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

by Heather Muzik

  “Stress Tourette’s?”

  “It’s a syndrome. Her therapist says it should go away when the stress goes away. She’s getting married, you know.”

  Please stop trying to make things better, Catherine pleaded inside. Just stop while we’re still at only one ticket-worthy offense.

  He stood there for a moment, thoughtful disbelief on his face. Then he turned back toward his vehicle, his headlights spotlighting the whole takedown, and shrugged in that direction, either at his partner or maybe the onboard camera that was probably catching it all on tape, to be used against her in a court of law or on YouTube—whoever got it first.

  “Could you please step out of the vehicle?” he demanded, making her wonder why they bothered phrasing it as a question.

  “But I thought this was about my blinker—”

  “Ma’am, step out of the vehicle.”

  For a moment she thought maybe this was some kind of joke Tara had set up, having a stripper pull them over and ask her to get out so he could put on his show for her—this is my bachelorette party. But when she got out of the car, her hope was extinguished.

  “Have you been drinking this evening?” he asked, squinting at her license to read it in the glow of his patronizing flashlight.

  “No.” She put her hand to her chest, trying to make that one word as heartfelt as possible. And it was the God’s honest truth. Not a stitch of alcohol—although she could really use a drink right now. But of course that was what they all said, right? And she had been weaving across the empty lanes what with Tara’s horrible navigation skills. Speaking of which, Tara should be the one out here—

  “Could you please walk a straight line for me?”

  If that was what it took to clear her good name then so be it. She stepped away from the car and toward the officer, stumbling immediately. Oh my God, maybe I am drunk—drunk on evil-doing. What the—she looked down at her right shoe. The heel had snapped off. She’d heard the sound of a snap, like a twig breaking, on the way back to the car with the cake, but running on pure adrenaline, she hadn’t even noticed that it had come from her shoe. Served her right for wearing heels to a robbery anyway. Her wedding shoes. The ones everyone told her to wear for a bit each day in order to break them in for the wedding…. Now they were broken in all right.

  “Can I just take my shoes off first?” She lifted her foot to show the broken bottom, probably looking like a lunatic from an asylum, wobbling there in sweatpants and silver strappy shoes.

  The officer sighed. “Fine. Just move it along.”

  She pulled off the offensive shoe and its pristine mate and took her place in bare feet on the asphalt, walking heel to toe with ease, moving her arms to touch her nose as commanded. She felt ridiculous and noticed that suddenly the empty night was full of regular passersby, cars slowing just enough to watch her spectacle. She looked toward the backseat where Tara was, wondering why she wasn’t doing her usual routine, making a ruckus. She would have expected her to be jumping out to save the day. But what she saw there made her reel back in horror—Tara looked like a white ghost in the window. Brilliant white. The color of frosting. Her entire face covered in it.

  Saturday, March 4th

  -66-

  Van Morrison serenaded her right out of a dream—a nightmare actually. Tara had destroyed her cake, went face-first into it to hide from—oh my God, she killed my cake! Catherine’s heart started beating wildly. This was no dream. It had happened. A few hours of sleep couldn’t erase it. Tara had literally shoved her face in the cake on purpose, just so the police officer who’d pulled them over—oh God, I took a Breathalyzer (passed it, she reminded herself proudly). But that was beside the point. Tara killed the cake just so some guy she’d had a one-night stand with a few weeks before wouldn’t recognize her. Because he hadn’t stopped calling her since. Because she didn’t want a commitment.

  Because she’s out to get me.

  Catherine cut “Brown Eyed Girl” short and answered the phone groggily, “Hello?”

  “Good morning, my bride. Are you ready?” Warm melted butter first thing in the morning… and it would be that way for the rest of her life. Her toes curled deliciously.

  “You have asked me that every day for weeks now.” A smile on her face in spite of everything that had happened last night. That was a sign of dumb and lucky love; everything that could go wrong would go wrong, yet she was still happy.

  “Just making sure. A lot changes today.”

