Save the Date

by Morgan Matson

  “I’ll do a bagel run,” I said quickly, stepping a little in front of Rodney. “It’s no big deal. I have to get your suit anyway, so . . .”

  “What’s wrong with your suit?” The General came into the kitchen from the front hall, and I noticed nearly everyone in the room—aside from Max—stand up a little straighter. It was just his effect on people. It may have also been because while everyone else in the kitchen was either in jeans or pajamas, the General looked like he was ready to play a round of golf, wearing khakis and a button-down, both perfectly pressed.

  “Nothing,” Rodney said, walking over to his dad. “It just wasn’t ready yesterday.”

  “Well, that’s unacceptable.”

  “I agree,” I said quickly. “So I should go pick it up. Along with the bagels.”

  “I’ll help,” Bill said immediately, and I could tell just by looking at him that we were thinking the same thing—that it really wouldn’t matter about the suit if we had nobody to perform the ceremony.

  “In the meantime, I know we have food in here,” my dad said, crossing to the fridge. “Let me see what’s what. . . .”

  “I’ll just . . . ,” I said to Bill, nodding upstairs, so hopefully he would understand I meant I just needed to get dressed. He nodded, and I dashed for the kitchen stairs, nearly crashing into Priya and Jenny W., who were coming down.

  “Whoa,” Priya said, her eyes widening. “What’s the hurry?”

  “Oh,” I said, starting to edge past them toward the stairs. “Just a lot to do today. You know. Weddings.”

  “Is J.J. in there?” Jenny W. asked, fluffing up her hair. I looked at her and noticed she looked awfully good for someone who’d allegedly just woken up.

  I just smiled at her, then took the stairs to the third floor two at a time.

  * * *

  I put the car in park and glanced at Bill. We had found a spot up the street from Swift Tailors, where Rodney’s suit was waiting for us. The whole ride over, Bill had been trying to find a judge who would be willing to work last-minute on a Saturday, but from what I could hear on this end, it hadn’t sounded like he’d made a ton of progress. “Any luck?”

  He lowered his phone slightly, then shook his head. “I keep trying all these offices . . .” He paused. “Chambers? I’m not sure what a judge’s office is called.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “We can ask Rodney.” A second later, though, I remembered that we couldn’t ask Rodney—because as far as Rodney was concerned, Max was still going to be performing his ceremony and Bill and I were not currently on a wild-judge chase.

  “Anyway, nobody’s answering the phone,” he said, lowering his cell and looking at it. “I guess when you think about it, court’s not in session on Saturday, so maybe nobody’s there.”

  “I guess we should tell them,” I said, glancing over at him. “So we can . . .” I stopped when I realized I didn’t know how to finish that sentence. So that we could what?

  “Well,” Bill said, frowning down at his phone, “I’m sure we can think of something. Right? It’s not like the wedding’s not going to happen.”

  “Right,” I echoed, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt.

  I killed the engine, and we headed up the street and into Swift Tailors. I’d been worried that it wouldn’t be open this early, but Bill had looked it up, and since their adjoining dry-cleaning business, ImPRESSive Cleaners, opened at seven, the tailor shop was open too. But maybe not that surprisingly, since it wasn’t even eight on a Saturday, we were the only people in the store.

  “Hi,” I said to the guy behind the counter—GERALD was stitched into his shirt—handing over Rodney’s claim ticket. “Picking up for Rodney Daniels?”

  “Ah,” Gerald said, his face creasing into a smile. “The wedding suit, of course. Just a second.” He turned around and walked through a little curtained area in the back.

  I leaned my elbows on the counter and looked at the pictures hung up behind the register. The wall was filled with signed pictures of well-known local customers—the governor; Storm Raines, our TV weatherman—and the headshot of Amy Curry, who’d graduated from Stanwich High before I’d gotten there and had had a small part in Time Ninja, last summer’s blockbuster. And above them all—which probably meant it had been there the longest—was a drawing my mother had done, all the GCS characters reacting in horror as a muddy Waffles stood on a pile of clothes. Thanks for always coming to the rescue! she’d scrawled above her signature. The cartoon version of me, at six, was half hiding behind the cartoon version of Danny while Waffles shook mud everywhere.

