“True,” Zach agrees. Zach, two years younger than me and closest to my age, had a bad breakup a couple years ago, and he’s melancholy. I know he doesn’t miss his girlfriend all that much—it wasn’t the best relationship—but he’s lonely and feels it.
Austin stares at Ben and Zach in amazement. “Are you kidding me? This town is great for single guys. Go to a club once in a while; hell, even a sports bar, and enjoy yourselves.”
“Different woman every night,” I say to my youngest brother, shaking my head. “How do you keep track?”
Austin rolls his eyes. He’s handsome, knows how to dress well, and drives a sleek sports car. “I don’t have a different woman every night.”
“He has a spreadsheet,” Ben says, straight-faced. “He’s trying to make me create a database for him.”
Austin growls and takes a mock swing at Ben, who dances back, wearing a quiet grin. Zach steps forward to defend Ben, and Austin rolls his eyes again. “Whatever.” He walks away, heading for the cluster of women on the patio.
“He’s always looking for his dream girl,” Zach says as we watch Austin saunter toward the ladies.
“He had one,” Ben reminds us. “Brooke.”
“Yep. And he’ll have to deal with her, because she’ll be one of Calandra’s bridesmaids.” I send Zach a pointed look. “So will Abby Warren.”
Zach has been staring off into the distance as though calculating how much time he has to politely stay before he’s out of here, but at the name, he snaps his attention back to me.
“Abby Warren?”
“The very one. You used to have a thing for her, right?”
Zach’s forehead wrinkles. “That was like a hundred years ago. I haven’t seen her in ages. Hunh.”
I exchange a look with Ben, who gives me one of his slow smiles. It’s good to see Zach interested. He let the breakup hit him too hard.
I take a thoughtful sip of beer. “Help me survive this wedding mania, all right? Things are getting out of hand.”
I expect my brothers to have my back or at least cheer me up about wedding craziness, but Zach only claps me on the shoulder. “Suck it up, bro. Nothing’s too good for Calandra, right?”
“Right,” I say hesitantly.
“It’ll be a breeze,” Zach says. “Stop whining. Let’s go get some eats. I’m starving.”
“What’s new?” Ben asks. They stride across the darkness toward the barbecues, like primitive man drawn by fire.
I can go with them and talk about cuts of meat like the masculine dudes we are, or I can join the ladies. Ladies it is. They smell better, and Austin, who’s already flirting his ass off, needs a keeper.
I approach the patio, which is a long, large tiled area with glass doors leading to a living room, a family room, the kitchen, and way down the row, the master bedroom. The Stevensons have furnished the patio with outdoor sofas and chairs, a clay fire pit for cold nights, misters for hot ones. Right now the fire pit is flickering, and a soft breeze wafts across the space, bringing feminine voices with it.
As soon as I step out of the dark and under the lights, all chatter ceases. Faces turn to me, gracefully curved bodies pausing as the ladies take me in. I feel like a juicy sirloin my soon-to-be pop-in-law is assessing for the grill. Austin stands behind them exuding glee.
Calandra, the love of my life, my partner and helpmeet, the woman who will be at my side forever, grins at me.
“What do you think?” she asks her girlfriends and cousins—the two who look exactly alike are Candy and Mandy. “Can you see Ryan in a sarong? He has the legs for it.”
Chapter Three
Ryan
I can’t stop myself looking down at my legs bared from the knee in my canvas shorts. The ladies shriek with laughter.
“Is this the Hawaiian idea again?” I growl.
“No, we’ve dropped that,” Calandra says. “We’ve moved on to a more general tropical beach theme.”
“In Arizona?”
“Why not? It’s going to be warm, why not go for it?”
Candy, or Mandy, breaks in. “Calandra will be in a sarong too.”
That I can get into. My mind floats to a picture of Calandra walking toward me in a bikini top, a flowing, colorful sarong around her waist. She’ll stroll casually, cloth-enhanced hips swaying. She’ll reach out to brush my arm, then she’ll go on by, untying the bikini top as she passes.
