2 Months 'Til Mrs. (2 'Til Series)

by Heather Muzik

  “What?” she asked, startled, certain he was about to say she had a giant spider crawling on her. She froze, squinting her eyes closed in wait.

  “You’re all red along your neck there. Have you been scratching at it?”

  “No.” Her answer was definitive. Certainly it was just the chain rubbing along her neck from fiddling with the locket…. But as soon as her denial was out of her mouth, her hand went to the place he was looking and absently scratched at it, making her realize she had been scratching at it on and off all morning… all day for that matter.

  “That looks like….”

  Please don’t say poison ivy, she thought, remembering the one and only bout she’d ever had—last spring when she first met Fynn. She didn’t have time for such things. She was planning a wedding! She was getting married in just over a month—thirty-four days to be exact.

  “Hives,” he said definitively, standing close—too close. But of course he had to be close. He was examining her neck!

  “Hives? How on earth did I get hives?”

  “They are your body’s overreaction to something. A food you’ve eaten. A soap or detergent you’re using. Often an outbreak is mental—”

  “You saying I’m nuts?” she chortled, snorting in that damn Liggans way. Her mother’s people were a regular laugh riot with that trait.

  “I’m saying that stress can bring them on. Are you under a good deal of stress?”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “I just mean something more than the usual?”

  Wedding—long-distance fiancé—sick kid—you name it.

  Monday, January 31st

  -45-

  “Oh my God! Fynn!” she exclaimed. The knock at her door had nearly startled the bejeezus out of her. “But I thought I was supposed to meet you halfway.” That was the plan, a road trip to Ohio to hand off Cara so Fynn could take her back home to her mom.

  He had a twinkle in his eye and a sly smile. “Are you going to let me in or not?” he asked through the gap where the chain held the door fast.

  “I haven’t decided yet…. It isn’t really proper, you know. Seven hours is hardly a drop-in,” she said coyly, channeling her mother’s famous wisdom.

  “You Hemmings women are tough,” he said with chagrin. “I’m just relieved that you’re actually here. I was worried that I might be in the wrong place.”

  She looked at him questioningly. “I know you haven’t been here many times, but you know where I live.”

  “I meant that you might still be holed up at your mom’s, considering—”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, perhaps a bit too stridently. But the implication was there—she didn’t know what she was doing and needed her mommy to help her babysit…. Obviously now was not the time to share the news of their exciting field trip to the doctor yesterday.

  “It sounded like you girls were having fun there,” he said simply.

  “You know, I can handle a five-year-old for a few days.”—not. But at least she sounded cool and collected and righteous. “For your information I took Cara to my parents’ for a visit because I thought she should meet them.” And then for the best defense: “And might I remind you that I am still in the middle of planning our wedding.” Just to make sure that he knew that she knew that he wasn’t doing anything on that front so he couldn’t possibly have any idea the amount of stress she was under, and therefore it only made sense that she would need an extra hand in order to get things done this weekend—certainly not because she didn’t know how to take care of a child.

  “I guess you had it all under control then. You’re doing better than I did the first time I had Cara alone. I practically had Drew move in with us for the whole weekend,” he admitted.

  Catherine laughed tightly. She had won the round, but only by cheating.

  “Anyway, I drove through the night hoping to take my girls out to… breakfast,” he said, sneaking a peek at his watch to make sure it was still breakfast time.

  His words—“my girls”—made her feel all gooey inside. There was something tender and warm and safe about that kind of possession, and she wanted to crawl right inside and curl up in it.

  “So, can I come in?” he asked, probably wondering why they were still speaking through the gap in the door.

  “Uh… we aren’t decent,” she said quickly, grasping the first excuse floating past in her mind to hold him off. Her apartment was a mess, still exhibiting the aftermath of the tornado that had spun through while she was packing to leave for Minnesota last week. Cara had actually asked if she’d been robbed when she first walked in, pointing at the dresser drawers that were half hanging out, clothes bursting out of them. That’s how bad it was. “You wait right there. We’ll be out in a minute.” She reached her arm through the opening and pushed at his chest coyly before shutting him out.

