On the Way to a Wedding

by Stengl, Suzanne

  “You know what I mean,” Isabelle said. “Mrs. Sidorsky keeps saying they’re missing classes.”

  “Oh, they may be missing classes, but this is school. Look around you,” Toria said. “What do you see?”

  Isabelle surveyed the gym. “I see them creating a Tropical Paradise?”

  “And, you see teamwork, cooperation, problem solving. What more could you want them to learn?”

  · · · · ·

  Toria collapsed in the passenger seat, exhausted after the long day. Ryder eased through the traffic, not looking tired at all. Friday night had arrived and the stretched-out school day had ended.

  In two and a half days, the Tropical Paradise had evolved faster than she’d imagined. But then, the students always amazed her with their energy.

  Ryder pulled up to a stop light. They waited in an easy silence, comfortable in their own thoughts.

  The four boys in charge of the water pumps had sketched out the plans for the water flow and assembled the pool at the base of the waterfall. They’d needed some help from the caretakers and a lot of advice from Ryder but they’d done it.

  Then they’d created the Rock Committee. Two dozen students each brought in their rock—their large borrowed rock from the Bow River. Today the group had begun painting the rocks bright colors for the rainbow waterfall.

  The waterfall foam would set over the weekend. On Monday they would finish shaping it, and then waterproof and paint it.

  They had two weeks until the Grad Dance. Two weeks of before school time and noon hour time and after school time. And borrowed time from missed classes.

  Ryder drove into the entrance at Dalhousie Towers and parked. Then he walked around to the passenger door. “How’s your ankle,” he asked as he held out her crutches.

  “Doesn’t hurt a bit. I think I could put weight on it now.”

  “Dr. Delanghe said Monday at the earliest. Better wait till Tuesday.”

  He was worried about her ankle? She accepted the crutches.

  He leaned into the backseat and came out holding two large Pop’s Pizzas and a six pack of beer. Tall-necked brown bottles—something from a local brewery with a picture of two pine trees and a mountain peak on the label.

  “I wonder how Isabelle got Pro to volunteer?” he said, reaching back for the three bags of plumeria.

  Like he was mulling it over in his mind, Toria thought. “She probably wanted to make sure you would come.”

  Oops.

  “I would have come anyway.”

  They took the elevator and it delivered them to the third floor without incident.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Three teacups and saucers sat stacked next to the sink in the kitchen. Toast crumbs dusted the counter. A tub of margarine sat on top of the crumbs, opened, with a knife placed crossways on the container as though Toria had left in a hurry this morning.

  Ryder looped the three new bags of plumeria over the chair backs in the dining area. The table already overflowed with the imitation flowers. Then he made space for the pizzas on the counter and put the beer in the fridge.

  He found her in the living room, staring at the flashing light on her answering machine.

  All of the wedding gifts—the shower gifts—had been moved off the makeshift bookshelves and piled in the center of the living room floor. On the garage-sale-style coffee table, a pad of paper and a pen waited.

  She was inventorying the gifts.

  As usual, a sense of scattered bedlam pervaded the apartment. But there was a pattern here that seemed to work for her.

  “Are you going to check your messages?”

  “It’ll just be my mother.”

  She said it like that explained everything. He was going to say something, but he didn’t have anything nice to say about her mother so he didn’t. And then, looking around at the jumble of confusion, “You’re competent, you know. In your own way.”

  She smiled, that slow smile of hers. “And you’re encouraging,” she answered. “In your own way.”

  Touché, he thought. And then he wondered, “But not competent?”

  “Your competence has never been in question. But yes, you are very competent.”

  That made him feel good. He wasn’t sure why.

  “Has your competence ever been in question?” He knew it had been. By him. And he bet Mrs. Sidorsky always questioned Toria’s competence. Budge seemed happy with what she did though.

  With both crutches in one hand, she leaned down and picked up the package of beige and navy sheets, still partially wrapped in the striped yellow wrapping paper. “My father never agreed with the way I run my classroom.”

  Her father. She hadn’t said much about her father since she’d told him the guy was waiting for her in Kalispell. “What is it with your father?”

  Her hand jerked as she placed the sheets on top of the pile. Several of the gifts wobbled, spilling to the floor.

  “I―”

  He waited.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I wonder where Isabelle is. She should be here by now.”

  Toria looked pale. She was doing it again, the way she had when they’d had breakfast at the cabin. And when he’d first come to her apartment on Tuesday night. She was avoiding the topic of her father. She gave up trying to stack the packages and tried to get her crutches lined up again.

  There was something bothering her, about her father. And Ryder wanted to know what it was. “What’s he doing in Kalispell? Is he coming to your wedding?”

  She dropped one of the crutches. It fell against the stack of presents sending more of them toppling. “Who said he’s in Kalispell?”

  “You did. When I found you on the side of the road.”

  “I―I just said that.”

  “So? Where is he?”

  She let go of her other crutch, letting it fall with a bang on the floor and she covered her eyes with her hands. “He’s dead.” Her voice sounded small and her shoulders were shaking. “I killed him.”

  And then she started to cry.

