Melissa Senate (11 page)

T
HE NEXT MORNING, SHEETS OF RAIN POURED DOWN FROM THE
gray sky. I could barely see out the windshield, even with the windshield wipers swishing like crazy. Stella was supposed to drive this morning, but she couldn’t drive straight when the weather was crystal clear.

“Let’s just wait it out,” she said, pouring her new container of malt balls into a cup in the holder between us. Last night, after saying goodbye and good luck to the V Squared, we’d gone to four different convenience stores, drugstores and supermarkets to find Stella’s addiction. No luck. But after we’d snapped a few photographs of the USS Enterprise for Tom, hoping they wouldn’t be too dark, Stella had had the brilliant idea to check a movie theater. She bought ten containers.

We’d both vowed to eat better from here on in, for ourselves and for Silas or Clarissa. To make up for the malt balls, which she couldn’t and wouldn’t give up, she promised to eat twice as many vegetables and fruits. Our motel had set up a continental breakfast in the little lobby, so we’d helped ourselves to bran muffins and fruit and read the local paper. I had to hand it to Stella for giving up caffeine so completely and without complaint. I
needed
my morning coffee.

She’d been impressing me since we left Maine. Yesterday, as we’d left the motel for dinner at Spock Block, she’d asked the desk clerk for the name and number of the nearest pharmacy, then called her OB’s service and left a message asking them to call her in a new prescription for her stolen prenatal vitamins first thing in the morning. After breakfast, she walked the few blocks to pick it up. The twin sister who never seemed to care much about anything cared very much about the baby.

When the rain let up enough for me to at least see street signs, we took off, but stopped a few blocks up at the sight of two familiar flashes of platinum-blond hair at the corner. And two upturned thumbs.

“Oh, God, is that Vincent and Vanessa?” I said, squinting at the windshield. “Hitchhiking?”

Stella peered, too. “We’d better give them a ride. They are definitely too stupid to live.”

“I hate that expression.”

“But they are,” she responded, malt ball in her cheek. “If we don’t pick them up, who knows whose car they’ll get into. Vanessa will be sold into sex slavery and Vincent will be found wrapped in plastic bags in some river.”

I grimaced at her, pulled over in front of the singing teenaged lovebirds, and rolled down the windows. “I thought you were hanging out here for a while and then you were catching a bus or train for Nashville.”

“We really, really talked last night,” Vanessa said, adjusting the wet newspaper on her head. “We don’t want to wait to get married. Once our parents hear we’re engaged, they’ll totally try to talk us out of it. So we’re going to Las Vegas! To an Elvis wedding chapel! Did you know that an Elvis impersonator will not only officiate, but serenade you after the ceremony? I totally want to get that on videotape.” She turned to Vincent, who stood dripping wet next to her, no newspaper on his platinum-blond head. No poof, either. “Who’ll videotape, though? It’ll just be us. No friends, no family.” She gnawed her lip.

“The employees will act as witnesses,” I said. “So, someone will film the ceremony if you want.”

“If we
pay
for it,” Vincent said.

“Don’t worry!” she snapped at him. “We’ll earn a fortune on the karaoke contest circuit. We’ll pay our way down and have enough for an amazing hotel room, too.”

“Why didn’t you just ask us for a ride?” I said. “You could have just knocked on our door this morning.”

“Honestly?” Vanessa said. “We weren’t sure we’d want to spend that long in a car with you two.”

Stella threw a malt ball at her.

Vincent turned on his hundred-watt smile. “But since we’re headed the same way and no one’s stopped for us, can we hitch a ride?”

“How are you going to help pay for gas?” Stella asked in her best smug voice.

“We’ll sing for you,” Vanessa said in all earnestness.

“Hop in,” I told them. They both sagged with relief, threw their duffel bags in the trunk, and got in the backseat.

And sing they did. Elvis songs we’d never heard before. Then Vincent broke out with
Bridge Over Troubled Water
and a Marilyn Manson song to show his range. Vanessa sang Carrie Underwood, her idol. Then they both slept, mouths open, in the backseat for close to forty-five minutes, until the loudest wail of a fire truck siren woke them up.

