I cocked my head and raised an eyebrow.
“I told Carolyn I thought Derek was cheating on her.”
“Oh,” I said, hoping she’d elaborate. Of course, her allegation that Derek had cheated betrayed the lie that his and Carolyn’s relationship consisted of only a few dates. They must have been seeing each other exclusively. At least on Carolyn’s part.
Rita leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “Red hair.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s how we found out about the other woman. Flaming orange-red hair. He must have seen her the same day he saw my daughter, because I spotted several strands on his suit coat. And Carolyn found more of it in his car.”
“Oh, my.” I tried to think if I knew any redheads in Ramble.
“Derek denied it, of course. But I think he was seeing her the whole time he pretended to be interested in Carolyn. And . . .” She trailed off and bit her bottom lip.
Come on, Rita, don’t shut down on me now. “And?”
“And I’d hate to say more, especially since he just passed on.”
She was killing me.
“Rita, I can see something is bothering you, and nobody is going to blame you for saying something now—just one friend to another. This is a special day for you. Don’t walk into it burdened with someone else’s baggage.” It was meaningless psychobabble, gathered from more than one college afternoon watching daytime television between classes—oh, the value of a college education.
I could see her beginning to cave, so I launched another volley. “Nothing you say can hurt Derek now—or his memory in the minds of those who loved him. And you’ll feel better when you get it off your shoulders.”
Rita’s eyes lit up. “Just between you and me, I don’t think he stopped seeing the redhead, even after he proposed to Jenny.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I have insomnia at times, you see. And last week the weather was so mild at night that I took a walk. It must have been three in the morning when Derek’s sports car sped past on Main Street. And in the streetlights I could just make out a woman in the passenger seat.”
“Not Jenny?”
“I couldn’t see the face well, but whoever it was had flaming red, curly hair.”
A longtime clandestine relationship with a mystery woman . . . I wondered if the elusive redhead might be the author of those lurid letters, the ones that turned threatening. I’d keep my eyes open for redheads.
“You’re right, Audrey.” Rita’s smile widened. “I do feel better after unburdening myself.” She pulled me into a half-thawed hug.
At that moment cruel fate, combined with the unconquerable force of gravity, deigned that one single peach rose fall from the swags above. And where else would it land? Yes, smack-dab on Rita’s shoulder.
In close procession, two more plopped down in other parts of the church, flowers raining from above.
In slow motion, Rita picked up the rose from her shoulder, crushed it in a tight fist, then handed it to me. “Fix it,” she said, with a refrozen smile, then turned and walked away.
“Yes, ma’am.” There was no other response.
Chapter 14
My promise to complete the church decorations on time was sorely challenged by the falling roses. In the end, the boys took down all the swags so I could check that the roses were secured. But I stood back to survey the completely decorated sanctuary—the veritable garden I’d promised Carolyn—just as the organist and bell ringer arrived.
First Baptist of Ramble, on special occasions, still rang its steeple bell the old-fashioned way, using the same historic cast-iron bell that some said hearkened back to colonial days. Others claimed it was added in the early 1800s. But a few tourists still came through every now and then begging to see the old bell, despite the cobwebs that invariably filled the narrow staircase that led to it.
As the interns carried the empty boxes and supplies out to the truck and put the ladder back in the church’s maintenance closet, I darted into the ladies’ room to slip into my dress and try to look more like a wedding guest and less like a sweaty contractor.
I dabbed on a little extra antiperspirant, slipped into a soft scoop-necked floral dress, accented it with a sage green chunky necklace, and stepped into heels. I wish I could say the tired face disappeared under the application of makeup. I did my best, anyhow.
When I exited the ladies’ room, the sound of feminine voices echoed from a nearby Sunday school classroom. I recognized Carolyn and Rita among them, even if I couldn’t make out the words. These were not happy voices. I hoped all the peach roses hadn’t fallen from the swags while I changed. I suspected I’d better check in and make sure everything was okay from the floral perspective. Maybe I’d get lucky and find out that an usher had rented the wrong size tux or that no one could find the groom.
