On the Way to a Wedding

by Stengl, Suzanne

  “What day?”

  “The last Saturday of June. Your ex-wedding day?”

  She almost laughed. “Oh, I’ll be here. I’ll be chaperoning at the Grad Dance.”

  Isabelle glanced at her. “Won’t that look odd?”

  “Odd?” Teachers chaperoned all the time. “Why?”

  Isabelle stared straight ahead. “The teachers might wonder why you’re not at your wedding.”

  Oh, that. “I’ll have told them by then.” Because Ryder would be gone. He’d work today and maybe tomorrow, but after the weekend, he’d be bored with this project. The rain tapped a steady rhythm over the car as she snugged her raincoat around herself.

  Then Isabelle pulled into the parking lot and executed a perfect landing in the small space between a minivan and a black truck.

  “Don’t worry, dear. Everything will work itself out.” She patted Toria’s hand. “Now, let’s go in and order some breakfast.”

  · · · · ·

  Inside Tim Hortons, from a table next to the window, Ryder watched as the pumpkin colored, supercharged Firebird came to a stop next to his truck.

  “That’s Toria,” he said. His mind relaxed and his senses woke up. Sitting straight, he inhaled, filling his lungs. Not that he was glad to see her. It was just amusing to see her. Especially with Isabelle, who was getting out of the driver’s seat.

  Today the old lady wore a bright blue kerchief that partially contained her wild blonde frizz. She’d conceded to the weather conditions by wearing a very ordinary beige trench coat that came to her knees. Under that, about six inches of a tourist-tropical print peaked out—blue, pink, white, orange. More conservative today, she wore plain stockings. Orange ones. And what looked like wooden shoes.

  “Do you think that car is safe?” Pro asked.

  “It’s the driver I’d be worried about,” Ryder answered.

  Isabelle walked around to Toria’s door. She was already getting out, holding onto the door for support. The wind blew her hair over her eyes for a second and then she tilted her head, letting her hair sift away from her face.

  Ryder felt a warmth in his chest and his head. Blinking, he touched his forehead. Cool, no sign of a fever. Just this odd sensation . . .

  “I’d better be going,” Pro said. He drained the last of his coffee.

  Ryder looked at Pro. “Aunt Tizzy?”

  “Yes.” Pro got to his feet, picking up his coat from the bench.

  “How’s Aunt Tizzy’s project coming along?”

  “It looks promising,” Pro said, as he shrugged into his raincoat.

  Ryder waited a beat, thinking Pro would say more. And then, “You’re not going to tell me what it is.”

  “It’s too complicated to explain.” Pro grinned. “Want to go out for a beer tonight?”

  “Can’t. I’m visiting my parents.”

  Pro nodded, as though Ryder visiting his parents was a normal thing to do. Tactful of Pro not to mention that.

  “I’ve got to go,” Pro repeated. “Say hello to Toria for me.”

  “Sure.”

  Pro exited the door on the opposite side of the restaurant. Ryder looked out the window again watching as Isabelle yanked Toria’s crutches out of the backseat. She passed them to Toria who took them with one hand while she tried to loop the strap of her purse over her shoulder. Her navy trench coat was buttoned to her neck and the rain danced over her hair.

  He’d drive her to the school, he decided. Because there was more room in his truck for the crutches.

  They were at the restaurant door now, Isabelle holding it open, letting Toria go ahead. Toria stopped just inside the door when she saw him. Isabelle bumped into her, Toria smiled, and so did he.

  It felt like freshness and light had walked in on a stormy day.

  Or something like that. It was an odd feeling, anyway. Maybe he was still hungry. Maybe he needed to eat more. He got to his feet and moved Pro’s empty dishes to make room for Toria and Isabelle.

  Reaching the table first, Isabelle slipped out of her raincoat and plopped it on the bench that Pro had just vacated. She sat and rummaged through her huge, pink, canvas bag.

  Toria arrived at the table and stood beside him, leaning on her crutches. Without thinking, Ryder lifted her purse strap over her head and set the purse on the table. Then he stacked her crutches in one hand, and helped her out of her dripping coat with the other.

