“What do you mean?”
“How do you feel about him?”
“I’m marrying him.”
“Do you love him?”
“Of course I do.” Why did her mother have to go emotional on her? She hated it when her mother got all sensitive and melodramatic.
Her mother’s shoulders slumped. She seemed to be switching topics, again. “What did you say he was doing right now?”
“I don’t know.” He never talks to me about work. If he did, she could give him suggestions, ideas for how to be more organized―
“Don’t you ever talk to him?”
At the back of her mind, another warning throbbed. “We’ve been too busy with the wedding.”
“You have been too busy with the wedding. He’s not showing up for any of the showers or parties. Is he even having a bachelor party?”
“Prometheus is supposed to organize it,” Catherine told her. But he’s too busy writing prenuptial agreements.
“Prometheus?” Her mother raised her eyebrows.
“Yes. His lawyer. Prometheus Jones.”
Her mother looked up at the ceiling. “What a ridiculous name.”
Chapter Nine
Ryder stood outside the principal’s office. A sense of déjà vu prodded his mind, and then a flare of anxiety. And then anger. Then it was over. He was no longer a student, no longer under their thumb. No longer under anyone’s control.
“And this is Mrs. Sidorsky,” Toria was saying, introducing him to the fat lady.
But . . . it couldn’t be.
Mrs. Sidorsky was staring at him. “I recognize you,” she said. “Didn’t you used to―”
“Go here? Yes,” he said. “Eleven years ago. You threw me out of your English class. Several times.”
“Well.” She bristled, then caught herself, and pasted a smile on her pudgy face. “You’ve grown up,” she said.
“You’ve grown old.”
He felt Toria’s hand on his elbow, squeezing. Cautioning.
To hell with caution. A satisfying pause followed. Mrs. Sid looked like she was ready to send him to the principal’s office, except they were already there. He smiled.
Mrs. Sid turned her attention to Toria.
“You can’t be serious?” Mrs. Sid was saying. “About letting them build a waterfall?”
“It’s their choice.” Toria shrugged, and let go of his arm. She looked self-assured.
“You give them too many choices.” Mrs. Sid’s lips made a thin line as she frowned and narrowed her eyes.
“Toria!”
Another teacher barreled toward them, dodging students. The man looked older than Mrs. Sid but fit, like a runner.
Toria smiled at the man as he approached. “This is Mr. Burrows, our principal. This is Ryder O’Callaghan. He’s―”
“Helping us with some grad decoration work. I know. Isabelle told me you were coming.” Mr. Burrows looked at her bandaged ankle. “How’s the ankle? We heard you had an accident.”
“Nothing serious. I have to stay off it for a week, then I can try to put weight on it again.”
“This won’t interfere with the wedding plans?”
“No.” She leaned on her crutches. “A sprained ankle won’t do that.”
“Everything going according to schedule then? I thought when you needed the extra time off . . .”
“I think that’s mostly my mother.”
“She needs to have you handy,” Mr. Burrows said, answering for her. “For those last minute decisions. I understand.”
“We don’t need you here, Toria,” Mrs. Sid interrupted.
“By the by,” Mr. Burrows said, ignoring Mrs. Sid, “congratulations.”
Toria raised her eyebrows, like, congratulations for what?
“Your classes have the highest math marks in the provincials.”
Mrs. Sid rolled her eyes.
“Don’t congratulate me,” Toria said. “The students wrote the exams.”
Mrs. Sid tightened her jaw and did another eye roll. No wonder her face looked so weird. All that eye strain.
“Well, Mrs. Sidorsky,” Mr. Burrows said, turning to her at last. “Looks like you’ve got the help you wanted.”
· · · · ·
Students had started to trickle into the gym when their spares began at one o’clock. By one-thirty, a steady stream flowed through the doors.