  “Here it is!” Gerald was back, carrying a black garment bag. He smiled as he handed it over. “Tell Rodney congratulations,” he said, waving us out the door. Bill and I stepped outside into the cool morning air—I kept telling myself it was going to warm up, even though it only seemed to be getting colder and windier—and exchanged a smile.

  “That was easy,” he said as I draped the suit carefully over my arm and we walked back to the car, falling into step together.

  “I know,” I said, feeling my spirits lift. “Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe it’ll be no problem to find a judge, too.”

  Bill grinned at me. “I like the optimism.”

  I beeped the car open, then laid the suit out lengthwise in the way back, so it wouldn’t get wrinkled. I felt my phone buzz in my back pocket, pulled it out, and saw that it was Rodney calling. “Hey,” I said, straightening the garment bag.

  “Hey—did you get the suit yet?”

  “Just picked it up.”

  “Oh, good. Before you leave, just make sure that my vest is in there as well, would you?”

  “Sure,” I said, unzipping the black garment bag and then freezing. I’d seen pictures of the suit Rodney would be wearing—and the modified version that all the groomsmen would be wearing. It was a dark-gray suit and vest, with a gray tie for Rodney and a peach tie for the groomsmen. But the suit in front of me was not that at all. The suit in front of me was what could only be described as maroon, with a faint plaid pattern woven throughout, and it also looked much too small for Rodney.

  “Is it there?” Rodney’s voice on the other end shook me out of my daze.

  “There’s a suit in front of me. I’ll bring you your suit. Nothing is wrong.”

  “Wait, what?” But I hung up before Rodney could ask me any more questions, zipped the bag up, and shut the back door.

  “What is it?” Bill asked, looking over at me.

  “They gave us the wrong suit,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m glad we noticed before bringing it home.”

  “Seriously,” Bill said, his eyes wide, as we hurried back into the shop.

  “I’m sorry about this,” Gerald said after we’d explained the situation. He shook his head as he typed on his computer. “My son updated our computer system, and it’s a bit of a mess right now. He must have mistagged it and . . .” He squinted at the screen, frowning.

  “What?” Bill asked. “What is it?”

  “So,” Gerald said, clearing his throat. “It seems like my son, in his infinite wisdom, may have accidentally mixed up your claim tags and given Rodney’s suit to the owner of that one.”

  I found myself gripping the counter for support, hoping against hope that he was about to tell me he was just kidding, that this was just pre-wedding hazing. “Seriously?” I managed, when it became clear after a few seconds that this was actually happening.

  “I’m so very sorry about this. This almost never happens.”

  “So it happens sometimes?” Bill asked, sounding flabbergasted.

  “But I will reach out to the other customer right away,” he went on, “and see if he’d be willing to bring his suit in today and exchange them.”

  “If?” I echoed, hearing my voice get higher. “There’s a wedding later today, and the groom needs a suit to wear!”

  Gerald winced. “I am perfectly aware of the situation,” he said, spreading his hands. “But I’m a
fraid that’s all I can do.”

  “Well, who did you give the suit to?” Bill asked. “Maybe we could bring it to him, and then he wouldn’t have to make a trip over here.” I nodded, incredibly grateful for Bill at that moment, simply for being someone who could make plans and not just give in to the blind rage I was currently feeling.

  “Ah. Well, I’m afraid I can’t give out customer information.”

  “But you can give out customers’ suits!” I sputtered, even though some part of me knew this wasn’t helping matters.

  “Even so—” he started, just as the phone rang. He held up his index finger to me as he answered, the universal sign for hold on a sec. “Swift Tailors,” he said, his voice cheery and professional. I debated yelling, loud enough for the person on the other end of the phone to hear, that they should hang up, since this establishment couldn’t be trusted not to give away your possessions.

  “This is bad,” I said, turning to Bill, who was examining the suit, which just got worse the more you saw of its fabric. It was like it had been designed to give you a headache in seconds. “What are we going to tell Rodney? What kind of place loses someone’s wedding suit?”