  “Thanks,” she said, looking flustered.

  And pretty. Her damp hair curled around her face again, the way it had when they’d been caught in the rain on Monday.

  A sense of wonder, of unreality, floated around him. He stared at the crutches and the raincoat he was holding. Was that only three days ago?

  He felt like he’d known her forever.

  After shaking out the coat, he folded it in half and tossed it and the crutches on the bench behind them. Then he waited for her to slide in on his side of the table.

  “What would you like to eat, dear?” Isabelle asked, still searching in her bag.

  Ryder sat down and heard Toria say something about orange juice and bagels, and he noticed he was breathing with a renewed kind of energy.

  Toria propped her purse at the end of the table by the window. “Was that Pro?”

  Pro? Of course. She would have seen Pro . . . would have wondered why he’d rushed off.

  “Yeah,” Ryder answered, looking at the door where Pro had made his hasty exit. “He said to say hello. He had to leave—has something to do before he goes to his office.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Must have been important.” She was rubbing her arms like she was cold. She wore long sleeves today, a cream colored turtleneck, some soft fabric. And jeans.

  “It was,” Ryder said, looking at the way the turtleneck smoothed over her throat. “His crazy Aunt Tizzy.”

  “Pardon,” Isabelle said, looking up from her search.

  “He has something to do for his crazy Aunt Tizzy—before he goes to work. He wanted to have breakfast with me first.”

  “That was nice of him,” Isabelle said, as she foraged in her bag.

  “To have breakfast with me?”

  “To help his aunt,” Isabelle clarified.

  “Yeah,” Ryder said, feeling a little dazed. He watched as Isabelle deposited a hair brush, a mirror—a large one, and a paperback novel on the table. He moved the ketchup aside.

  “Have you met her?” Toria asked. “His aunt?”

  “Not yet,” Ryder answered, watching the collection on the table grow. Isabelle added an orange pad of paper, a letter opener and one of those Magic 8-balls. “But I probably will some day.” And then a can of apple juice, two elastics, a pair of black gloves and finally a purple embroidered wallet.

  “I knew I had it,” Isabelle crowed, holding the wallet with both hands. She set it on the table and began to repack her bag.

  “Pro talks about her a lot,” Ryder said, speaking to Toria but still watching Isabelle. “She sounds like she’s off her rocker but she’s the one who raised Pro—his parents died when he was young. His Aunt Tizzy took care of him—he’d do anything for her.”

  “Nice,” Toria said, approval in her voice.

  And something that sounded . . . wistful, like she wanted a crazy aunt. Or just an aunt, crazy or not.

  “He helps her a lot?” she asked, still rubbing her hands over her arms.

  “She usually never asks for anything.” Ryder had an urge, a stupid urge, to put his arm around Toria’s shoulders to warm her up. “But now she has some big, important project and needs his help. So, he’s helping.”

  Isabelle left the table with her wallet in hand. At the same time, Ryder’s cell rang, playing its programmed tune. He checked the readout.

  Catherine.

  Again.

  He could get fitted for the tux today—except he’d promised the Star Committee he’d get their stars strung before noon. Before Mrs. Sid tried to put a stop to that idea. So, no time for a tux fitting. H
e turned off the phone.

  “Work?”

  “Wedding stuff.”

  “Oh.”

  “How are your wedding plans going?”

  “Fine,” she said. “How are your wedding plans going?”

  “Fine.”

  “The grad decorations,” she said, pausing, playing with the strap of her purse. “I don’t want you to think you have to―”

  He touched her hand, his fingers skimming hers. “I don’t have to.” Beneath his fingertips, her hand felt like ice. An urge, almost irresistible, made him want to wrap his hand over hers.

  He took his hand away. “I hate having to do anything,” he said. He—and no one else—was in charge. “So don’t worry. I don’t do what I don’t want to do.”

  Except, he’d have to deal with Catherine and her phone calls.

  Eventually.

  Chapter Eleven

  So much for her plan to stay away from Ryder.

  The rain had stopped. Clouds skidded across the sky. Toria followed Isabelle and Ryder out of the restaurant, wishing she could risk putting weight on her ankle. But if she did that too soon, she’d be back at square one and need the crutches for longer.