  He didn’t need to see her life like this. She was relatively neat at his place, and she’d been known to clean for days before the times he’d come to see her…. This dirty little secret—that she was slobbish and slovenly—she planned to keep to herself until after the vows, when it was harder to get rid of her.

  *****

  Girls on one side of the booth and boys on the other—Cara’s rules—so Catherine gazed across the table at Fynn, his handsome face covered in some serious stubble that looked sexy as hell even though she knew it felt like sandpaper—untouchable unless you were into getting a case of windburn (at this point she’d go willingly).

  “What’re you lookin’ at?” he asked over his tray of wrappers, sounding totally New York.

  “I’m just admiring my knight in shining armor who looks like he could use a good night’s sleep and a Bic.”

  He rubbed his face with his hand, yawning. “I don’t sleep well without you.”

  Aw shucks. Even if it was a big load of—

  “Fynn, guess what?” Cara said suddenly. “Cat got me drops and I have them twice a day.”

  “Drops?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Cara nodded her head enthusiastically.

  “Gumdrops?”

  “Nope.” She was sucking on her chocolate milk straw, the milk all gone, though most of her meal was still in evidence—she ate much better at my mom’s.

  “I can explain,” Catherine said quickly.

  Fynn stared back at her, his expression open, waiting for just that.

  The little girl who could not keep a secret for a meal or even a moment was now completely occupied spearing hotcakes drenched in syrup onto her plastic fork, having lost interest in her drops already. Catherine eyed her like she was a ticking time bomb, wondering when and what she might share next—an exposé on the present sorry state of my apartment, broadcast to the table and McDonald’s at large? She groaned slightly. “I should have said something yesterday on the phone, but I didn’t want to worry you or Renée over nothing…. I know I should be returning Cara the way I found her—”

  “What happened, Catherine?” he asked gently.

  “She has eardrops. For swimmer’s ear. The doctor said it’s probably from the tub or something. I didn’t take her swimming outside or anything.” She put a hand to her chest to assure him she would never be that negligent in her caregiving.

  “It will clear up in a jiffy,” Cara added, trying to snap her fingers like Pop-pop had been teaching her to do yesterday.

  “Oh,” he said simply, like what was going on right here and now didn’t even matter anymore. Case closed. No big deal.

  “That’s it?” Catherine blurted. She’d been afraid to tell him. Felt guilty as hell about not saying anything. And that was all he had in him? Oh?

  “It happens.”

  What happens? People like me tend to get into these little pickles? Or Cara is prone to swimmer’s ear? Or—“So it’s completely fine?” she challenged, her tone icy and brittle in response to the man who seemed to feel like this little hiccup was expected of his wife-to-be.

  “What do you want me to say?”
he asked, taking a sip of his coffee and rubbing his face like it was just too hard to deal with this or her.

  She wanted him to feel something. Mad that she’d kept something important from him. Or impressed that she’d gotten Cara medical treatment and handled the whole thing on her own just like a mother would.

  “Can I go play now?” Cara asked, pointing toward the ball pit and jungle gym room across the way from their table.

  “Sure you can,” Catherine said, relieved to have little ears out of the way for a few moments. Being around kids was exhausting, always trying to be on your best behavior. She got out of the booth and let Cara slide out. “Be careful!” she called after her as she galloped away. Catherine sat back down and turned her attention to Fynn again. “Spill it. Obviously everything’s not fine.”

  He glanced toward Cara, immersed in her little-kid world of fun. When he looked back at Catherine, her stomach full of hotcakes and sausage and coffee and juice and hash browns curdled at the sight of the haunted look that had come over his features.

  “The doctor says that Renée probably has less time than they hoped.”