  “Those changes are only for the better,” she said earnestly. “I’ve been a homeless woman for a week and I can’t wait to sleep in my own bed again—our bed again.” Catherine looked around at the other sleeping figures in the room. They had all been up practically till dawn trying to solve the cake dilemma, eventually falling asleep sprawled in chairs and across the couch and loveseat.

  “You sound exhausted. What did you girls do last night?”

  “Nothing much. Just made some cake, burgled a hall, got nabbed by the police, and wiped out a convenience store.” There it was. The truth. The whole truth. And nothing but the truth.

  “Okay, I get it; what happens at the bachelorette party stays at the bachelorette party. I just hope that the stripper was worth it. Because mine sure was.”

  “Fynn!” she exclaimed, startling the sleeping bridal party.

  “What’s going on?” Tara groaned, her face glazed with a sugar sheen—residue from the murdered cake.

  “It’s time to get up already?” Lacey asked, wiping at her bleary eyes with hands that looked cramped into claws from squeezing a frosting bag for hours.

  “It’s 8 o’clock, girls. Up and at ‘em!” Georgia called out as if she hadn’t been sacked out completely up until two moments ago. She marched into the kitchen and started banging around like she owned the place.

  “I’m going to have to go, Fynn. Seems like another round of madness is about to begin.”

  “Well, your mother is going to be bringing Cara over to you within the hour. I just wanted to give you a heads-up. And I just heard from Drew at the airport; she and Klein and the boys just landed. I know you girls are all getting ready together, so I gave her directions to Lacey’s so Klein can drop her off.” He sounded like he was in total control.

  Glad someone is.

  “Perfect. Thank you so much for handling that,” she said, relieved.

  “I aim to please. So… I guess the next I see you, you’ll be the one in that spectacular dress I’ve heard about.”

  My dress! Catherine was stunned into silence. She hadn’t ever gotten around to trying it on again—drove it all over the country and got it a coach seat next to her on the flight back (refusing to let it out of her sight for even a minute ever again), but she hadn’t tried it on. Okay, she’d been too afraid to try it on. What if it didn’t fit? What if after all this she had to walk down the aisle in jeans and a T-shirt?

  “Catherine?” he prodded.

  “I’m still here.”

  “I love you and I’ll see you soon.”

  I just hope everyone won’t be seeing too much of me soon. But she said, “I love you too.”

  And then he was gone.

  “What’s up with you? You going to be sick or something?” Tara prodded.

  Catherine put her phone down. “No. I just can’t believe that the day is finally here,” she said quickly, swallowing back the queasiness the best she could.

  They all smelled the promised land at the same time. Coffee. Blessed coffee. Thank God for Georgia and her unnatural morning highs.

  They trudged into the kitchen, taking in the aftermath of their hard night. It was difficult to look at in the light of day. Ring Dings and Devil Dogs boxes were ripped wide open, with plastic packages littering the table top, countertops, and floor. It looked like a herd of PMSing women had partied hard. That poor, unsuspecting Wawa clerk must have thought they were nuts, cleaning him out of prepackaged baked goods like that.

  “I was hoping this was all ju
st some freak nightmare,” Lacey said flatly.

  “No such luck,” Tara said, staring dazed into the refrigerator.

  They all joined her, gazing into the light at a three-tier cake. It looked pretty good, considering. At least there was that much.

  -67-

  Catherine stared at herself in the full-length mirror in the dressing room and felt her stomach flutter with excitement. She couldn’t believe that she was actually wearing her wedding dress. No stuck zipper. No back cleavage. It fit perfectly. Just like this day fit her perfectly. Everything she’d done to get here seemed trivial. She was marrying the man of her dreams. In fact he wasn’t even thirty feet away in another room, donning his tuxedo at this very moment. In less than an hour she was going to be Mrs. Catherine Trager.

  She spun around one more time and caught Cara’s eye in the mirror. After watching her unabashed joy all morning, getting her hair and nails done and even a touch of makeup, Catherine was surprised to see a little frown on her face.

