Best Man

by Briggs, Laura

  “–and if this is all you’re wearing to your wedding, I wish you had spoken to me first,” she said, “given that your mother would have wanted you in a proper dress.”

  “It isn’t merely a matter of having so little time,” Kate answered, her fingers pressed against her forehead. They both grew aware of Michael’s proximity at this moment, Helen’s face switching to a polite smile.

  “Oh, Michael, do you by chance have Sean’s cell phone?” she asked. “He seems to have misplaced it earlier. We searched everywhere since he was afraid he would miss his film editor’s call.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t,” Michael answered. Now was the wrong moment; he reproached himself inwardly for wandering this direction. A vision of a pathetic figure peppering a tragic sufferer with questions popped into his mind.

  “Where is Sean?” he said. “He gave me the slip earlier, I suspect for the bride-to-be’s company.” He made a pretense of glancing around for his friend in the crowd, noticing Kate’s drawn expression as she studied the contents of her glass.

  “Over there somewhere, I think,” Helen answered. With a polite nod, Michael backed away, hands slipping into his pockets as he dived into the crowd once more.

  Two guests were arguing about the contents of a platter of appetizers as a waiter fumbled to light a candle centerpiece on one of the tables. Michael glanced at the chrysanthemum blossoms poking up from the top of a ceramic vase, Vicki’s name in delicate font on one of the place cards assigning seating.

  Sean was leaning against one of the support pillars, shoulders hunched forward in concentration as he pressed the buttons on a phone. Michael lifted one of his eyebrows.

  “You found your phone,” he said.

  “It’s Kate’s,” Sean answered. “I borrowed it off her dresser so I could call Sami about the final edits.”

  “I see,” Michael answered. “He’s the one who–” He trailed off, unable to remember Sami from the countless faces in Sean’s crew.

  “Assistant editor,” Sean prompted him. “We’re trying to get the final cut wrapped for screening, but with the wedding hours away, it’s getting kind of crazy. I’ll have to call him back in twenty, he’s on the road with funky reception.”

  His finger was pressing a button on the keypad, the cell phone screen flashing. He was scrolling through the photo album on Kate’s camera. He paused for a moment on one of the pictures; Michael saw two faces framed in the photo’s square.

  “When was this taken?” Sean asked, in a quizzical voice. He turned the phone to face Michael, who saw his own face pressed against Kate’s in a kiss.

  As his lips parted, no words came to mind; a void where an excuse would be formed, a plausible story behind the image. He heard Kate’s voice and realized she was standing beside him with her champagne glass in hand.

  “In San Francisco,” she answered.

  Sean’s smile was puzzled. “When were you two in San Francisco?” he asked, with a laugh.

  “Almost three weeks ago,” she answered. “We met there.” Her expression remained perfectly serious, no trace of casual humor in her voice, no attempt to dismiss the clouds growing on Sean’s face.

  “You met there?” he repeated. There was a subtle shift in his face as he did the math, making the connection between Kate’s statement and the time in Chicago.

  “I didn’t tell you,” she said. “It didn’t seem important at the time. But at this moment it does.” She pressed her lips together, as if holding back further emotion from her voice.

  “But what–” Sean faltered. “You’re not saying–you don’t mean–” A red flush invaded his face as his eyes cut from Kate’s face to Michael’s. Michael’s tongue was frozen; the guests around them had taken notice of this conversation now, the sounds of other voices around them dying out.

  “Not in that way,” said Kate, abruptly. Her eyes brimmed with tears, the only sign of emotion in a face otherwise perfectly calm. “But I feel–I want–” Her voice broke for a moment as she struggled to control it again.

  “I can’t do this,” she said. “I can’t go through with it, Sean. With us. I’m sorry. So sorry–” She turned and gently pushed her way through the thin wall of observers, disappearing behind them as Sean stared at the photo on the screen.

  “I’m sorry.” Michael managed to find his voice at the sight of pain in Sean’s face. But the only response he received was a cold glance as Sean closed the phone and walked away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  There was a sense of confusion in the room following Kate’s departure, as whispers traveled swiftly between clusters of guests. Michael was slowly trying to make his way to an escape without making contact with any of these surprised individuals, moving towards the stairs outside the ballroom.

  He couldn’t get away, snagged by guests with polite inquiries–some of whom knew what happened, some of whom were unaware and simply making polite conversation with the best man.

  To whom did he owe an apology first? Sean, who suspected him of destroying his engagement. Or Kate–but for what, he was not certain. For the pain so evident in her voice, the image on her camera that had lingered in his fantasies for longer than he was willing to admit.

  “Where’s Sean?” he asked Vicki, who was posed over a cocktail at one of the tables near the deejay spinning discs of sentimental jazz.

  “Sean?” she answered. “I don’t know. He went upstairs awhile ago.” She motioned to the chair across from her. “Sit down and have a drink with me.”

  “No thanks,” he answered.

