On the Way to a Wedding

by Stengl, Suzanne

  “I had a beer.”

  “Just one?” She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows, expecting a confession. Or an apology. Or both.

  “Yeah.”

  “With Pro.” She was nodding her head.

  “Not exactly.”

  “And that’s supposed to mean?” She stopped nodding and her freshly made-up lips tightened.

  “That means Pro was supposed to meet me and he didn’t.”

  She blinked, seemed to give up on expecting a confession, or an apology, and lifted her chin, tossing back her smooth hair. “That reminds me. We have to talk about Pro.”

  “We do?” He couldn’t help smiling, he felt so good. For the first time in weeks, his head was clear.

  “I called him,” Catherine said, as though she were gritting her teeth, “and he wasn’t nice to me.”

  “You called Pro?”

  “I was looking for you. And he knew where you were and he wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Why would he?”

  “I don’t like Pro,” she answered, ignoring the question. “I think you need to find some friends that we both like.”

  “You do?” Ryder nodded his head, listening. Listening to it all.

  “Yes. Mother says it’s important for us to have similar friends.”

  Mother again. It was like he was marrying her mother. Had been. “And what if we don’t?”

  “Ryder, this isn’t funny. Stop grinning like that. You missed the last shower party my mother held. And you missed the last two appointments for your tux fitting. And you were supposed to be at dinner tonight.”

  “I was?”

  “We were supposed to have dinner. Tonight. At my parents.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Of course you didn’t. You haven’t been answering your phone. You’re being selfish. My mother says―”

  “Catherine, do you love me?”

  “Love you?” She seemed surprised by the question. “Not at the moment. Not if you’re going to act like this.” She shook her hair back, away from her face, like she was trying to clear her thoughts. And then she faced her grandmother’s antique lamp. “What does love have to do with it?”

  She seemed out of her element, in a conversation she couldn’t control.

  “And what about you?” She turned back to him. “Do you love me? Because if you really loved me, you wouldn’t be so selfish.”

  He waited a beat. Had she said it all? Was she finished?

  “I don’t see any point in us getting married if you’re going to be so selfish,” she said, with a quieter voice, as she tried a new approach.

  “Right,” he said. “Neither do I.”

  She twisted up her eyebrows. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Catherine, I think I’m in love.”

  “Then you’d better start acting like it. And the first thing I want you to do is get a different Best Man.”

  “A different Best Man,” he repeated. Was he really hearing this? He put his hands on her shoulders and held her in front of him. And looked at her. He hadn’t ever really just looked at her.

  “I don’t like Pro and I don’t want him in the wedding party.” She stared up at him, determination in her eyes. She was serious.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated you for who you are,” he said, still holding her by her shoulders.

  He’d come so close. So close. It was scary.

  “Nice words,” she said, shrugging out of his hold. She took two paces away from him and then turned around. “But I want to make something perfectly clear. Right now. If you think you’re marrying me and keeping up with this constant work schedule of yours, you can think again.”

  Lightness filled his senses. Power and possibility flowed into him. “Oh?” he said.

  She held up her index finger, pointing it at his face. “You can sign that partnership agreement with Jimmy Bondeau.”

  Yes. “Yes.” He knew, now, with complete certainty. He could not marry this woman.

  She drew herself up tall, a Sergeant Major disciplining a lower ranking man. “And you can start winding down your time on the job site.”

  “Yes,” he said. Might as well hear the whole sorry thing.

  “And you can enroll in night classes and finish that degree you started.”

  “Really?” He laughed.

  “Yes,” Catherine said, flatly. “My mother thinks it’s important for you to finish your degree.”

  “Catherine, you know what?”

  “What?” she snapped. “And don’t think you can sweet talk me into―”

  “You’re going to make someone a great wife.” He paused and looked at her face.

  She frowned.

  “But it’s not going to be me.”

  · · · · ·

  The weather waited. The air smelled like rain, but the cloudy sky didn’t send any more rain. It waited.

  He’d tried to find Toria but she’d gone into hiding.

