The Rejected Writers' Christmas Wedding

by Suzanne Kelman

  Lottie started reading through the cards. “‘May your life together be blessed.’ Oh, sister dear, oh my! I just hope this works out as it’s meant to. Poor Dan, poor Flora.”

  Lavinia was only half listening as she fished through the basket. She pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and an envelope at the bottom. “Bingo!”

  It was a letter. Underneath it, another large piece of paper had been stuffed back into an envelope.

  She passed the letter to her sister. As Lottie tried to decipher the words, Lavinia pulled out the larger envelope and the piece of paper that was inside.

  “Have you got your reading glasses, Lottie dear?”

  “I have,” she said, looking over the rim of them. “I’m using them to read.”

  “Well,” her sister responded, “this looks more important.” And before Lottie could refuse, Lavinia helped herself to her sister’s glasses.

  What she read made her sit down on the bed with a gasp.

  “What is it?” Lottie said, trying to gauge her sister’s reaction. “What does it say?”

  Lavinia, for probably the first time in her life, was speechless. She handed the paper to Lottie, who removed the glasses from Lavinia’s face and started to read. She only got halfway through before she sat down on the bed as well.

  “This can’t be right,” she said, her throat tight with anxiety.

  “Oh, it’s right. I would know one of these anywhere. I have three of them, remember? This is a copy of a real wedding license. And if it’s accurate . . .”

  Lottie finished the sentence: “It means that Flora is already married to someone else.”

  Suddenly, there was a harsh knock at the door, and both women froze.

  “Who could that be?” hissed Lottie.

  “I don’t know.” Lavinia stuffed the letter and the photocopy into her pocket. She didn’t want to leave it there for Dan to find.

  Lottie hurried down the stairs, and from there she could see at least two looming shadows at the door, bright lights flashing in through the windows as someone banged again, and a gruff male voice shouted, “Open the door!”

  Lavinia raced to the door, her heart pumping almost clean out of her chest. She unlocked it and was blinded by the flashlight. So was Lottie.

  “Well, I can’t see a damn thing,” said Lavinia. “Put those blasted things out this minute!”

  The flashlight beam swung toward the floor but, still suffering the ill effects of the light, neither sister could make out who it was, only a rough outline of what looked like two men: one squat and heavyset, the other tall and muscular.

  Then a familiar voice: “I might have known it’d be you, Lavinia,” said Sheriff Brown, Southlea Bay’s law enforcement official. “When the people next door stated they’d seen two old ladies breaking into this house, I thought that didn’t seem right. But now it all makes sense. Lavinia I can understand, but Lottie—how on earth did you get dragged into all of this?”

  “Why, Sheriff, is that you?” Lavinia asked, shielding her eyes. She had always had a soft spot for men in uniform. “And is that your cute deputy with you?” she inquired, trying to focus on the sheriff’s partner, a good-looking man with sandy hair and lovely blue eyes. “Why don’t you come inside and keep us company?”

  Lottie glared at her sister. The sheriff and his deputy moved into Flora’s tiny sitting room and turned off the flashlights.

  “I would offer you some coffee,” said Lottie, “but I think Flora only drinks soy milk or something, and I wouldn’t have the heart to put that in a working man’s drink.”

  “What you should be offering me is an explanation,” snapped the sheriff, folding himself down into one of Flora’s little flowery chairs. He looked like an overstuffed teddy bear, a father playing house with his daughter. “Why the blazes are the pair of you climbing ladders and creeping around in the dark at this time of night, wearing aprons and rubber gloves?”

  “Flora’s gone missing,” said Lavinia.

  “I know. Dan came by the office earlier today to check if he needed to issue a missing person’s report. But when a person leaves home a few days before her wedding, with her cat in tow, we don’t generally tend to think the worst. It’s been done before, and it will be done again.”

  “Officer, that doesn’t sound like Flora—”

  “Never mind all that. What are you two cat burglars doing creeping around in the middle of the night?”

