Love & Liability (A High Tea & Flip-Flops Novel Book 2)

by Linda Cassidy Lewis

  “Not for me,” I call to her. “We can’t both get drunk,” I say in answer to Jeremy’s questioning look. “Gabi’s driving them home. Who did you think was driving us, Mr. I-Don’t-Want-to-Uber?”

  He gives me a thumbs-up. “You two have the wedding plans sorted now, eh?”

  Gabi sighs as I roll my eyes. Men are so naive about these things.

  “We’ve just begun,” she says.

  Jeremy looks astonished at that news. “But … you talk about it every day.”

  Matt elbows him. “It’s shopping, man.

  “Ah, right.” Jeremy nods. “And women can’t make up their minds what to buy until they’ve tried on every damned thing in the mall.”

  They grin and fist-bump.

  “Ha. Ha.” Gabi and I chorus.

  “You guys going to have kids right away?” Matt asks.

  Jeremy doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m definitely in favor of procreating, but maybe we should wait a while to see how it goes for you two.”

  The server sets down their beers and Gabi’s iced tea. I grab the tea and take a long drink, hoping they’ll forget I didn’t respond to the question. But when I set it down, Matt and Jeremy are still looking at me, so I have to say something.

  “Yeah. I feel exactly the same way.”

  Gabi whips her head in my direction, but I don’t look at her.

  CHAPTER 4

  A couple of days later, I’m at Gabi’s to help her finish decorating the nursery, which means I’m mostly holding things up against the wall while she stands back to see where they look best. The room looks so sweet and peaceful. I’m a little bit envious—even though picturing myself as a mother freaks me out. But Jeremy wants to be a father. I just can’t think about that now.

  When we finish with the nursery, Gabi pulls me into the dining room to her laptop. After she shows me the photos of the wedding venue, she hands me the printout of her wedding plan spreadsheet. As I scan the cost estimates, my excitement sinks until it’s draining right out my toes. There’s no way we can afford all this, and even if my mom could, I wouldn’t let her pay this much. Gabi, as usual, reads my mind.

  “It’s a once in a lifetime experience, Chels … at least, it’s supposed to be.”

  “I know.” I hand back the spreadsheet. “And I appreciate how hard you’ve worked on this, but I can’t do it. I can’t afford this. We aren’t going into debt for the next fifty years over our wedding.” I’m breaking her heart. “I’m sorry, Gabi.”

  “It wasn’t that much work, silly.”

  “I mean, I know this is what you wanted.”

  “What?”

  I point to the gorgeous wedding scene displayed on her laptop. “That’s what you dreamed of having.”

  “Well, yeah. Not at the beach, but—”

  “Just as beautiful.”

  “What does that have to do with your wedding?”

  “You didn’t get to—”

  “Ohmygod, you thought I wanted to help you so I could pretend I was planning my wedding?” She smacks my arm and then grabs me in a hug. “You idiot.” She releases me and then smacks me again. “It’s your day, Chels. What do you want?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course you do.”

  I try to picture Jeremy and me saying our vows. Vows. Oh God. By summer, I’ll be Mrs. Jeremy Windsor Pearce … well, unless I decide to keep my last name, but I probably won’t … or I could hyphenate … or just have two last names.

  “Chelsea?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah.” I point to the photo on her laptop. “That’s too elaborate. Too big.”

  “Okay, a simple, intimate wedding. Check. What else? Still the beach?”

  “Well …” I pause when Gabi bites her lower lip. I’m being difficult. “I don’t think Jeremy’s too crazy about a beach wedding.”

  “Yeah, I know. He thinks it will be too windy. And sandy.”

  “And just how do you know that?”

  “He told Matt, and Matt told me, even though he wasn’t supposed to, and now I’m telling you, even though I promised not to.” She rolls her eyes, and we both laugh. Then she shoots me a dead serious look. “You and Jeremy still need to work on your communication skills.”

