelry, as well as face creams, lotions, and potions in sleek, high-end packaging. The only item remotely related to dentistry is a charcoal toothpaste kit with an electronic toothbrush. I recognize it as the same brand Muffy gets on subscription through her dental spa.

  “What in the world?” I mutter out of the side of my mouth.

  “Duuuude,” Victor breathes, every bit as baffled as I am.

  We’re still standing frozen, staring transfixed at the array of merchandise when the receptionist ends her phone call and trills, “May I help you?”

  The waiting room is otherwise empty, so she must be talking to us. I turn, clutching the letter
that was delivered to my apartment in New York, and walk forward toward the counter. Victor falls into step beside me. The receptionist watches us with a friendly expression, but her bright green eyes hold a shadow of confusion.

  “I hope so,” I say as I place the letter down on the counter in front of her. “I got this letter from Doctor Pridemore, but there must be some mistake.”

  She reaches for the sheet of paper, and as she scans it, I can’t help noticing her perfect manicure. Her fingernails are expertly shaped and painted a glossy lilac color.

  “I love your nails.”

  She glances up from the letter, surprise and pleasure lighting her face. “Thanks. I use the Nailtique line.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” I confess.

  I use whichever bottle catches my eye in the pharmacy, unless it’s a special occasion—in which case I put myself in the hands of a professional and let her choose the color. That reminds me. If this wedding is happening tomorrow, I should find a salon in Vegas and book manicure appointments for Sage, Rosemary, and me. My ragged cuticles don’t exactly say ‘bride.’

  “Oh, it’s a private line. The entire nail care system is sold through consultants only.” Her eyes flit toward the prize case and she points her chin toward the display. “Although I think Dr. Pridemore has a few bottles of the polish over there. And maybe the cuticle oil.”

  I glance over my shoulder, more baffled than ever, while she returns her attention to the letter.

  “Hmm, how did you get this? This address is wrong.”

  She seems to be talking to herself more than to me, but I respond anyway. “Well, that’s my address in New York.”

  “Yes, but how on earth did Ms. Field’s mail end up in New York City? Rest her soul.”

  Victor leans forward and points. “The date on the letter is six days after Ms. Field died.”

  It’s jarring to hear him talk about me as if I’m dead. I mean, I know he’s not talking about me, but still, I’m unsettled by it.

  He bumps his leg up against mine, out of the receptionist’s sight, as if he can sense the chill that rippled through me.

  “I see that. And you think that’s important?”

  “I wonder if your patient database is somehow connected to the Social Security Administration’s, um, master death file and it updated the address automatically to Thyme’s address.”

  “Thyme’s address?” she echoes, bewildered.

  He shoots me an apologetic look, but I shrug. It was going to have to come out sometime.

  “My name is also Thyme Field,” I tell her.

  “It is? What a coincidence ….” She trails off and squints at me.

  In a burst of inspiration, I soften my voice and reach for a lie. “Not really. She was my grandmother. I was named for her.”

  I expect murmured sympathy. At a minimum, a sad smile. Instead, she stiffens.

  “Is that so?” She reaches for the intercom without moving her head, keeping her eyes locked on my face, and jabs at a button. “Doctor Pridemore, we have a situation. There’s a pair of con artists out here. The woman’s impersonating Thyme Field’s granddaughter. Do you want to talk to them before I call the sheriff?”

  After a long pause, during which I can feel my heart hammering against my chest, a woman’s voice crackles through the speaker. “Show them into the consultation room. Bring your pistol.”

  Con artists? Sheriff? Pistol?!

  I wheel around to stare at Victor, whose ashen face doesn’t make me feel a bit better. ‘Sorry,’ I mouth.

  Chapter 11

  Rosemary

  As we meander up Snow City’s Main Street, Dave and I lag several yards behind Sage and Roman thanks to Mona Lisa’s extreme interest in every cactus, succulent, flower, and weed. She homes in on a large spiky agave plant and screeches to a halt to sniff every bushy leaf. I come to a sudden stop, and Dave bumps against the side of my hip.

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  He peers at me, and a vee of concern creases his forehead. “That’s it? No smart remark?”

  “Oh, uh, watch it, Drummond. You’re lucky I don’t cite you for a moving violation.”

  The vee deepens. “That weak sauce is the best you’ve got? Now I know something’s wrong. Talk to me, Rosie.”

  An involuntary laugh bubbles up in my throat. “My apologies for the weakness of my sauce. I’m distracted.”

  Mona Lisa decides to further her exploration by tasting her environment.

  “Acht.” I make the harsh, abbreviated sneeze noise that our dog trainer taught me. To my amazement, she removes her mouth from the prickly plant and eyes me.

  “Good girl!” I scritch the special spot behind her ears to reward her for listening.