  At last, it was Monday morning and she’d be at the school. She had to be. He turned off Collins Street and aimed the truck onto Dottridge Avenue.

  On Saturday morning, he’d called Pro to find out if he’d shown up at Toria’s apartment, finally, on Friday night. And Pro had said they hadn’t because Aunt Tizzy had other plans at the last minute.

  Then Ryder had called his mother. Just a quick call, telling her the wedding was cancelled. And his mother had taken it in stride.

  After that his cell kept ringing. The readout said Catherine some times, and other times it was the number for her parents. He would have turned it off, but he left it on in case Toria tried to call him.

  But she hadn’t.

  He shoulder checked, changed lanes and exited onto Stelmack Boulevard.

  She hadn’t answered her phone all weekend. And even on Saturday night when he buzzed Mrs. Toony to let him in and he’d gone up and knocked on her door, it was Mrs. Toony’s door that had opened. “She’s not here,” Mrs. Toony had said. “Left on Friday night. Had the taxi driver come up and get her suitcase.”

  Her suitcase?

  He’d tried to focus on other things. He’d phoned Jim and walked around the sites with him, trying to listen to what Jim was saying. He didn’t hear much of it, except to realize that Jim’s confidence had grown by leaps and bounds since Ryder had stepped out of the way. And that was another thing he’d come to realize. Part of the reason he’d been resistant to taking Jim on as a partner was because Catherine had been lobbying so hard for it.

  Jim had everything on schedule. There were no problems to divert Ryder’s attention. His mind kept returning to one thing, to a strange, out-of-place moment in time. A time when he was alone with Toria in a quiet cabin. She snuck into his thoughts everywhere. All he thought about was her.

  To hold her again. That had felt so good. Like that’s all there was to do in the world.

  He was at Wickens Street. He’d head over to Tim Hortons for a quick breakfast and then he’d be at the school. First thing.

  Maybe he should apologize, though he wouldn’t mean it. No way in hell could he ever be sorry he’d kissed her.

  And, he remembered, still feeling the taste of her lips, she’d kissed him back. Maybe it had been the beer, or maybe it had been the circumstances, or maybe it had been a combination. But she had kissed him back.

  Why was she marrying Lorimer? Did she want to marry Lorimer?

  Feeling a deep pain settle in his chest, Ryder pulled into the Tim Hortons parking lot. After he’d had something to eat, he’d find her.

  · · · · ·

  Twenty minutes later, he parked his truck in front of the school. And damned if that wasn’t her mother.

  “You?” Toria’s mother said, as she approached him on the sidewalk. “What are you doing here?”

  Another woman accompanied Mrs. Whitney. One who looked a lot like her, only slightly older. “How do you do,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Glenda. Toria’s aunt. You must be Ryder.�
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  “Yes. I am.” He shook hands with her. The aunt seemed glad to see him, even if the mother did not.

  “Is Toria here?” Glenda asked.

  “I hope she is.” Because he needed to see her.

  “Of course, she’ll be at the school,” Mrs. Whitney said, yanking her purse strap, lugging the heavy purse onto her shoulder. “She practically lives here.”

  · · · · ·

  When he walked into the gym, Toria was standing in the middle of it, facing away from him. Without her crutches.

  It wasn’t even nine o’clock and the gym was full of students, clustered in groups. Toria was the sun at their center.

  Two students were talking to her. The ones he’d helped with the starscape, Donna and Brenda. Toria wore blue jeans, a jean jacket and runners. And a red shirt. He could see the collar of it, peeking up over the blue jean jacket.

  Mrs. Sid would probably have something to say about proper attire for school.

  Donna said, “Okay, we’ll check with you later,” then she and Brenda disappeared. Toria bent her head, reading some notes she was holding.

  He stood behind her, smelling the flowery scent of her hair. Then he leaned down by her ear. “You’re rushing this, aren’t you?”

  She startled, and then she slowly turned around. “It doesn’t hurt,” she said, not meeting his eyes. She pretended to read the papers in her hands.

