Best Man

by Briggs, Laura

  “When I was a little girl, I had one like this,” she said. Her finger touched the glass; beneath it was a miniature music box made from plated metal, scenes of flowers and rabbits along the sides and the raised image of a butterfly on the lid.

  “It plays ‘Annie Laurie’,” said the clerk, reappearing from the back of the shop. “A modernized mechanism, of course, but very similar to an antique version believed to be Queen Victoria’s. Very popular design through the ages.”

  He turned his attention to Michael. “Mr. Bealy’s order will be completed within two days,” he said. “If there is a telephone number, we can contact you to inform you when it is available for retrieving.”

  “Is my cell phone number acceptable?” asked Michael, pulling his phone from his pocket. The clerk retrieved a form and placed it on the counter, attaching a corresponding sticker to a small velvet box beneath the counter. The lid closed too quickly for Michael to catch more than a glimpse of a small diamond stone and a glint of gold.

  Kate had moved on to the next shop, where Michael found her examining a jar of face cream in a cosmetics display. The scent of jasmine and spices hung heavily in the air, a tranquility fountain bubbling on one of the display tables.

  “Cold cream,” he said. “Very old-fashioned.”

  “My aunt uses this kind,” said Kate. “I was considering a jar for Vicki, perhaps. As my bridal party gift to her.” He glimpsed a slightly wicked smile lurking in the corners of Kate’s mouth.

  “I think something in the wrinkle prevention department would be more appropriate,” answered Michael. “Something with a bit of sting in it.” He lifted a small jar of purple liquid, a label on the front guaranteeing smoother skin in less than five uses.

  “You would know her better than I would,” answered Kate. Michael paused in the act of unscrewing the sample jar’s lid.

  “How do you really feel about Vicki?” he asked. “Truly. I think there must be someone you would rather have beside you on your wedding day than a total stranger from Sean’s past.”

  He shoved his hands in his pocket as he waited for her answer, trying not to seem overly-interested in her answer. It was none of his business; the question of Kate’s personal tastes was not part of the duties of being best man.

  Kate stared at the display of lotions on the neighboring table. “I had no one I could ask,” she answered. “I don’t suppose it mattered that Vicki was the choice in the end.” She set the jar of cold cream on the table and made her way towards the shop’s door.

  He followed her. “Kate, wait,” he said. “I shouldn’t pry into your business–”

  “I’m not as easily hurt by these things as you think,” she answered. She had paused a few steps outside the door, facing him on the sidewalk as the dress box dangled at her side. “It doesn’t affect me–hurt me–that Vicki was one of Sean’s girlfriends. His past wasn’t entirely a mystery to me when I agreed to this.”

  “I only wished Sean wasn’t so thoughtless sometimes,” said Michael. “Even if it didn’t hurt you, how could he know that when he made the decision?” His voice rose without him intending to be passionate on this subject. He drew his hand from his pocket to rub his neck and discovered a small vial still in his palm, the lavender skin cream.

  “No,” he groaned. “How could I be so stupid?” Kate’s glance fell on the jar in his hand, her eyes widening with realization.

  “Why didn’t the alarms beep?” he said. “I’m a thief now–” He didn’t have time to say anything more, since another voice chimed in.

  “Oy! That man says he’s a thief!” The voice was loud and insolent, belonging to a tough-looking youth in a crowd of pierced and black-attired teenagers slumped on a bench.

  “Thief! Thief!” The chant was repeated by his friends, a series of grins proving this was more mischief than civic concern. When the boys clambered up from the bench, Michael felt Kate grab his hand.

  “Run,” she whispered. When he didn’t respond, she repeated it. “Run!” Yanking on his hand, she pulled him with her as she took off in the opposite direction of the youth crowd.

  Ahead was an unfamiliar corner, a throng of people resembling tourists crowded there. Kate towed him into their midst, into the sound of music and conversation. The melee of carnival tents and hodgepodge stalls, of artists at work in the mix, the haven of Portobello Road in London. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the flash of a fire eater, the bright flowing garments of dancers in green and yellow, as if a circus and flea market combined to close them in.