  A hand seized his sleeve–Louisa’s firm fingers and pleading face delaying him momentarily. “Is something the matter, Michael?” she asked, anxiously. “Someone said Katherine has spoken rather rashly to him.” By him, she meant Sean, he realized.

  “I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” he answered, withdrawing from her grip as politely as possible. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw her confused face glancing around for another candidate, her fingers plucking Sir Andrew’s sleeve as he passed.

  Michael climbed the stairs, hesitating outside Kate’s door. He could hear nothing but silence on the other side; his fingers longed to knock on its surface and know for certain if she was on the other side. He pictured her sitting on her bed, her face bathed in tears, before shoving the mental image away.

  The door to Sean’s room was ajar. He pushed it open and entered, his eyes adjusting to the dim light in the chamber. He could make out Sean’s form seated in a leather chair in front of the bookshelves, legs stretched out and crossed before him.

  “Kate’s gone,” said Sean. He was staring downwards, not looking up as Michael entered. “She took her bag and left for the airport. Dress is on the back of the door.”

  Michael closed his eyes for a moment, focusing his mind on this moment, away from the distraction of Kate.

  “Nothing happened, Sean,” he said. “It was a delayed flight in the San Francisco airport, we met in a ticket line. So we went out for coffee, we walked through the city...” He rubbed the back of his neck, uncertain if Sean was listening to him at all.

  “The photo was just a moment,” he said. “We posed for it, we kissed–and that was the end of it.” A lame conclusion, given the circumstances downstairs.

  “So if it was nothing, then why not tell me?” Sean asked. “Why not be honest about it?”

  “Because–” Michael hesitated, “–because we were afraid it would seem like something, I guess.” The reasons why had lost clarity for him. It seemed silly and overly-dramatic, slanting guilt onto their connection. In Sean’s mind, their afternoon was a tawdry affair of tangled sheets and champagne.

  “I don’t know why she did this,” said Michael, finally. “I promise you that nothing happened between us. What she said tonight–the reasons why she walked away–” He released his breath in a long sigh, uncertain what was the answer.

  Sean raised his head. “It was something, wasn’t it?” he asked. “I don’t mean you
two were carrying on behind my back or anything ... but it wasn’t just a picture. Was it?”

  Michael was silent for a long moment before answering. “I would never have said anything,” he said. “I wouldn’t have done anything to hurt you. Kate wouldn’t either.”

  Sean smiled faintly. “Yeah,” he said. “I get that.” He reached over and lifted the velvet box from one of the shelves. Popping it open, he gazed at the ring inside.

  “I could’ve seen something was different if I looked,” he said. “But I wasn’t. I wasn’t thinking about anything except Mexico when I picked this out. Probably because I was the wrong guy for her.”

  Michael opened his mouth to argue this point, but Sean’s gaze was focused on him now. In his eyes, Michael read a mixture of disappointment and acceptance.

  “I think,” said Sean, “that maybe you were the best man for her. Maybe that’s why she said those things about the picture.” A sad smile accompanied these words as he closed the ring’s box.

  Michael’s breath disappeared from his lungs as he stared at Sean. “I couldn’t do that to you,” he said. Sean shrugged.

  “You feel something for her, right?” he asked. Michael avoided his eyes, aware that the uncomfortable heat rolling into his cheeks was visible to Sean’s eye, like an admission of guilt.

  “I do,” he answered, after a moment. As the rush of possibilities broke free in his mind: feeling Kate’s hand in his own, the distance between them vanishing the way it had in San Francisco. A feeling impetuous and spontaneous, like second youth in the form of one moment’s meeting.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Sean. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Kate’s cell phone. He tossed it towards Michael, who fumbled to catch it as it struck his chest. “So go. Go tell her before she gets away.”

  “What about you?” asked Michael. Sean was on his feet now, his fingers loosening the tuxedo tie around his throat.

  “Me?” said Sean. “I’m gonna pack for home. Maybe I’m still in time to catch up with Sami before the final cut.” With a wry smile as he shrugged off the tuxedo jacket. “Just don’t forget–the tuxedo stays here.”

  *****

  “Passengers are reminded not to leave their luggage unattended at any time in the airport...” The announcer’s voice had a metallic quality ringing over the PA system as Michael hurried along the endless gates for flights. A one-way ticket for Chicago was crammed in his coat pocket, an excuse to gain him entry to the airport even though he had no intention of catching a flight. A crazy move for someone who second-guessed impulses as a rule.

  The dampness cut through his open coat and the thin dress shirt without a jacket since he changed in haste. With his laptop case slung across his shoulder, he felt weighted down by luggage, even without his suitcase still half-packed in one of Heathshedge’s guest rooms.

  He had no clear idea where Kate might be, which plane she was planning to catch. For all he knew, she might already be gone. In the advantage of fifteen minutes or so since her arrival, she could easily have boarded a flight to anywhere in the world. Unless he was psychic, there was no way to predict which one she would choose.