  “Oh,” she said, feeling lower than low for her thoughts that immediately went to: I hope her funeral doesn’t overshadow our wedding—

  “She definitely won’t be strong enough to make it to the wedding,” he said grimly. “But Renée still wants Cara to be our flower girl. She thinks that it’s important for her to feel a part of our family—her new family.” His voice was shaky and tears filled his eyes.

  “Of course. Certainly,” Catherine said quickly, hoping he couldn’t see what was selfishly swirling inside her… that this turn of events could ruin everything.

  He grasped her hand tightly across the table, like he needed to hold on for dear life or he might lose her, too. “I didn’t know that this was going to be so hard.”

  What exactly? she wondered. Getting married?

  “I thought that I could handle Renée being sick… and taking care of Cara. I thought that I could… but it just sucks. It totally sucks,” he said, defeated.

  “If it’s all too much. If you want to postpone things until….” she mumbled the words, unable to finish the morbid thought on her mind.

  “It’s not that. It’s just… I hope that Cara is going to be okay. She seems to love it in Nekoyah, but her mother has always either been with her or she’s been there to go home to. The inevitable is coming and I don’t know if any of us are really ready.”

  “Cara is a strong little girl. You guys have prepared her the best you can,” Catherine pointed out. She looked over at the playground and the little girl with her brown hair in a perfect French braid that she had done for her, wondering if she was prepared for what was coming. French braids she’d been practicing since she got her first Barbie, but the rest of it?

  “When it happens, though, it’s going to be a lot different.”

  “I know.” Her tone was steely.

  “God, Catherine… I didn’t mean to ignore what you went through with your sister—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said brusquely. She didn’t want to talk about Josey even though he was right, she had been bitterly thinking about how she’d had no preparation for losing her little sister all those years ago. A part of her envied Cara the time she was being allowed with her mom even while that envy was entirely misplaced because the little girl was still going to lose her.

  “I am worried about it. About you. Are you okay?” he asked. “I didn’t think about what talking about all of this might do to you.”

  “It doesn’t do anything to me,” she said firmly.

  “Anything?” He physically pulled back, pulled his hand off of hers like her skin was frigid.

  “I mean, it isn’t about me at all.”

  “It’s about all of us,” he said earnestly. “I love you.”

  She looked into his stormy blue eyes. “I love you too.”

  “Well that’s all that matters, right?”

  “Right,” she eked out.

  “What is that?” he asked, leaning across the table and looking at her closely.

  “What?” Her hand went to her neck self-consciously.

  “That redness you’re trying to hide from me.”

  “Oh that! It’s nothing.” She shrugged.

  “Where did you find poison ivy to roll around in this time of year… in New York?” he joked.

  “It’s not poison ivy,” she said smartly.

  “Then what is it?”

  “Cat has a bee infection,” Cara offered, appearing tableside from out of thin air.

  “A what?” Fynn asked, a chuckle in his voice.

  “It’s hives, alright? I have hives! Are you happy now?” Catherine blurted.

  “The doctor said they’re in her head,” Cara noted.

  “What are in her head?” he asked, an amused expression on his face.

  “The bees, silly. That’s why you can’t see them,” Cara said definitively.

  Tuesday, February 1st

  -46-

  This was definitely the worst Tuesday on record. After Fynn and Cara had left yesterday she’d expected a certain amount of relief… and peace and quiet and calm to take their place, but instead it was just an immense emptiness that moved in. She felt awful. And so alone it made her whole body ache—unless I have the flu, which seemed likely what with Murphy’s Law still in effect around the globe.

  She stared down her clock—God, six comes awfully early. Perhaps she should have considered giving herself a day off before starting a new and painful, sadomasochistic routine. She didn’t want to be all that she could be this morning. Last night it had sounded like a brilliant idea. Tara was so inspirational, giving her an impressive and patriotic spiel, telling her to make her family and country proud and get her shit in order—meaning her flab in check—so she would be a bride to envy. The bride of brides. A princess among her lowly subjects! But in the weak light of day it seemed a bit too idealistic. Let’s get real: I’m voluptuous, take me or leave me!