  “There’s a bus shelter ahead!” panted Kate. “We’ll catch one if we hurry.” Her hold on his hand was tight, steering him past a book vendor’s stall. In his mind they were a ludicrous picture, the garment box dangling at Kate’s side by its knotted cord, his coat billowing out as he stumbled along behind her in haste. An image so vivid he could not imagine capturing even a fraction of its movement and color on paper.

  Chapter Eight

  “Dinna speak of it.” All that was left of Seamus’s voice was a faint crack, his existence suspended by a thread of breath and heartbeat. Macleod pressed his hand. His fingers felt the dry blood that welled from the wounds in palms, aware that other wounds below the skin were causing pain beyond his knowledge.

  “Let go if ye must,” he answered. The words came thick and broken. “Go home to them.” The hand in his own trembled, as if the old man’s strength was fighting its way free of his body...

  The soft knock on the door disturbed Michael’s train of thought after a moment’s time. He raised his head from the computer screen and glanced over his shoulder expectantly.

  “Mr. Herriman.” Mrs. Hammmond was hovering in the doorway. “Mr. Bealy made a request of you this afternoon.” Something in her tone made his heart sink despite the smile on her face.

  Twenty minutes later, behind the wheel of the estate’s car, he was picturing the possibility of death if he drove in the wrong lane or turned into traffic based on an unfathomable foreign road sign. Sean would be a murderer, having volunteered his unsuspecting best man for a suicide mission.

  There was a thud behind him as Uncle Charlie tapped his cane against the seat. “Do you have a wireless knob, young man?”

  Uncle Charlie’s responsibility was wine selection; apparently, he had owned a small vineyard in France years before, qualifying him for selecting vintages for the reception. It had been Sir Andrew’s suggestion, one Sean readily embraced. Being in Spain for an independent film festival appearance, however, prevented him from facing the consequences of this suggestion.

  “What station?” asked Michael. He flipped the dial until the first voices emerged, a faint newscast followed by strains of music.

  “That is close enough,” called Uncle Charlie. The sound stabilized, a thready pulse of music like a fierce jazz orchestra at work. Michael moved his hand from the knob to the steering wheel, his eyes focused intently on the road.

  The countryside on the outskirts of the village seemed to consist of empty fields, as if all the sheep had been herded into a secret location, the barns visible in the distance. A road sign for Leeds-Mary appeared, Michael signaling a turn as an element of panic played in his mind.

  “So, you’re selecting the wine,” he said, after the long silence seemed eternal. “What sort of vintage does Kate prefer?” He knew Sean’s taste in wine was limited to something red, often spiked with other things.

  “Katherine should have something exemplary,” he answered. “That’s why I am here.” This seemed to be the limit of his information on the subject.

  The Pig and Pipes was the local pub, situated a mere stone’s throw from the bottle shop to which Uncle Charlie directed him. The old man emerged slowly, one hand clutching a carved wooden cane which poked out a walking trail in the leaves.

  “Let me help you,” offered Michael. As he reached for Charlie’s arm, it was yanked out of his hand.

  “No, no,” Uncle Charlie barked. “Go into the shop, thank you.�
�� He hobbled along behind Michael, whose steps were slow in an attempt not to lose him.

  In Chicago, he purchased wine from a liquor store two blocks away, bottles of red and white that gathered dust in his cabinet. Only the cooking sherry ventured forth for occasional use; the rest were earmarked as hostess gifts and special occasion offerings, a last-minute choice for celebrations.

  The interior of the Waterman’s Bottle Shop was dusty and dark, a dry atmosphere housing somber rows of colored glass marked with labels. It was not modernized like the ones Michael had passed in London, the British version of a high-end liquor store located a few doors down from the tuxedo rental place he visited the day before.

  Uncle Charlie’s cane tapped along the aisle as Michael lagged behind. Somewhere in this shop was a living person, he supposed, whose job it was to wait on them. His companion seemed to have little interest in finding them as he studied the bottles and their labels.