  I can’t argue with that. Well, it’s really just Jeremy that sucks at communication. He keeps too much to himself and sometimes just assumes I know what he’s thinking, but I don’t because he keeps too much to himself. His lack of communication nearly kept us from getting engaged in the first place. He ran off to London with his previous fiancée—well, she wasn’t really his fiancée, and he didn’t actually go to London with her, but I thought he did, so I almost started a relationship with my old surfing idol, Dusty Haines.

  “Earth to Chelsea.”

  “Huh? Oh. So Jeremy’s just going along with what I want instead of telling me the truth about what he wants? Geez. I’m not a crazy person that everyone has to placate to keep from flipping out.”

  “No, you’re just someone who lies to her fiancé about how she feels about having children.”

  “I didn’t lie. I just realized that what Jeremy said was sensible, so I agreed.”

  “Because you always go for sensible, right?” She waits a beat before she smiles to take the edge off that barb. “Come on. I told Luisa I’d bring you to Mama Mia’s today.”

  I’ve been avoiding Mama Mia’s because the owner, Luisa, is like a grandmother to me, so she knows all about the wedding, and I’m sure she’s waiting for me to ask her to cater it or at least book the rehearsal dinner, probably both. But though her food is fantastic, I think we should go a little more upscale. I’m assuming Jeremy’s parents will attend the wedding dinner, at least, and I can’t picture them being comfortable with her home-style Italian food. (Yes, I hate myself a little for that.)

  When we enter, I brace myself for Luisa’s usual enthusiastic greeting, which is both tactile and deafening.

  “Ah, my beautiful Chelsea!” As usual, Luisa directs her hug to my face, not my body, squishing my cheeks like they’re bread dough. But today it’s short-lived because she has to greet Gabi too.

  “And my beautiful Gabriella.” As she kneads Gabi’s cheeks, Luisa rattles off some Italian, which Gabi understands because her mother taught her the language so she could communicate with her grandparents. “Go. Sit. Sit. I bring you soup that will make you cry with love.”

  “Don’t mention the wedding,” I say when we find a table. Gabi gives me a look and shakes her head. She disapproves of my worrying about what Jeremy’s parents will think of me.

  One of Luisa’s granddaughters serves our soup, but Luisa’s right behind her. “When you finish your soup,” she says, “I bring you a little pasta, but not too much. You must have room for dessert … something special today.” She screws her finger into her cheek. “Delizioso!”

  “I heard about this new bridal shop,” Gabi says when Luisa leaves us alone. “Why don’t we go check it out after lunch?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Chelsea, you haven’t liked any dress you’ve tried on so far, and if you’re going to special order one, we’re running out of time.”

  “I know.” I concentrate on my soup, which really is delicious, but if I cry today, I’m pretty sure it won’t be over this taste. “Do you know what a morning coat is?”

  “They’ve been pictured in every wedding magazine I’ve shown you.”

  “Right. Well, Jeremy owns one … and a tux.” Gabi’s eyes widen. “Now do you see why I’m worried about fitting in with his family?”

  She takes a sip of water. “Yeah, I get it. But from what he says, Jeremy doesn’t fit in either, so why should you?”

  “You’re disgustingly positive since you got pregnant, you know that?”

  We make it through the pasta and two unnecessary appearances of Luisa at our table, without any mention of the wedding. Then she brings out a small cake, one that looks suspiciously like a miniature wedding cake.

  “My daug
hter, Mirella, you remember her, Chelsea? She moves here now and opens a bakery.” Luisa cuts two slices and puts one in front of me and the other in front of Gabi. “Eat. Eat. This will break your heart it’s so delicious.”

  Gabi and I each take a bite. It’s heaven in my mouth, and the look Gabi gives me says she thinks so too.

  “Everything my Mirella bake”—Luisa kisses her fingertips—“è perfetto.”

  “Does she make wedding cakes?” Gabi asks.

  Luisa smiles and pulls a business card from her apron pocket.

  All but assured her daughter will bake my cake and no doubt hoping she’ll be providing the wedding food, Luisa wouldn’t let us pay for our lunch.

  “The bridal shop is only ten minutes from here,” Gabi says on the way out.

  Sigh. “All right.”