  “Charlie,” Bill said, speaking softly. I glanced over at him and saw he had unbuttoned the suit and opened it up. There, on the inside of the right breast pocked was a sewn-in tag that read TAILORED EXCLUSIVELY FOR RALPH DONNELLY.

  “So we know whose suit it is,” I said slowly, trying to figure out why Bill looked so excited about this.

  “Why don’t we do what you said?” Bill said, lowering his voice as he glanced at Gerald, who was still on the phone. “I mean, nobody’s going to come back in on a Saturday to return a suit. But if we bring it to him . . .”

  “Right.” I wasn’t sure this would work, but it seemed like a better idea than just leaving the suit here and hoping Gerald would be able to sort it out before the time the ceremony rolled around. And at least if we had Ralph Donnelly’s terrible suit in our possession, we had some leverage. Bill buttoned the suit again, then zipped the garment bag up. He glanced at me and I nodded. We both started to back toward the door, Bill carrying the suit. When we pushed it open, the bell above the door chimed and Gerald looked at us, his eyes widening.

  “Wait a second,” he said, lowering the phone. “I can’t let you take that—”

  But we didn’t wait to hear what else he was going to say because, like we’d discussed it ahead of time, we both bolted at the same moment and ran up the street. I unlocked my car when we were a few feet away, and then we threw ourselves inside.

  “So,” Bill said, as I peeled out onto the street, “we need to convince Ralph Donnelly to give up Rodney’s suit.”

  “And find someone to marry Linnie and Rodney,” I added.

  “And bagels,” Bill added, and despite everything that was happening, I smiled.

  “Right,” I agreed.

  Bill shook his head. “It’s certainly turning out to be an interesting morning.” He looked over and smiled at me. “Let’s do it.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Or, #extortion

  * * *

  I HAD BEEN AFRAID THAT it would be hard to find Ralph Donnelly, but he proved surprisingly—and a little worryingly—easy to track down. Ralph had a very active social media presence, which was why, never having met the man, I knew not only what he looked like and that he apparently loved pugs, but also what his morning had consisted of.

  ralphdonnelly: starting the day off right—coffee run! #coffeerun

  ralphdonnelly: why such a long line at Flasks? Everyone needing that Saturday-morning coffee? #saturdaycoffee

  ralphdonnelly: heading to swift tailor to pick up my suit for today’s event! #suitrun

  ralphdonnelly: not so happy about having to get suit day of and change at the event!! Need faster tailor! #notsoswift #tailornotswift #slowtailors

  ralphdonnelly: just realized I got the wrong suit from the tailor!! #wrongsuit

  ralphdonnelly: Not happy about this. Maybe I should bring . . . a suit? #lol #legaljokes #suitsnotsuits

  Things went on like this for a while, to the point where I was starting to worry about Ralph Donnelly’s safety since there didn’t seem to be any way he was updating this often and not doing it while he was driving. But it had allowed us to realize he was going to a breakfast reception at the Stanwich Country Club, and since he’d already weighed in on the food situation—#quichefail—we knew that he was currently there.

  “Hopefully we’ll be able to find him,” Bill said as I swung into the parking lot of the country club. “I don’t know how big this event is.”

  “We should just look for the displeased person by the quiche,” I said, circling the lot once. It was pretty crowded—though whether it was people attending the same event as Ralph or braving the chilly weather to play golf, I couldn’t be sure. I spotted an open parking spot and zoomed into it before anyone else could.

  “Uh,” Bill said. We both got out of the car, and I could see him taking in the building, which was fairly intimidating up close. “Are we allowed to just walk in?”

  “Maybe not,” I said, heading toward the entrance. “But just frown and walk fast.”

  Bill furrowed his brow and looked over at me. “How’s this?”

  I bit back a laugh, as we were getting close to the valet in front of the entrance. “Perfect.”