Ryder doubted that Mrs. Sid had the help she wanted. The old girl had probably been complaining about no one doing what she told them to do, but she did not want Toria here. Mr. Burrows—Budge was his name—didn’t seem to notice that fact, or he ignored it. Now the gym was filled with workers, and Mrs. Sid wandered around looking for ways to be a nuisance.
Everyone was turning up when they had time. All kinds of students, not just the popular chicks who had run the show when he’d been in grade twelve. Some of them were skipping classes. And many of them stayed after classes finished for the day.
An odd sense of nostalgia touched him. His high school time had not been like this. Here, the students were pulling together, forgetting their differences.
At six o’clock, Ryder left the school with Toria, and an assortment of students in tow.
They didn’t look like they were friends because they dressed so differently. A boy with dyed black hair and black clothes, another with a buzz cut and sloppy jeans, a girl with frizzy hair and a pierced eyebrow, and one girl with smooth hair like Catherine’s and designer clothes like Catherine’s. In fact, a miniature Catherine.
He treated everybody to supper at McDonald’s, then synchronized watches with Toria. She led her troop of students over to the fabric store to pick up supplies for tomorrow. And then he had an hour to kill.
Might as well go home and see if he had any mail.
As he turned out of the parking lot, a feeling of satisfaction swept over him, even though he hadn’t been working today. Not working, but he’d accomplished his goal of getting out of Jim’s way. Of giving the man that respect.
And he’d done it by helping Toria with her projects.
He’d never been able to go on a holiday and leave his mind in a vacuum. He needed a distraction. Like getting her car, and working with the students. Working on grad decorations, of all things. And meeting Mrs. Sid again after all these years. That had been worth the price of admission.
Good old Mrs. Sid—who had predicted he’d never finish high school and never amount to anything.
But, he had. He had his own business, a good income, and he was in demand.
And then, that nagging little doubt. She’d been right about the university. Even if you get accepted, and I seriously doubt that you will, you’ll never finish. Not with your attitude.
He pulled into his apartment parking lot at the top of the hill, jumped out of the truck, and slammed the door.
He hadn’t finished the engineering degree. So what? He’d done three years, earning top marks, and then he’d let that last year go. He didn’t need it. He had no debts, lots of money in the bank, and he was building his own estate home. Cash, no mortgage.
As he entered his apartment, the phone was ringing. His land line. And the light on his answering machine was flashing.
Damn. He’d forgotten about turning off his cell. Jim must have had a problem. Must have been trying to contact him.
He reached for the phone. “O’Callaghan.”
“Ryder?” Catherine’s voice. “Where have you been?”
“I’ve . . .” His mind spun, searching for the right answer, knowing he was missing something and not knowing what it was.
“You were supposed to be fitted this morning.”
A blanket of cold rumbled over him.
“You forgot, didn’t you.”
“I . . .”
“I can’t believe this,” Catherine said, shouting into the phone. “My mother says you’re not paying enough attention to the wedding, and I’m inclined to agree. Why was your phone off?”
To give Jim some space. “Jim―”
“Jim, Jim, Jim. You’ve got to learn to turn over responsibility to someone else. You’re not married to your job, you know.”
And I’m not married to you. Not yet. “Catherine―”
“Can’t you even get your tux―”
“Can I phone you back?”
“I―”
“I’ll phone you back.”
He hung up before he said something he’d regret.
· · · · ·
In one hour, her students had chosen all the materials they’d need to grow the flower gardens for a respectable Tropical Paradise. Finally, they were doing what they wanted to do.
They traipsed out of the store into the sunny evening, bundling their purchases. Silk and crepe and linen. Starchy and shiny sprays. Pipe cleaners and interfacing and thread, and three reference books. They were ready to create orange bird of paradise, pink ginger, and white and red and pink hibiscus, along with roses and carnations.
They’d also purchased the supplies for the Leis Group. A dozen students would string the garlands of plumeria and orchids and kukui nuts.