  “Well,” said Lavinia as Lottie wrung her hands. Even from across the room, Lavinia could hear her praying. “That’s just the thing. Flora took off without telling any of us. We came by to see if there were any clues to let us know where she’d gone.”

  “You mean you were snooping,” he said bluntly.

  “Well, I suppose in a manner of speaking, we were—but with the best of intentions,” added Lottie, slipping from her prayer for a second. “We are so worried about her.”

  “You can’t break into someone’s house no matter what your intentions are,” responded the sheriff. “It’s still a crime against Flora’s privacy.” He took off his hat and scratched his balding head before adding, “I should, by all accounts, arrest and charge you.”

  Lottie let out a cry.

  But Lavinia, who had seen the inside of a jail cell, said, “Now, Sheriff, what would that accomplish? Flora’s not even here to tell us whether it’s a crime or not. We know exactly where her key usually is, but Doris Newberry must have walked off with it in her pocket. If she hadn’t, we would have walked right in the front door. Think of all the paperwork, plus having to put us in a cell. What would that serve, really? And then Flora would come home and tell you she wasn’t pressing charges because she knew our intentions were honorable. And isn’t that all that matters—the intentions? Come on, Sheriff,” Lavinia implored. “Let us lock up the house and go home. If you’re really concerned, as soon as Flora gets back you can let her know you found us in here, and if she’s not happy, you can have us arrested then. Maybe your other deputy would be on, and you wouldn’t have to worry yourself about two old ladies who might have heart attacks from being in a cold jail cell all night.” She finished her speech with a forced smile.

  The sheriff exhaled and looked around the room. He seemed to be assessing if anything had been stolen, then appeared to resign himself to the fact this was probably going to be an open-and-shut case. “Lavinia Labette, you give me a headache. For a lady in your sixties—”

  Both women gasped as he mentioned their age.

  The sheriff continued. “You give me more trouble than most teenagers. If there is a whiff of trouble in this town, it isn’t long before it somehow gets connected back to you.”

  “I promise to be oh so good for a whole month,” Lavinia assured him. Then she held up two fingers and added, “Scout’s honor.”

  The sheriff let out a long, slow breath. “OK,” he said, “just this once, Lavinia. But the minute Flora gets back, I will be down here explaining what happened, and if there’s even a hint of wrongdoing, I’ll be knocking on your door.”

  “Fine,” said Lavinia. “That sounds like a deal. Now my sister can stop praying.”

  “Oh, is that what she’s doing?” asked the deputy, who’d been searching the room while the sheriff talked to the ladies.

  “She’s all plugged into heaven,” said Lavinia.

  “It sounds like she’s buzzing,” he added.

  “I know, like a little bee. But it keeps her happy,” Lavinia added with a smile. Lottie looked irritated, but before she could say anything, Lavinia whispered, “Just keep quiet, honey, and we’ll get out of this without a night in jail.”

  Lottie and Lavinia drove home in silence after they left Flora’s, promising to keep out of trouble the rest of the month. But Flora’s secret now weighed heavily on their shoulders.

  Chapter 13

  Tulle Twirlers & Beach Refugees

  Doris was up early, and she had already called everyone she needed to in Flora’s handmade I’m G
etting Married book, which was decorated with doodled hearts and flowers. It looked a bit ridiculous in Doris’s large, sensible hands as she turned the delicate pages. However, she’d managed to let everyone know that all the wedding details now needed to come exclusively through her.

  She’d already fended off three calls this morning, and it wasn’t even eight o’clock. The wine people needed to know where to deliver the wine (now that it wasn’t Flora’s house); the caterers wanted the Labettes’ address for the tables and tablecloths delivery; and the man with the old-fashioned Buick, who’d been hired to chauffeur them away from the reception, wanted to know if he could switch out the car from a blue one to a green one. She’d read him the riot act, of course. “No bride wants to drive away in a green car,” she said. “It plays havoc with her complexion and will make her look ill in the wedding photographs.”

  She’d just hung up the phone with him when it rang again. It was Carol Bickerstaff. She was frantic. All of Flora’s flowers had arrived, and Flora was supposed to be there to help sort them.

