2 Months 'Til Mrs. (2 'Til Series) (14 page)

Best Laid Plans…

Wednesday, January 5
^th

“Look who ate the canary. You must have gotten it
really
good if you’re still wearing that grin.”

“Tara?” Catherine asked, bewildered. The clothes were
Tara’s—short, tight, and entirely manmade from the first fiber. Everything was questionably
office-ready, definitely club-ready, and depending on the clientele, more than
halfway to street-ready. But gone was the dark shade of black hair with an occasional
aura of purple or blue or pink; in its place a headful of deep and vibrant red.

“New look for a new year. You like?”

She was in awe. When Tara committed to change, she
really committed, unlike herself who agonized over shades of medium brown like
it was war and peace and always ended up choosing the same color, the one that
most closely matched her naturally boring shade.

“So really, what gives? You’re usually a total dud by now.”
She looked at her watch to exaggerate her point, like Catherine was completely
predictable. “I’m guessing there was no unexpected visitor to dampen your
sexploits?”

“That was months ago…” she said, trying to wave Tara
off like she didn’t even care. “A fluke—”

“Period,” Tara finished for her.

“How was I supposed to know it was going to arrive
right when I did?” she said defensively. “It’s always been like clockwork, and
then I—”

“Didn’t even have a liner.” Tara bowed her head down,
shaking it gently back and forth in pity.

“It’s not like I—”

“Utterly grossed out Fynn and Minnesotans everywhere?”
she offered.

“No one even knew.” Catherine’s face was beet red,
though. Now she definitely didn’t feel sorry about withholding the engagement
news—not one bit.

“
I
know and I wasn’t even there.”

“Shut up! I don’t need to relive it. It was horrible. Awful.
My worst nightmare come true, alright? Is that what you want to hear?”

“Pretty much,” Tara said, shrugging.

“Happy New Year to you then. Now leave it in the past
where it belongs,” she warned.

“So what was with the goofy-ass grin I chased away?”
Tara prodded, satisfied that she’d done her job of knocking her friend back
down to earth. She took a sip of her blacker-than-black coffee that seemed to
go against everything she stood for. Coffee was the only unadulterated thing she
was into. She liked her food injected with fake colors and preferably sugar,
salt, or fat-filled. She like her men pierced and tattooed. She like herself
fully studded and accessorized. But coffee? That was only good straight out of
the pot.

“Nothing much. Nice long weekend. Getting married.
Good nights’ sleep. The usual,” Catherine mumbled around a muffin she’d snagged
from the conference room table even though she wasn’t exactly attending the
meeting where they were serving breakfast munchies.
They should lock them up
if they don’t want the natives to eat cake.

“Stop. Back up. Pull over. What did you just say?”

“I’m getting married.” She faced her friend, waggling
the
ring
in her face, self-satisfied smile broadening. She’d wanted to make her
suffer for the news after the crap she’d just taken, but it was just too good
not to share.

“Holy shit,” Tara breathed, satisfyingly caught
off-guard for a half second. And then came the jab. “I didn’t think you had the
guts to settle down.”

She should have ducked. “Now what’s that supposed to
mean?”

“Exactly what I said.” There were no flies on Tara.
Calling a spade a spade was her specialty.

“It’s not a question of guts,” she said darkly, her
stomach churning as if to defy her. “I just never found the right guy before.”

“And you’re
sure
Fynn’s the one?”

“Of course,” she choked out, hoping it seemed more like
her voice was being assaulted by muffin crumbs rather than misgivings, which
she most certainly
wasn’t
having, except maybe regarding her friendship
with Tara.

Friends weren’t supposed to question their friends’
choices. They were supposed to support them. They were supposed to speak only
when spoken to…
or is that children?
… Well, at least she knew friends
were the ones in your life who were supposed to help you figure out what to do—when
asked.
And Tara most certainly wasn’t asked. When you made an
announcement, true friends were supposed to wholly back it no matter how crazy.
And marrying Fynn wasn’t crazy. It was the least crazy thing she had agreed to
do all year. It was only five days in, but it was still a good solid start.
Tara
should be her cheerleader not her personal devil’s advocate.
This is exactly
why you aren’t my maid of honor, bitch.
She shoved another hunk of
chocolate chip muffin into her mouth to stop herself from saying as much.