  “Come here,” she said, pulling Cara over toward the couch to sit down while everyone else was bustling about. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

  “I miss my mommy.”

  “I’m sure she misses you too,” Catherine said softly.

  “She was going to come.”

  “I know she was, honey. She wanted to see you looking so beautiful.”

  Cara’s eyes filled with tears.

  Catherine held her chin and looked earnestly into her eyes. “We’ll have to take tons of pictures so she can see everything that happens today, especially so she can see the prettiest flower girl ever…. A picture tells a thousand words you know.”

  “Really?” Cara asked, amazed.

  Catherine nodded. “And speaking of pictures, I have something I want to give you for being such a special little girl in my life and sharing this day with me.”

  “A gift for me?”

  Catherine reached for a small box on the end table and handed it to her.

  “It’s so pretty; I don’t want to open it,” she said in awe, staring at the bright purple box with the silver bow. But childhood inquisitiveness took over within moments and she opened it anyway. “What is it?” she asked breathlessly.

  “It’s a locket.”

  “Like yours!” Cara exclaimed.

  Catherine nodded, touching her own locket that was like a part of herself that she never took off.

  Then she reached into the box and took out Cara’s locket, popping it open for her.

  “That’s Mommy and me!” she squealed. “But what about the empty side?”

  Tears came to Catherine’s eyes. “That is for you to fill when you’re ready,” she said earnestly. She hung the necklace around Cara’s neck where it dangled into the small ruffles on her beautiful white dress. A purple ribbon ran around the princess waistline in the same color as the bridesmaid dresses. Elizabeth Hemmings had come through again.

  Cara poked at Catherine’s necklace. “Can I see what’s in yours?”

  “Of course.” She opened the locket, capturing the little butterfly ring before it fell to the ground. She showed Cara the picture she had inside. “It’s me and my sister Josey,” she choked out.

  “You have a sister?”

  “Yes. She died when I was eleven. But this locket lets me keep her close to my heart.”

  “Like I can keep Mommy,” Cara said, understanding what no child her age should have to.

  “Yes, sweetie.”

  “You still need another picture too,” Cara pointed out.

  “I do. I was hoping to put a picture of you in there.”

  “Me?” Her eyes were saucers.

  “Yes, you. You are such an important part of my life and I want to keep you close always.”

  -68-

  Seven more glorious words: “And now announcing Mr. and Mrs. Trager.”

  It turned out the DJ wasn’t suck-ish at all. He did his job with aplomb; right down to those wonderful words that she could just hear over the constant I’m married! cycling through her head. Vows and rings… and the perfect kiss—she was totally legit!

  They made their rounds, Catherine squirming with discomfort as each well-wisher had to harp on the finally part of the equation—finally settling down, finally found a man, finally put to rest that lesbian/transgender rumor. But at least Aunt Judy looked like she’d eaten some rotten road-kill crow. It turned out that even the well-intentioned but wholly off-base meanderings of their guests couldn’t kill her buzz.

  I’m married!

  As she turned to receive the next guests, she found safe territory at last—her father’s embrace. He held her there for several moments, not speaking, tears in his eyes. This had been his perpetual state since the moment they lined up to walk down the aisle so he could give her away.

  “William, she has other guests you know,” Elizabeth Hemmings reprimanded.

  “I’m not a guest. I’m the father of the bride. I’m allowed to be selfish,” he said with certainty.

  “Well, as the mother of the bride, I have something I would like to say.” He released Catherine and her mother stepped between them.

  “It was a lovely wedding, dear.” She grasped her daughter in a hug that took both of them by surprise.

  “Thank you for that.” Catherine knew full well that things were far from perfect, but she agreed that it was lovely. And she and Fynn were perfect together so all the rest was inconsequential.

  “I want to thank you,” her mother said earnestly, pulling away and looking unerringly into her eyes.

  “For what? I’m the one who owes you thanks for all you did for me. The invitations, Cara’s dress, babysitting—”

  “I know that I wasn’t as… thrilled as you wanted me to be about the wedding.”

