A Most Unpleasant Wedding (2 page)

Bonnie brightened. “Please, it's Tee and Bonnie.”

“Then, Edward and Elizabeth.”

The dinner bell rang. To reinforce the invitation, Tim appeared in the doorway. “Dinner is served.”

Tee and Bonnie excused themselves. Arnold hauled himself up and left. Rico stared at the plate of canapés.

“Finish those, young man,” said Aunt Pearl. “You've got plenty of time.”

“Elizabeth,” said Simpson, “I believe you came perilously close to impudence.”

She tossed her head. “I'm sorry, Edward. There's something about the Lawrences that brings out my sassy side.”

Mr. Bole nodded. “I expect you find them a bit…ordinary.”

“I hate the idea of coordinated match covers and serviettes.”

Mr. Bole chuckled. “You could probably skip the matches altogether, unless you're planning to set fire to the place.”

“Bite your tongue,” said Aunt Pearl. “You know how things happen around here.” She leaned toward Rico. “I don't want to alarm you, dear, but things happen around here.”

He swallowed a canapé. “Things?”

“We've had the odd mishap,” said Mr. Bole, “which is why Miss Dutton objected to my facetious remark.”

Rico nodded. He wrapped the remainder of the canapés in his serviette. “Sorry. Excuse me.”

“Of course.” Pearl watched Carty disappear into the lobby. “Lovely young man.” She turned to Miss Miller. “I know what you mean about the Lawrences. I'm sure they're just fine, but that Ken and Barbie act is a bit much.”

“They have matching accessories,” said Miss Miller.

“Precious,” said Aunt Pearl.

Mr. Bole nodded. “Rather conventional couple. I imagine Mrs. Lawrence's taste in weddings tends toward the gaudy. In my opinion, the quirky ones are the most fun. I once attended a wedding on the Nile. The couple — they were Egyptologists — and the entire wedding party dressed as the court of King Tut.”

Aunt Pearl gave him a bleary look over her martini. “Ever think of tying the knot, James?”

He hesitated. “There was a young woman at the University of Toronto when I was a graduate student.” He thought for a moment. “And a young lady I met later — music tour of Europe — and a young woman I met while studying Thomson's gazelle in Tanganyika, as it was called then.” He paused. “I'm not trying to impress you as a Casanova by any means. Just to say I've met many interesting women through the years, all of whom would have made a man consider matrimony.”

Aunt Pearl smirked. “Well, as they say, it's the thought that counts.”

Mr. Bole finished his gin and tonic. “Of course, men are more apt to be marriageable when we're young. We tend to get set in our ways as we get older.” He put his glass down. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you'll excuse me, my mouth is watering for Gregoire's filet mignon.”

Aunt Pearl turned to her Drambuie chaser. “James Bole is afraid a woman might come between him and his finger puppets.”

Miss Miller tilted her head. “Aunt Pearl, do you have designs on Mr. Bole?”

She waved this off. “Hell, no. I've known James Bole for years. He's like a brother to me. Besides being a lousy dancer, he can't play poker, and has no sense of humour to speak of. I can't imagine being that desperate.”

Trevor and Margaret Rudley, proprietors of the Pleasant Inn, were at the front desk as the guests drifted in for dinner. Albert, their large, hairy dog, lay on the rug in the centre of the lobby, rolling over periodically to trip the uninitiated.

“Mrs. Sawchuck,” Rudley said as she hobbled past the desk, “I wanted you to know that I've apprehended the centipede in your bathroom.”

She gasped, put a hand to her mouth. “You killed it, didn't you?”

“You'll never see that particular centipede again.”

She sighed with relief. “I couldn't have slept a wink, knowing it was there.”

“And if you couldn't have slept, I'm sure I couldn't have either.”

He accepted her effusive appreciation, waited until she was out of sight, and grinned a lopsided grin.

He'd found the poor creature clinging to the tiles, probably paralyzed with fear by Mrs. Sawchuck's screams, gathered it into a Kleenex, and released it outdoors.

“Why a woman who wants to bludgeon every living thing chooses to vacation at a country inn is beyond me,” he said.

Margaret pulled the menu plan from the shelf. “Out of curiosity, where did you put the centipede this time?”

“Oh, I found him a rotting log. I'm sure he'll find it to his liking.”

