Unleash Me: Wedding (The Unleash Me Series)

by Christina Ross

  I slid them toward her.

  “Now, pay close attention to what happens next,” she said as she added the three ingredients into the processor’s bowl, which was fitted with a steel blade. “Because if you don’t, this whole experiment of ours could blow up in our faces.”

  “You’re referring to the dough?” I asked.

  “Well, of course,” she said without looking at me. “I mean…what else?”

  ***

  After the dough had rested in the refrigerator for thirty minutes—during which Ethel returned to my novel while I used my SlimPhone to check e-mail and texts and to flick through my Facebook feed—we finished the rest of the recipe.

  “Touch the breasts,” she said to me as she put the sheet pan of cooled chicken in front of me.

  “You want me to touch the breasts?”

  “Well, of course. I do—and for good reason. Touch them. Press a finger against them. If the flesh gives, they aren’t fully cooked. But if they’re firm, they’re ready to go.”

  I did as I was asked.

  “Do they give?” she asked.

  “They don’t.”

  “Perfect. That’s how you know the breasts are done.”

  We moved onward, removing the chicken from the bone, slicing the meat into one-inch cubes, and then joining the chicken with the vegetable-and-gravy mixture before we divided all of it between three ovenproof bowls. When we were finished, we covered each bowl with eight-inch rounds of pastry, and then Ethel asked me to brush the tops of them with an egg wash so they would become “a lovely, shimmering, golden brown.”

  “You did well,” she said as she took a butcher knife and started to aggressively stab holes into the tops of the dough. “I think you’ve got this.” Stab, stab, stab. “I really do.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “My pleasure.” She put down the knife and clapped her hands. “So!” she said, removing her apron. “How about if we let these rest on the counter for an hour or so before we put them in the oven? They’ll take about an hour to bake, and by that time, it will be dinner. But while we wait, we shouldn’t waste time. Let’s go outside and start to make some decisions.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know, where the tents will go. How you want the flowers arranged and displayed in the gazebo and elsewhere. That sort of thing. We only have a few days left to pull this wedding together, Lisa. Since Harold is going to have the boys set up the tents as well as the propane-fueled air conditioners that will be attached to each of them, I think we should scout out where we want to place those tents, if only so they can be constructed sooner rather than later. Unless anything has changed, it’s my understanding there will be three tents, correct?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “One close to the house for the rehearsal dinner and two near the gazebo?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The two tents near the gazebo will be divided between Mitchell and his groomsmen and you and your bridesmaids? Mitchel and you want them air conditioned so you don’t have to worry about the heat. Is that still the case?”

  “It is.”

  “Then, let’s get to work,” she said. “Because I can tell you this, Lisa—now that you’re settled in, there is a lot to do—and the next few days are going to go by in a blur!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Ethel was right—the next several days did pass in a blur as she and I joined uneasy forces to prepare for my wedding to Tank.

  Over the course of the next three days, we took to our to-do list and tended to as much of it as possible so that when Tank arrived, we’d be able to relax and spend time with him. If only because there was so much to be done, each of us became so laser focused on the tasks at hand that we didn’t argue once.

  We agreed on the placement of the three tents, we went to the caterer to make sure that everything was set for the rehearsal dinner, and the next day, we went to the florist to choose a host of flower arrangements for the wedding, including my bridal bouquet. Since Ethel was severely allergic to several kinds of flowers, we worked our way through what she could tolerate—and what she couldn’t—and came to a successful end.

  On the third day, the one hundred white chairs we’d requested from a local catering company were delivered and placed in front of the gazebo. A wide red carpet would eventually divide the chairs and lead to the gazebo’s steps. As Ethel and I supervised the best way to position the chairs, propane-powered air-conditioning units were being set up outside the tents to blow cool air into them, which was a must as it was so hot here.

  When we were finished, Ethel and I visited the woman in charge of making the wedding cake. At first I was concerned, because I saw that she baked out of her house and not out of a working storefront, but the moment I was offered a sample of what to expect, I felt relieved.

  The cake was delicious. And the baker, Nancy, said she planned to make the cake bright and early on Saturday morning so that it would be as fresh and as perfect as it could be for the wedding.

  When we left her, I knew that Tank and I were in excellent hands.

  During the evenings, I took to my room after dinner and caught up with Tank, my family, and my friends over the phone. I talked to my parents, who were beyond excited for me and Tank, and who said they couldn’t wait to come to meet Ethel and Harold. Because I didn’t want to worry them, I simply told them things were going well and that I was eager to see them.

  But when I spoke with Tank, Jennifer, and Blackwell, they got the truth from me, and in return, I got their support. With each day that passed before Tank arrived—which was today, thank God—we all agreed that he must have gotten through to his mother, because with the exception of a few passive-aggressive digs from Ethel, we were working well together, and things were indeed moving forward. Frankly, if I were honest with myself, I knew I couldn’t have done any of this without Ethel’s help, which I’d told her when we had breakfast yesterday morning.