  The valet looked up at us, and Bill and I gave him simultaneous frowny nods as we headed inside. “Okay,” I said, looking around. It had been about a year since I’d been in the country club—we didn’t belong, but I’d been there over the years for events and especially fancy sweet sixteens—and it looked pretty much the same, like an upscale living room. “The events are usually in that ballroom.” I nodded toward it just as I noticed a woman in a white polo shirt and khakis—who was very much giving off an I work here vibe—look at me and Bill. “Let’s go,” I whispered under my breath, and we hurried over before anyone could ask what, exactly, we were doing there.

  “I think this is it,” Bill said as we approached the ballroom. He held out his phone, and I saw a selfie of Ralph Donnelly that had been taken next to the overlarge bouquet of flowers in the corner—#bloomingreat.

  “Okay,” I said, looking around. The entrance to the ballroom seemed to be the mingle-and-eat area—I could see chairs lined up farther in, with a small stage and podium set up at the front. Waiters were walking around with trays, and people were talking in small groups as they drank coffee and ate what looked like the disappointing quiche. As I did, I noticed that everyone around us was very well dressed. All the men were in suits, and the women were either in pantsuits or dresses—whatever this event was, it clearly wasn’t casual. And the fact that Bill and I were both in jeans was starting to seem more obvious by the second.

  “Is that him?” Bill asked, pointing toward the corner, where a short man in an oversize suit was typing on his phone. Bill held up the selfie for me to look at, and I nodded.

  We crossed the ballroom to him, and though the man was still typing on his phone, after a moment, he finally noticed me and Bill standing there. “Yes?”

  “Ralph Donnelly?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said, a little more warily. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so,” I said, and Bill held out the garment bag. “We just came from Swift Tailors—they accidentally gave you my brother-in-law’s suit, and gave us yours.”

  “Ah.” Ralph, for some reason, was starting to turn red. “Right. They had a real mix-up, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Bill agreed. “And we actually really need the other suit back, so . . .”

  Ralph cleared his throat. “So,” he said, starting to look uncomfortable. “The thing is . . .”

  “Wait a second,” I said, suddenly realizing that his oversize suit looked very familiar. “Are you wearing Rodney’s suit?”

  “Who’s Rodney?”

  “The person whose suit you’re wearing.”

  “Well,”
he said, turning even redder, “I had this event, my suit wasn’t ready until this morning, and I didn’t realize it was the wrong suit until I was here, putting it on. What was I supposed to do?”

  “So, here’s your suit,” Bill said, holding the garment bag out to him. “If you wouldn’t mind, um, changing? And then we can take ours back. We’re a bit pressed for time.”

  I nodded, thinking this sounded like a good plan and that as far as Rodney was concerned, he never had to know that someone named Ralph had worn his wedding suit before him. I waited for Ralph to take the garment bag, but he didn’t make a movement toward it, not even when Bill brought it a little closer and nudged the hanger against his wrist. “Uh—Ralph?” I asked, looking at Bill, who seemed as baffled by this lack of response as I was. “Mr. Donnelly?”

  “So here’s the thing,” Ralph said all in a rush. “I’ve gotten a ton of compliments on this suit already. Nobody ever compliments my suits!” I could understand that—especially if all the rest of his suits were as hideous as the one Bill was holding.

  “Okay,” I said, looking at Bill and then back at Ralph. “Well, I’m happy people like it, but . . .”

  “I mean, the suit doesn’t even fit you,” Bill said, a note of finality in his voice, like he wanted to get this wrapped up as soon as possible.

  “But that’s just it! People think I’ve lost weight! It’s fantastic.”

  “I’m glad you’re getting good feedback,” I said, and Bill nudged Ralph with the hanger again. “But we’re going to need to switch with you.”

  He just gave us a look, then looked down at himself. “You know,” he said, folding his arms, “possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

  “I think I’ve heard that before,” Bill said, his voice and expression still resolutely cheerful as he held out the garment bag to Ralph again. “I also think I saw a men’s room on the way in?”

  “What I’m saying is that I was given this suit in good faith that it was my property,” he said, talking quickly and with the practiced legal cadence that I recognized from helping Rodney study for the bar. “So how can I be assured that the suit you want me to take in exchange is even mine?”