“That was thoughtful of you, Rudley.”

Norman and Geraldine paused on their way to the dining room.

“By this time tomorrow, you'll be on your camping adventure,” Norman said.

“Leaving late afternoon,” Rudley said. “In time to set up camp before supper.”

“I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time,” Geraldine said. “Norman and I have spent many memorable nights under the stars.”

Rudley cleared his throat. “I can well imagine.” He waited until they were out of earshot, then added, “Although I will try very hard not to.”

“What was that, Rudley?”

“Oh, nothing, Margaret. Just muttering to myself.”

She folded the menu, tucked it away. “It was nice to see Mr. Carty stop for cocktails. I was afraid he might have trouble fitting in. I don't think we've ever had someone so young. And he seems so bashful.”

“He's a respectful young man.”

“I hope he hasn't come here to do himself in. I mean, at his age, and all by himself.”

Rudley crossed his eyes. “Let's not put a hex on the season. I think he's just a mature, independent sort.”

Margaret paused as the Lawrences crossed the lobby. “They seem to be a successful young couple.”

“Stylish.”

“Quite a change from our usual clientele.”

“Once you get past the baggy shorts and dentures, I'm sure they're much the same.”

“They seem consumed with appearances.”

He tilted his head, smiled. “I imagine if we were to put in some hot tubs, a tanning station, some computer outlets in the dining room, we could attract more of their type. We could have the staff in spandex.”

Margaret had taken an aster from the vase and was in the process of trimming the stem. She hit him over the head with it. “Bite your tongue, Rudley.”

“You're right, Margaret. The idea of Gregoire in spandex is appalling.”

“I think the Lawrences like the inn just as it is. He's an avid fisherman. She seems keen on the local art community.”

“Quite right, although I don't think I'd want an inn full of them.” He paused as Jack Arnold sauntered in. “Or him.”

Margaret shuddered. “Yes, I've noticed him leering at Tiffany and Trudy, and especially at Mrs. Lawrence.”

Rudley sniffed. “The man's a skirt-chaser. After a few drinks, Aunt Pearl wouldn't be safe.”

She gave the aster an encouraging fluff. “I don't understand how a man turns out that way.”

“Poor upbringing,” Rudley said. “I, for one, was raised by a father who never entertained a lascivious thought. Except occasionally for my mother, I suppose.” He thought about his father, a straightforward, hard-working, old-time family doctor who saw patients day and night. Wouldn't have had time for a lascivious thought if he'd wanted one. Went to church on Sundays. Demanded that his children be active and productive. Treated his wife with affection and respect. He had no patience with philanderers.

“He mentioned he's divorced.”

“He would have to be. I can't imagine any woman in her right mind putting up with his shenanigans.”

“At least he's not sneaky about it. I suppose he's a tragic figure.”

“I think he's just a twit who got hooked on swilling booze and bothering girls in high school and never grew out of making a nuisance of himself.”

“That's tragic, Rudley.”

“I suppose.”

She touched his arm. “We should be ashamed of ourselves for gossiping about the guests.”

Rudley nodded. “Yes, Margaret, they deserve their privacy. As long as they pay their bills and don't undress in the lobby.”

Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson called out a hello as they entered the lobby.

“Did you have a nice trip to the islands?”

“Wonderful.”

“It was quite an adventure, Mrs. Rudley,” said Simpson.

“How was the new boat?” Rudley asked.

Miss Miller smiled. “Your craft showed wonderful stability and responsiveness.”

“Able to recover from a ninety-degree list, I gather.”

“Heart-stopping,” Simpson murmured.

“Perfect,” said Miss Miller.

Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson went on into the dining room.

“I am so glad they chose to have their wedding here,” Margaret said. She gave Rudley a peck on the cheek. “Isn't it romantic, having a wedding here?”

“Yes, Margaret.”

“I can't wait to find out which setting they choose.”

“If Miss Miller keeps doing wheelies around the shoal markers, the wedding's going to be in the local emergency room.”

“Bite your tongue, Rudley.” Margaret left to check on the dining room.

