A Wedding on Primrose Street (Life In Icicle Falls Book 7) (7 page)

Oh, boy. Laney braced herself.

“Only that she needs to be sure she really wants to get married at Primrose Haus,” Aunt Kendra replied calmly.

Okay, here it comes.
Mom was going to breathe fire now and turn every chocolate shake in the place into hot chocolate. “Well, of course she does,” Mom snapped. She smiled at Laney. “You do like it, don’t you?”

“Yeah. It’s nice.” If they had the reception there that would make everyone happy.

Mom nodded. “I knew you’d love it.”

It could work. She and Drake could make this wedding fun. Somehow...

Ten minutes later they were all seated at a booth, working their way through gigantic burgers, fries and shakes and throwing out wedding ideas. Neither Grammy nor Mom seemed very excited about Laney getting married on a raft on the river.

“What if you fall in?” Grammy worried, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. She wore her gray hair in the same oversprayed helmet she’d worn in her own wedding pictures. There’d been no getting married on a raft for Grammy.

Or Mom.

But it appealed to Laney. “If I did, it would be something to remember,” she joked.

“Not in a good way,” Mom said.

“Oh, she wouldn’t fall in,” said Aunt Kendra. “That only happens in movies.”

“And on
America’s Funniest Home Videos
,” Mom said with a frown. “You don’t want your wedding to be a joke.”

No, she didn’t. And her mom was the wedding organizer, the specialist. Of course Mom would work with her to make sure she had a perfect wedding.

But would it be hers?

Chapter Eight

Daphne, the Warrior Princess

D
aphne was back in Seattle, in her old house, on special assignment. Her job was to gather tax returns, financial statements and pay stubs.

“Don’t worry,” her new lawyer, Shirley Schneck, assured Daphne when they met. “We’ll see that both of you get exactly what’s coming to you.” And the glint in her eye didn’t bode well for Mitchell.

“She’s a barracuda,” Dot Morrison had told Daphne. “Thanks to her, I lost my best waitress. The girl got such a good settlement she was able to quit. Went back to school and became a dental hygienist. Shirley’s divorced herself. She thinks all men are spawn of Satan. The woman will make sure your cheating husband gets pounded into the ground.”

Looking at Shirley, it was hard to imagine her pounding anyone into the ground. She was around Daphne’s age with a plump, motherly face and figure to match. When they’d met, she’d been dressed in black slacks and a pale pink sweater accented with a fringed scarf—hardly the kind of apparel lawyers on TV wore. Her office was like something Martha Stewart would have designed with mint-green walls and antique (no leather!) furniture and paintings of flowers hanging on the wall.

But the sweet face had suddenly turned menacing. It had made Daphne glad that Shirley was working
for
her and not against her, and she’d left Shirley’s office fired up and ready for battle.

Returning home to the scene of the crime had doused the fire. Mitchell’s time to pack up his things was long gone and so was he. No more husband.

She stood in the living room, looking around at the house she’d worked so hard to turn into a home. She’d redone the living room only last fall, using a soothing tan palette. She’d paid a fortune for that deep chocolate mohair couch. And she and Mitchell had repainted the kitchen this past summer. “Yellow’s such a happy color,” she’d said, and he’d smiled and agreed. It had been so cozy, the two of them in the kitchen, painting.

He’d actually seemed to enjoy that project, even though he hadn’t been very excited about it when she’d first brought up the idea. Mitchell, obviously, had been very good at faking it.

But he couldn’t have been faking
every
happy moment they had together. He sure hadn’t faked enjoying the sex; that much she knew.

And he’d sounded so sincere when he insisted, “I love you, Daph. That thing with Stella meant nothing.”

Men said that in movies all the time. Apparently, they said it in real life, too. “How long have you been with her, Mitchell? How long has she meant nothing?” she’d demanded. Probably as long as he’d been “having to” work late, which made it about three months. For three months her husband had been pretending to love her while he hooked up with another woman. For three months she hadn’t been enough. Or maybe longer. Maybe there’d been other women, too.

She ran a hand along the back of the couch. They’d made love on that couch on New Year’s Eve.

She’d sell the thing. Or set it on fire. With Mitchell strapped to it.

She sighed and moved into the office, where she spent the first part of the afternoon pulling together the information requested by her lawyer. Then she packed up the rest of her clothes. That done, she went to the garage to get her golf clubs. She could spend some time at the Mountain Meadows Golf Course.

The sight of them and her golf shoes brought tears to her eyes. She and Mitchell had taken lessons together. She’d envisioned them wintering in Arizona when they retired, playing golf, relaxing at the club and drinking iced tea.
Oh, Mitchell. Why did you have to be such a weasel?

She grabbed the bag. She’d sell the stupid clubs on eBay. She really wasn’t very good in spite of the lessons.