  Scanning the faces and bodies passing him, he looked for any trace of her dark hair or petite build. Every brunette received a second look, the sight of a blue scarf made his heart race before the teenager wearing it appeared fully in view. He raked one hand through his hair as his apprehension grew stronger; the sensation that he had lost her now a gnawing ache in his chest.

  “Flight 117 now boarding for Chicago...” Michael folded the ticket and stuffed it in his pocket. The gate ahead of him was mostly empty, a series of plain chairs facing the darkened glass windows. He sank down in one, his mind brooding over the lost possibilities, the random tickets he could have purchased that might have put him on the same flight with her.

  He heard the seat next to him creak as another passenger joined him. A pair of brown boots and legs in tapered jeans. When he raised his eyes, he saw Kate beside him, her brown rucksack sliding to the floor.

  “Chicago?” she asked, after a pause.

  “No,” he answered. “That is to say–I was thinking of San Francisco.”

  She was facing straight ahead now, but he could see the muscles in her mouth tremble. “A beautiful city,” she said. When she looked at him again, he could see the faint traces of tears in the corners of her eyes, the first one tracing a path down her cheek.

  “I have Sean’s blessing for this,” he said, softly. “All I would need is to change my ticket. And go anywhere in the world with you.”

  “Anywhere in the world,” she repeated. He drew her cell phone out of his pocket and opened the screen, the camera lens pointed towards her.

  “What are you doing?” she said, raising a hand to block her face. He pressed the button a split-second beforehand, capturing a look of surprise on her face before he turned the screen to face her.

  “Capturing proof of this moment,” he said. “Commemorating it for later.” He placed the phone in her hand, letting his fingers cover hers for a moment.

  “I am glad to have those photos back,” she said softly, her voice breaking in the middle of these words. He cupped her face, leaning towards her as she wrapped her fingers around the lapels of his coat, pulling him closer as they kissed.

  It deepened, the taste of mint on Kate’s breath and champagne on his own as Michael savored this moment more keenly than the kiss before a stranger in Chinatown or the feeling of her hand wrapped around his in the maze of Portobello’s stalls. The notion that it was meant to be–that Sean was right in his prediction–seemed as tangible as the softness of Kate’s skin against his own.

  She drew back, peering into his eyes as if searching for an answer in their depths. “Shall it be San Francisco, then?” she asked.

  He smiled. “San Francisco,” he answered.

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  Excerpt from Free for the Wedding

  The lighthearted romantic novella from the author of best-selling Late to the Wedding

  “Valarie?” A man’s voice, his tone young but with the depth of maturity. In the background, the shouts and scuffling noises of a gymnasium.

  “This is Valarie,” she answered, racking her brain for who could be placing a social call. Not her date for this evening, since he possessed a mellow voice and had mentioned he gave up athletics after spraining a thumb playing table tennis.

  No exes in her past, of course. Just a series of acquaintances that seldom made it past the casual luncheon and a string of crushes who were never aware at all that Val glanced longingly in their direction.

  “It’s Jason,” the voice on the other end continued. “Jason Cotter–you know, from Wardruff High School? Aka, the good old days?”

  Val fumbled the computer mouse, inadvertently launching the half-finished memo into cyber space, although she was barely registering her mistake in the wake of this unforeseen development. Clutching the receiver with both hands–in order to keep from dropping it–she managed to choke out a reply.

  “Jason! Of course, how are you? It’s been–”

  “–forever,” he supplied with a laugh that threatened to make her heart wobble. And instantly brought to mind the youngest member of Wardruff High’s
football team, the running back hero, with his carefree smile and effortless golden hair.

  She knew from spying on his social network page a couple times–until he switched from public access to private–that he’d developed a lean physique and many more muscles since their days of sharing a lunch table in the school cafeteria. His picture was the only update she had access to these days. It had never occurred to her to 'friend' him or expect him to do the same–much less have him actually phone her up.

  “So are you needing an event planned?” she joked, with a little laugh to keep herself from completely melting down as her heart pounded. The crush of a lifetime, the love of her life, she had believed as an adolescent in braces and a teenager who lurked outside the football field on practice days. She remembered those feelings keenly, explaining why her knees were weak and her grown-up self was yearning towards the sound of his voice.

  “That’s a good guess, but it’s not exactly why I called. By the way, sorry to phone you at work like this, but I couldn’t find a listing for your home number.”

  Jason Cotter wants my number? Her eyes sank closed, her fingers clutching the edge of the desk in a surreal moment. As if she were fourteen again and gazing at the back of his head in math class as the teacher droned on about polynomials.

  “I–I just changed apartments,” she stammered. “Which is probably why you couldn’t find me. Because it’s not like I’m hiding or anything.” With a cringe for how nervous she sounded, babbling on like some girl with a crush. Which she had been–over a decade ago, of course.

  “Yeah, that makes sense,” he chuckled, the shrill note of a whistle echoing somewhere close behind him. “Sheesh–I know that was loud. I’m kind of on the job here. Covering a basketball game for the Richmond Tribune.”