  Gabi looks at me over the roof of the car. “Answer me honestly, Chels. Are you having second thoughts about marrying Jeremy?”

  “Seriously? No, no, no, a million times, no! Let’s go. Another shop full of ridiculous wastes of money awaits.”

  The shop is named Le Jour, which even my mono-language brain can translate.

  “Just don’t pick an ugly dress for your matron of honor,” Gabi says as she turns off the engine.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” We both know she’ll be choosing hers and the bridesmaids’ dresses. Who am I kidding? She’ll choose my dress too. Fashion is her expertise, not mine.

  A classy electronic tone sounds when I open the door. We step inside, instantly engulfed by so much fluffy whiteness, it’s like we’re standing inside a wedding cake. A pale, pale woman dressed in pale, pale gray seems to float toward us through this whipped cream nightmare. Even her hair is white, though her glasses are severe in shape and black rimmed. She’s scowling at my hair. Purple underlayers are probably an abomination in this place.

  The shopwoman addresses Gabi. “Good afternoon. May I help you?”

  “I’m looking for a wedding dress,” I say.

  “Of course,” she says, her voice dripping with disappointment that I’m the one who’ll be trying on her precious gowns. “When is the wedding?”

  “In May.”

  I translate her raised brows.

  “Well, let’s hope we have something in stock.” She looks me up and down. “Will you be losing weight before the wedding?”

  What the hell? “I’m a size six.”

  “Yes.” The tone in her voice insinuates I doubt that or else Size six is enormous.

  “Ivory or white?”

  I’m so tempted to say black, but a warning look from Gabi keeps my mouth shut.

  “Why don’t you show us some of both?” she says to Ms. Frosty.

  So begins two hours of trying on one hideous dress after another. All of them wrong for me. This one has too many layers. That one makes me look like a fairy. Another poufs in all the wrong places, while the next squeezes my hips and swallows my breasts. And forget the ones with yards of fabric swirled at my feet. With me wearing it, that’s an accident waiting to happen. Satin, organza, silk, crepe, chiffon, and let’s not forget the ever exotic charmeuse. And all of them with too many pearls or crystals or nameless sparkly bits. Hand sewn—but of course!

  “Perhaps it’s the hair,” Ms. Frosty says, clearly exasperated. “Most brides like to see themselves in the dress with their hair styled and colored as they’ll be wearing it on their wedding day.”

  “Oh, right, I guess I should have added the turquoise streaks before I came here.”

  I swear the woman turns to a pillar of ice. Standing behind her, Gabi tries to shoot me a deadly look, but she’s fighting not to grin.

  “That was a joke,” I say.

  Ms. Frozen’s lips twitch in what I presume passes for a smile. “We might receive a few more styles on Tuesday.”

  “Thank you,” Gabi says. “We’ll be back.”

  Like hell we will. As far as I’m concerned, I won’t be anywhere in this vicinity on Tuesday or any other day.

  “Lovely,” drones the human iceberg. With a flick of her hand, she dismisses me to put on my own clothes and get the hell out of her domain.

  “Sorry we never got to look for your dress,” I tell Gabi as the shop door closes behind us.

  “Your dress is the important one. But come on, Chels. You don’t seem to have any style in mind.”

  “I’m not trying to be difficult. Seriously, did you think any of those suited me?”

  She doesn’t answer until we’re back in the car. “Not really. Some of them were beautiful, but …”

  “Yeah, but. Maybe Jeremy’s right; we should have a nude wedding.”

  She casts a sideways withering glare at me. “I’d kill you first.”

  *

  My mom’s been acting weird all day, distracted and jumpy, so even though I cooked dinner, I volunteer me and Jeremy to do the cleaning up. When he’s done loading the dishwasher, he rubs a hand across his midriff. He loves my mom’s cooking but worries he’ll gain weight. Right now, I’ll bet he’s planning a more rigorous workout for tomorrow. Fine with me. If he starts letting himself go now, what will he look like ten years after we’re married? I try to picture him with a beer belly and receding hairline. Nope. My brain won’t go there. My mom looks great for her age, and it’s not like she exercises much, so I hope I’ve inherited those genes. But to be safe, maybe I should work out tomorrow too.

