On the Way to a Wedding

by Stengl, Suzanne

  Ryder checked the latest additions to their drawing. And that same awareness of peace and purpose invaded his thoughts again. He grinned, knowing he was where he needed to be right now.

  He liked these kids. He’d already arranged summer jobs for two of them. And if they wanted to work on Saturdays during the university year, he could arrange that too.

  Working here felt . . . fulfilling. Almost as satisfying as watching a house take shape. And it didn’t have anything to do with Toria, he told himself. Again.

  He watched her dealing with the students, shuffling along on her crutches, going from group to group, sometimes mediating disagreements, mostly letting them solve their own problems, only interfering when Mrs. Sid tried to veto something.

  Toria spent a lot of time doing that—appeasing Mrs. Sid. Right at this moment Toria was urging Mrs. Sid away from the Waterfall Committee—on the pretext of showing her the plumeria.

  Plumeria. He shook his head. Who knew that’s what leis were made of?

  His cell started playing the William Tell Overture. “O’Callaghan.”

  “Catherine called.” Jim’s voice. Right to the point.

  “And?”

  “I told her you’re taking time off to let me get some experience being in charge,” he said. “And I told her I had no idea where you are. And I don’t.”

  “Good. West Hillhurst?”

  Jim updated him on the West Hillhurst project. And on the two crews working in Royal Oak. “We’re right on schedule,” he finished, a touch of pride slipping into the report. Then he added, “And I have no idea why two of my crew disappeared for an hour this morning. But they came back with invoices initialed by you so I’m assuming they were where they were supposed to be.”

  “They were. It’s for my personal account.”

  “Right.”

  · · · · ·

  Toria sat with Mrs. Sidorsky in the Leis Section, and for something to do she threaded the colorful flowers onto a string while the older teacher complained.

  “Back when I first started teaching,” Mrs. Sidorsky was saying, “we didn’t waste a lot of time on grad decorations. We spent that time teaching the students.”

  Toria’s enthusiasm drooped and she almost squashed a flower. She hated it when Mrs. Sidorsky went into this rant. They had this same conversation at least once a day.

  Well, not conversation, she thought. More like—soliloquy.

  “Your father believed in teaching,” Mrs. Sidorsky said. “He wouldn’t let them get out of a single class.”

  No. He would not have. Not a single class, Toria thought, as panic flickered around her, hemming her in.

  “He was an excellent history teacher. Have I told you that?”

  Only about a hundred times. And Toria was sick of hearing it. Over and over. Her hands stopped working and her chest tightened.

  “I’m sure he wanted you to carry on in his footsteps,” Mrs. Sidorsky said, never taking her eyes off the gym as she waited for something to go wrong. “Why did you quit teaching history anyway?”

  Toria dropped her needle. Her hands were shaking. Her arms and her legs were shaking. Did her voice work?

  “I still teach history,” she said, hearing the tight words.

  Mrs. Sidorsky didn’t notice, just steam rolled ahead. “One class of history,” she said, with what sounded like disdain. “Your father wanted―”

  “Hello, Mrs. Sidorsky.” Isabelle joined them and pulled up a chair.

  Toria inhaled and focused on the crushed fabric flowers in her hands. It would be all right. Isabelle was here. Isabelle to the rescue.

  “Hello, Mrs. Jones,” Mrs. Sidorsky said, sounding tired, and sounding like she didn’t want to talk to Isabelle. Mrs. Sidorsky never called Isabelle, Isabelle. It was always, Mrs. Jones.

  Toria could feel her heart racing. But it was slowing now, returning to normal as quickly as it had stopped being normal. She needed to get over this. To forget this. This simple memory that refused to go away.

  “Mr. Burrows wondered if you could help him at the office with the Refreshment Committee’s order for coffee and soft drinks,” Isabelle asked Mrs. Sidorsky.

  “Didn’t he already do that?”

  “Maybe he needs to do it again.” Isabelle looked completely sincere. “You know how unfocussed he can be. He needs someone with your eye for detail.”