I thought about telling them of our brief brush with fame, but there seemed little point. Vincent’s stomach audibly growled, so we stopped for lunch at a cute place called Attack of the Killer Salad.

We lined up to choose our greens and mix-ins and dressings. Vincent asked the woman behind the counter if there was a discount for choosing fewer than the six add-ins you got for six dollars and ninety-nine cents. I assured him that lunch was on me, and he asked for grilled salmon in his salad, which was extra. Vanessa wanted shrimp. Grifters.

“So are you two going to pick stage names? Like Shania Twain?” Stella asked as we sat down with our trays at a booth.

“Twain isn’t a stage name,” Vanessa said, spearing a cucumber. “It was her stepfather’s last name. She renamed herself Shania from Eileen. But she had to do that. I mean, how many Eileens have become superstars?”

“How many Shanias have?” Stella asked.

“Yeah, but Shania is original and cool,” Vincent said. “It has cred.”

My mother once told me and Stella that when the jobs stopped coming in, our father had wanted to change our names and market us as adorable “fresh” six-year-olds, but my mother had refused. We were Ruby and Stella Miller, and if that wasn’t good enough for the agencies, too bad. According to my mother, Eric Miller had said it
was
too bad and that she didn’t know a whit about the entertainment industry or how it worked. If we had changed our names, I often wondered what our father would call us at home. By the new name or the old?

“Anyway, we already have stage names,” Vincent said, popping a crouton into his mouth. “My
given
name is Andrew, but forget that totalitarian bullshit. Just because I was named after my father doesn’t mean I have to carry that albatross on my back.”

The teacher in me yearned to say something about his mixed metaphors, but at least he was using them.

“Is your name really Vanessa?” I asked his female half.

“In my soul it is,” she said. “But my birth certificate says Kathryn. With a
K.
And an
R-Y-N.
If you’re going to name your kid that, why not go for the real thing,
Catherine,
the way it was meant to be spelled. The
Jane Eyre
way.”

“Wuthering Heights,”
I corrected.

She thought about that for a minute. “Oh, that’s right.
Wuthering Heights.
With Heathcliff. Omigod, Vincent, maybe we should go by Catherine and Heathcliff instead of Vanessa and Vincent. I could call you Heath.”

“Isn’t that, like, a candy bar?” he asked. “I like Vincent better.”

“Fine,” she said. “Vincent. It’s very artisty, anyway.”

“I think you should call yourselves V Squared,” Stella said.

Vincent stared at her as though she had an extra head. “That doesn’t sound very country. We’re going to be known as Vincent and Vanessa.”

That didn’t sound very country, either, but as a former New Yorker and Mainer, what did I know about such things?

“Stella once changed her name for an entire summer,” I said. “At sleepaway camp. Only the camp staff and I knew that her name wasn’t really Hermione.”

Vanessa snorted. “That’s so lame. Let me guess, you just read
Harry Potter
or something.”

“Or something,” Stella retorted with a dirty look. She smiled. “Actually you’re right. And I’m proud of it, bitch.”

Vanessa was shocked for a split second before she realized Stella was kidding. About the
bitch.
She burst out laughing. “Omigod, I love you guys.”

Good thing, because we had twenty-one hours of traveling left.

Somewhere between Des Moines and the Nebraska border in Omaha, Vincent and Vanessa moved to opposite ends of the backseat. They sat with their arms crossed over their chests, both staring out their respective windows. Every now and then, Vanessa would fiddle with her ring.

Stella had told them about the list of questions that couples should ask before getting married, and most of them, which I had to struggle to remember, V Squared dismissed with snorts and grimaces (would they have kids and who would take care of said kids) or
Oh, please, who cares?
(ways in which their families bugged them), and
Who gave a rat’s ass
(the division of household chores). As for discussing financial goals and spending habits, their answer was:
What money?
They’d never discussed their health histories, yet did so in the car. Family health issues included cancer, agoraphobia and tonsillectomies. They started making out to the question about whether or not each was affectionate to the degree the other wanted, and unfortunately demonstrated their answer to how comfortable they were talking about their sexual desires.