And there were his clubs, sitting right next to hers. She’d told him to get his stuff out of here. Maybe she’d sell his clubs, too. In fact, looking around, she saw quite a lot of stuff that should’ve been gone by now. Well, then, she’d make a little run to Goodwill.
You snooze, you lose, Mitchell.

Into her car trunk went not only her cheating husband’s golf clubs but his drill and toolbox. Oh, and his tennis racket. He was much too busy banging Stella to play tennis these days. He’d be furious when he found that stuff missing but, oh, well. He’d had more than enough time to get it gone. Anyway, what was he going to do, sue her? Ha-ha.

She was finished by five. A good day’s work, she thought, pleased with herself. She was shocked to see that he still had a few clothes in the closet. Perhaps he’d moved in with Stella and was running around her place naked.

The idea of Mitchell running around some other woman’s house naked sent a tear streaking down Daphne’s cheek.
No, no, no
, she told herself. There would be no more crying over Mitchell.

She showered, put on fresh makeup and then went to meet some of her old friends from work for dinner at Anthony’s Home Port in Shilshole. There she treated herself to a Dungeness crab salad and some chowder and plenty of bread, and washed it all down with white wine and encouragement from the girls.

“You’re well rid of him,” said her friend Ellie Meyers. “What a creep.”

“He’s lucky you don’t Bobbitt him,” put in Carrie Anne Hodges, the office manager.

“Bobbitt him? What does that mean?” asked one of the younger women.

“Look up Lorena Bobbitt on Google and you’ll see,” one of the older women said.

“You cut off his troublemaker,” Carrie Anne explained. “I would.”

“Whoa,” Ellie said, “does Terrence know this side of you?”

“You bet,” Carrie Anne said and stabbed her salmon fillet.

Carrie Anne had been married for twenty-nine years. No doubt fear and intimidation was how she kept her man.

Susan the bookkeeper shook her head. “You’re so full of it. I’ve seen you two together. You’re, like, soul mates.”

Daphne sighed. She’d thought Mitchell was her soul mate. He loved romantic comedies as much as she did. And fine wines and travel. Although they hadn’t done much traveling—mostly weekend trips to San Diego or Vegas. Mitchell had an ex-wife and he had child support to pay. Now Daphne couldn’t help wondering about that ex. He’d said she was a real witch, insecure and possessive. Jealous. Had he given her reason to be? And what had he told Stella about Daphne? She didn’t want to know.

From appetizers to dessert, dinner was a pep rally for Daphne. “You can do it.”...“Divorce him.”...“You’ll be so much happier.”

That was hard to believe, she thought when she came back to her house for a good night’s sleep before returning to Icicle Falls. The place felt so...empty. Just like she did. She sighed and flopped onto the couch, staring at the lifeless TV. No sense turning it on since she’d discontinued the cable. She was in no mood to watch TV anyway. She much preferred to sit there and mope, remembering the good years she’d had with Mitchell. Like that time a friend lent him his sailboat and they went out on Lake Washington. It had been a perfect day, even though there’d been no wind. They’d motored around the lake, eating Brie cheese and crackers and drinking white wine. Then there’d been that weekend trip to Astoria last summer. They’d had so much fun walking along the waterfront, dining in that cute seaside restaurant. And that night...

She grabbed a sofa pillow and hugged it. How could a man make love so sweetly and not love a woman? Maybe the thing with Stella really didn’t mean anything. Everyone made mistakes, right? He’d been so sorry, so upset, when she confronted him. Perhaps she should give him a second chance. She’d sleep on it.

She climbed the stairs to the master bedroom, changed into an old nightgown and went to bed. A hot flash hit her and suddenly the covers were too much. She kicked them off.

Even the simple act of kicking off the covers triggered a memory—Mitchell fetching an ice cube from the freezer and rubbing it all over her, the feel of the ice melting on her skin, then the touch of his lips as they followed its wet trail. She hated being in bed all by herself, hated being in this house all by herself. She’d never liked being alone. There was something so forlorn and unsettling about it. And she never felt safe. Every little noise set her nerves on edge.

She wished she’d gone ahead and driven back to Icicle Falls after her evening with the girls. She wouldn’t have gotten in until late, but at least she wouldn’t have been all alone in a big bed in a small house.

Don’t be silly
, she told herself. Her Ballard neighborhood was perfectly safe.
Think about something else.

Well, that was a dumb idea. She lay there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about something else—her third divorce. Third time’s the charm, right? Wrong. With her and Mitchell it had been more a case of three’s company. She scowled. She shouldn’t give him a second chance. That was just crazy.

But what they’d had together was good...

Until it wasn’t. She punched her pillow and rolled over onto her side. She probably wouldn’t sleep a wink.