  “Don’t—”

  “No, Catherine, I have to say this. It’s just when you said you were going to have it on March 4th, I didn’t think I could bear it. It wasn’t fair for me to put that on you… I just couldn’t think of that date as anything other than….”

  “What, Mom?” she asked, trying to understand her grave tone.

  “A day for a funeral.”

  “Oh, Mom… Josey… I didn’t know. I didn’t even remember,” she said, her voice strangled. She remembered the day Josey didn’t come home; it was vivid in her mind still. But the days and weeks after that were just a cold and somber blur…. To have picked the day of her funeral… for a wedding? No wonder her mother had—

  “I don’t want you to be sad. This is a celebration, Catherine. You’re starting your own family today. I couldn’t be happier for you…. And you have given me back this date—put joy in my heart and contentment in my soul again. Whether you realized it or not, you forced me to deal with something I’ve been avoiding for years.”

  They embraced again, Catherine thankful she had decided to go waterproof on her eye makeup. But this day was testing the bounds of that guarantee.

  “What is that, Uncle Dick?” Elizabeth Hemmings exclaimed, breaking out of the hug abruptly so she could more properly focus on him.

  “The photographer tossed me a cookie when she was snapping photos, wanted me to catch it in my mouth for a memorable moment.”

  Catherine took in the pink dog-bone-shaped biscuit in his hand, one end already gone, and looked to her mother with shock and awe that said she had no idea what the photographer chick was thinking.

  “Not too bad.” He took another bite. “A bit dry though,” he added around a mouthful.

  “Catherine Marie!” her mother reprimanded. “What did you do?”

  “What did I do? I didn’t toss him the biscuit!”

  “You hired the photographer.”

  “She came recommended,” Catherine pointed out, not that Tara’s recommendation would mean so much as a hill of beans—but the chick’s other clients all spoke in woofs and meows of approval.

  “She is feeding your guests dog treats.”

  “We only know that she fed Uncl
e Dick a dog treat, and you have to admit he isn’t the easiest guy to coax a smile out of,” she snorted nervously. “Look, he’s happy.” It was hard to deny that fact as he chomped away.

  Suddenly the musical sound of forks and knives against glasses saved the moment and Fynn swooped in to give the guests what they wanted, dipping her for a kiss. When he pulled her upright again, she came out of her Fynn-fog to find a complete stranger mere inches from her face, like he was also trying to get some lip action.

  “Beautiful ceremony,” he said.

  “Why thank you. Are you a friend of Fynn’s?” she asked, squeezing her new husband by the arm, waiting for him to step in and handle the close-talker.

  “No. You invited me,” the man said.

  “I didn’t—”

  “Out on the sidewalk…. You tossed me an invitation.”

  “I what?” she asked in disbelief.

  “You tossed it right at me while you were hurrying along. A little rude not addressing it, but—”

  “I don’t even know you.” Her mind was madly searching for some recognition—short, stocky, seventy-six percent bald—nope, nothing.

  “We pass everyday on the street. I wave. You nod,” he said lightheartedly.

  Is that the bar for a wedding-invite-worthy relationship these days? I guess that’s what I get for being polite to people…. “Um—” She squeezed Fynn’s arm even tighter, wishing to God he would get her away from this creepy crasher.

  “I’ll have you know,” the guy said, ignoring the get-the-hell-away-from-me vibe she was sure she was sending, “I had a bitch of a time finding the place. You do know that the invite said Penis Grove, right?”

  She froze for the slightest half second, total disbelief that some guy would pick up an errant wedding invite off the sidewalk in New York and show up like an invited guest, and further, have the gall to point out a typo to the bride. Only at my wedding, she thought dolefully. He better have brought a helluva gift. Through gritted teeth she forced politeness. “Well, we hope you have a wonderful time.” With that she steered Fynn away, ready or not, pushing him onto the dance floor and taking the lead, pitiably, in a slow dance. Anything to keep away from people with mouths that they just couldn’t keep shut. She hugged him close and closed her eyes, allowing him to take over.