by J. P. Hansen
Brooke heard sniffles on the other end and, after a few seconds, said, “You there?”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Do I sound crazy?”
The question stopped Brooke cold. After a deep breath, she said, “We’re both crazy.”
Melissa’s amusement had a nervous twitch, much more subdued than normal. She said, “Okay, I get it. I’ll calm down now. I think I’m just hungry.”
“You and I both know how short life can be. And today’s going to be the greatest day of your life—I can feel it. Settle down and enjoy some of it. I’ll see you in two hours. You’re going to look amazing. I’ll be so jealous.”
“I seriously doubt that. But, thanks—you know how to lift me up. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Ditto, girl.” As Brooke hung up, she heaved a sigh of relief, then considered a trip to Waffle House. Discussing fasting made her hungry, and blueberry waffles sure sounded good. Her mouth watered, then she noticed it again—that damn pink dress. As a compromise, she enjoyed a bowl of berries—including blueberries, but without the waffle. Then, she thought she’d kill two birds with one stone.
Brooke packed her make-up essentials into an overnight bag on top of her pajamas and Sunday’s sundress. The intimidating pink dress would remain wrinkle-free on its hanger. She checked her email one last time. Aside from the company email announcements she’d ignored yesterday, two new ones caught her eye. Late Friday, David Greenberg scheduled a meeting for eight o’clock, Monday morning—ouch. So much for ever catching Chase at Starbucks. The other one: “Brooke, Congrats on hitting your goal. I’m so proud of you. Enjoy the wedding and the weekend—you’ve earned it. I’ll have my cell if you need me. Kind Regards, Dr. Shane Gallagher, PhD.”
As she reread her life coach’s email, warmth spread inside. Still feeling hungry, Brooke craved coffee. She smiled. Starbucks—the infamous one—was on the way from her apartment to the wedding. Brooke carefully lifted her dress and headed out.
During the fifteen minute drive, Brooke pressed speed dial one. “Good morning.”
“That was such a nice email.”
“The one from yesterday? Oh, yeah, congrats again, I really am proud of you and your accomplishment.”
“You’d be proud of me again today.”
“Why’s that?”
“I sounded like you with Melissa.”
“Your friend Melissa? The one who’s getting married today?”
“Yep. She’s either going to have a massive stroke or get married today.”
“And, I’m guessing you managed to keep her out of the ER?”
“I did. I sounded like you today and even threw in the now stuff, but in my own words.”
“Congrats again. So, you do listen to me sometimes?”
“I always listen; I just don’t always hear you.”
“Touché.”
They both laughed, then Shane asked the question he’d been holding back, “How are you doing today?”
“I’m holding up so far,” Brooke bit her lip, “all I have to do is keep it together during the ceremony. Listening to their vows at the rehearsal, I almost lost it.”
“That’s perfectly normal. Most of the church loses it during the vows and Ave Maria.”
“Well, they won’t be in a church or singing any Ave Maria’s—Melissa’s Jewish.”
Shane laughed even louder and Brooke cut him off, “And, it’s a blessing for me. Their ceremony’s quite a bit different from mine so it won’t bring back the memories. Plus, they’re having it in the hotel. If I ever walk down that aisle again, I’m converting to Judaism.”
“Well, mazel tav and try not to drink too much l’chaim to life then.”
“Not bad, even with your Boston Irish accent,” Brooke laughed, thinking he sounded like the Lucky Charms leprechaun trying out for Fiddler on the Roof.
“You are making such great progress. Keep it up.”
You are making such great progress. Brooke allowed the words to reverberate after hanging up. She felt another warmth. Whenever someone offered praise that resonated inside, Brooke lit up. When Shane praised her, it felt heaven sent.
The Starbucks sign pulled Brooke back from her dreamy state like an air bag. A rush of panic hit—what if he’s here? This’ll look really weird. He’ll think I’m a freak. No, I can just say I was stopping in the office. But, it’s Saturday. I hope he’s not a workaholic—the type who works all weekend. Why would an eligible bachelor wear a ring?
Brooke sped past the storefront. No sign of that red car, that’s good. She glanced around, then parked in her original hiding spot with the motor running. She raised her eyebrow as Every Breath You Take rang out—isn’t this song about a stalker? She drew a deep breath.