One of the bridesmaids, dressed in a polka-dotted tea-length peach dress, opened the top of the Dutch door at my knock.
“There, there, peaches,” Mayor Watkins crooned. Looking dapper in a tux and already sporting his peach boutonniere, he placed a comforting hand on his daughter’s shoulder. His nickname explained Carolyn’s flower choice. While she’d insisted on peach roses, she hadn’t given a reason why. Touching, that she would choose a flower based on her father’s pet name for her. Then again, he was paying for the wedding.
“It’s just a little snag,” he said. “Everything is going to work out all right. No one will even notice.”
Even as he reassured her, Carolyn’s lower lip jutted out and quavered. She looked like a pouting child in her pure white re-creation of a 1950s tea-length dress in satin with a lace overlay. Not that I knew much about wedding fashions, but that was how her mother described it when they placed the orders for her flowers. The fifties theme was a new one for me, but they explained they wanted modern flowers—that the arrangements they’d seen in the old wedding books and magazines they’d picked up from the library used book sale were dreary. I suspected the yellowing pages and the old-style photography made them appear that way, but I gave in to their wishes anyway.
The photographer snapped a picture of her, but Rita waved him off. I recognized him as the photographer for the On. I’d encountered him doubling as a wedding photographer on more than one occasion.
“Don’t cry.” Rita took Carolyn by the shoulders. “You’ll ruin your makeup for the pictures. If you do anything, scream. But smile while you’re doing it, lamb chop.” If that was her mother’s nickname for her, I wondered what we’d be eating at the reception.
“Dress, shoes, and gloves,” Carolyn almost spat out, her face twisted into a maniacal grin. “Was that too much to ask?”
I let out a sigh of relief. This was not a flower issue. The bridesmaids, however, scurried to the far corners of the room, like cockroaches when you turn the light on in a fleabag motel—not that I’d been in too many fleabag motels.
“Oh, Audrey, there you are.” Rita rushed over and took my hands. “I’m so sorry I doubted you. The church looks lovely, and so do the bouquets.”
“At least something’s gone right,” Carolyn muttered. “First we’re missing a whole bridesmaid, and now this.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Rita turned back to Carolyn. “There’s nothing you can do at this point except have all the bridesmaids take them off. You can’t have some with and some without.”
I hazarded a quick glance at the cowering bridesmaids. Most of the girls were Carolyn’s friends from the health club set, so I imagined the missing bridesmaid was Jenny. I wondered what it was that each would have to “take off” and was relieved to see they were all sporting their dresses and dyed-to-match shoes. So at least the group wouldn’t be standing up in their slips or bare feet, a thought which made me smile.
“And there’s still no answer at the bridal shop?” Carolyn said. “I’m sure Jenny n
ever got around to picking hers up. They have to be there. The shop should have an emergency number.”
Mayor Watkins shook his head. “Even if I did get through to them, there just isn’t time to get them here. The girls will just have to go without.”
Carolyn rolled her eyes. “They’d look so much better with the gloves. I can still wear mine, though. Right?” It was more of a demand than a question.
“Of course, peaches,” her father said. “You’re the bride. You can do anything you want.”
Step one in the manual entitled How to Create a Bridezilla: Make her the center of the universe and demand that everyone succumb to her wishes. At least it looked like she’d managed to get her manicure just in time to stuff her hands into gloves. Thankfully, our part in this affair was completed and deemed acceptable.
“Congratulations again,” I said. “And Carolyn, you look gorgeous.”
“Thanks.” Carolyn picked up her bouquet for a picture.
“Oh, and, Audrey, I hope everything is okay at the reception, too,” Rita added as I was almost out the door.
“Yes, just lovely,” I said with a wave. Guessing. More of an educated guess since I knew Liv wouldn’t leave there until it met with her stamp of approval. Then again, I hadn’t seen her yet.