“Okaaayyy.” I draw out the word.
I must look like a gobsmacked idiot, because the women and Austin burst out laughing.
“One vote for tropical beach theme,” Mandy or Candy says.
“He’s not thinking about the wedding,” Austin adds confidently.
More laughter, because he’s right. Austin sends me a grin like the shit he is.
I want to cut Calandra out of the crowd and talk to her alone, but that’s not going to happen. She’s surrounded by friends and family. I’m the groom-to-be, so I’m the butt of their jokes right now.
That’s fine. The sparkle in Calandra’s eyes and the glow on her face are worth it.
I hope that by the time the cooks have finished, and we’re all stuffing our faces, the wedding talk will be over, but no such luck. My brothers encourage the conversation, and the tropical beach theme resurfaces. The guests will have hibiscus flowers in their hair, and sarongs will be the thing.
I know everyone’s joking, but I don’t like the contemplative interest on my mother’s face. She’s queen of organization, and if she decides her oldest son should step to the altar in a piece of flowered cotton and nothing else, it could happen. I look to my dad for help, but he sits and smiles, as usual, letting my mom take an idea and run with it.
As more and more beer is passed around, the plans get wilder. I laugh, showing I’m a good sport, even when Austin suggests we do a circus theme and take our vows on a trapeze. Calandra throws a roll at him, which he deftly catches.
The night goes on, and I realize, by the end of it, that I’ve lost all control of the situation. Not to mention my wedding, and by extension, my own life.
I decide to talk to Calandra when I volunteer to help with the dishes. I figure everyone else will flee when it’s time to do the grunt work of clearing the table, but it isn’t to be. As soon as I hop up to carry out my dishes, everyone else does as well.
“Can we talk?” I ask Calandra as she rushes past me, hands full of plates.
“Little busy right now.” She flashes me a smile, but doesn’t slow down.
I follow her. “Later tonight?”
“My cousins are spending the night. Girl time.”
She hurries into the busy kitchen, me right behind her. “Tomorrow? Lunch?” I persist.
“Meeting with my bridesmaids. Haven’t seen Brooke or Abby in a while, so it will be a long afternoon. Monday after work?” Her voice lowers seductively, and I want to throw the plates against the wall and haul her down the hall to her old bedroom.
I deflate. “Can’t. Dad and I are taking clients to their new house. Promise made a long time ago.”
“That’s important.” Calandra wrinkles her nose at me. “We’ll have other times to talk.”
When? I wonder. “Right. I’ll call you tomorrow night.”
“Don’t be mad.” Calandra flashes her beautiful smile at me. “This will all come out okay.”
She’s right. I’m marrying the woman I love more than my own life. All this frenzy will fade.
Austin strides by, deep in an argument with Candy (or Mandy), about what color football jerseys the groomsmen should wear.
Calandra bursts out laughing and turns away. The sound of her laughter brings home what a lucky shit I am, and my frustration dissolves on a warm wave of love.
Calandra
I haven’t seen Abby or Brooke in what seems like forever, and on Sunday at lunch we do the high-pitched squee women do when they’re excited by meeting their friends. The more we love them, the more piercing the shriek.
We about
break the windows with it in a cute restaurant on Seventh Street. I hug Abby, who’s a bit shorter than I am and plump in the right places, her dark hair tucked into a neat bun.
Brooke is tall and willowy, like a fashion model, her black hair sleek down her back, her dark skin setting off her beautiful blue dress.
“You two are gorgeous,” I say. “And, wow, you let me hang out with you.”
We hug again then we finally settle down, Brooke waving her hand to order wine. Abby and I let her make the choice, because Brooke knows all about wine.
“Ring. Ring. Let’s see the ring.” Abby happily reaches for my hand which I flutter in her direction.
“Nice,” Brooke says approvingly as they study the round-cut diamond on the gold band. “Elegant. Ryan gets a gold star.”
I retrieve my hand but rest it on the table so the ring is visible. “Once, when Ryan and I were shopping a long time ago, one like this caught my eye in a jewelry store window. Stopped me in my tracks. I raved about it. We were fourteen. He remembered.”