They both wanted a television in the bedroom. They both grew up attending the same Congregational church and liked God and thought it was retro-cool to go to church every Sunday.

One question tripped them up. (And it wasn’t number fifteen.)

“Wait a minute,” Vanessa said. “You
actually
think you listen to me? You actually think you consider the stuff I say and complain about?”

“Well, c’mon, Kath, you know you make a big deal out of everything.” He rolled his eyes in our direction.

“First of all, it’s
Vanessa,
” she snapped. “And second of all, excuse me?” This was when she started inching over toward the window.

“Yeah, but who you really are is Kathryn. And Kathryn stresses about everything. Just because you changed your name doesn’t mean you’re not the same person.”

“That’s deep,
Andrew,
” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

Stella turned around to face them. “So do you two think the bond between you can survive this little argument?” she asked a little too gleefully.

“I’m not speaking to him at the moment,” Vanessa said.

Vincent rolled his eyes. “See what I mean?” he said to Stella.

“What are the other questions?” Vanessa asked. “I think
Andrew
and I should definitely make sure our answers mesh.”

“There was one about friends,” I said. “If you respect the other’s friends, like them, etc.”

Vanessa snorted. “His friends are morons.”

“Your friends are stupid sluts,” Vincent retorted.

“Stop this car!” Vanessa said. “Stop this car right now.”

“Vanessa,” I said, “it’s getting dark, and I want to be in Lincoln before I have trouble reading the street signs. I think you two should discuss these questions like adults. If you are adults. Because only adults should get married.”

“Preachy,” Vanessa muttered.

“Okay, Samantha isn’t a stupid slut,” Vincent said.

“Why, because she would sleep with you when she was your girlfriend?”

“Ooh, you used to date Vanessa’s friend?” Stella asked. “That’s tough.”

“I didn’t love her,” Vincent snapped at me. “So it doesn’t matter.”

“Really?” Vanessa asked, inching closer. “You didn’t?”

“I’ve only ever loved you,” he said. Which prompted another long make out session, hands roving everywhere,
I am so sorry I said that
amid their breathy moans and
I love you so much.

“There’s just one more we didn’t cover,” I said. “About whether or not there’s anything you will
not
give up in the marriage.”

“Like a deal breaker?” Vincent said, glancing at Vanessa.

I nodded. “A deal breaker.”

“Neither of us wants to ever go back to Minnesota, so that totally takes care of all the questions about our families getting up our butts. That stuff probably causes more problems for couples than anything.”

He finally had a good point.

Luckily for us, the lovebirds got into another huge fight at a gas station in Omaha.

They decided to “hang there” and live among the plains, maybe take a bus or train up to the famous Highway 12 and ride along the Outlaw Trail, where Jesse James and his gang hid among the deep canyons and brush cover. According to Vincent, God would shepherd them to Las Vegas when it was the right time, then over to Nashville and make them stars. They wouldn’t forget our hospitality and, oh, yeah, could they borrow fifty bucks? They’d pay us back and then some with the payout from their first gig.

Oh, and if I had the URL for the
New York Times
article, they’d appreciate it.

T
HE HOTEL THAT
R
ORY BOOKED FOR US IN
L
INCOLN
, N
EBRASKA
,
was not only called The Double Sisters Inn, but our stay had been prepaid. Stella insisted it was karma. For our generosity to V Squared of fifty bucks, a few meals and a long hard look at their relationship, we now could splurge on a very expensive dinner.

But the very best part was that Rory had paid for two rooms! Which meant I finally had a break from Stella. I would not have to listen to her snore for an entire night. The moment I was alone in my room (the sign above the door dubbed it The Peaceful Room), I called Rory to thank him, but got his machine and left an effusive message. I owed him one.

