On the Way to a Wedding (14 page)

The car.

Water dripped from her hair over her skin and tapped on the tiles. She needed another towel for her hair. Better not hop, not on the wet floor. She reached for her crutch.

So what if he was giving her a ride? Somebody needed to give her a ride, and he seemed to want to stay away from his work to let his would-be partner have some space.

She’d better hurry. He’d be here soon. If he was really coming. He couldn’t possibly want to work on grad decorations, could he? Last night, he was only being polite. She eased another towel off the shelf and felt the one around her loosening. The crutch wobbled.

At any rate, if he did come this morning and if he did drive her to Cochrane, she’d get the forms signed so they could release her poor old Honda from the police impound. So it could be towed to Calgary to the insurance company’s impound. So they could write it off and pay her out.

And somehow, she’d have to make time to buy another car.

Still gripping her crutch, she shook out the other towel. After Cochrane, she’d spend an hour or so with Mrs. Sidorsky. Ryder could leave her at the school.

And then she would borrow Isabelle’s car, drive to Kalispell, and talk to Aunt Glenda like she’d wanted to do in the first place.

Little drops of water still rolled off the ends of her hair, pinging down on the tiles. She propped the crutch on the wall, stood on her right foot, and bent over to wrap the towel around her head.

· · · · ·

“How did you get in?”

He wondered that himself. Toria stood in front of him in the doorway of her apartment, her hair in a towel and her body wrapped in a frayed, pink robe.

Her nosy neighbor was probably monitoring this. Mrs. Loony Toony.

“One of your building residents let me in,” he told her. “A young couple on their way out. They really shouldn’t do that.”

“I know.”

She held up her purple foot as she moved with her crutches away from the door to let him come in. Her face was clean and shiny, without makeup. Fresh out of the shower, he guessed. It looked like she never wore makeup, because she always looked like this.

And right now, she looked flustered. She was trying to retie the belt of her robe and balance on her crutches at the same time.

“Have you had breakfast?” He took hold of the belt, brushing his hands over hers.

She jumped back, dropped one of the crutches and clutched her robe.

“I’m tying it for you,” he said. And he did, as quickly as he could. While he tried not to think of her naked body under―

Wrong
.

The belt secured, he bent down and retrieved the fallen crutch. “Have you?” he asked.

“Have I what?”

“Had breakfast?”

She smiled then, and she seemed to relax a little. “Just coffee.” Her face and throat were flushed, a pretty pink. Was she blushing?

She probably wanted to get dressed. “Want me to make breakfast?” he asked. “I noticed some eggs in the fridge last night.”

She smiled at him like he was her savior. “Don’t look like that,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Like it’s going to be really good.”

“It
is
going to be really good. I’m hungry. There’s bread in the freezer if you’d like toast.” She took the crutch from him. “Sorry, I’m not ready. I overslept.”

“No problem. Take your time.” It wasn’t like he had anything else to do.

She hobbled down the hall, and he headed into the kitchen. And then he remembered the I-beams and wondered if Jim had contacted Rona. Automatically, he reached for his cell, index finger hovering over the speed dial.

He waited a moment, and realized he was interfering. Then he turned off the power button, and returned the cell to the clip on his belt.

Jim could handle it.

· · · · ·

Half an hour later, they were finishing breakfast on the balcony, sitting on the two rusty lawn chairs in the warm sunshine. Monday’s storm was forgotten.

“More coffee?” He picked up the coffee pot from the tree stump table.

“Please.” She held up her mug. “You don’t need to wait on me, you know.”

“It’s nothing.” And then again, maybe it
was
something, since he rarely cooked. Tim Hortons was breakfast central for him. For most of them.

He refilled her mug and set the coffee pot beside the pink daisies.

No, not daisies. “What are these?”

“Impatiens.”

“Mmm,” he said, picking up the jug of milk and adding some to her cup. Her foot still needed the tensor bandage but the rest of her was dressed. Nice fitting jeans, a white long-sleeved blouse and a navy blue cardigan with a denim collar. He set down the milk jug and picked up the tensor. “Give me your foot.”

“I can do it.”

“So can I.”

She watched him, took a sip of her coffee and did not move her foot.

Better rephrase that. “I would like to do it,” he said. “Please.”

She smiled then, turned in her chair and held out her poor purple foot. He propped her ankle on his knee.

She sipped more coffee. “Did you talk to your partner this morning?”