  Part of her was sorry she’d committed to the grad decorations. She should have been talking to Aunt Glenda by now, convincing her reluctant aunt to pay a visit. But that, of course, was not the biggest problem. Working on grad decorations meant she was spending more time with Ryder, and the more time she spent with him, the more she―

  “I’ll take you to the school.”

  “But―”

  “Your crutches will fit better in my truck.”

  “Okay.” Her mind raced. “You can have the crutches. I’ll ride with―”

  “Oh, good,” Isabelle said, as she opened the driver’s door of the Firebird. “You go with Ryder.” She dropped her big pink canvas bag on the front seat and knelt beside it. “I forgot my calendar at home so I have to go there first.” She reached into the backseat. “I’ll meet you at the school,” she said, her voice muffled.

  Toria drew in a deep breath. There had to be a way out of this. Standing tall, she faced Ryder. “Are you sure you want to come to the school this early?”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?” He’d already opened the door for her.

  “It’s just that—none of the students will be in the gym—before the one o’clock spare.”

  Isabelle handed Toria one of the bags of plumeria they’d made last night.

  “Don’t,” he said, grinning.

  “Don’t what?” She clutched the shopping bag of brightly colored flowers, pressing the handle of it against the handle of her crutches.

  “Don’t worry about how I use my time,” he answered. “I want to be there.” He made it sound like she was doing him a favor. “I have some lumber I need to get to the gym.”

  “For the waterfall?”

  “Yeah.”

  Unwanted, an image of Mrs. Sidorsky popped into her head. They didn’t need any more arguments. “You have to be nice to Mrs. Sidorsky, okay?”

  “She’s not nice to me.”

  “She doesn’t mean―”

  “She’s bossy and likes to have her own way.”

  Isabelle was back, carrying two more shopping bags. “Do you know anybody like that?” she asked Ryder, as she passed him one of the bags, this one full of aluminum foil stars.

  Ryder accepted the stars and frowned at Isabelle. “Are you saying I’m bossy and like to have my own way?”

  “It’s something to think about,” Isabelle said with a shrug, giving him the second bag of flowers. “I’ll see you later.” She hopped into her Firebird, revved the motor and backed neatly out of her stall. Three seconds later she was gone in a cloud of blue exhaust.

  They were silent for a few seconds, watching the car disappear. “She needs to get someone to look at the rings on that engine,” Ryder said, mostly to himself.

  Toria hadn’t recognized Ryder’s truck when they’d parked beside it. Now she glanced in the empty truck bed. “Where’s the lumber?”

  “Different truck,” he said. “Why are you worried about Mrs. Sid?”

  “I don’t like arguments.”

  “Arguments can be good.”

  “She means well, you know.”

  “I mean well, too,” he said.

  · · · · ·

  Toria spent the next hour on the stage in the gym. Ryder balanced on the school’s ladder, tossing strings over the curtain rods, while she worried at the base of the ladder and handed him stars. Two students, Brenda and Donna, had somehow escaped class—she didn’t want to know—and they stood in the center of the gym, instructing Ryder on heights for the starscape.

  “I don’t like this ladder. It shakes,” Toria told him.

  “The ladder’s fine.”

  “I can see why Mrs. Sidorsky didn’t want them climbing on this thing. It’s dangerous.”

  “As long as Mrs. Sid doesn’t climb on it, it’s safe.”

  She sighed, feeling the futility of this conversation. It was pointless, she realized, trying to mend the rift between Ryder and his former teacher.

  “Last one,” she said, handing him the last silver star.

  “Oh, Ryder! It looks uber cool!” Brenda shouted, twirling. Then she stood still. “I mean, Mr. Ryder.”

  Ryder dipped his head and grimaced at her.

  “I mean, it looks great. It really does.” She clasped her hands and glowed at him.

  Donna, the quieter one, smiled, looking pleased with the project. Her project. She hurried over to the lighting panel. “Lights out,” she called.

  Toria, on her way down the stage stairs, had almost made it to the bottom step when the gym pitched to blackness. She stopped moving.