“So, when do you leave?” Tara asked, perfectly
blandly.

“Leave?”

“Yeah.” Tara gestured at the cubicle they had shared
for the past five years. Their tiny little work home. Catherine’s side generally
cluttered and vanilla-bland; Tara’s side visually overwhelming, plastered with
bumper stickers for obscure punk bands. And on one upright pin-board wall they
shared, there was the chalk outline of a body from last Halloween—complete with
stains where the blood wouldn’t come off, although the police tape had long
since been removed. Tara also had a riotous collection of accessories like she
was running a Spencer’s franchise out of her half, although Lillian, the head
of their department, had drawn the line at anything sexual, which is why Tara
got such a kick out of having a penis pen in her drawer that she used for
conferences and meetings. Without the cap (or head, as it was) it had gone
unnoticed for months right in front of Lillian’s pinched face.

“After… I guess,” Catherine said hesitantly. She
hadn’t thought about her job at all. Of course she had to quit if she married
Fynn and moved to Nekoyah to live happily ever after. That kind of commute would
be murder; she appropriately looked to John Doe on the wall. They hadn’t really
discussed the logistics of the situation; the engagement kind of crowded out
any of the heavy-lifting stuff like when or how she would transfer her life to
central time.

“Just forget I asked.” Tara put her hands up in
surrender. “I know that look.”

“What look?”

“The one that starts you rethinking everything from
what shoes you wore today, to where you were planning to have lunch, to the
whole concept of marriage.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Catherine snapped, reaching
into her tote bag and pulling out a brown bag, dangling it in front of Tara’s
face to prove that she was one up on her—she didn’t even plan to go out for
lunch today.

“Exactly,” Tara said in grim triumph. “Let’s see how
happy you are with that when I bring back a sloppy-ass burger and fries for
lunch.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Catherine gasped, grasping the
bag that held the tiny microwavable bowl of low calorie, low fat, low flavor soup
to her chest. Today was the beginning, a new leaf turned, and it would be hard
enough without battling the smell of fast food.

“What did you bring? A lemon?” she asked, referencing
the sour expression that Catherine could feel on her face at the mere thought
of eating what she’d packed. Tara snatched the lunch bag and dumped the
contents on Catherine’s desk. “Good luck with that,” she said with a smirk. “If
you’re real good and finish everything, I’ll take you to ice cream for dessert.”

“But I brought my dessert,” she whined, pointing at
the tiny cup of yogurt—plain yogurt that she had bought by accident and pushed
way back in the fridge just in case Armageddon hit before February 23
^rd
and
she was at risk of starving. Turns out it
had
arrived, in the form of a
wedding to plan and pay for. She needed to slim down and tighten the purse
strings.

“That’s not dessert. Nobody actually eats
plain
yogurt.”

“Then what is it sold for?”

“I think it’s used as glue in some circles.”

“Well, I’m eating it,” she said, trying not to gag.
“So I will thank you not to tempt me with all your throw-caution-to-the-wind
diet habits that are only good for people with freakish metabolisms. I can’t
afford to eat—”

“That muffin?” Tara chuckled, pointing at her first
downfall.

Catherine looked to her hand and dropped the offensive
breakfast food that she hadn’t thought twice about before stealing.
How can
I reform when I don’t even recognize when I’m falling off the wagon?

“Nice try, though,” Tara offered charitably. You made
it to 9 o’clock.”

“Dammit, I need to fit in a wedding dress…. I have to
find
a wedding dress.”

“Just buy a dress that fits you right now and keep
eating the way you have been.”

The girl had a point. But if that were really true,
then why were brides always battling to fit in their dresses? … Maybe Tara’s
seemingly logical reasoning went against the laws of physics or something. And then
there was Catherine Marie poking at her from the other side, reminding her that
a proper bride should not be a careless slob. She should look her best and feel
her best.
Damn you, Catherine Marie, for being so full of sense—for packing
that damn yogurt—for being you!
Years under Elizabeth Hemmings had made
Catherine Marie a minion to all that was practical and right and proper and
disgusting. The ninny.