  Mrs. Sidorsky preened at the compliment, then got up and walked away.

  “What was that all about?” Isabelle asked.

  “What was what about?”

  Isabelle smiled, offering sympathy. “Was she talking about your father, dear?”

  Yes, that same flashback. “I guess I still feel responsible.” She tried to restore the damaged flowers, smoothing them with her fingers.

  “You’re not that powerful, dear. You have to give people credit for their own choices.”

  I know. The concept made sense, but Responsibility still boomed in her mind. The pain of Responsibility refused to leave her.

  “What did she say?” Isabelle asked, casual and nonchalant, as she picked up a lei string.

  Even though it was difficult, talking about it was the only thing to do. Toria knew that. All around her, the activity in the gym went on. But it felt like she and Isabelle were in a bubble, in some kind of twilight zone.

  That same strength nudged her. The strength she’d felt this morning when she’d talked to her mother about the renovations.

  She could do this. She could get past this. “Mrs. Sidorsky was saying what a great history teacher he was.”

  Isabelle worked a pink plumeria onto her needle. “So I’ve heard,” she said, watching the flower. “But he was never my teacher so I wouldn’t know.” Slipping the flower down the string, she said, “Do you know why he taught history?”

  “He liked to travel.”

  The words tripped off her tongue. “He figured he could work on his PhD and travel at the same time.” Keep talking, an inner voice urged her. “He loved going to Spain and Germany and doing his research.”

  “And dragging you along.”

  Not dragging. “I enjoyed it.” Sometimes, though not always. And there it was again. The defense of her father.

  Isabelle added another pink plumeria. “He never finished his doctorate, did he?”

  “No, he never finished. They always needed more money.” Her mother always needed more money.

  “Is that why he didn’t finish? Because of the money?” A third flower slipped along Isabelle’s string.

  “You don’t make a lot on a teacher’s salary,” Toria answered, realizing she was talking about him and her world was not falling apart. “But then . . .”

  She picked up her lei, pulled off the broken flowers and searched for the needle end of the string.

  “Then . . . ?” Isabelle encouraged her.

  He hadn’t gone back. It was like he’d thrown his dream away. “Then,” she took a deep breath, “then he started supplementing his income with some projects he did with Greg.”

  Isabelle looked up from her work. “With Greg?” She puzzled her eyebrows. “Is that where all that money came from?”

  “It wasn’t that much money.”

  “Enough to go to Paris last summer.”

  “My mother wanted a vacation.” Her mother always wanted a vacation. To anywhere. As long as she could be traveling somewhere new, somewhere different.

  “And all those trips to Reno?”

  “That was my father wanting a vacation.”

  “Gambling?”

  No, not gambling. Toria tried to fit a flower on her needle. He did like the casinos, but he wasn’t gambling. Not really. “It was a diversion. A rest. He wouldn’t lose money gambling.”

  Isabelle continued to work on her string of plumeria, adding one pink flower after another. “What kind of projects?” she asked.

  “Projects?”

  “The ones he did with Greg.”

  She’d never known what they did t
ogether. Only that her father had been excited when he was working with Greg. “I don’t know,” she said. “Real estate investments, I suppose. Since that’s what Greg does.”

  · · · · ·

  “You haven’t told me about the honeymoon,” Catherine’s mother said.

  “I’m thinking Hawaii,” Catherine answered, as she dropped a stack of brochures on the table. She poured tea for her mother.

  Catherine sat in her parents’ living room talking with her mother about the wedding details. Tonight, her father, Herbert George Forsythe of Duncan Pansmith had joined them.

  Theoretically. He sat in his easy chair, across the room, reading the newspaper and updating his Blackberry.

  “That sounds nice,” her mother commented. She sipped her tea from a Wedgwood china cup. “Does Ryder like the idea?”