  “This one,” he grunted. The handle of his cane tapped a bottle in a rack on the second shelf. In implied obedience, Michael lifted it out. Charlie walked a few more paces, examining the rows.

  “That one,” he said, tapping another. And so it went, until Michael was burdened with green and purple glass, their hues dulled by the liquid within.

  At the counter, a man was now pouring over a heavy log book. The sound of Charlie’s cane tapping against the floor attracted his notice.

  “Bit of wine, there?” he asked, in a friendly tone.

  “Yes actually,” said Michael. “We would like–”

  “Samples, sir,” interrupted Uncle Charlie. “I wish to taste your open bottles.” He rested his cane on the counter, its handle dangling from the edge.

  “You mean the new selections?” asked the clerk. “Just got a shipment in. Nice color, promises to age well.” He lifted a curtain and disappeared in the back of the shop.

  This was how Michael found himself beside Uncle Charlie moments later, in a room with a table and two open bottles of new wine. Uncle Charlie held a glass up to the light, studying the color of the wine in the light streaming through a small window.

  “Strong hue,” he muttered. He took a sip from the glass after a moment, savoring it without spitting as Michael noted was the custom at wine tastings.

  “Good flavor, good bouquet.” He set the glass down and motioned for Michael to lift his own sample in a small sherry glass.

  “Taste it,” he urged. “Go on now. Life is short, so drink up.” A cross between a philosophy and a toast, forcing a wry grin to Michael’s face. He lifted the glass and swallowed a sip of the wine, a heady aroma like perfume invading his nostrils and throat.

  “Strong,” he said, with a slight sputter as he lowered the glass. Uncle Charlie nodded sagely.

  “Wine is not a business for the faint of heart,” he said. “What goes into it–time, patience, practice–is like marriage almost. Although I was never married, as fate would have it.” He sniffed the second sample before him as if inhaling a corsage.

  “Kate and Sean will appreciate your efforts,” said Michael. “I suppose that your gift comes in handy for special occasions.” He lifted his own second glass, hesitating to taste its contents.

  Uncle Charlie tapped his fingers against the glass. “Katherine is a difficult girl,” he said, after a moment’s pause. “She is not easy to understand. Sometimes she does things simply because she does them. Cornered, passively drawn–there are a lot of names for it, I suppose.”

  “What do you think of Sean?” asked Michael, with a sense of curiosity. Until now, he had never asked one of Kate’s relatives their opinion of the groom-to-be.

  “I think he will have a difficult time of it,” answered Uncle Charlie. “Not intentionally, of course. But he rather seems to go about her all wrong.” His forehead furrowed in a way that convinced Michael this was not a joke, but an observation.

  “In what way?” asked Michael. His thumb slowly rubbed the neck of the wine glass, as if polishing the surface.

  “In every way,” answered Charlie. “She seldom says what she’s thinking. The type you have to learn to read, like another language, something I think her fiancé won’t see until he’s had a great deal of time to make mistakes with her. By then, of course–but what do I know? Never married, as I said.” With this brusque conclusion, he lifted the second sample’s glass again,

  “To the happy couple,” he declared, polishing off its contents.

  “To the happy couple,” repeated Michael. He let the wine wash against his mouth, but didn’t take another sip. It seemed to go to his head, its fumes making him feel sleepy.

  “It’s decent enough,” Uncle Charlie declared as he set aside the sample glass. “Three cases for the reception ought to be sufficient for such a small party.” He lifted his cane from the table and tapped towards the main room again.

  “The vintage bottles,” said Michael. “Are they for the reception also?” He pictured the dusty labels lining the counter of the bottle shop, the armful he carried as he trailed after Uncle Charlie.

  “Those?” Uncle Charlie replied. “No, my good lad. Those are for me, of course.” Whistling softly, he passed through the curtains and into the bottle shop again.

  *****

  “Tell us a little about Sean’s work, Michael,” said Aunt Louisa.

  She had passed him the jar of mustard at lunch, her eyes trained on him often, as were Charlotte’s. He suspected they were both reading his novel whenever he left Heathshedge on errands, but he couldn’t prove it, since everything was always put back exactly as he left it. Nevertheless, he sometimes detected a perfume in the air that reminded him of musty fruit stored in a bureau drawer.

