On the Way to a Wedding

by Stengl, Suzanne

  Toria had found a box of tissues on Mr. Burrow’s desk and she handed another one to Mrs. Sid.

  “All this nonsense about cooperation. Leadership.” Mrs. Sidorsky blew her nose. A loud honk. “I’d like to catch the leader of that attack.”

  “It was good leadership,” Toria added, without thinking. And then she cringed as she realized she was speaking out loud.

  “Yes, it was,” Mrs. Sidorsky said, nodding her head. She squinted and stared at the ball of tissue in her hands. “A whole gym full of students,” she mused. “The jocks, the preppies, the goths, the skaters.”

  Mrs. Sidorsky knew the designations?

  “And what do they call them? Those with the . . .”

  “The hip-hops.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Sidorsky nodded. “It’s hard to keep up.”

  But—apparently—Mrs. Sidorsky was keeping up.

  “All cooperating.” Mrs. Sidorsky shook her head, like she’d observed a strange phenomenon.

  “Pretty amazing,” Toria said, agreeing.

  “They have accomplished a lot,” Mrs. Sidorsky admitted. “I never would have thought it possible. Not when they started so late. They only really started last Wednesday.”

  Last Wednesday. Once they had been allowed to go with their own theme.

  Mrs. Sidorsky lobbed her ball of tissue into the waste basket. “And Ryder,” she humphed.

  Toria braced herself. What had he been thinking? Water pistols? She smiled, because it was what Ryder would do. He must have been a challenging student for Mrs. Sid.

  “I expected him to take over,” Mrs. Sidorsky said. “To do it his way.”

  Toria had expected him to take over as well.

  “But he’s been teaching them. Standing back and letting them do it. He’s changed,” Mrs. Sidorsky said, reluctantly.

  Hopefully we all change, Toria thought. She felt the change inside herself. This could have been such a disaster, and maybe it still was. But, she didn’t feel as worried about it as she might have.

  As she would have, if this had happened a month ago. Or even a week ago.

  A week ago, she’d been upset about a china pattern. Today, Mrs. Sidorsky wanted to expel students. She wanted to cancel the whole Grad. Of course, she couldn’t do that, but she might be able to stop the waterfall . . .

  And Toria cared—but not so much that her heart hurt.

  What would happen, would happen.

  “Maybe I need to change.” Mrs. Sidorksy shook out the damp cardigan and held it up. “But what am I going to do about this?”

  She didn’t mean the sweater.

  “I can’t just pretend it didn’t happen.” She crumpled the cardigan in her lap. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Sometimes, Toria thought, it’s when we reach the point where we can admit we don’t know, that we finally figure out the answer.

  “I have an idea,” she said. Then she took out her cell and speed dialed Isabelle’s number.

  · · · · ·

  Ryder sat on the floor beside the waterfall. Mrs. Sid had gone home to change her clothes, and Budge had let the students return to the gym.

  The atmosphere remained leaden. But each committee and each student knew what they had to do. They worked, and they would continue to work, until the decision came down that they couldn’t.

  Maybe he’d gone a little far with the water pistols. He hadn’t expected her to get so wet. Or so angry.

  And Toria was caught in the middle.

  The final shaping of the hardened foam progressed with the help of two new students who’d joined the waterfall group. Anna and Kyle excelled in art, and occasionally worked on pottery. Now they were challenged with something much larger.

  “She’s been accepted into the Silver Springs College of Art and Design,” Brett said, glancing at Anna. “She’s a natural.”

  “So what kind of corsage are you getting her?”

  Brett grimaced and looked at Ryder. “I haven’t asked her yet. Not sure how.”

  Ryder paused. “I think you just have to do it,” he said. “However it turns out. Waiting always makes it seem worse than it is.”

  Like with Toria. How did he ask her if she was sure about marrying Lorimer. And―

  He smiled to himself. How did he ask her if he could kiss her again?

  · · · · ·

  A quarter past eleven. Toria and Mrs. Sid still had not returned. Toria’s mother and Aunt Glenda had also not returned. And, come to think of it, Isabelle wasn’t here either.