  “You look tired. You should sit down.”

  “I’m fi―” She cut herself off. And she sighed. “I mean, I’m not tired.”

  “I should tell you―”

  “Don’t,” she said, still watching her notes. “It was my fault. I’m not used to drinking. It was a mistake. Can we forget―”

  “Not that.” It wasn’t her fault, and it wasn’t a mistake. He knew that as well as he knew anything.

  She looked up at him then. Right into his eyes. And she looked frazzled, and hunted and afraid.

  “Your mother is checking in at the office.”

  Toria clutched the papers in her hand and dropped her arms. Closing her eyes, she slumped.

  That’s what he’d thought. She didn’t want to see her mother. But maybe― “Your aunt is with her,” he said.

  “She is?” Now Toria lit up. The aunt was a good thing.

  “Can we talk?” he asked her.

  “I don’t think we should.”

  Never mind should, he thought. And then Mrs. Sid descended on them.

  “I can’t believe you’re letting the students play with all this water! In the gym!”

  Terrific. “It’s a waterfall, Mrs. Sid. It has . . . water?”

  “But I thought you’d make artificial water. And this pool—The flooring can’t―”

  “It’s safe. The caretakers have checked it. Don’t worry about―”

  “There you are.” A woman’s voice. “I need to speak to you, this minute.”

  A bolt of irritation shot through him. Toria’s mother had found her.

  “Who are you?” Mrs. Sid asked, ignoring the water crisis and staking her attention on Mrs. Whitney. “We don’t have time for parents in the gym. The students are missing enough classroom time as it is.”

  “I want to speak to my daughter,” Samantha Whitney insisted. “Now.”

  “Is your daughter assigned to the gym for this period?”

  “She’s right here!”

  Toria wasn’t saying anything. She stood next to him, looking at the notes in her hands, frozen.

  “You can’t interrupt the students now.” Mrs. Sid bulldozed over Mrs. Whitney. “They have so much to do. Especially now that they’ve taken on this ridiculous waterfall project.”

  “Ridiculous?” Ryder could hardly believe the woman. He glanced at the boys standing behind the waterfall. Brett and Brandon quickly hid the water pistols they’d brought in last Friday.

  “This pool cannot be here. I never agreed to this!”

  “Mrs. Sid,” he said. “Are you allowed to tell parents they can’t see their children?”

  “Don’t you tell me what I’m allowed to—oh!”

  Mrs. Sid jumped forward as a stream of water caught her in the back. Toria’s mother jerked to the right, trying to avoid the same stream. Then another stream swept over them from the other direction.

  Mrs. Whitney’s expression changed from anger to disbelief. “Is this how you discipline your students? What kind of school is—oh!”

  A third stream of water, and a fourth, and a fifth.

  Ryder laughed. He couldn’t help himself. Mrs. Sid’s mouth gaped open as she stared at the foam-covered waterfall with the pool at its base. A second later, she charged toward the structure, screaming at the boys.

  Then she tripped over a hammer and splashed down into the water.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Toria sat in Mr. Burrow’s office thinking about Ryder. Her mind replayed Friday night—the pizza, the beer, the strawberries. Their kiss.

  When he’d kissed her, she’d felt as if the other half of her soul had clicked into place.

  She’d felt afraid and confused. And wonderful. All in the blink of a moment. But even after a whole weekend had passed, she still didn’t know what to do about it. About the fact that she’d fallen in love with a man who was getting married in two weeks.

  She’d thought about it all weekend while she’d hid out at Isabelle’s condo. They’d strung leis and talked and drank tea. And Toria had managed to avoid her mother and Geraldine. And Ryder.

  “Stupid. Arrogant. Smart-alecky.” Mrs. Sidorsky mumbled next to her.

  Toria couldn’t help smiling, even though disaster swirled around her. How could he let them have water pistols? Encourage them like that? Let them douse Mrs. Sidorsky of all people?

  And how could he kiss her? He was getting married. This was not what Ryder would do.