In fifteen minutes, Stella and I were expected by the proprietors, two women in their fifties, for “the quiet hour” in the parlor, so I had only fifteen minutes to flop on my bed and breathe deeply. The room was so lovely! The walls were the palest salmon and the furnishings a warm wood. Fresh flowers were on the old-fashioned bureau, and a round rug of faded cabbage roses decorated the wide-planked wood floors in front of the bed. And the bed was so grand—four-poster with a gauzy canopy and down-filled pillows.

I forced myself off the bed, did a quick freshening up in the tiny private bathroom, and knocked on Stella’s door, but she must have already left. In the Victorian-style parlor, I found her sitting on the love seat by the bay window. The proprietors hovered over her with a large box of tea to choose from.

“Delightful!” Maxine said. “Ruby is here as well.”

After we chose our teas, the two women hurried off to the kitchen and quickly returned, one holding a tray containing pots of tea and cream and sugar, the other holding a tray of tiny sandwiches and plates of cookies.

This was heaven.

The women sat across from us on a matching love seat and told us all about themselves. They were Charlotte and Maxine Holcomb, also fraternal twins. (And they were thrilled to hear that Stella and I were as well.) The sisters looked almost identical and had the same style, which Stella would refer to as Hippie Dippie. Meaning long hair (in this case, an ash-brown with streaks of gray), long skirts (gauze and earth-toned), long necklaces (and many, from colorful beads to pendants, including a Jewish star and a cross), long earrings (one wore feathers, the other tiny pugs), no makeup (and good skin), and a sense of both serenity and joy. They’d married brothers (not twins) in a double wedding ceremony and had been happily married for almost twenty-five years.

Maxine was telling us about the history of The Double Sisters, which was located out in the country, but a short drive to downtown and the varied neighborhoods. She and Charlotte had grown up smack in the middle of Nebraska, in a town with a population of eighty-six. They’d dreamed of moving to Lincoln, the big city, and starting a dress shop, which they did and still owned, and then they decided to start a bed-and-breakfast that would cater to small-towners like they’d been and make them feel welcome and safe and cared for. So the two sets of siblings decided to invest in the antique farmhouse with its gorgeous gardens and start a business. The husbands were both in-demand carpenters and craftsmen, and their skills showed in every room.

Stella and I had once talked about opening a bed-and-breakfast in Blueberry Hills, the town our mother loved so much. Blueberry was semi-famous for its annual summer (you guessed it—blueberry) festival in August, with its carnival and craft show and buckets upon buckets of blueberries. The festival attracted a good crowd, and area inns and motels were always booked for that weekend. When our mother died, we thought we’d honor her by opening our own inn, something she’d often talked about, but when we sat down with a book about opening an inn, we quickly discovered the expense and management of running a bed-and-breakfast would prove beyond us. Besides, Stella had decided she couldn’t live in Maine, couldn’t give up New York, until she was at least eighty.

“Congratulations, dear!” Maxine suddenly said, and I realized she was looking at my ring. “When is the big day?”

“We haven’t set a date,” I said, taking a bite of a tiny chicken salad sandwich.

“Because she’s still deciding if she should marry him,” Stella announced. “She’s not sure.”

“Stella!” I snapped around my food. How dared she? It was one thing to voice her opinions to me—or “kid” to Rory or the engaged teenagers, who needed a discussion about marriage, but it was quite another to the proprietors of our bed-and-breakfast.

“That’s quite common,” Charlotte said, smiling gently at me. “It could be a case of cold feet, or a case of the brains, or a case of the just-not-readies.”

“Which is it, dear?” Maxine asked, holding out the plate of cookies.

I took a raspberry-filled butter cookie. “The only one who isn’t sure if I should marry Tom is you, Stella,” I said, shooting her a glare. “I’m
quite
sure.”

Because Tom was safe? Because he would never leave me? Because I could count on him forever? Were those the reasons why I loved him? Did I not love him for him? But those reasons
were
Tom. So how in the world could you differentiate?