  “O’Callaghan?”

  A voice he recognized. Ryder turned around.

  Greg Lorimer, dressed in an expensive pinstriped navy suit, wandered over to the waterfall.

  “Lorimer,” Ryder said, by way of greeting. Jerk, he thought.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m a volunteer,” Ryder told him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m looking for Victoria. Her mother told me I could find her here. Do you know where she is?”

  “No.”

  “Samantha said she’d be here.” Lorimer frowned. “I’ll wait.” He reached in his suit jacket, pulled out his Blackberry and started scanning it, ignoring Ryder.

  And then, from behind him, another voice he recognized. “Ryder?”

  Catherine.

  Surprise hit him, closely followed by resignation. This is what she’d do. She would refuse to believe he was serious about cancelling her wedding.

  Terrific.

  “Are you a friend of Victoria’s?” Lorimer asked her, looking up from his Blackberry.

  “Victoria? No. I’m Ryder’s fiancée. And you are?”

  “Greg,” he said, preening.

  The ass was preening. And Catherine was giving him her mega watt, make-the-customer-happy smile.

  “Greg Lorimer,” Lorimer said, extending his hand.

  “Catherine Forsythe.” She shook his hand. And then, “Lorimer,” she repeated, frowning, like she knew the name and was searching for it.

  “I know that name,” she said.

  “Ah, you’ve heard of me.” He pocketed the Blackberry. “I’m in Real Estate.”

  “That’s it,” she answered, smiling. “It was a Real Estate fraud.”

  Lorimer’s face fell like an unstable wall crashing into the dirt.

  “Fraud?” Ryder said, turning to the man. The man Toria was supposed to be marrying.

  “A misunderstanding.”

  “My father sat in on the trial,” Catherine continued, oblivious to the distress she was causing Lorimer.

  He looked more than distressed. He looked . . . nervous. Like he was about to be found out. He straightened his shoulders. “And your father is?”

  “Herbert Forsythe. Of Duncan Pansmith.”

  Catherine always added that designation to her father’s name. Titles were important to her.

  “But they never had enough to convict,” she added, as though they were talking about someone else.

  “He can’t talk about the case,” Lorimer said, trying to rouse some indignation while he back paddled.

  “Of course he can. It’s in the public domain,” Catherine informed him.

  It was a rare day when anyone could tell Catherine anything. She kept talking about it, like other people would talk about the weather. “When my mother mentioned a wedding planner,” she said, “by the name of Geraldine Lorimer, my father remembered the name.”

  Ryder eyed him.

  “It’s none of your business, O’Callaghan.”

  Suddenly Isabelle was there, standing next to him. Today she was dressed completely in orange—blouse, full skirt, stockings, sandals. She even had an orange bow in her frizzy blonde hair and dangling tiny orange pumpkin earrings.

  “That’s why his heart blew up,” she said.

  “Somebody’s heart blew up?” Catherine scrunched her nose as she took the image literally.

  “Hello, Isabelle,” Lorimer said. Disdain etched the words. “And you d
on’t know what you’re talking about. As usual.”

  “I do.” Isabelle bounced on the balls of her feet, the pumpkin earrings swinging. “Know what I’m talking about.” And then, “People tell me things.”

  “I’m sure they do,” Lorimer said, his voice sounding weary.

  “His heart would have blown up anyway,” Isabelle said, explaining. “He was a coronary waiting to happen, but that stress didn’t help.”

  “Yes,” Lorimer admitted. “The stress of his argument with Victoria.”

  “No, the stress of his investments gone bad. That mortgage sham he had with you where he lost everything.” Isabelle paused, and her earrings kept swaying. “Including his house.”

  Lorimer paled and stood even straighter. “He had a heart attack,” he said, slowly, like Isabelle might be hard of hearing. “He had a heart attack because Victoria got in an argument with him.”

  “He was ready for a triple bypass,” Isabelle answered, equally slowly. “He didn’t want to book it. Not until he had Toria married and he owned his house again.”