A teenage usher with a face full of acne and the barest hint of fuzzy stubble—which he seemed to wear more proudly than he did his rented tuxedo—escorted me to a seat at the end of a pew. In the front corner of the church, the same chamber group who’d performed at the funeral, including that vile violinist, played similar classical and religious pieces. If he held a grudge, it didn’t show. He winked at me as he caught my gaze.
The church was approaching capacity when Liv arrived on Eric’s arm. She gave me the thumbs-up sign as an usher directed them to a nearly full row.
“Excuse me, miss?” The teenage usher was back. “Could you please slide over? We’re full up, and I think we can fit one more person in this row.”
I did the required sliding, squeezing next to a matronly woman I didn’t recognize (out of town family maybe?) wearing way too much perfume. The space between me and the end of the pew would be perfect for one person, provided that person was three years old, an elf, or an anorexic supermodel. Preferably a three-year-old anorexic elf.
The usher returned a moment later and directed Nick Maxwell into the space next to me.
“Hi.” He eased into the allotted space, clearly not enough. His legs contacted mine, as did his hips and torso. It left no room at all, however, for his arms and shoulders, so he hoisted one arm over the end of the pew, then awkwardly draped the other on the pew back behind me. “Sorry. Tight squeeze.”
I nodded, wondering if I should be feeling one of those “electric shocks” the romance novelists are always writing about, or some stirring deep within or whatever the current jargon is. Instead, I felt a little like a sardine traveling in steerage. In the boiler room. This scenario could only have been more awkward had Nick brought a plus-one. She’d be sitting in his lap.
The matronly woman slid over, giving us all another two inches. Now I could sit comfortably without touching—as long as I didn’t try any excessive movements, like breathing.
“Funny,” Nick said, “we were just talking about you.”
“We?” I asked. My ability to hold a coherent conversation evaporated.
“Your cousin, I guess. Liv. I ran into her over at the Ashbury when I dropped off the cupcakes. It’s amazing. I would have never picked you two for cousins.”
“I’ll admit, there’s not much of a physical resemblance.” I turned to glance at Liv. She mouthed, “Nice,” and gave me another thumbs-up.
“What was that?” Nick asked.
“What?”
“What Liv said to you?”
“Oh, that . . .” I felt my face color. “She just . . . said the reception flowers are nice.”
“They sure are, and I must say, the church is fantastic.” He craned his neck to get a good view of the overhead swags, and his extended arm slid forward to rest along my back.
Do I lean forward to break contact? And spend the entire ceremony in an unnaturally erect posture? Or do I remain in place and pretend that the feeling of his hand on my back isn’t having an effect? It didn’t measure up to the hype of an electrical shock—and maybe that was a good thing. I’d suffered a bad shock from a frayed toaster cord before and it wasn’t a pleasant experience. I decided to go for nonchalance.
He chatted on, asking occasional polite questions about the flowers. He did seem to possess a superior knowledge of wedding planning, perhaps as a result of his research through the bridal magazines. Before long, my brain kicked in again, and our conversation from the time the wedding was supposed to begin until twenty minutes later—when it did begin—flowed cheerfully and naturally.
The procession must have lasted ten minutes. Eight bridesmaids, all dressed in the same polka-dotted peach dresses with matching shoes and fascinators—although sans the gloves—carried their bouquets of peach and white roses, daisies, and ivy. Very 1950s, although I agreed with Carolyn: I was missing the gloves.
A ring bearer, who must have been about two, sprinted down the aisle and tossed his pillow onto the platform before running to his mother. Then a flower girl walked down the aisle with her basket of peach and white rose petals. I knew Carolyn wanted the child to scatter them on the aisle runner, but instead she clung possessively to the basket and gave defiant looks to the audience as she toddled her way to the front—daring them to take her precious petals away from her.