  And felt Ryder’s arm come around her waist. “Hold on, tiger. I’ve got you.” He gathered her crutches away from her, tightened his hold and lifted her down the last step. They were on level floor.

  But he kept holding her. Then, effortlessly, he swung her around, so she faced the stage.

  A whirl of sensation spun over her, feelings she could not name. She clamped a hand on his arm. “I’m all right. Give me my crutches. I can―”

  “Look at the stage.”

  She stared into the blackness and felt his arm, pressing her to his side. Felt hard muscles and warm body and that familiar spruce smell. And then Donna turned the lights up.

  Blue light illuminated the stage, highlighting two hundred and fifty silver and gold stars suspended at various heights, gently turning and shimmering in unseen air currents.

  The magic washed over her like a wave. And at the same time, heat coming from Ryder’s body pressed against hers and took her away from reality, to another realm where responsibilities didn’t exist, where she could follow what her heart wanted, where she could be who she―

  The gym doors opened and someone clicked on the main lights.

  “Hey! Ryder!” Mr. Harvey, the school janitor, bellowed from the doorway. “You order some stuff?”

  “I did.” Ryder released her, returned her crutches and then headed to the door.

  · · · · ·

  Toria came back to earth, lined up her crutches and fitted them under her arms.

  Mr. Harvey left and a man wearing taupe colored overalls and heavy work boots poked his head inside the door. He located Ryder, held up an index finger for a second, like he was testing the air, and then disappeared again.

  Ryder, at the door by now, followed him outside.

  Crutching her way across the gym, Toria dodged between potted plants, bags of fabric flowers, and islands of paving stones. By the time she reached the entrance, Mr. Harvey was back, propping open both doors.

  “How’s the ankle, Miss Toria?”

  “Fine,” she answered automatically.

  Ryder came through the doorway, carrying a coiled orange extension cord. Then the man with the taupe colored overalls and work boots reappeared along with anot
her man in a similar uniform. The two workers lugged a heavy looking orange machine about the size of a big wash tub.

  “It’s a compressor,” Ryder said.

  “What do we need a compressor for?”

  “My nail gun.”

  Gun? A sense of foreboding stole over her. She tightened her grip on the crutches. Mrs. Sidorsky wasn’t going to approve.

  Ryder’s workers hauled in three more loads. Two ladders, rolls of plastic, cans of expanding foam—at least, that’s what she thought he’d called them. Two saw horses, the nail gun, a box of staples, a box of nails, four hammers, a circular saw, a huge pile of lumber and a tray of Starbucks Frappuccinos.

  “How much is this going to cost?” Mrs. Sidorsky wanted to know. Mrs. Sidorsky had arrived with the third load and now she hovered near Toria’s shoulder.

  “We’re within budget,” Toria answered, remembering what Ryder had said—and wondering.

  One of the workers handed Ryder a sheet of paper and a pen. He signed and then accepted the rest of the tray of coffee drinks from Brenda. Three glasses remained.

  “The stars look better than I thought they would,” Mrs. Sidorsky admitted. And then, “Why aren’t you in class?” she shouted, as she noticed Brenda and Donna sipping their drinks. The two teenagers quickly slipped out of the gym.

  In a moment Ryder was there, handing Mrs. Sidorsky a Frappuccino. Toria felt a sudden sense of calm, and she relaxed. He was making a peace offering.

  But then he said, “Don’t they need you at the principal’s office?”

  · · · · ·

  Ryder liked working with high school students. They learned quickly, they had creative ideas, and some of them were even good persuaders—bringing the school caretakers on side as they worked out the problems with the water pumps. In fact, the caretakers seemed pleased to be included in the project.

  “Does this angle look good, Ryder?”

  “It’s perfect,” he said.

  Budge had thanked him privately for doing this community work. Apparently some of Ryder’s best helpers were frequent flyers at the principal’s office.

  Four boys sat on the floor amidst paper and pencils and protractors. Mr. Benjamin, one of the caretakers, looked over the shoulder of one of the boys. And, oddly enough, one of the math teachers stationed himself outside the perimeter of the group. As he watched the calculations taking place, he squinted and scratched his head.