A third group headed up the Operation House Plants division of the three-pronged flower attack. Even now, phone calls arranged the influx of house plants to the gym’s Tropical Paradise. Donations ranged from figs and philodendrons to coconut palms and calla lilies. Someone was even hauling in a group of live coffee plants, grown from beans and now four feet tall.
“Is Ryder going to be at school tomorrow?”
Toria smiled. Ryder didn’t realize what an instant hit he’d become with the teenagers. They loved the way he stood up to Mrs. Sidorsky in the gym. “Call him Mr. O’Callaghan. Or Mr. Ryder.”
“I tried calling him Mr. Ryder.”
“And I tried calling him Mr. O’Callaghan.”
“But he said to call him Ryder.”
“Or just O’Callaghan.”
She sighed, feeling her shoulders droop. It probably didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if he was their teacher.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Sidorsky didn’t like him. But then Mrs. Sidorsky was like that. She kept special grudges, obviously for a long time.
“Just don’t let Mrs. Sidorsky hear you call him that.” Another tiny battle to avoid.
“Why not?”
A prod of irritation. Yes, why not?
“It affects her blood pressure if people don’t do things the way she wants.”
“Can’t she get medication?”
Protectiveness welled inside her, but she couldn’t do it all. “Think of some way to work around it. I’m sure you can come up with a way to make her happy.”
“Nothing makes her happy.”
“He’s here now,” four students announced at once.
The black truck pulled up to the curb. Ryder got out and walked around to meet them on the sidewalk.
Peter opened the back door, holding it for the two girls. “Hey, Ryder. You going to be at school tomorrow?”
“Sure. What time do you start work on the gym?”
Peter passed his packages to Sandra and Leslie who were already buckled in. “Spares start at one. Will you be there? With the ladders?”
Ladders? She didn’t want to know.
“You bet,” Ryder answered. He opened the front passenger door and watched her, inviting her with his eyes to move toward him.
She’d been avoiding him at the school, trying to keep a physical distance. Now she moved toward the door, unsteady on her crutches. He caught her elbow and helped her as she stepped up into the truck.
When he touched her, she felt protected . . . and vulnerable. Wanting to shrink from his touch—and relish it, at the same time.
He was unaware of her feelings, she could tell. Nothing like this was happening for him. Once she was settled, he took her crutches and handed them to Paul who passed them to Peter in the back. Then Paul got in beside her, nudging her closer to Ryder. Reaching for seat belts, the boys jostled around and packages tumbled to the floor.
Ryder settled in the driver’s seat, his elbow brushing hers. “Who goes home first?” he asked them.
They gave him a reverse route so those who lived farthest out got delivered home first, and the ones who lived closest in, got delivered last. That way they had more time to discuss the grad decorations, university transcripts, and how Mrs. Sidorsky needed medication.
After the last student was dropped off, he drove into the parking lot at Dalhousie Towers.
“They like you,” she told him, slipping her purse strap over her shoulder.
“What’s not to like?” He grinned at her, looking happier than he had since she’d met him.
Warmth flooded her soul and she relaxed against the seat of the truck. She was glad he was getting a break from his work. And she was glad he was helping her, but―
“You have to try to get along with Mrs. Sidorsky.”
“Why?”
I don’t know why, she thought, as he opened her door.
After a full day of stumbling along on crutches, she needed a rest. Her body ached and she could hardly string a thought together, much less a reason for pacifying Mrs. Sidorsky.
“Do you want all this stuff to go upstairs?”
“Just the leis. These packages,” she said, pointing. He would deliver the rest to the school tomorrow. “Isabelle and I are starting work on them tonight.” Isabelle’s orange Firebird was already parked in the ring road.
They followed the path to the building, Toria on her crutches, Ryder loaded with packages. She fished her keys from her purse and unlocked the door. Ryder held it open with his foot, waiting for her to go ahead of him. She dropped her keys back in her purse, gripped the crutches and went inside. Then she looked at the elevator, and paused.
“Can you do stairs?”