  · · · · ·

  His reaction had been automatic. He’d gathered her up in his arms and taken her to the couch. The little love seat. Now he sat there, holding her and rocking her while she cried.

  She told him the story . . . of the argument with her father, a simple argument about classroom styles, where she’d refused to back down. Of his anger . . . and the anger turning into a heart attack. Of the ambulance coming to her parents’ house in Varsity, and her father not surviving the trip to the hospital.

  And of her mother—her goddamn mother—blaming her.

  “I’ve cried all over your shirt.”

  “I’m glad.” She felt so small in his arms, so defenseless. He knew she wasn’t defenseless, but right now she needed someone. And he was glad he was here.

  “You are?”

  “You haven’t cried about this before, have you?”

  “No. I guess I haven’t.”

  He knew she’d been holding those feelings inside and he gently tightened his arms around her. “It’s not your fault. The heart attack.”

  “The argument was my fault.”

  “So you had an argument,” he said. “People argue. It’s not going to kill them.”

  “It did this time.”

  He sighed, a quick release of air. That hadn’t come out right. “Sorry,” he said. “But it still wasn’t your fault.”

  She rubbed the palms of her hands over her eyes, wiping over the tears.

  He loosened his grip on her, letting her move in his arms. “Your father was going to have a heart attack anyway.”

  She lifted her head and looked at him. That sad expression still in her eyes. Those amazing green eyes.

  “You can’t tiptoe around people forever, Toria.”

  “I know.” She sniffled. “That’s what Isabelle says.”

  He put his hand on the back of her head and pulled her against
his chest. She didn’t resist. He brushed his chin over her hair. “What did Isabelle say?”

  “That he was a heart attack waiting to happen. She used to be a coronary care nurse.”

  Isabelle? She seemed too crazy to be a nurse. But there were probably a lot of things about Isabelle he didn’t know. “Speaking of Isabelle . . .”

  “Yes.” Toria lifted her head again. “Where are they?”

  “Held up, I guess. But they’ll be here. Pro wants to go over your prenup with you.”

  Toria frowned.

  He could understand. She probably didn’t like working on prenups any more than he did. Hopefully, she would forget about the prenup for tonight. Then he asked, “Hungry?”

  Finally, she smiled. “Starved.”

  “Then let’s eat. They can eat when they get here.”

  He slipped her off his lap and onto the love seat. Then he got both pizzas, a bunch of paper towels, the beer and a bottle opener, and brought it all to the little coffee table.

  He watched as she lifted the lids on the red and green cardboard pizza boxes. One of them was vegetarian with tomatoes, mushrooms, peppers and zucchini. The other, pepperoni and bacon. Both smothered in cheese, apparently three different kinds.

  He opened two bottles of beer—Highgate Ancient Old Ale from the brewery near Canmore—and handed her one, clinking the top of her bottle with his. They ate in silence for a few minutes. She finished a slice of the vegetarian and drank half a bottle of the beer. She looked exhausted and emptied out.

  And a little stronger. She’d get over this. She had stamina, and brains, tucked away in that pretty head of hers.

  “Why did you have it with you?”

  “What?” She reached for a second slice of the vegetarian.

  “The wedding dress.”

  “I don’t know.” She lifted the pizza out of the box, twining the dripping cheese over one finger. “I was going to show it to Aunt Glenda.” She licked the cheese off her finger. “And, it just seemed . . . important. That dress.”

  Her eyes had that faraway look again as she nibbled on this slice of pizza—she’d devoured the first one. She set the half finished piece on a paper towel on the coffee table and dabbed her finger on her lips, catching some cheese.

  “He bought it for you.”

  She didn’t answer right away. She was staring across the room at the toppled stack of gifts. “Yes, he did. I hadn’t even met Greg at the time.”

  “Out of the blue your father bought you a wedding dress?”

  “Yes. My parents were on vacation in Paris, and they saw it. He wanted me to have it, so he bought it.”

  “Had he met Greg?”

  “Yes.”

  A tinge of horror rippled into his thoughts. Followed by anger, and a need to protect her. “Do you think he wanted—I mean, do you think he was planning . . .”

  “I don’t know. I keep wondering about that.”

  “Is that why you’re marrying him? Because your father wanted you to?”

  “I’m just going to drink this,” she said as she picked up the half full bottle of beer.

  It seemed as if there was only so much she could talk about in one night. He watched her take several long swallows of the beer, gulping.

  She finished it.

  “My mother suggested that I let them put a cast on my ankle,” she said, setting the empty bottle on the coffee table and changing the subject. “So I can walk down the aisle without crutches.”

  And if she didn’t want to talk about it anymore tonight, he wasn’t going to push her.

  “You won’t need the crutches by then.” He thought a moment, calculating the date—calculating how much time he had left. “In two weeks.”

  “I might.” She reached for the bottle opener and a second beer.

  “What’s the problem with walking with crutches?”

  “Pictures.”

  He laughed. “Maybe she thinks you’ll trip.” And he noticed she was having trouble getting the cap off the beer.

  “I won’t trip.”

  He wasn’t going to help her. If she wanted to drink it, she’d have to open it herself. “It’s a long dress,” he said.