  “Don’t worry,” said Doris. “I will send someone down as soon as I have someone available. The Labettes are busy preparing the chapel, Annie has dogs arriving today for the Christmas holidays, and I already have a very long to-do list that seems to be getting longer by the second. But I’ll figure something out.”

  I arrived at Doris’s door, a pile of tulle in one hand and Livvy in the other. I’d received a call to action an hour before: I’d been drafted into the wedding organizing committee.

  Doris opened the door and sighed. “What’s that?” she asked.

  “The tulle for the flowers you told me to pick up for the gazebo,” I said, bewildered.

  “Not that,” corrected Doris. “That.” She pointed directly at Olivia.

  “That is my grandchild!” I said defensively. “She’s here to help me. Her mother needed to get some sleep, so Livvy is with me, and Grandpa has her brother, James. They’re building a plane in the workshop.”

  Doris huffed and strolled back up the hallway as her three dogs bounded from the garden toward the open door and forced their way in.

  Livvy clapped her hands. “Oooh, doggies!” she said and wriggled about in my arms. I put her down so she could pet them and followed Doris into the kitchen, which was already in full preparation mode: cellophane, ribbons, and more tulle in layers on every surface.

  Gracie floated in behind me and squealed, “Oh, it looks just like we’re having a wedding!”

  Doris sighed. “We are having a wedding, Momma.” Then she muttered to me, “She hasn’t had her pills for two days. I have been so preoccupied with this wedding, I forgot to check her pill case. She’s going to be terribly forgetful today.”

  Gracie pulled some tulle from the table and placed it over her head like a veil. “Who’s getting married? I hope it’s me. I would love to get married! I haven’t slept with a man in a long time—at least, I don’t think I have,” she pondered, adding ribbon to her makeshift veil.

  Ethel stopped filling little tulle bags with almonds and blinked twice.

  “What can I do?” I asked.

  “Take the tulle down to Stems and help Carol sort out the flowers. She’s twice as busy handling the shop and the wedding flowers without Flora.”

  I pulled a face. “I’m not great with flower arranging.”

  “I’m fabulous,” said Gracie, handing the tulle to Livvy, who automatically wrapped it around one of Doris’s dogs.

  “Yes, Momma is great. Why don’t you take Momma with you to help?”

  “Oh, OK,” I said, chasing down a squealing toddler who was bounding after a dog in a tulle sash. “Any news from Dan?” Gracie followed after me as I hustled a wriggling toddler out the door.

  Doris shook her head and waved us off.

  When we arrived at the flower shop, a very exasperated Mrs. Bickerstaff was hauling a delivery of potted plants inside, and every counter was covered with pink, cream, and mauve-colored flowers.

  “Thank goodness!” she said.

  “Looks like you’re having a wedding,” I said.

  Mrs. Bickerstaff didn’t appear to appreciate my joke and sighed deeply at the way the disheveled shop looked.

  Gracie picked up the thought. “Yes, it does,” she said. “Is someone getting married? I do hope it’s me. I haven’t been married in such a long time, I think.” She wrinkled her brows and tried to remember. “I think I was married.” She tugged at my sleeve. “Was I married?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said, placing Livvy firmly on my hip while using my free arm to help Carol with the other end of a large potted plant.

  “Who to?” asked Gracie.

  “To Bill, for fifty years. Don’t you remember, Gracie?”

  “Oh yes,” she giggled. “I remember him. He was a cute, strapping GI. He swept me right off my feet in my little town in England, where I lived. I was born there, did you know?”

  “Yes, I knew,” I said and then sighed as Livvy once again wriggled from my grasp to the floor. She raced away toward a display of I Love You bears that Stems often added to their flower deliveries. She grabbed one.

  “Will I see him later?” asked Gracie.

  “No, I’m afraid not,” I answered. “He’s gone, honey. He died.”

  “Oh,” said Gracie. “That’s right. I live with Dotty, now, so I guess it must be me that’s getting married.”