My friends lean into each other and say, “Awwww.”
“Another gold star for Ryan.” Abby lifts her hand to high-five me.
The waiter arrives with our wine, and we spend a moment sipping and making appreciative noises. It’s a red, robust but not sour.
“The McLaughlin brothers can be sweet,” Brooke concedes, her glass dangling from her fingers. “When they want to be.”
Abby and I send Brooke a sympathetic glance. “Sometimes it doesn’t work out,” I say.
Brooke and Austin had been an item once, a few years ago. They’d been good together, both loving fine wine and great cars—Brooke is part owner of a luxury car dealership now. They’d broken up, big time. Brooke is still sensitive on the subject.
“Speaking of sweet,” Abby says. “I have an important question.” She leans forward, her brown eyes impish. “Is Zach still cute?”
Brooke splutters with laughter, her discomfort gone. “You remember him?”
“Of course I remember him. He was my first kiss.” Abby blushes. “A long, long, long, long time ago. I moved away right when things were heating up. Ah, well. Memories.”
I fold my arms on the table. “I’m biased, because I think Ryan’s the best looking McLaughlin, but I can tell you with some authority that yes, Zach is still cute.”
“As a button,” Brooke adds.
“For whatever reason buttons are cute,” Abby says. “Don’t either of you dare tell him I asked that. He probably doesn’t remember me at all.”
“Mmm, I wouldn’t say that,” I muse. “But you’ll find out soon enough. You’re my maid of honor, and Zach’s Ryan’s best man.”
“Cool.” Abby brightens. “We’ll be a couple again. Briefly.”
Brooke sends me a dark look. “As long as you don’t pair me with Austin.”
“Of course not.” I reach across the table and pat her hand reassuringly. “You’ll be with Ben.”
“Okay, that I can handle. Ben’s a sweetheart.” Her eyes narrow. “Who’s with Austin?”
“Ryan’s Great Aunt Mary. She’s looking forward to it.”
Brooke relaxes into a smile. “Good for Aunt Mary. I love her.”
“So does Austin, so he’ll behave. Mostly.” I watch my friends enjoy picturing the pairing of Ryan’s great aunt, who is by no means feeble, with the lady’s man Austin, then my shoulders sag. “I’m afraid Ryan wants to bail though. Wedding planning is already getting too much for him.”
“Guys aren’t into weddings like we are,” Abby says quickly. “This is our moment, when we get to put on a magnificent dress and say, Look at me, world! I’m beautiful, I’m marrying this lucky guy, and the rest of you can suck it.”
I laugh, but Brooke shakes her head. “It’s more like I’m going into bondage for the rest of my life, so I need this big party as a sendoff.”
“That’s cynical.” I take a deep drink of wine.
“Wedding traditions are all about women giving up their lives for their mates,” Brooke tells me. “The white dress to say she’s pure, even though he doesn’t have to be, the wedding bands stand in for shackles, and until—say, fifty years ago?—a woman had to promise to obey her husband, no matter what.”
“Thanks a lot.” I give her a stern look. “Whatever happened to marriage being about joining in love and partnership? Facing the ups and downs of life together?”
Brooke and Abby exchange a serious glance then dissolve into laughter. “Your face,” Abby chokes out.
“It’s your wedding, honey,” Brooke says. “It’s all about what you say it is.”
“It will be beautiful,” Abby promises. “April is a good month for it. Warm enough for an outdoor reception but not so hot we all melt. Plus, it rarely rains in April. Very practical.”
“Where’s it going to be?” Brooke breaks in.
“A church on Central we both love,” I tell them, my enthusiasm returning. “We’ve been going there off and on for years, whenever we can pry ourselves out of bed on Sunday morning.”
“I can get you the cathedral.” Brooke takes on her efficient-planner demeanor. “You’re Episcopalian, right? I know a guy who’s friends with the bishop and his wife. I sold him a Ferrari. The guy, not the bishop. If you want the cathedral, I can set it up.”