  “Yes, do,” said Helen, Sir Andrew’s wife. “We know so little about him. He seems like a very interesting fellow.” Her tone was polite, accompanied by an equally tranquil smile. In Kate’s family, Michael detected a similarity in genes and personality, as if they were all trained in the same tranquil outer pose.

  “He directs his own movies,” answered Michael. “Um, sort of like ... Michael Moore, for instance. Or the people who made The Blair Witch Project.” The looks on their faces–more polite interest–told him none of these reference points had any meaning for them.

  “He spends a lot of time away from home, doesn’t he?” said Charlotte.

  “Katherine can entertain herself,” said Sir Andrew. “I don’t think his traveling about will matter.”

  “Does he make a good living?” asked Helen. “I know the business of making movies is quite successful in the states–not that I expect him to be wealthy, of course,” she laughed.

  “He does ... well ... financially, I think,” Michael answered, vaguely. To his knowledge, Sean’s lifestyle included a great many credit card charges, a constant train of refinancing and endless payments to keep up. Something he suspected might shock Kate’s relatives if they knew the truth.

  “I rather wonder that he hasn’t made one of your books into a film,” said Charlotte, brightly. “Wouldn’t that be a good way to make money, perhaps?”

  “Surely Sean knows what makes money and what doesn’t,” intervened Helen. “Does he like living in Chicago, when his work must take him to the West Coast where the other filmmakers work?”

  “I think–” Michael began, but a woman’s voice intervened.

  “Sean never goes to the West Coast unless it’s to attend a film festival, Aunt Helen.” Kate stood in the doorway, hands tucked in the pockets of her sweater coat. “I’m sure Michael’s work keeps him far too busy to know all the answers about Sean’s career.”

  She seated herself in the chair across from him, the only one available at the small dining table. He offered her a smile of thanks, taking in the peculiar scent of dampness and chemicals which seemed to cling to her, infusing the sleeved arm resting on the table. She showed no interest in the last servings of lunch available before her, taking only an orange from the fruit bowl to peel.

  “Been visiting t
he dark room again, Katherine?” asked Sir Andrew. “She’s converted the first floor washroom into a place to put her pictures on paper,” he explained to Michael. “A bit of my old equipment was still lying around–photography was a hobby of mine in my younger years.” He spooned a green relish onto his plate from one of the serving dishes.

  “My film photos,” said Kate. “Not the digital ones, of course.”

  “You should see them,” encouraged Louisa. “There are some splendid ones of Heathshedge in the early morning and a lovely one of the duck pond.”

  “I’ve seen some of Kate’s photos,” said Michael. “She has a great talent for capturing the moment.” In his mind, he was picturing the moment she photographed the estate’s manor house–but of course, the only photos he had seen in person were the ones on Kate’s camera. Including the one of them kissing.

  The redness infusing his face was mistaken for conversational enthusiasm by Louisa. “Come along,” she said. “You should see them–they’re right here in the little washroom.” She tugged him up by his elbow, the rest of the party rising in accord. Kate was the last to follow, her half-finished orange in hand.

  Louisa opened the door to a closet-like room, a red bulb burning fiercely above them. The sink was filled with water, a strong-scented, unidentifiable liquid in a serving pan nearby. Images hung from a clothesline across the room: Vicki embracing the statue, a white duck sliding beneath the pond’s waters.

  “Stunning, isn’t it?” Louisa indicated one of the house, its walls darkened in contrast to a bright background. Michael moved closer to admire it, his eye wandering to the next photo, then a stack of finished images piled below.

  “There’s a lovely one of the old carriage house,” said Louisa, lifting the topmost photo from the pile. “That one below is a little lane in the village, isn’t it? And the path ‘round Sir Andrew’s little rose garden...” As her fingers moved photos aside, Michael caught a glimpse of his own image, a strong profile focused against the backdrop of the gazebo. It was tucked in a brown portfolio with a handful of others apart from the stack.