  Mrs. Bickerstaff looked at me and Gracie and Livvy, who was now thoroughly enjoying herself, buried in the box of bears. Mrs. Bickerstaff’s look seemed to say, And this is supposed to help?

  An hour later, I’d wrestled some of the flowers into bunches. It had been a crazy, busy morning at Stems. Gracie slipped in and out of coherence. When she was with it, she was actually very helpful. But then this glazed look would cloud her face, and she would suddenly wander off to a section of the shop and start arranging something that was already arranged or cutting the bottom off flowers with a pair of scissors she’d managed to find till we took them off her. Once, she’d handed a loose bunch right to a customer who was leaving, saying, “Would you like fries with that?”

  Livvy was no less stressful. She heaped every stuffed toy into the center of the shop and managed to break a bud vase in the process. As I finished adding ribbon to a little vase of violas on the counter, I looked across at Livvy and Gracie, who were twirling in layers of tulle. It was hard not to smile as the sunlight came in through the window and caught their tulle ballet. They were having such a marvelous time spinning in circles, the flimsy fabric draped around them like togas. They were giggling, and it was hard to see the difference between the adult or the child.

  “It’s so odd,” said Mrs. Bickerstaff as she looked up from the arrangement she was putting together to watch them, “that at the end of our lives, we become like children again.”

  I smiled. It was true. They both seemed oblivious to the cares of the world, fully immersed, enjoying the moment. I envied them both.

  Ten minutes later, done with twirling, Gracie approached the desk with Livvy, her accomplice, in hand.

  “Dotty and I are going to the beach to collect shells,” she said, the idea alive in her eager eyes.

  “I’ll need to come with you both.” I answered.

  “Wonderful,” said Gracie, clapping her hands together. Before I could say another word, she’d already wandered out of the shop with Livvy in tow. I wiped my hands on my shirt as the florist’s phone started to ring. Mrs. Bickerstaff picked it up.

  “All Stems from Here,” she said in her singsong greeting. She waved the receiver in my face and hissed, “It’s for you. It’s that Doris woman.”

  I glanced out of the window. There was a road between the shop and the beach, and I wasn’t sure if Gracie remembered how to cross the street.

  Mrs. Bickerstaff saw my concern and nodded at me. “I’ll make sure the girls make it to the beach.”

  “OK,” I mouthed back.

  The miniature bell
over the door tinkled as she left, just as a voice erupted from the receiver. “I need to ask you to bring in some little sprigs of fresh lily of the valley from the shop. I asked Carol to order them especially for the table decorations. I’m going to be laying them out tonight.”

  “Great,” I said, trying to finish the conversation quickly.

  Mrs. Bickerstaff arrived back in the store, saying, “They’re safely on their way. And don’t worry, they’re not in a rush. They’re checking out a patch of daisies they found on the other side.”

  “Oh yes,” Doris finally said. “A little lilac ribbon. Get that woman at the flower shop to cut four yards of lilac ribbon for the bunches of lilacs.”

  “OK,” I said, trying to get off the phone.

  “Oh, and there’s something else.”

  I threw my eyes up in Mrs. Bickerstaff’s direction as Doris paused for thought.

  “Oh yes,” said Doris. “How’s Mama doing? She’ll need to be back in about an hour to take her medication. I’m trying to get her back on track.”

  “She’s fine, but I really need to go. She and Livvy are on the way to the beach.”

  “Is that wise?” inquired Doris as I started to break out in a sweat.

  “Um, I was just thinking the same thing. I’d better go, bye.”

  I hung up before Doris could get another word in and hustled out of the shop. As I rushed down the street, I noticed it was a perfect winter day, one of those rare sunny days we sometimes get in December when the sun is shining and the temperature has warmed up a little. All about the village by the sea, Christmas was upon us. I noticed it as I made my way to the beach. There were threads of colored lights and wreaths of Christmas finery, and each shop was playing its own unique version of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” The smell of coffee and cinnamon lingered heavy in the air.