Inside Starbucks, a whole new set of faces came into view. Besides that enticing aroma, the only thing similar was the line. No Marcus, no Tonya, no Yankee chick—and no Chase. Brooke sighed, then stood in line.
“What would ya like?”
“Has Chase been in yet?” Brooke fidgeted.
“Who?” Two unfamiliar faces behind the counter glared.
“Chase? Mr. Allman? A-Man?”
“Does he work here?”
Perfect. Brooke had her answer—one of them, at least. Holding the hot cup, she inhaled the Quad Espresso, unable to stifle her giddy grin.
***
The drive up to Raleigh lasted longer than normal due to road construction and a steady rainfall. Well, they work on Saturdays, rain or shine I guess. Brooke hoped her pink dress didn’t slide too much in the trunk. And, she wondered for the umpteenth time if it would fit. I sound like Melissa now. And, just as the thought hit, so did Brooke’s ringtone—Melissa.
“Where are you?”
“I’m almost there. What’s up?”
“Hurry up. Everyone’s here. We’re gonna get dressed. I’m not doing anything without you.” It was Melissa’s not-so-subtle way of granting Brooke the honors—in front of the others.
The RTP Convention Center looked majestic, even in the rain. After a major renovation, it featured meeting rooms of all sizes—including a ballroom big enough to host the wedding—a hotspot nightclub, spa, and two luxury hotels adjoined. The self-contained village resembled Las Vegas casinos in grandeur, yet offered a southern charm. Early check in was a breeze. Clifton Brenner had picked up the tab for the wedding party—nice touch. The receptionist handed Brooke a message, unsigned, but definitely not unknown, “Hurry up to the wedding suite on the twenty-fourth floor.” What a basket case.
Brooke decided to head up to Melissa’s room first. As she entered the spacious suite, she noticed all the familiar faces from last night, most already in their pink dresses. No Melissa. Both Amber and Brandi bee-lined to Brooke, looking like they survived Survivor. “Don’t you two look sexy! Where’s Melissa?”
“Thank God you’re here,” Amber rolled her eyes as Brandi pointed to a closed door across the lengthy marble floor.
“Ah,” Brooke wondered how many times Melissa ran to the bathroom.
“Hey, at least she’s here.”
“Hasn’t been easy. Get her dressed please—I think I need a drink.” All three women giggled, as if back in the sorority, gearing up for North Carolina’s Formal.
Melissa had her hair and nails done earlier, and including Brooke, it required seven women to alternate dressing, applying make-up, and calming Melissa. Brooke said, “You look stunning. Time to go.” As the sorority sisters proceeded down the hall, Brooke started singing, Goin’ to the Chapel and, even Melissa laughed and joined in.
During rehearsal, the ceremony had appeared harried to Brooke, but today, peaceful divinity—in spite of Eddie’s haggard-looking family tree. Under the Chuppah—the magnificent white canopy where the couple stood with the Rabbi—Melissa and Eddie became one. The Ketubah filled the room with rhythmic Aramaic; for Eddie, it might as well have been in Pig Latin. After the traditional commitment of the husband promising to be attentive to his
wife’s emotional needs, Brooke strangled her laughter. Seeing Eddie adorned in white traditional robe, Brooke enjoyed God’s sense of humor. Brooke just couldn’t see Tanner doing any of this with a straight face. Brooke settled in and started enjoying the wedding. The hard part—getting Melissa there—was over. Except for the toast, Brooke still wasn’t certain she could deliver.
Brooke had endeavored to understand the Jewish wedding ceremony. Though she still didn’t grasp the lingo, she understood and appreciated the symbolism. Unfortunately, Eddie didn’t even make an effort and Brooke realized this caused plenty of her best friend’s wedding-day jitters. Though Brooke attempted to focus on each element of the wedding, she kept drifting. First, recalling Shane’s words, about the love Brooke had—that Melissa would probably never feel. And the loss Melissa tried to feel for her friend. Though she feared this day, her gratitude lifted her up.
Later, after the champagne flowed and the wedding guests had taken their seats, Clifton Brenner delivered a droning toast,
As everyone sipped, Melissa eyed Brooke. It was time. This should have been easy, given Brooke’s training in public speaking. But, no course could prepare her for this.