  “That’s right, you’ve seen it.” The cap popped off, flipping up into the air and pinging into the brass colander beside the stack of gifts. She took a long drink.

  “You don’t drink much, do you?”

  “Not usually. But this tastes good with the pizza.” She picked up her slice of pizza from the coffee table, took another bite and set it down again.

  He took a second slice from the pepperoni box. But he just sipped his beer. If she was going to get drunk, he’d better make sure he didn’t.

  After she finished that slice of pizza and the second beer, she said, “We need dessert. I’ve got some strawberries.” And she stood up.

  So did he. “I’ll get it.”

  “No. You sit down. I’m fine.”

  She was probably a little drunk, but he’d watch out for her. “You’re drinking. You’ll tip over.”

  She tested her ankle.

  And he felt a touch of anxiety. “Don’t walk on it. Not yet.” He grabbed her crutches and handed them to her.

  Thankfully, she accepted them. Otherwise he’d have picked her up. Now she was aiming toward the fridge. He followed her, half hoping she’d stumble so he could catch her.

  Wrong.

  She wasn’t swaying or anything. Maybe having the beer with the food would be all right. She got to the fridge and opened the door.

  “Oh good,” she said, pulling out a clear container with a blue lid. “We have some left. Isabelle brought these this morning.” Toria picked up another clear container with an orange lid. This one was grapes. He took them out of her hands.

  “I’ve got them,” he said. “Go and sit down.”

  When she was safely back on the couch—the love seat—he stacked her crutches at the end of it and sat beside her again.

  She opened the containers. “We each get two strawberries and a bunch of grapes,” she said. “And they’ll go good with the beer.”

  “Do they?”

  “I don’t know. I just made that up.”

  They both laughed, and then he leaned over and kissed her. Just a light touch, his lips on hers.

  He pulled back, about two inches, watching her.

  She didn’t move. She sat very still, staring at his lips.

  He leaned forward again, and kissed her again, nibbling, lingering over the light kiss. And then a sense of disorientation flashed through him and he realized what he was doing. “That didn’t happen.”

  “Yes,” she said, looking like she was waking up from a dream. “It did.”

  “No. That was a mistake. That didn’t happen.”

  “You’re getting married,” she said, wonderment in her voice.

  “I’m―”

  I’m not.

  Whoa. When had he decided that?

  He hadn’t. And even if he had decided, it would make sense to tell Catherine first. And it didn’t matter that he wasn’t getting married because she was getting married. To that Lorimer jerk.

  And she was drinking . . .

  And she didn’t know how. And—and, he was taking advantage of her.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “Yes,” she said. “You do.”

  · · · · ·

  He left Toria to explain why he was gone. She would, in her own tactful way, come up with some story. She wouldn’t tell them he’d kissed her. Or that she’d kissed him back.

  Because she had.

  He wouldn’t think about that. Not yet. One thing at a time. Something about his wedding had been bothering him for quite awhile and he knew what it was now.

  He was not in love with Catherine. He never had been. She’d been his ace in the hole in the status war he’d waged with his father.

  And that war had fizzled out.

  The sun had gone down behind the mountains a few minutes ago. Not
a flashy sunset, not the kind that predicted good weather the next day. Just an ordinary sunset with pinks and blues radiating across the western sky. With the long days leading up to the summer solstice, it would be light for another half hour, maybe three-quarters of an hour.

  Ryder pulled up in front of Catherine’s apartment and parked the truck. He hopped out, feeling lighter and more in charge than he had in days.

  Scanning the number pad, he found her name and buzzed her unit.

  “Who is it?”

  “Ryder.”

  The entrance door buzzed open.

  When he got to her door, he knocked and waited, and then knocked again.

  She opened the door, wearing a flowing, silky robe. Something with orange and red geometric angles. Her hair looked like she’d just combed it, and her lipstick looked fresh.

  “It’s about time.” She stepped aside to let him in.

  “Yes, it is,” he said.

  “Don’t get all cocky. You know you messed up. Big time. My mother says―”

  “No,” he said, tapping his index finger on her nose.

  “No, what?”

  He walked past her and into her living room. She already had the drapes pulled closed, even though it was still light outside. “Please. Don’t tell me what your mother said.”

  Had he really voiced his thoughts? Finally?

  Yes, he had. And it felt good—really good—to know what he was feeling. In fact, he had to say it again to make sure. “I’m tired of hearing what your mother says.”

  “You’d better get used to it.” Catherine came around from behind him and stood in front of him. “If you expect to be part of my family, you’ll have to learn to tow the line.”

  He laughed. And then he reached for her, hugged her and swung her around.

  “Be careful,” she shrieked. “If you break my grandmother’s lamp—that’s an antique, you know. My mother would kill you.”

  He set her down.

  She straightened her robe.

  “You always know just what to say to make me happy,” he said. How come he hadn’t seen this before?

  Because he’d seen what he’d wanted to see. Sophisticated, elegant, in charge. And able to do battle with his father. And anyone else for that matter.

  “What’s wrong with you?” She stared at him with her arms folded. “You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”