Rudley shook his head. Miss Miller was a spirited young woman — much like Margaret when he first met her. He could still see her sailing over the hedgerows on that chestnut hunter while he stood, hands over his eyes, occasionally taking an anguished peek through his fingers. Margaret was much more sedate these days. Not because she'd lost her spirit, but because she'd come to the conclusion it was unkind to make a horse jump for his oats. She had never supported the fox hunt and had regularly attended meetings and protests with the anti-fox-hunting group at home. That was one of the things that attracted him to Margaret — her kindness.

He had met Margaret in London, England, while studying hotel management. It was love at first sight. He smiled, did a brisk foxtrot behind the desk, snapped himself back and hastily drew out the register as a group of dinner guests passed through the lobby. Margaret loved his nimble feet. Best dancer west of London. Not bad for a boy from Galt. That was the only reason his father hadn't disowned him when he decided to become an innkeeper. He was relieved he hadn't chosen a career in dance. Fine man, his father. But a bit of a stick-in-the-mud.

He paused to watch the pace of the wait staff pick up as the dining room filled. Handsome young Tim, Trudy, now a college student, back for the summer, and Mrs. Millotte. “Stiff old fart,” he muttered. “Although she may loosen up now that she's taken up the bongos.” He drummed out a little beat on the register, smiled, leaned over the desk.

He and Margaret had owned the Pleasant for over a quarter of a century. The fine old inn with its scattered guest cottages and sublime surroundings was his pride and joy. Everything in apple-pie order, thanks to his strange but incomparable handyman, Lloyd Brawly. The man could have been Dr. Frankenstein's right-hand man, he thought, but since he could lathe a spindle with the best of them, he could stay as long as he wanted to — probably forever.

They all acted as if they planned to stay forever. Sometimes the staff reminded him of a nest of fledglings: They surely had somewhere better to go, but the nest was just too comfortable.

Take Tiffany, he thought. Talented young woman with a master's degree in English literature. She'd just had a book of short stories published — by some obscure feminist press. Nevertheless, he considered the publication an achievement. Tiffany had come to him from Toronto for a summer job five years before. Since then, she'd run through half the eligible bachelors in the vicinity. Rather particular. Much as Mrs. Rudley had been. He smiled. Tim McAuley glided past the door of the dining room. The man would have been on stage at the Royal Alex by now if he hadn't found an outlet for his talent in Margaret's summer theatre. He'd done a wonderful Henry Higgins in
Pygmalion
.

Margaret bustled out from the kitchen with a tray. “Gregoire sent you out some supper,” she said. “There's no place for you to sit in the dining room.” She deposited the tray on the desk and hurried away.

Rudley lifted the first lid. Spicy tomato bisque. Nice little avocado side salad. He lifted the lid of the entrée, inhaled deeply. Grilled salmon steak with dilled butter, asparagus spears, potatoes lyonnaise. And — he opened the box containing the dessert — Gregoire's exquisite pecan pie. One and a half inches of ambrosia, topped with pecans jostling each other for space.

He pulled up his stool, sat down, spreading his serviette over his knees. Wonderful cook, Gregoire. Damned temperamental though. He sampled the salmon, closed his eyes in bliss. At least he'd stopped experimenting with wild mushrooms. He had to admit they were more flavourful than the cultivated ones, even the ones Lloyd grew in his pile of rotting logs, but they had their drawbacks. We'll have to get in a mycologist one day, he decided, to map out the location of the more poisonous varieties.

He sighed. Tried the salad. The past six months had been perfect. Splendid winter with a traditional sleigh-bell Christmas, tobogganing, and ice fishing. Norman had run into the bramble bush. But no serious harm done. He was able to manipulate his fishing gear well enough with one hand and even managed to catch a fish or two, something he seldom accomplished when the lake was open. Maybe he had better luck because the fish couldn't see him in the winter. “I can imagine it would be rather frightening, staring up into those buck teeth,” he muttered.

Lovely spring. The lawns covered with tulips and narcissus, crocuses and hyacinth, daffodils and flags. They had put on their usual Easter parade, and, now, with that beautiful period of spring merging into summer, a wedding. Life was good.

He paused, a perfect piece of avocado hovering. The camping adventure. That was a bit of a bump. But Margaret was enthusiastic. Great girl, Margaret. Impossible to deny her a cherished dream: lying on a damp forest floor, being devoured by mosquitoes. He scowled, then coaxed himself into a smile. In spite of the camping trip, he had to admit the life of an innkeeper was damn near perfect.