2 Months 'Til Mrs. (2 'Til Series) (12 page)

Tuesday, January 4
^th

“Oh my God, we’re getting married!” she announced to
the dark, sitting to attention out of a sound sleep.

“Huh?” Fynn moaned, shifting and rolling, too far gone
to care what had tried to interrupt his slumber.

“We have to plan a wedding,” she said breathlessly,
tugging on his shoulder.

“Right now?” he groaned.

“When—where—how are we going to do this?” she asked,
quickly mowing down his willpower to sleep with rapid-fire logistical
questions. She wasn’t going to go willingly and quietly into the night, not now
that she realized the ramifications of what they’d entered into mere hours ago.

“Come again,” he said, reaching to turn on the bedside
lamp—the
only
bedside lamp in the room… at
his
bedside. Not that
she had needed one all these months. But that wasn’t the point; the solitary
lamp was symbolic. This was
his
space. All their sleepovers were mere
child’s play compared to true togetherness. They had just agreed to become full-time
partners. She thought of the horrible stomach bug she’d had a few months ago
that she’d weathered alone in her apartment in New York—blessedly alone. To
think of him seeing her like
that
. Humiliating. Plus, she was a much
neater guest than she was a true roommate—Fynn could learn a thing or two about
that
by talking to Georgia, who had packed everything right down to a
DustBuster in her luggage when she went off to college, while Catherine hadn’t
even remembered to bring her own sheets with her.

But then she looked into those gorgeous eyes, all blue
sky to infinity, and wondered how she could ever question looking into them for
the rest of her life.

“You do know that it’s the time of night that most
people like to sleep, right?” he asked, closing those blue eyes and yawning to
make a point, opening them again and piercing right through to her gooey
insides.

“I just realized what this means,” she said, fingering
the ring
that felt so heavy and substantial and strange on her hand
considering it had been bare-naked her whole life. “It jolted me awake and I
can’t go back to sleep like this—this turmoil.”

“Are you saying that being engaged to me gave you nightmares?”
he asked, only half joking.

“No, the wedding part. We have to have a time and a
place and guests and seating charts and flower arrangements and—”

“Whoa, hold on there, little lady,” Fynn said propping
himself up and copping a cowboy tone and a smirk befitting an old-fashioned
mindset that the female sort was always all atwitter and faint at heart and
incapable of functioning without a big strong strapping man at her side.

“It is perfectly reasonable to bring this up,” she
said forcefully.

“At one in the morning?” He dangled the question dubiously
in front of her.

“Whenever,” she said with certainty.

“I’m just saying that you literally blacked out over
the idea of engagement. Maybe we need to slow down on the planning.”

“Slow down? Don’t tell me you’re already trying to
back out of this, Joel Trager,” she said sternly.

He chuckled. “Now that I think about it…”

She shot daggers so sharp they could puncture steel.

“Kidding.” His hands up in surrender. “I thought we’d
just figure out the rest later. What’s the rush?”

What’s the rush? Oh, I can think of a few THOUSAND
things. First and foremost being my impending birthday in March—the 13
^th
of March. I should have known that being born on Friday the 13
^th
would leave me open to a life of hell. God, just let me go gently into
thirty-five—a married, honest woman rather than my usual self who planned to go
kicking and screaming into another year.

“You really want to talk about it?” he offered in
response to her stricken silence. “We’ll talk about it.” He sighed heavily.
“How about we have the wedding here?”

“In Nekoyah?” she balked.

“Right here. At our
home.”

She’d never been an
our
before. Not on a house,
apartment, car, book, milkshake—nothing. And suddenly she was being included on
an entire homestead?

“I was thinking something outdoors. You know, barbecue,
friends—simple.”

She felt herself deflating with each word. It all
sounded so much…
less
than what she had imagined. Not that she wanted
elaborate. But she certainly wanted enough bang out of it for that
boo-ya
moment—the one that proved that Catherine Hemmings was no slouch. That she was marrying
a beautifully handsome guy and wouldn’t end up some old maid. She wanted to stick
it
to the masses who’d bet against her. She wanted to
show them
.

“Now what’s that face about?” he asked, noting her
crestfallen expression. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those.”

“One of what?” she asked self-righteously.

“Those women who’ve had it all right up there in their
pretty little heads since they were born—everything down to the place settings.”