  At least she’d escaped her mother. Aunt Glenda, bless her, had taken her sister over to Tim Hortons to calm her down. They had been caught in the crossfire, but they weren’t very wet.

  Unlike Mrs. Sidorsky.

  The overweight Mrs. Sidorsky, with her usually tidy dark brown bun of hair, sat in the chair next to her, dripping wet, while they waited for Mr. Burrows to return to his office.

  “You and your fancy notions about what students need.”

  “They’re not my notions. Everyone is trying to incorporate teamwork and problem solving―”

  “Teamwork! I’ll say. They acted as a team, all right. A team of hooligans.”

  It had been impossible to tell who had opened fire. And none of the students were talking. Their solidarity was admirable.

  Unfortunately, the decorating had come to a halt and Mr. Burrows had sent everyone back to classes. Now he was out in the hall, talking to Ryder.

  “You always want to let them think for themselves.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “They need to be told what to think.”

  “Mrs. Sidorsky. You don’t mean that.”

  Drops of water tapped onto the carpet under Mrs. Sidorsky’s chair. Toria tried to block out the sound as a sense of futility coupled with desperation seeped into her mind. She shivered, even though she hadn’t got wet at all.

  It didn’t need to be like this. There had to be a way to protect her students from Mrs. Sidorsky’s interference . . . and also teach them to temper their enthusiasm. To find safer ways to express it.

  She’d tried to prevent the conflict that threatened to take over the gym every time Mrs. Sidorsky walked into it. But—like Ryder had said on Friday night—she couldn’t tiptoe around people forever. She’d tried to. And, obviously, she’d failed.

  Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe this needed to happen. Because the strain of trying to keep the peace was wearing her down.

  The carpet under Mrs. Sidorsky’s chair had turned a muddy brown.

  “You always say, let them be and they will learn. Well, you’re wrong. You have to force them to learn or they’ll never l
earn anything.”

  “Mrs. Sid, listen to what you’re saying.”

  “Don’t call me Mrs. Sid!”

  Oops.

  A tired looking Mr. Burrows finally trudged into his office.

  “I want them expelled,” Mrs. Sidorsky said, before Mr. Burrows had even reached his desk.

  He pulled his chair out and collapsed into it. Then he gathered pen and paper, like he always did when he wanted to think. “Who?”

  “It was a joke,” Toria said. “They’ve been playing with water and―”

  “All of them. I want them all expelled. Everyone on that waterfall committee.”

  “They didn’t mean any harm―”

  “And Ryder O’Callaghan. I want him out of here. Now.”

  Mrs. Sidorsky vibrated in her chair. Water from her hair bun dripped onto the rounded white collar of her blouse.

  Mr. Burrows, looking grim, floundered in the middle of the argument. He arranged his pad of paper directly in front of himself and clutched his pen, holding it in mid air. Then he took a deep breath, let it out, and said, “We can’t have this kind of behavior, Toria.”

  “Expelled!” Mrs. Sidorsky’s voice raised a notch and she gripped the arms of her chair.

  “They’ll graduate in two weeks. They’ve already graduated. You can’t expel―”

  “I want the Grad Dance cancelled. They can’t get away with this. They don’t respect me.”

  Respect? The word clanged in Toria’s brain, out of context.

  She got to her feet and turned to face Mrs. Sidorsky. “And you don’t respect them,” she said, with a strength of voice she was surprised to hear.

  “What?”

  “They are treating you the way you treat them.”

  “They―I―” Mrs. Sidorsky sniffled, and hiccoughed, and rushing the words, she ended with, “You’re just their favorite.” Then she started to cry.

  Mr. Burrows dropped his pen on the desk, shook his head, and stood up. “You two work it out,” he said, and he left the office.

  · · · · ·

  Mrs. Sidorsky ventilated for about fifteen minutes, alternating between sobbing and shouting. And finally the strength of her rage drained away. She sat there wringing out her cardigan.

  “I don’t know what’s right anymore,” she said, twisting out the drops. “It used to be so simple. We stood at the front of the room and told them what they needed to learn.”