“I came as soon as I could,” Georgia said
breathlessly, fumbling through the door with her arms overloaded. Nell’s infant
seat was hooked over one arm and provisions—
Bride
,
Modern Bride
,
Over
the Hill Bride,
and
Phew! Finally Getting Hitched—
were nestled in
the other along with pads and journals and a fistful of pens. “We have a lot to
do.” She plopped herself down, rocking Nell’s seat gently to put her back to
sleep after all the jostling from the stairs. “You really need an elevator.
Having kids in a walk-up—”

Before Catherine could respond to the topic of living
here or having kids or any of the assumptions that Georgia was bringing to the
table in a rush, the sound of breaking plates erupted from the kitchen, and
Nell woke with a shriek.

“What was that?” Georgia hissed, her eyes flashing
with anger. “I almost had her out again.”

But Tara answered that question, considering she was
actually the one in the know. “I hope you weren’t planning to use that platter
for anything,” she hollered.

“Not tonight,” Catherine grumbled, taking a sip of her
wine and rolling her eyes. She hadn’t used that platter even once yet; she’d
bought it on a whim when she first moved into the apartment, imagining that
maybe someday she would throw a dinner party or other grown-up event.  

“You got a dustpan around here?” she yelled again.

“Under the sink,” Catherine snapped, watching Georgia
fight to extricate Nell from the straps of the infant seat. It still hadn’t
ceased to amaze her that Georgia was a mother now. She had a daughter who
needed her on a minute-by-minute basis for everything. She was selfless, while
Catherine was still childlessly, and sometimes even childishly, selfish. Then out
came her friend’s breast for the umpteenth time over the last month and
Catherine hugged her own chest closer to her. She happened to like her breasts
as they were—less utilitarian and more naughty.

“What is
she
doing here?” Georgia whispered
once Nell was firmly latched on; obviously irritated by the addition of a noisy
third wheel.

She shrugged like it was out of her hands, even though
she’d invited Tara over, trying to keep her nose from getting too far out of
joint since she could only have one right-hand woman and Tara wasn’t her. It
sucked having two close friends jockeying for position.

“So what did you bring me?” Catherine asked, feigning
total excitement when she really felt a certain amount of dread. She loved
Georgia, but she also knew that her friend was coming from an otherworldly
realm—a Cinderella state of wedded bliss. When it came to Thomas Love, money
was no object; which meant the planning process was unhindered by such paltry things
as food and shelter. The Loves’ wedding had it all—personal ice sculpture,
doves, cathedral, penthouse reception. Theirs was a wedding fit for royalty and
heads of state. Catherine’s wedding was going to be a significant downer,
possibly subfloor, more of a basement-level event. But, on the other hand, if
she had put Tara in charge—certified-single Tara—then nothing would get done
and she would be flying by the seat of her pants up to and through the wedding,
possibly on a trapeze for that matter, as part of a circus theme.

“I have been saving these for a special occasion,” Georgia
squealed with girlish delight.

“You planning to dump old Mr. Love and remarry someday?”
Tara asked, coming in from the kitchen with a plate of nachos, cheese dripping
off the edges.

“What the hell, Tara?” Catherine wailed, thinking of
how she’d never felt this hungry in her entire life. Her yogurt had gone in the
trash—just didn’t have the guts to eat it—and the soup hadn’t held her an hour.

“They’re for
me
. If you even reach for one I
will break your fingers, okay?” she threatened around a mouthful of gooey
cheese.

“Anyway,” Georgia said, rolling her eyes and shifting
Nell to the other boob. “We really need to get down—”

“You know, I have to say that I’m impressed with that
whole breastfeeding thing. I would have thought you too uptight to let it all
hang out there like that.” Tara pointed toward her chest with a cheese-covered
chip.

Catherine could see the tight set of Georgia’s jaw and
she stepped in before things went any further. “I was hoping that you could help
me with the invitations, Georgia. What printer did you use? Yours were
beautiful.”
Not that I could ever afford them. They were probably engraved.