  “I appreciate that, Lisa,” she’d said. “And you’re certainly welcome—but never forget that I’m also doing this for my son. It’s his day, too.”

  Noted, lady, I’d thought at the time. But let’s be clear on this—you insisted on inviting many of your closest friends to our wedding for a specific reason, and that’s because this day is apparently also for you. You want your friends to moon over how beautiful everything is. You want people to walk away thinking how well off the McCollisters are, even though my parents, Tank, and I have footed the bill. You want your friends to see your home and its grounds at their very best—and you’re about to succeed when it comes to that because of us. But please don’t think for a moment that I don’t know you’re just working for Tank and me, because I know otherwise. I see through you, Ethel. And this wedding? I already know you are going to make sure that everyone knows it has your name written all over it.

  Unless I could somehow intervene…

  ***

  “Lovely day,” Ethel said to me as we left the house, stepped into her beast of a Navigator, and pulled out of the driveway to pick up Tank at the airport, which had me tingling with anticipation because I was so desperate to see him again.

  “I’m beginning to think it’s always lovely here,” I said. “I mean, every day since I’ve been here, the sun has been shining. Back in the Northeast where I was raised, it was much more of a mix—to the point that we pretty much called spring mud season. It was that wet—and that awful.”

  “Here in Nebraska, we long for that kind of mix,” she said as we took off down the road. “If you are on a well, as we are, water can sometimes be scarce here. Yes, when the occasional thunderstorm or twister rips through our neck of the woods, we get hammered with rain. But not often enough to saturate the land. Instead, because it’s so dry here, the rain just runs off and causes floods.”

  Always the downer in the room…

  “Well, it’s still beautiful,” I said.

  “I’m glad you like it here, Lisa. Perhaps a
fter this week, you and Tank will visit more often. Because goodness knows, his father and I aren’t getting any younger. I’d hate to think you’d keep our son from us.”

  “I’m sorry?” I said.

  “That you’d decide it wasn’t worth the time to make frequent visits. Because you must know by now that we’d always welcome a visit from both of you. And if on the off chance you couldn’t come due to your writing deadlines and obligations with your, um, writing career, I hope you’d allow Mitchell to come alone. Because we do miss him.”

  “Ethel, just so we are clear—Tank is his own man, and he makes his own decisions. I’ve never kept him from you.”

  “But haven’t you?”

  “No, I haven’t. We didn’t come this past Christmas due to other obligations. But here we are now, about to be married at your home. That has to mean something.”

  “I wonder if it does.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “From what I understand, you had no choice but to get married here.”

  “That isn’t true. I could have gotten married at my parents’ home.”

  “You mean at their ‘motel’?”

  “Yes—their home sits on the property. And it’s a lovely house surrounded by beautiful grounds. But my parents are so busy running it during the summer months, I didn’t want to ask them to stop everything in an effort to host our wedding, even though I knew they would have done it in a minute if I’d asked them. But I didn’t. My parents aren’t wealthy, Ethel. What you need to understand is that the income from the motel alone is the reason they’re able to eat and pay their bills. When Tank suggested we could get married here, I was grateful for the idea.”

  “And we took you in,” she said as she drove. “We opened our arms and our home to you. For the past several days, I’ve worked tirelessly at your side.”

  “And I appreciate that,” I said. “But I see where this is going, so before this conversation goes off the rails and one of us says something we’ll only come to regret, I suggest you recognize that I did have another option, that I chose not to use it, and that I’d never keep Tank from you. Are we clear?”

  “I suppose,” she sighed. “Enough talking for now. In the glove box is a new audiobook I’d like to listen to. Would you grab it for me? It’s called Pigs in the Parlor, and I chose it with you in mind.”

  Oh, no you didn’t.

  “Pigs in the Parlor?” I said. “Really, Ethel? And you chose it with me in mind?”

  “After finishing all of your books, yes, I did choose it with you in mind. Not because of the title but because of the content. Read the description for yourself. Because I am concerned about you, Lisa.”

  “What’s to be concerned about?”

  “The reasons are addressed in the book.”

  I’m not going to let you get to me, Ethel. It’s just not happening—not today. Not when I’m about to see Tank. I need to rise way above the bullshit you’re serving me right now and act like none of this is touching me.

  And so I removed the CD from the glove box and read the description aloud. “‘In Pigs in the Parlor, Frank Hammond explains the practical application of the ministry of deliverance, patterned after the ministry of Jesus Christ. He presents information on such topics as: How demons enter, when deliverance is needed, the seven steps in receiving and ministering deliverance, the seven steps in maintaining deliverance, demon manifestations, and practical advice for the deliverance minister. The Hammonds also present a categorized list of fifty-three demonic groupings, including various behavior patterns and addictions.’”

  Stunned, I just turned to her. “Do you honestly believe that I have a demonic manifestation?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m conflicted.”

  “How are you conflicted?”

  “Because of the things you write and the ease with which you write them. And because you write them so convincingly, I have to believe there must be a reason for it. That you’ve somehow experienced some of the things you’ve written about in order to be so detailed about all of it.”