  I used to keep in shape by going to the beach as often as I could, but I never surf and don’t even get much use out of my boogie board since I met Jeremy. He doesn’t mind if I go with my old friends once in a while, but I feel guilty leaving him. Plus, I know the reason he quizzes me on who I’ll be with is because my beach days always remind him of Dusty, the surfing champ he thinks he almost lost me to. As if.

  Jeremy smacks my ass as we’re about to leave the kitchen. “Want to join me at the club tomorrow?”

  “Is that your way of telling me I’m getting fat?”

  He winks at me. “You have only the perfect amount of fat in all the right places, which are the places I was thinking about when I slapped your bum.”

  “Oh, that. Reason number one thous—”

  “Yes, yes, I know.”

  “Remember the night we got engaged … on the beach?”

  “Yes, I remember, and that’s why I’ll wait until we can do it in our totally sand-free bed, thank you very much.”

  It’s cute that Jeremy says “totally” and “seriously” like me now. Not that I want him to lose his accent, but I’m glad he’s adopted some SoCal-speak, which he still sometimes mocks as “California girlese,” because now when he’s in one of his talkative moods, I don’t have to translate in my head as much as I used to. It’s cut down on my misunderstanding him—“getting the short end of the stick” as Jeremy says.

  We join my mother in the living room for an episode of Game of Thrones—or two; I think we’re behind. She doesn’t enjoy it as much as we do, but she’ll do anything for Jeremy.

  Just as we walk in, my mom’s phone rings, and she jumps a mile. She glances at Jeremy before she looks at her phone screen. “It’s Marianne,” she says and leaves the room.

  “Did my mom sound ridiculously relieved to you?”

  “When?”

  “Just now, when she said it was her friend calling.”

  “I didn’t notice.” Jeremy turns on the TV and brings up HBO On Demand. “You think she was lying? Could it have been a man calling?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Doesn’t your mother date?” He scrolls through to the episode we’ll watch first but doesn’t start it. “She hasn’t since we’ve been living here, at least not that I know, but surely she does.”

  “Would you be jealous?”

  His face warps in horror. “What a preposterous question.”

  So quickly he reverts to Mr. High Tea-speak.

  “Chill, dude.” I curl up next to him on the sofa. “She dates, just not often. I think she still miss
es my dad too much.”

  “That’s why she’s so close to you. And why we’re living here.”

  “We’re living here because you said we couldn’t afford—”

  He shakes his head. “That was for her benefit. She’s not ready to let you go.”

  “You’re crazy. I was living away from her for over a year.”

  “But for most of that time you were still hers. Now you’re mine.”

  “What am I—a pet?” I scoot away from him.

  He pulls me back. “Don’t play that feminism card with me. I used to be Penny James, you know.”

  “Used to be?”

  “I’m back,” my mom announces.

  Jeremy picks up the remote, but I elbow him.

  “That was a pretty quick conversation,” I say. “Usually you and Marianne talk for an hour.”

  “Oh … she just had a quick question.” She shoots another split-second glance at Jeremy.

  Got it. Don’t ask in front of Jeremy. I miss a good ten minutes of GoT before I quit trying to figure out that phone call.

  At first, it ticked me off that Jeremy falls right to sleep after we have sex, but I quickly learned that he always earns his rest. Tonight, I’m glad he’s asleep because I want to talk to my mom without him knowing. I slip out of bed and into some pjs. I’m sure my mom’s asleep by now, but she won’t mind me waking her. We’ve had some of our best chats at midnight in the glow from her bedside lamp.

  I’m surprised to see that light on when I open her door a crack. “Mom?”

  “Come in, sweetie.” She lays aside her book and takes off her reading glasses.

  The familiar sweet scent in the room hits me immediately. All my life, it’s smelled of the ylang-ylang candles she burns in here.

  “I’m glad you’re awake,” I say. Though my dad died almost four years ago, she still sleeps on her side of their sleigh bed, so I sit against the footboard on his side, facing her. “What’s up with that phone call?”