“It might be a bit large for what we need,” I begin.
“It’s not that big, as far as cathedrals go,” Brooke assures me. “But it’s nice, and will be awe-inspiring. Good photo ops. I know a decent photographer. He does celebrity weddings—excellent photos but he’s not intrusive. No climbing over the altar to shove a camera in your face.”
“We were going to have everyone take their own pics and send them to us,” I say faintly.
Brooke and Abby glance at each other again. Clearly I’m a sad case who doesn’t know how to plan her own wedding and need their help. I take another hasty sip of wine.
“You won’t regret a professional photographer,” Brooke says. “Besides, how else will you have a photo of Ryan’s face when he sees you in your tutu?”
I nearly spew my wine across the table. I swallow and cough. “My what?”
The two of them go off in laughter, falling into each other. I wait patiently until they’re done.
“No tutus,” I say firmly. “Or beach themes, or sports themes, or anything like that. A simple ceremony. That’s all I want. We want.”
“Of course, honey.” Brooke makes herself calm down, but her smile is wide. “No crazy themes. A wedding dress, the cathedral, photographer, flowers, the guys in tuxes, Abby, me, and Great Aunt Mary in the traditional bridesmaid color coordination, a reception spread with a band, a tent, and lots of great food. All you need. And invitations, based on your colors. What colors are you doing?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Abby stares at me. “Yet? You only have a few months. Unless you mean April a year from now.”
“No. This April. Ryan and I have been together for what, twenty years? We don’t want to wait any longer.”
“Then we have to get in front of this,” Brooke says, and Abby nods. “But don’t worry. We’re on it. Abby and I will divide up the chores and work with your mom to get this all done. You sit and admire your ring.”
“But …” I feel all control of my special day slipping from my grasp.
“And warm up for the wedding night with Ryan,” Abby says. “You need to rehearse exactly what you’re going to do. Over and over. Leave the boring stuff to us.”
“It’s not boring,” I try to explain.
I’m talking to the air. Abby pulls out a small laptop—she’s carrying a laptop to Sunday lunch—and she and Brooke start making notes.
I think about confessing to Ryan that while the silly wedding ideas have been tabled, the bulk of the planning was just ripped out of my hands. I picture his annoyance, which probably will match mine.
I try to wrest control away once more, but Abby and Brooke have their heads to
gether, coming up with more and more things to add, like the music at the wedding, decorating the pews with flowers, scattering the aisle with rose petals, and what kind of champagne to serve. The best, Brooke says. She knows a woman at a vintners who can give us a deal.
I can only sit back, sip my wine, and try to figure out how to explain this to Ryan.
Ryan
Several weeks go by without me once seeing Calandra. This rarely happens in our lives—we have lunch or dinner together most days, and usually spend the night, either at her apartment or my small house. I’m fixing up a house for the two of us, which I don’t want her to see until it’s finished.
I’d thought proposing to Calandra would let me spend every non-work minute of my life with her, but now I see her less than ever.
Natural, I tell myself. Weddings take up a lot of time. That’s why movies are made about weddings, comedies about all the things going wrong.
Another reason is my work—spring is high season for home renovating and building so that the hard labor can be done before the heat hits. I’m also closely supervising work on the new house, rolling up my sleeves and pitching in to connect wiring and plumbing myself.
I don’t know if anything’s going wrong with our wedding, because I hear little from Calandra. I wonder what she’s not telling me. When I try to pry information out of my mom, who is in constant communication with Calandra’s mom, she only gives me her I’m busy stare.
“Weddings are the woman’s prerogative,” she tells me when I corner her at the reception desk in our office. “You simply need to show up on the day with the ring.”
“Not in a sarong,” I say adamantly. Austin, who happens to be passing, lets out a snort. “Or a football jersey,” I continue loudly. “Or a zoot suit.”
“You worry too much.” My mother actually pats me, a man of nearly thirty, on the head. “I’ll tell you when it’s time for your tux fitting.”
Give Me One Night (McLaughlin Brothers Book 4) Page 2