  The phone startled her and she rolled over and shoved her head under her pillow to dampen the noise. Everyone she knew happened to be aware that this was way too early to reach her.

  Five excruciating rings and then the devil herself—

  “Cat! I know you’re still in bed! Up and at ‘em! Only thirty-two days left! Up-up-up! If you don’t get up and run your ass off, I’m moving in and dragging you out of bed each morning…. How do you like them apples?”

  CLICK

  Of course it would be Tara making idle threats to get her out of bed.

  And then the ringing started all over again. Three times before Tara’s voice blared through the apartment. “If you don’t think I’ll do it… just try me.”

  CLICK

  I’ll tell her I ran. Like she would be able to tell whether I actually went or not.

  Three more god-awful rings. “I will know, Cat. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. Remember that. I’m watching….”

  CLICK

  Now that’s just plain creepy.

  What the hell does she even know about exercising? Tara didn’t have to do anything to stay trim, and to add insult to injury, she didn’t have to try to fit in a wedding dress that was too small either. Probably would have been smart to try on the perfect dress before actually buying it—cash and carry. Less than forty-eight hours and she had come to rue the day she’d let Tara talk that Oleg Cassini original dress right out of a much thinner woman’s hands. Total cost: one huge lie and eight hundred dollars—dollars she could have sewn together and worn instead and actually fit in with enough left over for her entire wedding party to have dresses, ties, vests—and even make matching linens for the reception.

  Instead, she owned a spectacular, pearl-beaded, angel-hair-strapped dress with the faintest dipping sweetheart neckline, in a shade of white even Georgia would approve of—just to the latter side virginal. The bodice was embroidered with swirling and dipping vines endi
ng in intricately beaded buds. The dress skimmed the floor when she walked and would be stunning with a pair of peep-toe heels. Everything about it was exquisite and ethereal and her dream-come-true—but for the fact that she couldn’t zip it all the way up without creating some impressive cleavage with her back fat.

  But even that didn’t make the exercise medicine go down easier. In her mind, since the silk skirt was full and perfect for hiding what lay beneath, only half of her was actually a problem, so it stood to reason it should only take half the time and effort to fix it… like exercising every other day—starting tomorrow. Or maybe she could just wear a little jacket or a shawl of some sort—it would be chilly out in early March and Elizabeth Hemmings always said to wear a coat in the winter….

  The ringing started again.

  Christ! Catherine pulled herself up and out of bed begrudgingly and began blindly searching the dark apartment for something to run in. Maybe she should have opted for a gym membership, or better yet, exercise videos to do in her own time in front of her own TV. But running was free. And she was sure she had a pair of running shoes somewhere….

  The phone stopped and then started again, Tara getting her point across that she would annoy her thinner if need be.

  “Dog Shit!” Catherine groaned, suddenly remembering how she’d thrown out her only running shoes last year, after stepping in a heaping, steaming pile of crap outside of her parents’ house. Of course at the time she’d never intended to actually run in those shoes, but now that she needed them—ugh. She grabbed an ancient pair of Keds—the closest thing she had to “athletic” footwear. So far she’d lost ten minutes to her fruitless search, fully intending to count those minutes as several reps of squats and curls, seeing as how she’d had to look under, over, and around everything in her apartment.

  By the time she reached the sidewalk outside, she was already out of breath—slightly—just from running down the stairs, and she even had gravity working in her favor for that part. She looked first one way down the street and then the other—both directions seemed to stretch unnervingly to infinity. Running her block was a good start, she reasoned. At least that way she’d never be too far from home—she’d heard gang and drug activity were high in the early morning hours and considering it was before seven, it couldn’t hurt to take precautions.