“Oh, I have the card right here,” she said quickly,
using her free hand to snap open the tab on her journal. She sifted through
several pages of clear plastic sleeves filled with business cards. “They are
so
good, and quick too. A bit pricey, but I thought the extra money was worth it
to avoid mistakes and lag time.”

“Wonderful!” Catherine took the card, knowing she
would never call.

“Why don’t you just e-mail invites and be done with
it? Completely free. Lightning fast,” Tara offered.

“You
can’t
be serious,” Georgia clucked.

“You can’t sound any more stuck up,” Tara bit back,
crunching another chip.

“I’ll look into both options,” Catherine said, stomach
rumbling, trying to be Switzerland at the same time she fought the urge to grab
the nachos and shove her face in the plateful, scarfing them down in one fell
swoop she would regret later.

“Well, I’m going to send the bachelorette invites that
way. They have great templates online,” Tara said, plunking herself down next
to Catherine like she was staking claim. “I used them for my cousin’s lingerie
party when she got divorced.”

Georgia’s eyes widened as she turned to Catherine
accusingly.

“A lingerie party for a divorce?” Catherine asked
excitedly, turning out of Georgia’s death stare and focusing on less difficult
things.

“Yeah,” Tara said matter-of-factly. “She was married
forever and when she finally wised up and dumped the ass we thought she needed
to get her groove on. Garters, thongs, edible undies—the works.”

Georgia cleared her throat and Catherine knew she was
being summoned onto the carpet. She glanced toward her oldest friend in the
world and then back at her most unorthodox friend ever, feeling like a total
heel.             

“Well, I—you see, Tara… I asked Georgia to be my—”

Tara didn’t even let her finish. “What do you mean
Georgia is your maid of honor? She isn’t even a
maid
,” she pointed out
smartly.

“We made a pact way back in college. I was hers and
she was going to be mine.”

“Isn’t there some kind of statute of limitations on
that? It’s been almost two decades!”

“
That
is not helping your cause,” Catherine
shuddered. Besides, there was the fact that Tara’s idea of a bachelorette party
would probably land them in jail, and the shower would… well, probably land
them in jail, and the toast… that would probably land guests in the hospital,
what with the possibility of heart attacks in several of their older guests.
She was too—unrestrained was the nicest way to put it.

“I just mean that we’ve been friends long enough now
that I shouldn’t always take a backseat to Georgia. Shouldn’t the friend who
got you and Fynn together in the first place—”

“We
both
had something to do with that,”
Georgia retorted.

“Oh, are we on the snacks again? Because I believe
that we settled that back in the trenches in Minnesota. You just don’t have the
stomach for larceny,” Tara tossed back.

Georgia pfft’d. “Like I even
want
to have the
stomach for it.”

“I was the one with the plan. They fell in love. And now
I should be honored,” Tara said simply, turning to Catherine for her blessing.

Georgia turned her attention to Catherine as well.
Both of them waiting for her grand statement proving them right. Then even Nell
got in on the action, popping off the breast to fix an albeit hazy gaze on her
godmother. Hardly fair.

“Besides,” Tara added, “she’s all dumpy and post-baby,
while I would rock the dress. Better wedding pictures with me,” she sang, even
though they all knew that Georgia looked spectacular.

“You are already going to be in the wedding pictures.
As a bridesmaid,” Catherine assured her.

“Way to throw a bone.”

“I can always replace you with Lacey,” she pointed
out.

“Oh please, like that will ever happen.” Tara let out
a bark at the ridiculousness of it.

Catherine’s silence was her final warning, not that
she wanted to follow through with the threat—
this is going to hurt me more
than it hurts you.

“Oh, alright. Bridesmaid it is. But I get to choose my
own dress.”

“Bridesmaid, and
I
will choose your dress,”
Catherine trumped her, imagining the black and the garters and the lacing Tara
would pick. “You’ll wear what the rest of the party wears.”

“But I’m going to choose my own shoes,” Tara said
forcefully.

“Fine. Shoes only. The rest is mine.” Catherine made a
mental note to go with full-length gowns, perhaps even small pooling trains, on
her wedding party—just in case.

“So when is this shindig going to be?” Tara asked.