  “Like eating someone’s brains?”

  She didn’t answer, and because she didn’t, I wasn’t sure whether to laugh in her face—or punch her in the face.

  “Do you even know the definition of a demonic manifestation, Ethel? Because I do. I’ve researched it for my books.”

  “Of course I know what it means,” she said.

  “You do?” I said incredulously. “Are you sure?”

  “I said that I do.”

  “Fine.” I pulled my SlimPhone out of my handbag and switched it on. “Then, if you do know, let me underscore just how offensive you’re being by giving you a proper definition of it.” I pressed a button on my cell and said, “Glo, what is the definition of demonic manifestation?”

  “Let me check on that,” Glo said. “OK! Here’s what I found about demonic manifestation on the web. Traits: foul body odors, hearing animals speak, levitation or astral projection, snarling or growling with hatefulness or viciousness, eyes rolling back in the sockets, evil speech, hearing voices, and foaming at the mouth. Would you like to hear more, Lisa?”

  “I would,” I said.

  “Well, I wouldn’t,” Ethel said, stiffening in the seat next to me.

  But Glo didn’t give a damn about what Ethel wanted to hear—she just kept talking.

  “OK!” Glo continued in a voice so bright and cheerful that it had no place in this vehicle. “Here are additional traits of demonic manifestation: drooling from the mouth; barking or hissing uninhibitedly; bursts of increased and violent strength; taking joy and satisfaction at another person’s tragedy; flittering, wagging, or sticking out of the tongue; continual torment; and patterns of shrill, overbearing and annoying laughter—”

  “That’s enough,” Ethel said.

  “It is enough,” I agreed, shutting off my phone. “You just crossed another line with me, and you did it deliberately, so I have to wonder—why do you continue to push my buttons? What kind of sick pleasure do you get out of it? And why do you believe that I’m forever going to allow you to do this to me? Because I won’t. My patience with you has met its end.”

  “I’m trying to save you from you!” she said.

  “I’m sorry—from what?”

  “From yourself! For my son!”

  “We don’t want or need your help. But I will tell you this, Ethel—if I have to use my backup plan, I will.”

  When I said that, she shot me a seriously freaked-out sidelong glance.

  “What backup plan?”

  “Two days ago, I called a church just outside Prairie Home. I told them about the situation I was in, and they agreed that if things went sour between us and I needed them, Tank and I could get married there on Saturday.”

  “Who did you talk to about this? Which church? I’m known in this town! That kind of gossip will travel! Oh, my sweet, dear Jesus—it will turn me into the town’s newest Beatrice Kaiser!”

  “It’s none of your business who I spoke to,” I said. “But here’s your takeaway, Ethel: I am getting married to Tank—either at your home or at that church. Obviously, you’ll be invited to the former if that ever sees the light of day, but if you keep judging me and pressing me, you will never, ever be invited to the latter. Tank called you out on this days ago, and already you’re slipping back into how you really feel about me and our wedding. I’m here to tell you that I won’t stand for it. If you don’t get in line and start treating me with respect, I will cancel our wedding at your home, and Tank and I will get married elsewhere with our friends and family surrounding us. You already know that your son will support whatever decision I make. So, my best advice to you is for you to stop fucking with me. Because if you don’t, I plan on playing my final hand—and you’ll be out of this wedding for good.”

  ***

  Despite the blistering sun, the walk to the airport was icy. A
fter Ethel parked the Navigator and we got out of the car, she led the way at a crisp, determined clip, and I stayed several paces behind as we walked into the terminal and moved toward Tank’s arrival gate. This was a small regional airport with only six gates, and as I looked around, I saw perhaps a hundred or so people either waiting for a flight or waiting to pick up their loved ones.

  But Ethel and I would have to wait to pick up ours. When we stopped to look at the arrivals board, we saw that Tank’s plane had been delayed by thirty minutes.

  While I took a seat, Ethel walked over to the wall of windows overlooking the tarmac and just stood there, her loathing of me palpable. Had I been too harsh on her? Not at all. I knew from my youth that the only way to shut down a bully was to stand up to one. Everyone had a personal breaking point, and if bullies crossed it, you needed to be prepared to take them on if they did.

  And so I had.

  After her Pigs in the Parlor routine, Ethel had essentially jumped me with both fists swinging. If I regretted anything, it was using the F-bomb on her, if only because I knew she’d eventually use it against me, claiming it a blatant show of disrespect against a Christian woman.

  There’s nothing I can do at this point, I thought. Best to get it out of my head.

  And so I did.

  Moments before Tank was scheduled to arrive, Ethel came over to me.

  “May I sit down?” she asked.

  “If you’d like.”

  Instead of taking the seat next to me, she dropped her Louis down upon it and sat down on the chair next to it.

  “Mitchell is going to sense the tension between us the moment he gets off that plane,” she said.

  “You’re right,” I said. “He is.”

  “And he’s going to question it.”

  “You’re right,” I repeated. “He is.”

  “So, now you’re going to shut down on me?” she asked. “Is that it? You’re not going to even talk to me?”