“Yes,” she said, not liking the elevator. “Slowly.”
“Better risk the elevator,” he said. “You look tired.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Come on.”
They did use the elevator, and it did make it to the third floor. It even landed level with the hallway.
Two Hudson’s Bay shopping bags, heaped with crepe and ribbon, sat outside Toria’s door. Isabelle stood beside them holding her blue cookie tin with the pumpkins on it. No doubt another famous Isabelle recipe.
“Hi, Isabelle. Been waiting long?” She wondered who let Isabelle into the building.
“Not at all, dear. I just got here.”
Toria leaned on the crutches while she found her keys again.
Weariness sapped her concentration. Weariness—and the fact that Ryder was watching her search in her purse for the keys. They fumbled out of her hand and dropped.
Ryder eased his packages onto the hallway floor and retrieved the keys . . . at the same time as Isabelle was tapping on Mrs. Toony’s door.
The old lady poked her head out. It was most likely Mrs. Toony who had buzzed Isabelle into the building.
Lifting the lid of her cookie tin, Isabelle said, “Would you like one?” She held the tin up for Mrs. Toony to see. “Coconut and chocolate and marshmallow and caramel.”
Mrs. Toony piled three cookies into her hand, mumbled a thanks, and closed her door again.
Ryder moved the packages and Isabelle’s shopping bags inside Toria’s apartment.
A wisp of longing threaded its way into her mind. She’d kept her distance from him while they’d worked in the gym. It had seemed like the sensible thing to do. And they’d been so busy, both of them, that it had been easy. But now, lacking resolve, she wanted to talk to him.
“Would you like to come in for some coffee?” she asked. “And . . .” watching as he took a stack of cookies out of Isabelle’s tin, “. . . and cookies?”
Immediately the longing was replaced with guilt. An old familiar guilt, pressing against her, asking, Who are you to spend time with him?
And what was she doing anyway? She’d just ended her engagement and she wa
s lusting after this unavailable guy.
No, not lusting, she told herself. It was simply a reaction to the circumstances.
“I can’t,” he said. “I’ve got something I need to do.”
And then he was gone.
· · · · ·
“But, I don’t understand.” Isabelle scooped coffee into the filter. “You want them to think you’re still getting married?”
“Not them,” Toria said. “Not the teachers. But . . .” How could she say this?
“Ah, I see. But Ryder.”
“Uh . . .” Could Isabelle see right through her?
“You want Ryder to think you’re getting married.” Isabelle made it sound like a perfectly normal thing to do.
Toria wasn’t ready to talk about it. She would probably never be ready to talk about it. “When he found me, with the wedding dress, I told him I was getting married.”
Isabelle shrugged. “At the time, you really did think you were getting married. So when do we plan the un-shower party?” She filled the coffee reservoir, moving on to another topic.
The un-shower party. The time to give back all the shower gifts for the wedding that was not happening anymore.
“We can plan it,” Toria said. “But they won’t have time to come. Not until school is out.”
“But then they’ll all leave on vacation.”
“No, they won’t. They’ll all collapse first, after the year is finished.”
“How about right after the Grad Dance?”
“Good idea. The Sunday after the Grad Dance. Sunday afternoon. But we won’t tell them. Not yet.”
“You should tell them you’re not getting married. Tell them soon.”
“But Isabelle―”
“And tell Ryder. What would it matter to him? So what if you changed your mind?”
A knock sounded on the door.
Greg? She remembered now, he’d said he was coming. Bracing for the intrusion, she moved toward the entrance, and stumbled as one crutch caught on the little burgundy carpet.
She opened the door and, sure enough, it was Greg.
“I don’t want you here,” she said.
“Well, I’m here and we’re going to talk.” He strode past her, his arm knocking against her shoulder.
She hopped with her crutches, getting her balance. Then, still standing in the entrance, she turned around. “We’ve talked.”
On the Way to a Wedding Page 12