“I was thinking March.” Catherine mentally bit her lip
in anticipation of the reaction.

“It’s beautiful that time of year. Way underrated as a
wedding month if you ask me,” Georgia said supportively, already up to the
matron of honor task. “Absolutely lovely here in New York… is this where you’re
doing it?”

“I don’t really know that yet.”

“That’s okay, you have time.”

“You think?” she asked, relieved. She’d been pretty
sure that she was cutting it close, but if Georgia thought she was doing okay
then she must be on track.

“Not to say that we shouldn’t start hammering out details
and looking at reception spots. Although you’re on your own with that if you end
up in Nekoyah.
Me
going there
now
would be difficult.”

Tara humphed loudly, voicing her I-told-you-so about
the slack maid of honor appointment before heading back to the kitchen.

“Not Nekoyah. But maybe back home in Chesterton?” An
uncertain question.

Georgia looked through the pages of her journal while
expertly burping little Nell in the opposite direction. “Let’s see… we should
definitely get the location figured out within the next two months. At the very
least the state,” she chuckled.

“But I only have—” She couldn’t get the rest of the
words out, turning deep shades of red.

“She’s choking!” Tara hurled herself into action.

Catherine shook her head, hacking and unable to speak,
the motions making her look even more distressed rather than putting her friend
off.

“Stand back, I know what I’m doing,” Tara announced,
as if a crowd surrounded them rather than just a bewildered Georgia cradling a
semiconscious Nell.

She tugged her to standing and clasped her arms around
her midsection, yanking violently upward, wrenching free the words that had
caught in her throat. “Two months,” Catherine spewed out into the air.

“That’s what I said.” Georgia looked unperturbed.

“I mean
just
two months,” Catherine stressed. “That’s
when I want to get married.
This
March.”

“Excuse me?” Georgia’s mouth dropped open in protest.

“I saved your life and I don’t even get a thank you?”
Tara prodded.

“She wasn’t choking, Tara.”

“She most certainly was.”

“She was coughing. You’re never supposed to do the
Heimlich on someone who’s coughing,” Georgia pointed out bitterly.

“So now you’re an expert on that, too? Weddings
and
chokings? How am I supposed to compete with such a hero?”

“Quit it!” Catherine hollered.

“I’m just sayin’,” Tara grumbled.

Georgia flipped to the calendar page in her journal. “Did
you really just say you want to get married
two months
from now?”

She nodded her head shamefully.

“How do you expect to pull that off?” Georgia
challenged.

“People do it all the time.”

“What people?”

“Just people… that I’ve heard about… around….”
Catherine said evasively. She couldn’t think of a single example. But that
didn’t mean it couldn’t be done, right?

Catherine could see Georgia was trying her best to
remain calm and not bitch her out for being nuts. If Tara hadn’t been right
there with them, she probably would have gone ballistic, but Georgia didn’t
like to show any weakness in their friendship that Tara could capitalize on.

“I think March is perfect,” Tara purred, catching the schism
vibe and wrenching it open further.

“But
this
March? What’s the rush?” Georgia
asked. “You’ve only known each other eight months.

“What’s the wait?” Catherine countered.

“Because you can’t plan anything worth planning in
only two months.”

“Well maybe I want to be married before I’m
thirty-five—one week, one day, one minute before, for that matter; just so long
as it’s
before
.”

“But it’s so arbitrary to put an age on it,” Georgia
pointed out.

“Oh sure, Mrs. Thirty, thirty-five is
arbitrary
,”
Catherine mocked. They had both wanted to marry before thirty, and Georgia had
made that happen. So what that she’d had almost a year to plan it. She made her
dream come true. Now she had the successful husband and a new baby girl (before
she turned thirty-five—another goal reached) and here she was dashing
Catherine’s goals and dreams as if they were capricious and ridiculous?

“I’m not saying that,” Georgia retorted.

“But that
is
what you just said,” Tara pointed
out helpfully.

Georgia cut a lethal look toward her runner-up for
maid of honor, but she engaged Catherine instead. “I’m not knocking your desire
to be married sooner rather than later. I just wanted to help you create perfection…
and with two months, well, that’s going to be impossible.”