  He would if he stopped to think about it. “He can barely get time off work for the wedding,” Catherine answered, without answering. “He says we’ll do something once it starts to snow. Or once this building frenzy is over.” Catherine filled her own tea cup. “He works all the time.”

  “Why are you marrying him if you never see him?” her father asked without looking away from his Blackberry.

  Catherine humphed. “I suppose you spend a lot of time at home, Daddy?”

  “I’m here,” he answered, then set the Blackberry on the arm of the chair and picked up the newspaper again.

  “Yes, you are,” Catherine’s mother said, leafing through the Hawaii brochures. She sipped more tea. “Did he get his tux fitted yet, sweetheart?”

  “No, not yet,” Catherine reported, with a sigh. She didn’t say that he wasn’t returning her calls. This was the first time that had happened.

  “Fara and Emily have their dresses now. They look smashing. You’ll be very proud of your sisters.” Another sip of tea. “And their husbands have been fitted for their tuxedos.”

  “Don’t worry, mother. I’ll make him go to the fitting.”

  Her mother opened another brochure. The one on Hawaiian volcanoes. “You don’t want to be a nag, sweetheart.”

  Oh, wonderful, it was advice time. She’d better focus. Getting upset around her mother was never a good idea.

  “You need to hire a wedding planner.”

  Catherine closed her eyes for a second and clenched her teeth. Sometimes her mother could be so dense. “I don’t need a planner. I know what I’m doing. I―”

  “For him. For Ryder.”

  “How will that―”

  “He’ll listen to someone else,” her mother stated, like she was giving her directions for a recipe. “Men are like that. Somehow, it makes them think it’s their own idea.”

  The newspaper rustled in the corner of the room. Catherine glanced at her father. His attention focused on the business section.

  She centered herself. It wouldn’t hurt to see where this was going. “You think I should hire a wedding planner for Ryder?”

  “I know just the person.”

  Her mother would. “Who?”

  “Her name is Geraldine Lorimer.”

  “Lorimer?” It seemed her father was listening after all. “I know that name.”

  “You do?” they said together.

  “Lorimer,” he repeated, tapping his fingers on the Blackberry. “But not Geraldine,” he said, looking in the middle distance. “The first name starts with a G though.”

  “How do you know her?” Catherine asked.

  “Him. The man’s name is Lorimer. Name came up in a real estate fraud,” Herbert Forsythe of Duncan Pansmith continued. “Some so-called Creative Financing. Don’t think they charged him though. Not enough evidence. But the fellow took a beating in the market. Had to dump a lot of property.”

  Catherine’s mother rolled her eyes. “Well, that was a man. Geraldine is a woman and she’s an excellent planner. I’ve used her for some parties. And your sister had her for her baby shower.”

  “Mother, I don’t need―”

  “Give her a call,” her mother said. “She can deal with Ryder.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Leaning on her crutches, Toria surveyed the evolving chaos.

  Thursday was almost over and the day had evaporated. After classes ended, many of the students had stayed to work on their various committees. Pizza had mysteriously shown up at half past six. And, eventually, the gym had cleared a few minutes before nine.

  It was unfortunate that Mrs. Sidorsky didn’t like Ryder, because the students did. Several of the boys who’d had no previous interest in the grad preparations had come out of the woodwork to help.

  She laughed at her little pun.

  During the afternoon, the students had sat on the floor drawing plans. Then they had constructed the framing for the waterfall.

  Ryder had been patient. She’d thought he’d take over, but he hadn’t. He let them work at their own pace, accepting the give and take of ideas and answering their questions.

  Now the skeleton of the structure stood ready. Tomorrow they would sheet it and then the foam would be applied so they could mold it into a cascade of rocks.

  In these past two days, they’d advanced the decorations to the point where she knew they’d meet their schedule, the last Saturday of June—their graduation celebration—her ex-wedding day.

  A spark of anxiety popped into her head. Her mother had phoned her cell seven times today. But there hadn’t been time to take those calls. Now it was nine-thirty and she needed to find Isabelle and go home. She’d have to deal with her mother tomorrow.