“No,” she choked out, trying to clear her mind of the images
of which he spoke. “I just thought that something a
little
grander was
in order. I’m sure my parents would like something bigger—I
am
their
only daughter.”

Suddenly tears filled her eyes at what was always
there but rarely spoken about. Josey would probably have been married by now or
close to it herself. Her father should have the honor of giving away two brides
in his lifetime.

“Oh, honey.” He took her into his arms.

“I shouldn’t be their only—”

“I know.”

“Even when I’m happy,” she said through her tears, “—and
I
am
happy, I can’t help but think about her. All she missed out on. Josey
should be my maid of honor. She’d be all grown up and—”

“Catherine, Josey is always going to be a part of you.
The part that still hurts is the love. That’s a good thing,” he said steadily,
certainly. She hadn’t shared Josey with any of the men she’d dated. Fynn was
the first she trusted with her most painful memories. And from the moment she first
told him about her little sister—how she was just six years old when she broke
through the ice and died alone in that pond, how she still missed her every
single day—Fynn had been so understanding, sharing in her grief and sorrow. No
matter how much time passed bringing blessed distance from that horrible day,
she could never outrun it. He understood that. He honored that.

“Are you okay?” he asked gently, rubbing her back. The
fact that she’d woken him out of a sound sleep no longer mattered at all. He
was completely there with her.

She nodded her head bravely.

“You know, we don’t have to have it all figured out
tonight,” he said reassuringly.

“I know,” she admitted begrudgingly.

“Then why don’t we sleep on it.” He started to lie
back down, eyeing her carefully as if waiting for the other shoe to drop—

“I just have so many relatives and friends back east
and it would only make sense to do it somewhere they could actually get to,”
she blurted to the footboard, afraid to look directly at him while she trounced
all over his laissez-faire wedding idea—barefoot and burgers in a pasture.

“And there it is,” he sighed, sitting up from his
half-supine position. He knew enough about her to expect she wouldn’t let
sleeping dogs lie, that was for sure.

“Not that a wedding here wouldn’t be wonderful,” she said
quickly, tempering her outburst, looking at him earnestly now. “And it isn’t
like I want anything expensive…. It’s just that there are a few things that I
would really love to—why are you looking at me with that goofy smile?” she
challenged.

“Because you’re awfully cute when you try to skirt
around the truth.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She tried to
appear as blank as possible.

“Oh… I don’t know. Maybe that the last thing you would
ever want is to have a down-home wedding.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. It’s just that Aunt Judy
and Uncle Al are getting up there in age. And my Great Uncle Dick—I was always
his favorite. And there’s—”      

“Wait a second, isn’t Uncle Dick what you call that
guy—” He snapped his fingers several times, reaching in his mind to place the
name. “—that pain-in-the-ass neighbor your mom is always inviting over for
dinner.”

Catherine colored in embarrassment, wishing for once
that Fynn was a bad listener.
Of course he would remember that little
tidbit.
She gritted her teeth. “Well… yes.”

“But you want to invite him to the wedding… and make
sure it’s close enough that he can come.”

“He
is
family.”

“Hardly.”

“My parents have practically adopted him.”

“So he’s like a brother to you?” he snickered.

She smirked.

“Listen, I just wanted it to be easy, and you’re right
that it’s harder for your people to come here than for mine to go there,” he
said simply and rationally.

“That’s not how I meant it, Fynn,” she pleaded, hating
that it sounded like she was tossing aside the fact that he had very little
family left. Just him and Drew and a few scattered cousins. Longevity was not
his people’s strong suit, he liked to say.

“I know what you meant, Catherine,” he said, steadying
her with his hands. “I am nothing if not levelheaded.”

“That’s why we make a good set,” she said, smiling
goofily at him.

“Somebody needs to keep you grounded,” he admitted.

“And somebody needs to liven you up,” she jabbed back.

He grinned wickedly at her.

“
That
is not what I meant,” she warned.

“You can’t take it back now.” In one swift move Fynn
rolled her down onto the bed, his weight a welcome blanket.

As he leaned in for a kiss she put her hand up to his
lips, slipping a flesh wall between them. “You really don’t have an opinion on
the wedding?” she asked.

“I gave you my opinion and you threw it away, so I
leave it all up to you.” He pushed his hard body against hers, intent on
getting his way on
this
instead.

She fought him off once more. “At least tell me
when
you want to get married.” She winced in preparation for another off-base
answer.

“How about next summer?”