We all rose as Carolyn walked down the aisle, looking radiant on the arm of her father. Her groom stood innocuously at the front of the church, looking pale and wavering from foot to foot. I sure hoped he wouldn’t go down. Not only for Carolyn’s sake, but it would only mean more time packed into the increasingly warm church as they attempted to revive him.
He seemed to rally as Carolyn approached, and even managed a smile.
“Dearly beloved . . . ,” Pastor Seymour began, and thus commenced the traditional vows I’d heard countless times in the little church. If they’d asked for anything different, they didn’t get it. But with an octogenarian pastor, it’s better not to ask. He could officiate a traditional wedding in his sleep—I think I even saw him do it once. But throw him a curve, as Ellen Whitney had tried to do, and you just never knew what you’d get.
Of course, thinking of Ellen made me think of Jenny. They all traveled in the same group—the “health club set” was what I’d nicknamed them. All that exercise and juicing. The closest I got to juicing was an occasional chocolate-covered strawberry Blizzard at the Dairy Queen.
While the woman next to me started fanning herself, sending more of her cloying perfume in my direction, I found myself staring at the bridesmaids. A quick count showed eight bridesmaids and nine groomsmen, but I doubt anyone would have noticed a missing bridesmaid if they hadn’t been looking. Shirley, Pastor Seymour’s girl Friday, stood about midway down the row. I hadn’t placed her as one of Carolyn’s clique, but I did recall her saying something about finding massage clients at the club. She was whispering something to a blonde who looked familiar.
And then I recognized the blonde. Sarah Anderson, of course, Jenny’s roommate. With her hair down and her face made up—and her body not covered in spandex and sweat—I hadn’t placed her. She cleaned up nicely.
Two bridesmaids had red hair, Shirley and another girl, but she was a pudgy little thing, bless her heart, with eyebrows that almost touched in the middle of her forehead. I couldn’t imagine her or Pastor Seymour’s assistant as Derek’s secret inamorata.
When the new couple kissed and were introduced to us as husband and wife, we all rose and clapped, while the groomsmen erupted into old-fashioned hoots. After they all filed down the aisle, Nick turned to me. “I suppose I should head over t
o the reception to make sure the cupcake tower is still standing. Need a ride?”
“No, we need to take some of the flowers over in the truck. Some of them do double duty.”
“See you over there, then.”
I waved impotently as he darted out the back door. Liv squeezed her way through the crowd and made her way over to me.
“I see we’ve made some progress on the confectionary front.” She took my arm as we inched toward the foyer.
“Nonsense, Liv. Don’t read anything into it. He didn’t choose this seat, after all.”
“Maybe not, but you weren’t at the reception hall this morning.”
I crossed my arms. “Where you steered the conversation in my direction.”
“No steering necessary. He coasted right into it. Hard to talk to him about anything but you.”
“To quote Grandma Mae, ‘pshaw.’” I held the door open and we exited to the porch. Even though the temperature soared outside, it felt much more comfortable than the overpacked, stuffy church.
An usher handed each of us a little tulle bag of grass seed encased in peach-tinted fluff.
“I’m telling you,” she insisted in a whisper, “he’s interested.”
“Interested in collaborating. In having a business relationship.” I found a spot in the shade of a cherry tree where we could launch our grass seed without getting doused with it ourselves. Eric squeezed through to join us.
“No, he didn’t have the business look in his eyes,” Liv insisted. “Eric, you were there. You saw it, too. Tell her.”
Eric exhaled. “Liv, don’t go doing this.”
“What?”
“This infernal matchmaking.” He eased the tie about his neck. “It never works, and someone is bound to get hurt every time. Why don’t you let it go? If it’s meant to be, it will take a natural course. Like you and me.”
Liv and I burst into hysterics that drew the attention of those around us. And Eric only knew the tip of the iceberg. Liv had been matching up couples, with uncanny success, since her first junior high dance. Of course, I’d since forgiven her for pushing Brad in my direction.
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