  “Ready?” Ryder materialized by her side.

  “Yes. Do you know where Isabelle went?”

  “She’s gone. She told me to take you home.”

  “She did? I—I don’t want to be any trouble. Don’t you have to―”

  “I don’t have to do anything. My partner gave me a report. All is well.”

  “So he’s your partner now?”

  “Almost. I’m getting used to the idea.” Ryder grinned. An absolutely charming grin. “Let’s go.”

  On the way he told her about his students and the next steps for the waterfall. He also told her how they had outwitted Mrs. Sidorsky, again. When they arrived at the apartment building, the ring road stood silent and deserted.

  Thank goodness. No sign of her mother. And no sign of Greg.

  Ryder held the door for her as she slipped out of the truck.

  She slung her purse over her shoulder and accepted the crutches from him.

  “Thanks,” she said. For the ride, and the crutches, and for . . . just being him. They stood for a moment by the truck. Awkward. Maybe she should tell him not to come by in the morning? In case he was planning to.

  But she didn’t. She just said, “Thanks.” Again. Then she adjusted the crutches and started up the sidewalk.

  He kept pace with her.

  “You’re coming up?” Did she want him to?

  No. She didn’t.

  “I want to make sure you get in all right.”

  He was thinking about Greg, the same as she was. They rode up the unenthusiastic elevator, which stopped three inches above the level of the hallway. Then the door almost didn’t open.

  “I’m going to phone someone about this thing,” Ryder said, shoving the door back.

  “I could have taken the stairs.” She crutched her way to her door.

  “You could have.”

  “I’m not tired.” Stopping in front of the door, she fished her keys out of her purse.

  “It’s okay. You can be tired.” He wrapped a hand around her wrist and, with his other hand, he took the keys from her.

  Her mind jolted—her wrist echoed from the touch of his hand.

  “I’ll make some coffee,” she said, recovering her composure. “The Program Committee gave me their draft of the Celebration Program.” She was babbling. “I need to check it before I give it to the printers.” And then, before her brain could stop her, she added, “Would you like some coffee?�
��

  He hesitated. “Not right now.” He unlocked the door for her, handed her the keys—this time without touching her—just dropping them into her palm.

  Then he gave a wave to Mrs. Toony’s peephole, and he left.

  · · · · ·

  He pulled up in front of the house in Valley Ridge. Ten o’clock. Later than he’d planned, but it didn’t seem to matter. All the lights were on.

  Almost as if he were expected. He dismissed the thought. Completely crazy to be expected here.

  For some reason, he’d wanted to join Toria for coffee. But it felt as if he were walking on quick sand with a very thin crust on top.

  And for some reason, he felt like his life was about to change, but—for better or worse?

  For better or worse? The wedding vows. Looming like an exam he didn’t want to write. Why didn’t he feel ready?

  Jim’s new partnership agreement. That’s what it was. It was distracting him. Other than dealing with the partnership, he was completely ready.

  Wasn’t he?

  His hesitation confused him. In his mind he knew what he wanted, but his gut told him to wait. When had his life got so complicated?

  He stepped out of the truck and inhaled the clear night air. He could smell fire pit smoke, and he heard some older kids laughing at the end of the block. A slight breeze chilled his skin, announcing another change in the weather. Hopefully, it didn’t mean more rain.

  “How are you, honey?” His mother greeted him at the door and he followed her into the kitchen. “Would you like some hot chocolate? I just made a pot.”

  The smell of chocolate settled over the kitchen. A platter of little muffins sat on the table next to a stack of cards. Thank you cards, white with loopy gold writing. There was also a travel brochure for—he checked—Hawaii?

  His parents were going to Hawaii? They never went anywhere.

  “Sure,” he answered. “That would be great.”

  She went to the cupboard and took out a mug. Her sewing machine sat open on the dining room table, spilling out some gauzy pink fabric.

  “Have you ever thought of getting a maid?”