  Lorimer’s jaw clenched. “He didn’t lose the house,” his voice singsonged.

  “You hold the mortgage.”

  “Because Victoria’s father needed more money. For some debts.” Lorimer sounded tired, like he’d said this before. “I helped him by taking over the mortgage.” He adjusted his suit jacket, straightening the lapels. “Of course, once we’re married, it will be our house.”

  Stunned, Ryder took a step back. He wanted to pinch himself. Was he actually hearing this absurd discussion, while he stood next to an unfinished waterfall in a high school gymnasium? And while his ex-fiancée tapped her toe beside him as she tried to rein in her impatience?

  And did Toria know about this?

  Because he couldn’t wait to tell her. Anything to make her reconsider her decision to marry this jerk.

  “Ryder?” Catherine touched his arm. “I thought we could have lunch? Are you ready to go?”

  The demanding person he’d spoken to on Friday was gone, replaced with the smiling, charming woman who was attempting to get what she wanted . . . in a different way.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “My mother called your mother.”

  Movement by the gym door alerted him to Toria’s arrival. That, and the fact that he seemed to be able to sense when she was around. Mr. Harvey, the head caretaker, accompanied her, pulling a cart loaded with what looked like terry cloth towels.

  Mr. Harvey was late if he thought there was still water on the floor. They’d cleaned that up a long time ago. There hadn’t been much water anyway.

  Then, a ripple of chatter, and someone whooped, “Miss Toria’s back!” She came farther into the gym with Mr. Harvey at her side. But―

  Oh no. Mrs. Sid had returned. She’d changed out of her wet clothes and, for once, she wasn’t wearing her prim and proper skirt and blouse. But he’d never seen her dressed like this—in track pants and running shoes. And an overcoat.

  A large overcoat.

  She waited by the door. Gradually, the students noticed her, the chatter stopped and silence slammed over the gym.

  What was going on?

  “Ryder, can we leave now?” Catherine tugged on his sleeve.

  Leave? Now? No way.

  All at once, Mrs. Sid lunged and advanced into the gym, heading toward him. And the waterfall.

  Brett and Brandon and Megan and Anna and Kyle formed a line in front of the structure. Protecting it from her.

  They waited . . . and the whole gym waited with them.

  Mrs. Sid reached the waterfall. “It’s payback time!” she yelled, drawing out a two-barreled super-charged Max D Super Soaker, and opening fire.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sitting on overturned milk crates in the supply closet of the art room, Toria and Isabelle regrouped. This was not hiding. This was regrouping, Isabelle had said. But it was more like . . .

  Breathing. This was breathing room. From her mother and Greg, and their plans for her life. And breathing room from―

  Her heart tightened. Her soul ached. This was breathing room from her feelings for Ryder. “I can’t go back in there.”

  She hadn’t known if he would come to the school today. He’d been calling all weekend, never leaving messages, just phoning. Trying to get her to answer her cell.

  But she couldn’t answer.

  The kiss had been her fault. She took full responsibility. She should not have been alone with him in her apartment—not the way she felt about him.

  Except, on Friday night, she hadn’t really known how she felt about him.

  If only she had answered his call on the weekend, she could have got the awkward conversation over with. He would have given her some reason why he could no longer work on the waterfall―

  No. He wouldn’t have done that. He wouldn’t have tiptoed around the issue. Not Ryder. He wouldn’t just slip away.

  He would announce he was leaving.

  Oh what must he think of her? He thought she was getting married. He thought this was her idea of commitment. He thought―

  But, a little voice intruded, he’s getting married. What about him? Surely he played some part in this. Didn’t he?

  The thought jangled. This was not something Ryder would do. He was getting married in two weeks. He would not kiss another woman.

  Except, the little voice persisted, he had. Shouldn’t she be angry about that? Shouldn’t she at least let him share some of the responsibility?

  No, not her. Her middle name was Responsibility and she would shoulder it all. Her own actions, her mother’s, her father’s.