Brooke rose, Clifton handed her the mike. She surveyed the enormous room, put the mike close to her lips and drew in a deep breath that hushed the crowd. She fixed her gaze on Melissa, and said:
“I don’t know if anyone could love this beautiful woman more than I do. Sorry,
Eddie...But, if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be here.” Brooke ambled over and kissed Melissa’s forehead. Four hundred people were silent—like a video—and Brooke just pressed pause. Melissa’s eyes welled, Eddie just stared ahead. Brooke faced the crowd, then reached out toward Melissa, “She’s my angel. None of you know this but…a couple years ago…many years ago, Melissa stopped me from…from doing something to myself that I was…well, that I was too sick to stop myself from doing. When my husband—the love of my life—when Tanner ended his life, I didn’t think mine was worth living. If it weren’t for her being there that day…” Brooke’s eyes fluttered, then released the pent up tears; not tears of pain, but tears of love. With crackling voice, “It wasn’t just one day either…Melissa was there for me when I needed someone the most. Eddie, you have no idea how lucky you are. You have one special bride. I hope you really understand that. I hope you cherish her each and every day.” Eddie was ready to break out in hives. Brooke turned back and faced Melissa, whose tears streamed down her face. “When you asked me to be your maid of honor, I nearly lost it. I love you so much.”
Brooke placed the mike down and hugged Melissa like they were Velcroed together. In more ways than even a marital bond, they were. Finally, Brooke excused herself, and strode briskly toward the side exit. The microphone settled forlorn. Nobody dared to pick it up; it would be like following John, Paul, George, and Ringo onstage—not even Yoko would have tried.
Inside the bathroom, Brooke eased into the handicapped stall. This time, nobody entered. After emptying her tear ducts for nearly twenty minutes, a calm enveloped her. “Tanner? If that’s you, ya coulda helped me a little more up there.” Brooke inhaled as gratitude replaced isolation, and spread serenity through her like a transcendental meditation.
Nearly two hours later, Brooke realized she had better return, hoping she didn’t spoil the party. She practiced her apology to Melissa. Trudging back like she was heading to the executioner, she heard music…and laughing. She smiled.
Men and women, children, dresses, ribbons, and tuxes flailed around the dance floor, looking sillier than the Funky Chicken. Melissa stood in the middle of the loose giant circle, and waved Brooke over. How did she see me? They danced, drank, spilled, danced, drank, spilled, and when the band finally quit, drank once more. Then, as Melissa and Eddie—whose bow tie was now wrapped around his head—waved goodbye, Amber and Brandi grabbed Brooke and said, “C’mon, we’re all going out.”
Back in college, Brooke’s energy would have outpaced the alcohol, at least until last call. But, tonight she just couldn’t do it. The maid of honor’s feet hurt, her ankle hurt more, and emotionally, she needed to bring the rollercoaster in for the night. A familiar Dave Matthew’s song started. As her friends started singing, Brooke seized the chance to escape. She quietly ducked out to the bathroom. Brooke’s fellow bride’s maids reverted to classmates, tossing back flaming shots around Le Chic’s gleaming bar—definitely time to go.
In the hallway, safe from peer pressure, Brooke was lost. She staggered down a long corridor, and rounded a corner, wondering if a piece of cheese rewarded her effort to locate the elusive elevator. She wanted to rename the place, Labyrinth. Adrenaline mixed with champagne, morphing into turbo bubbly. She wandered another hallway and sighed—there has to be an elevator in this place.
Brooke leafed through her purse but couldn’t locate the hotel’s number. Punching 4-1-1, she pressed the phone to her ear. Nothing. Brooke stared at her cell in a hypnotic trance, then realized, crap—dead battery. Great, now what? Brooke heard a ding and froze. She recognized that sound—it never sounded better. She spun around and spotted the elevators. How did I miss that? I shouldn’t have had that last shot.
Brooke advanced toward the blurred sign, then entered a corridor holding four elevators, just as one was closing—crap. She slapped the up button, causing the door to reopen with a loud ding. While lunging toward the door, she glanced over her shoulder, paranoid that her wedding mates would spot her. One of her spaghetti straps dropped, but she didn’t care—I’m all alone, thank God.