  “Good dog,” Dave chimes in. She thumps her tail in response, and we start moving again.

  Sage twists over her shoulder to make sure we’re still behind her and Roman. I give her a little wave. She flashes a smile.

  “Hmm. Did her smile look . . . I don’t know . . . tight to you?”

  “Tight?”

  “Yeah, tight. Thin? Strained?”

  “So this distraction, maybe it’s guilt?”

  He reaches out and places two fingers on my inner wrist, lightly curling his hand around the loop of Mona Lisa’s leash. His touch is warmth; it’s home; it’s comfort. My shoulders ease and my chest expands.

  “Maybe. I was pretty hard on her.”

  “Hmm.”

  We walk in silence until the dog pauses at a hedgerow.

  “But she does have a terrible meddling habit.”

  “Mm-hmm. She does,” he agrees. Then, “Of course, she’s always operating from a place of love. Even—no, especially—when she’s at her most meddlesome.”

  “I know,” I sigh. It’s this truth that’s sitting heavy in my throat.

  Sage always means well. But that doesn’t make the resultant destruction any less messy. Still, though, maybe I was too sharp with her.

  Dave chuckles.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “It’s not funny, exactly. You and your sisters, you’re all so protective of each other. You’re trying to protect Thyme from Sage’s meddling. The reason Sage invited your parents to our wedding behind your back was to protect you from your … certainty.” He catches himself, substituting in ‘certainty’ for ‘stubbornness,’ but his message comes through.

  “I suppose you—”

  Sage and Roman have reversed course and are striding straight toward us, like race walkers or something.

  “Uh-oh. That looks intense.”

  “Come on, Mona Lisa.” I urge her forward, and the three of us start walking—not quite at Sage and Roman’s pace, but faster than our regular shambling speed.

  Sage is gesturing wildly, urging us to hurry, so I break into a jog. Beside me, Dave does the same.

  “What’s the matter?” I pant when we reach them.

  Maybe Thyme’s called, and the meeting with the dentist went poorly.

  “This town is weird,” she informs me, also slightly out of breath.

  “We’ve already established that.”

  She gives her curly red hair a shake. “No, really weird.”

  I cut my eyes to Roman. “You want to translate your wife’s gibberish for us?”

  “Have you been looking into any of the storefront windows as you walk?” he replies.

  “No. Mainly, I’ve been noticing the bushes. One of the perks of dog ownership.”

  Sage grabs my arm and yanks me toward the nearest shop. It appears to be a kitchen goods store. I pass Mona Lisa’s leash to Dave as she pulls me past him.

  “Look.”

  “I doubt I’m going to be impressed by their inventory, Sage. I use commercial-quality appliances and accessories, you know.”

  “Just look,” she insists.

  I peer through the window at the display. The items are heavy on single-use gadgets in cheerful colors. Tented cards in front of
the accessories spell out their names and uses: a bright yellow banana slicer (I use a knife); a vivid green avocado slicer (um, same); and a deep red strawberry huller (seriously, have these people ever heard of a knife?).

  I’ve seen enough. “Okay, this stuff is wholly unnecessary. Anyone with even a modicum of knife skills doesn’t need any of it. So?”

  She shakes her head. “Notice anything else?”

  I return my attention to the window. “It looks like that enamel cooking set in the right corner is a cheap knockoff of the fancy French stuff, but that’s not a crime or anything.”

  “Look at the prices, Rosemary.”

  I squint at the cards, expecting to see high markups, which, again, wouldn’t be surprising. But there are no prices. Not in U.S. dollars at least. The huller, for example, costs ‘three snowflakes OBO.’ The banana slicer goes for ‘four snowflakes, can bundle with two other items for ten snowflakes.’ Under each ‘price,’ what appears to be a street address is printed. All of the knife wannabes have 16 Frost Court listed.

  “Okay, that’s weird. But maybe it’s just a corny chamber of commerce program, you know, to tie into the town’s name.”

  “All the stores are like this. The products don’t have prices, and I don’t think they’re actually for sale inside,” she explains.

  “Why would you say that?”

  Dave and Roman join us at the window. Roman points toward the counter. “Because there’s no cash register.”

  “They could do electronic transactions, only,” Dave suggests. “I think I heard a radio program about it. Some places, maybe in Asia or Europe, are moving in that direction.

  “Sure, but credit card companies or bitcoin miners or whatever don’t use ‘snowflakes’ as a unit of currency. And what’s with the addresses?” Sage insists.

  My stomach grumbles. “Well, there’s an easy way to find out. Let’s go inside. Maybe they sell snacks, too.”

  “I’ll stay out here with Mona Lisa,” Dave offers. “But if they do have any food, grab me a protein bar or some nuts or something, okay?”