She pursed her lips and closed her eyes, wondering if
they would be on the wrong page in everything.

“Maybe late—earlier,” he said with relief, following
the cryptic twitches in her face as he searched for the proper answer. “When
were you thinking?”

“I was thinking March. Maybe the 4
^th
?”

“That’s pretty specific,” he noted.

“I was sort of thinking it would be nice to get
married before my birthday.”

“When is your birthday?”

Oh my God, we’re getting married and he doesn’t
even know my birthday!

Day 12,716 of her life and she’d woken up an actual
fiancée for the first time ever. A new start for a new day in a new year. This
day, January 4
^th
, should be her
new
New Year’s Day. That
one everyone else celebrated was a nothing. She was
engaged
—that was more
significant than hanging up a fresh new calendar or some stupid light bulb
dropping down a pole.

Catherine looked down at
the ring
, studying it
for the fiftieth time already today. She’d stared at it so long in the shower
that the water started running cold before she was even finished soaping up.
Now she held her hand up and looked at it for the fifty-first time. It was
gorgeous. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, modeling poses—normal
daily poses—and watching her reflection to see how she looked when she was typing
or eating or talking on the phone or brushing her hair behind her ear.
Everything she did looked better with diamonds.

“Good morning, Mrs. Trager,” Fynn said, coming up
behind her and kissing that spot on her neck that was like a hot-button searing
right through her.

“Morning,” she said breathily.

“You are too easy,” he noted, catching her glazed
expression in the mirror.

“You are too
hard
,” she reminded him, giggling.

“And proud of it.”

That was one of the things she enjoyed about being in
a true relationship. The sexual innuendos flowed fast and free; they could talk
easily about sex and appreciate each other’s sexual appetite, but not every
playful comment made them feel like they needed to drop everything and do it
right then and there.

“So, can I get a little room in here?” he asked her
reflection, reaching for his razor. “Or is it time for me to go mountain-man,
an empty threat he’d been making for months whenever she was here.

“In a minute,” she said, busying herself with her
makeup and hogging the sink shamelessly.  

“Is this a minute-minute or a Catherine-minute?” he
asked, sighing and sitting on the toilet with his razor in hand.

“Why? Are you thinking about slitting your wrists?” She
faked seriousness.

“I thought the whole lifetime commitment thing would
earn me a few brownie points and maybe some face time,” he said in an aw-shucks
tone.

“You have to get up pretty early, at least earlier
than me, to get this mirror.”

“So that’s how it is. First come, first serve?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“No special favors?”

“Nope.”

“If I’d known that, I would have bought a new bathroom
instead of a ring,” he said in mock regret.

She shrugged. “Your loss; my gain.”

“I guess I’ll grab a shower then.” He gave up, rubbing
at his head and making a move toward the stall.

“No. Wait. Don’t do that,” Catherine said quickly,
knowing that if he took one now he was in for a cold one, seeing as how she had
used up all the hot water on herself. She speed-finished putting on her makeup,
fighting back a powder-induced sneeze that would threaten to spread her
still-wet mascara. “There, you big baby, you can have the mirror.”
Maybe
there
was enough lukewarm water for a shave.

Right then the phone rang and Fynn left the room to
answer it. She still felt weird answering his phone: it was his life and his
business.

She could hear murmuring in the other room, a constant
low rhythm that told her it was someone he knew and not just a sales call, so
she turned on the hairdryer figuring she had some more time with the mirror to
work on a new ring-worthy, untamed coif that would require fiddling throughout
the day. She flipped her head upside down to start with the underside.

Fynn’s sudden cold touch scared the living daylights
out of her. “What the—” She jumped a mile high and dropped the hairdryer on the
bathroom rug. In her apartment at home there was no one to sneak up on her
while she was in the hairdryer jet stream.

He picked up the dryer and turned it off so they could
talk at normal conversation levels. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” He stood
there holding the phone in one hand and her dryer in the other.

“Well you did,” she said curtly, still trying to calm
the palpitations.

“Sorry. It’s just that Cara wants to talk to you.” He
held out the phone like a peace offering.

“Oh,” she said, taken aback. It wasn’t that Cara
wanted to speak to her; recently they talked on the phone every time she was
here, that was unless Cara was here for the weekend too. What shocked her was
in all the excitement of the moment, being engaged and wearing
the ring
,
she hadn’t once thought about Cara. She was going to be the wife of the
guardian of a little girl.
What exactly does that make me?