Humming Crash Into Me, she jumped in front of the opening elevator door, then stepped forward. “What the…” As her eyes focused, she slipped, and barreled into the stranger in black. He grabbed her—oh shit, I’m gonna die.
Clutching her in his death grip, time stood still, and his devilish laugh terrified her. She heard the door close, ending all hope. Feeling faint, Brooke gasped, petrified, unable to move. I have to scream—or lash out—but I can’t move my lips. She inhaled hard, a last ditch effort to muster the strength to shout…wait a minute. That scent. “Tanner…is that you?” But, the man in black laughed louder, taunting her. He was enjoying it, the sicko.
She felt an upward force, as if being pulled to the light. Then, she landed on her feet—
“Huh!”
The man in black loosened his grip, but still clutched her, and said, “Oh my God. Brooke Hart—on an elevator! Imagine that?” She recognized that gorgeous smile, then the lashes.
“Chase, what’re you doin’ here?”
“I was going to ask you the same question. We have to stop meeting like this.”
His eyes sparkled and his voice was playful. The man in black looked stunning in his tuxedo—the new James Bond. Am I dreaming? Brooke’s head spun, her knees buckled. “I didn’t see you at the wedding?”
“Wedding?”
The elevator door closed. Chase said, “Can I let go of you now?”
“I wish you wouldn’t…” Chase’s eyes widened. Brooke considered rephrasing while noticing he wasn’t wearing a ring.
The elevator lunged upward. He released Brooke, but she stood closely, grazing him with a slight sway while searching his eyes. Chase gulped, raised his eyebrows, and asked, “Which floor?”
Brooke inspected the panel—nineteen was illuminated—then said, “Nineteen.”
Chase’s brow rose.
Damn I love those lashes.
Chase said, “Were you in a wedding?”
Brooke glanced at her dress. “Can ya tell?”
“You look…” Chase noticed her hair had extra flair, flowing across her soft shoulders. He closed his eyes tightly and shook his head, then said, “Wow.”
Wow? “You look better than the groom.” I didn’t just say that. I love him in that tux…he looks sexier than Clooney. Brooke inhaled once more and purred as her eyes spun a slow circle.
Quick laugh, “I was at a charity event.”
“For G
Q?”
“You’re funny…” Brooke couldn’t stop staring, imagining his 007 pose on the cover. Did I just say GQ?
The elevator thumped, jolting Brooke forward. Chase hugged her, this time with a gentle touch. He sensed she wasn’t going to fall, but had to embrace her.
With a ding, the door slid open. Chase smirked, and said, “I better help you off.” Without waiting for a response from Brooke, whose eyes shot open, he shifted his grasp from her arm to around her shoulder. His aroma had a stronger effect than the shot of Patron. Her legs went numb as he led her off the elevator. Brooke quivered and then felt a sudden rush.
They faced the guide board, the floor’s fork-in-the-road. “Which way?” Brooke noticed he slurred his words, guessing he was tipsy too.
“Huh?” Brooke stared as if studying a math formula, “I think I’m that way.”
“Me too. C’mon, I’ll walk you to your room. Which one’s yours?”
“I dunno. I think I’m in…1944. Where are you?”
“Perfect, I’m in 1950.”
He tightened his grip around Brooke, warming her, leading her. She felt a hot surge inside. Feeling giddy, neither had the slightest fear of being noticed. Their pace slowed as the tight carpet snagged her heels on each staggered step. They barely avoided the obstacle course of room service trays that popped up like booby traps. Though painted in upscale earth tones, the hallway was bright—too bright for Brooke. She wanted a peek at her compact, but she didn’t dare let go. They held on as if their lives depended on each other; neither wanted the feeling to end.
“Did you say 1944?” Chase released her, and she jolted awake.
“Huh? Oh yeah, I think so. Lemme grab my key.” Brooke opened her purse that seemed sensible earlier, but now looked ridiculously packed. She pulled out a white plastic card, then stared at it as if it contained the secret of the Holy Grail. Looking in Chase’s eyes, she said, “I never know how to use these things.”