* * *

At midnight Daphne was jerked out of a sound sleep by a noise. Downstairs. Someone was in the house. Here in her safe neighborhood in Ballard. She scooped up her cell phone and dashed to the bedroom door to lock it. And when it wouldn’t lock, she remembered that the lock was broken. Why, oh, why hadn’t she gotten it fixed? She could hear the soft rumble of a male voice downstairs. Was it getting closer? Was the intruder coming upstairs?

Her heart was banging against her chest, crying, “Let me out!” She dashed into the bathroom. Maybe she could jump out the bathroom window. She shut and locked the bathroom door. Then she called 9-1-1. “There’s a burglar in my house,” she whimpered as she slid open the window. She gave the woman on the other end of the call her address and added, “I’m alone.”
Again. For the third time. And now I’m going to get burgled. Alone.
This was so unfair! So sick and wrong. Mitchell should be here getting burgled along with her.

“The police will be there right away,” said the nice lady. “I’ll stay on the line with you until they arrive.”

A lot of help a voice on the phone would be.
Go away, burglar, or the lady on the phone will yell at you.
Daphne stuck her head out the window and looked down. A second story didn’t sound that far up until you contemplated jumping from one. She’d break a leg. Or her back.

“Meanwhile, have you got a safe room, someplace where you can go and lock the door?”

“I’m in the bathroom.”
Thinking about jumping.

“Good. Lock the door and stay there until the police come.”

A flimsy lock on a bathroom door probably wouldn’t stop a burglar. But maybe the burglar wouldn’t care about the bathroom. Well, unless he had to go potty.

Daphne looked around for a weapon she could use in case the intruder had a weak bladder. Snapping him with a towel wouldn’t help much. Too bad the mirror was screwed into the wall. She could’ve broken it over his head. The toilet plunger! She grabbed it and braced herself against the wall.

The voice was in the bedroom now. Aaaaah! Daphne’s heart was going to explode. She was going to pass out right here on the bathroom floor.

She heard another voice. The burglar had an accomplice. A female.

Wait a minute.

She tiptoed to the door and pressed her ear to it.

“Baby, you make me so hot.”

The burglar was having sex in her bedroom? Of all the nerve!

“There’s no one like you, baby. Oh, yeah, that’s what Daddy likes.”

Daphne’s eyes narrowed. She knew that voice and that pathetic no-one-like-you line. “Never mind,” she told the woman on the phone. “The burglar is my husband. I’ll take care of this on my own.”

Now Stella was saying, “Mitchell. The bed’s unmade. Has someone been here?”

Daphne unlocked the door and threw it open. “As a matter of fact, someone has.”

“Daph,” he gasped in shock. There he stood with his pants pooled around his ankles. His partner in infidelity already had her blouse off, her boobs wrapped in a black lace bra. They weren’t even that big. Mitchell had left her for...that?

Daphne was across the room before you could say “dirty, rotten cheater.” She gave Mitchell a whack with the toilet plunger. She’d been aiming for his head but missed, catching him instead on the shoulder. Still, the yelp of pain it produced was hugely satisfying.

It was like playing Whack-a-Mole. Only better. Whack-a-Rat. She took another swing, this time catching his arms, which were raised in self-defense.

“Daphne, cut it out,” he protested, trying to both protect himself and get his pants back up.

“You were supposed to be out of the house,” she growled and took another swing. He ducked and she missed.
Strike one.

“I came back to get some things,” he explained, hopping away and yanking his pants up.

“I can see what you came back to get. You came back to get laid.” Daphne swung again as Mitchell jumped onto the bed.
Strike two.
Next time she was going to connect and hit a home run...with his head. “In our house, Mitchell. Our bed!”

“Daph, stop,” he begged, struggling to dodge the toilet plunger and zip up his pants.

Stop? Not until his head was flatter than a pancake.

Meanwhile, his partner in romantic crime had her hands in her fake red hair and was screaming like a character in a horror movie. Daphne turned on her. “And you,” she said in disgust. “You must be Stella.”

“No!” the woman cried. “I’m Lydia.”

“Lydia?” He’d moved on to yet another woman? Lydia, Stella, Rumpelstiltskin—Daphne didn’t care who the woman was. She was toast. “Whoever you are, that’s my husband.”

“We’re separated,” Mitchell protested as Daphne raised the toilet plunger.

Lydia didn’t stick around for any more details. She fled the room, screeching all the way.

Before Daphne could pursue her, Mitchell jerked the plunger out of her hands.
Strike three. Go back to the dugout.
Three was
not
her lucky number.

“Daph, calm down,” he commanded.

“Calm down? Are you serious?” He’d scared her half to death and then humiliated her. Again. She was ready to expire from adrenaline overload and he was telling her to calm down? “Why are you here?” she demanded. “And give me back my toilet plunger.”