  Anyone’s.

  The voices argued in her head. She shook herself back to reality, to the supply closet where Isabelle waited patiently for her to come out of her reverie.

  Toria had rehearsed a dozen different excuses for why she’d let him kiss her. Blaming it on the beer was the one she’d given him, knowing it was an excuse.

  Knowing there was no excuse.

  “I can’t go back in there. I can’t, Isabelle. It breaks my heart to see him.” The thoughts refused to settle. “I don’t know how I did this.”

  “What did you do?” Isabelle asked.

  “I fell in love.”

  A pause. The sound of Isabelle’s quick intake of breath. The swish of her orange skirt as she gathered it around her milk crate seat. “That’s not so bad, dear.”

  Of course it was. It was the worst thing that could have happened. “He’s engaged to be married, Isabelle.”

  “But he’s not married yet.”

  “He will be in two weeks.” How could she do this to herself?

  “You need to get away and think,” Isabelle said, like nothing drastic at all was happening.

  Overwhelming vulnerability pressed on her from all sides. She’d never wanted to fall in love. She’d wanted to marry someone safe, like Greg.

  But she hadn’t been able to do it.

  “At least I know, absolutely, that I could never marry Greg. Even if that’s what my father wanted.”

  Isabelle adjusted her long skirt again. “Dead men don’t care.”

  The words clunked into place and Toria lifted her head to look at Isabelle.

  “Well, even if he were alive,” Isabelle shrugged, “he wouldn’t care. He’d want you to be happy.” Isabelle leaned forward on her crate, took Toria’s hand and squeezed it. “And so does your mother—want you to be happy. If she stopped to think about it. She’s just used to . . .”

  “Me always doing what she wants.”

  Isabelle nodded, her pumpkin earrings nodding with her. “And now you can do what you want.”

  Isabelle had a way of making everything sound so simple. Toria looked at her friend. “But I don’t know what that is.” She wanted Ryder, but she couldn’t have him. There was nothing more to want. “I don’t know what I want.”

  “Well, if you did know, what would it be?”

 
Trust Isabelle to put it that way. Toria laughed to herself, and listened to her inner voice. “It would be to go somewhere quiet. And think.” And get over this. And move on.

  “That’s a good idea.” Isabelle nodded. “Greg is here. Did you see him in the gym?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your mother will be back at any moment.”

  Her mother would be on a face-saving mission. Trying to resurrect the doomed wedding. “I know.” Toria let go of a long breath.

  “And, of course, Ryder is there.”

  Isabelle hadn’t asked about Ryder. Not all weekend.

  And Isabelle hadn’t explained about Friday night. Hadn’t explained why she and Pro and Pro’s Aunt Tizzy hadn’t come to the apartment. Isabelle had been evasive, saying something about last minute changes of plans.

  So now what?

  Her mother clung to her wedding fantasy. Greg still expected it to happen. A mortgage hovered in the mix.

  And Ryder was getting married.

  That’s why it had seemed . . . safe, to be around him.

  If she could be the person she wanted to be, she’d walk back into the gym and kiss Ryder. Right there. Right in front of everyone.

  The man who was getting married.

  He wouldn’t let her, of course, but that was what she wanted to do. She wanted impossible things.

  She sighed wearily. She could face her mother. And even Greg. She’d already done that, several times. But they didn’t believe her. They wouldn’t believe her until the wedding day arrived—and she didn’t.

  But Ryder? Could she face him?

  Could she stand seeing him again, knowing he was not a possibility in her life?

  Why had she found him now? Why had fate introduced them, only to have them never be together?

  “Okay, that’s a good idea,” Isabelle said.

  “What is?”

  “To get away. To somewhere quiet. And think. Take a little time to put things in perspective.”

  Déjà vu. Isabelle had used those same words a week ago. “That didn’t work last time,” Toria said, remembering the aborted trip to Kalispell.

  “Yes, it did,” Isabelle said, like everything in her—Isabelle’s—life was going according to plan. “You decided not to marry Greg.”