The sisters smiled at us and munched on their cookies. “It’s a good thing we were sure we were dating the wrong brothers,” Charlotte said. “Can you imagine if I married William? We would have killed each other before our first anniversary!”

Stella and I stared at each other. “You switched husbands?” I asked.

“Well, they weren’t our husbands then,” Maxine said, pouring a cup of tea for herself. “We switched boyfriends. Oh, it’s such fun to remember! I was dating CJ, and Charlotte was dating William, but I thought William was so handsome, and Charlotte loved how quiet CJ was, and how his silences drove me bananas! So we pulled the ole twin switch on a double date to find out if we might really like the other guy better. Now mind you, this was when we’d only been out a few times, so they weren’t able to tell us apart.”

I laughed. “Did you tell them the night that you switched?”

Maxine smiled. “We came clean the next day, after Charlotte and I had talked it over. We had no idea how they’d react. I mean, just because we look alike doesn’t mean we are alike necessarily. The boys might have liked their original girls. But it turned out they were happy with the switch, too.”

“CJ couldn’t stand Maxine’s laugh,” Charlotte said playfully. “He thought she laughed too loud and talked too loud and too much. He still thinks so.”

That earned Charlotte a gentle nudge in the ribs from Maxine. “And William thought Charlotte was way too full of herself, all high-and-mighty.”

“I am and rightly so,” Charlotte said, and both sisters dissolved in laughter. It was clear why CJ didn’t want to listen to Maxine laugh for the rest of her life. She had the Janice-from-
Friends
laugh. But louder, and slower.

“But how did you know the other brother was The One?” I asked. “I understand how you knew the original guy wasn’t.”

“I think you know someone is The One when you want to say yes, heart, mind, and soul,” Maxine said.

“Do you want to say yes to Tom heart, mind, and soul?” Stella asked, her eyes in Face Reader concentration. I’d seen her adopt that look enough times to know she was getting ready to give me her own personal lie-detector test.

“Yes,” I said in all truthfulness. If she’d added “and body,” I might have had to say no.

I lay in a lavender-scented bubble bath in a white clawfoot tub, a row of tea candles along the edge of the wall, and a refreshing glass of lemon-water in reach-distance. I’d never been to a spa, but now I understood why women went. When I got back home, I’d have to re-create this in my bathroom, complete with thick, soft pale-green towels and a cuddly terry robe and matching slippers. A variety of bath lotions also awaited my exit from the tub, but I planned to stay in for hours. My plan was to just lay there and think. About Tom. About Nick. About pink bridesmaid dresses. About getting married in Las Vegas. About not.

My cell phone rang. Nick.

“Um, could you just hang on for a moment,” I asked him. “I’m just getting out of a bubble bath.”

I wondered if he was picturing me naked. Given how he said he felt about me, I assumed he was. But I’d always felt so…
not
undressed by Nick McDermott’s eyes. I always felt asexual around him, that I wasn’t the type of woman who’d interest McDreamy. The way Sonia Flores, our Spanish teacher, or Jennifer Tarp (Latin) or Christine Calverton (social studies) did. These women all had one thing in common: playboy-bunny figures and breathy voices. Jennifer wasn’t particularly pretty, but that body! And she had a Marilyn Monroe voice that seemed utterly incongruent for the teaching of Latin, but which transfixed men. Including Nick. They’d dated for two weeks, and then Jennifer began arriving at school in a bad mood for a couple of weeks.

I put on the robe and slippers and padded into my room and flopped down on my back on the bed.

“Hi,” I said.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“In an adorable bed-and-breakfast in Lincoln, Nebraska. And it’s called The Double Sisters Inn—isn’t that amazing? My cousin, Rory—I have to tell you all about him and how we met—he booked me and Stella here, and paid in advance for two separate rooms, and you should see the clawfoot tub—”

“I’ll be there by midnight,” he said. “If I can get a flight that leaves right away.”

I sat up. “What?”

“I’ve always wanted to see Nebraska. The Oregon trail. Isn’t that where Jesse James and his gang hid?”