“Catherine?” Fynn prodded.

She took the phone and put it to her ear, trying to
calm her breath that was suddenly short and quick.

“Cat?” Cara’s little voice reached her ears quickly,
like she was right there in the room with her.

“Hey sweetie, how are you?”

“Great! I got so much stuff for Christmas! I can’t
wait to show you!” she said excitedly.

“What kind of stuff?”

Cara’s little voice chattered on and on, but Catherine
heard none of it. She was in shock. How had she said yes to Fynn without one
thought about Cara at all? Not that she would have turned him down because of—

“What did you get?” Cara asked, like they were two
little girlfriends.

“Oh, I got wonderful things,” she said evasively. “I’m
just glad that you had a great Christmas.”

“Mom says that next year I won’t have to have
Christmas in the hospital,” Cara said happily, too young to realize what that
really meant for her mother. Yes, Renée likely wouldn’t be in the hospital next
year, but she probably wouldn’t be at home either.

“That sounds wonderful,” Catherine choked out.

“And Cat?”

“What is it, sweetie?”

“I liked your gift the best of all. But Caramellie
will always be my favorite.”

“Mine too.”

Catherine felt tears come to her eyes. She’d gotten
Cara the other two complete sets of Sweet Treats sundae houses and dolls that
she had always wanted when she was a little girl—Chocolattie and Strawberry
Mary. Georgia and Tara had needled her mercilessly when they caught her
shopping for more sundaes last fall, reminding her that she was dangerously
close to becoming some kind of rabid collector, but it was all for a good
cause. She knew Cara would play with the toys and love them with all her heart
just like she and Josey had. 

She hung up the phone in a daze and found Fynn in the
bathroom where she’d left him, now mid-stroke with his razor. “Were you going
to tell me about the water?” he asked her reflection.

Catherine grimaced. “I hoped you wouldn’t notice.”

“You’re just lucky I didn’t find out in the shower,”
he said, playfully grim.           

“How does Renée feel about this whole thing?” she blurted
suddenly. Her stomach was a chamber of butterflies fluttering about. She’d only
been engaged for less than a day and her buzz was totally ruined by a phone
call—a nice, sweet, adorable phone call that reminded her about the reality on
the other end of the line, the fact that their marriage, their future, was
about more than the two of them.

“What do you mean, how does she feel?” Fynn asked,
like the question made no sense.

“Cara is her daughter. She chose
you
to care
for her, not me.” Call her crazy, but Catherine figured there would be some
thought on his part to the fact that they would be married and the little girl of
whom he would become the guardian in an undisclosed timeframe would be her
responsibility too. Sure she had been blinded to that thought by the refracted
glare from the diamond last night, but now it was patently obvious. They would basically
be parents together. True, most people
intend
to take that leap together
when they marry, but this went beyond egg-and-sperm or fertility drugs or blind
adoption; this was a dying woman’s child they were talking about. It seemed
only right to ask how Cara’s mother felt about the eventuality of her
daughter’s primary woman-figure in her life being… well, Catherine Marie
Hemmings. And speaking of which, it might have been nice to ask Catherine Marie
that as well—considering Miss Ninny herself (excuse me,
Mrs.
Ninny),
would probably be in charge of all that mothering stuff.

“She’s fine with it,” Fynn assured her, putting down
his razor and turning around.

“Fine with it?” she eked. “Like Coke or Pepsi—makes-no-difference-to-me-as-long-as-it’s-wet—fine
with it? Or looking-forward-to-Cara-having-a-new-mother fine with it?”

The look on his face told her she’d caught him
completely off-guard. “You haven’t even told her, have you?” she challenged.

“Of course I told her.”

“When?”

He held his breath and she braced herself for the
painful truth—sure it would be awful.

“Months ago,” he mumbled.

She choked on her own shock. “Excuse me?”

“I told her three months ago.”

“You told her
what
exactly?” Catherine’s heart
was burning and racing, and her face was a deep blush tone.

“I said you were the one. I asked for her blessing,”
he said, plainly.

“So you bypassed my dad and asked her first?” she
joked, suddenly relieved. Everything extraneous to them had disappeared in that
moment and suddenly all those butterflies landed in one fell swoop. He’d been
wanting to marry her for three
long
months—it didn’t beat her five
months, but it was nothing to scoff at.