“That’s way up north,” I said. “Lincoln is actually—”

“I don’t really want to see Nebraska, Ruby. I want to see
you.
I need to talk to you, face-to-face.”

“So you’re really going to fly out here? Right now?”

“Isn’t that what Saturdays are for? See you soon,” he said.

I knocked on Stella’s door. She was curled up in the peach chair next to the window, reading
The Girlfriends’ Guide to Pregnancy,
which she’d bought during her brief exploration of downtown Lincoln. While I’d been in deep relaxation in the tub, Stella had done some serious shopping. This included buying two dresses at Maxine and Charlotte’s dress shop, one for her and one for me. Same dress in different colors that, according to Maxine, matched our color palette. Apparently, I was a summer and should never wear black. Stella was a winter, and therefore looked stunning in black. Our dresses were cotton and sleeveless and to the knee, with a row of gingham at the empire waist. Stella’s was white and mine a pale pink. We both already had several flip-flops to match.

Do not tell Stella about Nick. Do not tell Stella about Nick. Do not tell Stella about Nick.

I paced in front of the window, toyed with the velvet pink drapery and tucked my hair behind my ears over and over.

“Ruby, what the hell is wrong with you?” Stella asked, staring at me.

“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing. Why would anything be wrong? Nothing’s wrong. Nothing!” I tucked my hair behind my ears again, but it wouldn’t stay and I slid down onto the floor onto my butt.

Stella peered over the bed at me. “Okay, I’m sorry about what I said before. I’m sorry for everything I’ve ever done. But doesn’t the dress I bought for you make up for—”

“Nick is coming here. He’s on a plane right now. Well, he’s on his way to the airport right now.”

“Nick?” she repeated. “The hot teacher?”

I shot up and resumed pacing, toying with the drapes, fiddling with my hair. I repeated my mantra not to tell her, and then told her everything.

Her mouth dropped open. “Talk about a grand gesture! Ruby, don’t you see? Even the universe is telling you not to marry Tom Truby. Not to be Ruby Truby.”

“I’m scared,” I whispered, sitting down on her bed. “He’s coming here, Stella. I won’t cheat on Tom. I won’t do that.”

“Is kissing Nick cheating?” she asked. “I don’t think it is.”

“Actually, I think it is. An emotional affair is no different than a sexual affair. In fact, an emotional affair might be worse, because the heart is involved.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So you’re going to not kiss—or sleep with—the guy of your dreams, of your every fantasy, the guy who’s telling you he wants a chance with you, so that you can not cheat on your dull fiancé, who you don’t love and shouldn’t marry?”

I stood up and walked back to the windows, staring out at the row of trees. I would not be able to convince Stella that I did love Tom. But the thing was, I did.

Then why didn’t I call him every night? Why didn’t I rush to tell him all about Rory? About the inn? About the burglary? About the mini USS Enterprise? Why did I want to tell Nick everything, but not Tom?

Tom was willing to fly to Las Vegas to marry me in a drive-through chapel, and I…wasn’t. Yet, anyway.

“Well, the good news for you, Ruby, is that he’s en route. So whatever happens is out of your hands.”

“Of course it’s in my hands,” I said. “I control what happens to me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ruby, you should think with your heart more. Less with your head.”

“My heart says Nick is a womanizer. That I’ll destroy my relationship with Tom for a couple of weeks, a couple of tortured months with a guy who’ll break my heart.”

“You don’t know he’ll break your heart.”

“Yes, I do, Stell. He’s not interested in a relationship. Or he’s incapable.”

“Or he hasn’t met the right woman.”

I shook my head. “I’m sure the right woman has come and gone several times and he wasn’t willing to get serious, or he got distracted by the next hot babe.”

“Then it hasn’t been the right time,” Stella said. “The right person stops you dead in your tracks.”

“It’s never been the right time for Nick. I find that suspicious.”

“Lemme ask you something,” she said. “If Tom hadn’t proposed, would you be hoping he would?”