“He’s not my partner yet.” He wound the bandage around her foot. “And yes, I talked to him before I came over.” He finished with the tensor and secured it with the clips. “And now he’s on his own.”

“Does that worry you? Having him in charge?”

In charge. Jim.

“He can’t do anything I can’t fix.”

“You wouldn’t leave him, if you thought you’d have to fix things.”

Right
. He wouldn’t. It wasn’t leaving Jim in charge that was the problem.

“I’ve been the boss for so long.” Too long, now that he thought about it. He’d never planned to have anything this big. But now . . . “I guess I’m worried about―” What? Losing control?

“You’re worried about . . .” She prompted him.

“Everything,” he admitted. “Sharing the responsibility. Having to make joint decisions. Everything.”

“You’ll be learning while he learns.” Another sip of coffee.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I will.”

Having breakfast on her balcony was like finding an oasis of calm. For the first time in days, he could finally relax and forget about everything.

Someone knocked on the door.

Irritability replaced the calm. He glanced at Toria. She shrugged.

“I’ll get it.” He stood. “And somebody should put up a sign,” he said, sliding open the balcony screen door. “Or they should have a meeting about letting people just walk in here.”

A few seconds later he was at the door.

“You again,” Greg Lorimer said, standing in the hallway.

“Yeah,” Ryder answered. “Me.”

The loony neighbor had her door slightly ajar. Lorimer held a small Bow Valley Courier package in his hands.

“You own the black Dodge Ram?” Lorimer asked.

“Yeah, it’s mine. Did you want something?”

“I’m here to see Victoria. This
is
her apartment, isn’t it?”

Anger flared inside Ryder’s chest. His fists clenched by his sides, and with all the willpower he could muster, he took a deep breath and stepped out of the way.

As he stood by the open door, he wondered, again, what was wrong with him? This crazy, out-of-proportion response to seeing Toria’s fiancé baffled him.

She was coming in from the balcony and one crutch was across the threshold when she saw Lorimer . . . and stopped.

“How’s the foot, darling? Feeling better?”

“I feel a lot better,” she said, holding her chin up and making herself tall.

Yeah. They were having an argument. He was convinced of it. Not that it made him happy, or anything . . .

“Toria! Good morning!” Pro walked in.

Pro?

Surprised, Ryder checked outside the door to see if anyone
else
was out there. Loony’s door remained partly open. The old lady wasn’t satisfied with just the peep hole. He closed the apartment door.

“Morning, Ryder. How are you?”

I’m wondering what the hell is going on.
“I’m―”

“Who are
you
?” Lorimer turned away from Toria and focused on Pro. Pick a number and come on up. This was ridiculous.

“Prometheus Jones,” Pro said, extending his hand to Lorimer. “Toria wanted me to draft a prenup for her.”

· · · · ·

“A prenup? You want a prenup, darling? What for?”

“What are they usually for?” She smiled, her parent-teacher interview smile. And she would have screamed at Greg if Ryder had not been there.

“So that’s what this is all about?” Greg was rocking on his heels, as if a sour deal had suddenly gone right again. “Good,” he said, sounding pleased. “We can talk tonight.” He turned to look at Pro and Ryder. “Should I make an appointment?”

“Why don’t you call to see if I’m here?” Breathe, she told herself. And then she realized he had the Bow Valley courier package in his hand, tapping it on his leg. Like he could slip the ring back on her finger. A noose around her neck.

“Eight,” he said. “Tonight.” His cell rang. He checked the readout, stuffed the courier package in his suit coat and left.

She let go of the sigh she’d been holding in. Time out. Obviously, she needed to do something more about getting rid of Greg.

But, Pro was here? She didn’t actually remember asking Pro to help her with a prenup. Why would she have done that?

“You want to do a prenup now?” Ryder looked impatient as he talked to Pro. “We’re on our way to Cochrane.”

“Of course,” Pro said. And
his
cell rang.

Although, Toria thought, having Pro show up like this, out of the blue, was a stroke of luck.

“Did you want to do Cochrane later?” Ryder asked, his impatience seeming to leave him as quickly as it had come.

“No,” Pro answered for her. “Don’t do that. That was Aunt Tizzy.”

Toria remembered. Pro had mentioned his Aunt Tizzy when they’d been at the cabin on Tuesday morning. She was the one who made the brandy peaches.

“Aunt Tizzy,” Ryder repeated, like he had his doubts about her.

“She needs me . . . for something.”

“How come you’re not at work?” Ryder asked. “Don’t you have to be at work?”

“I do,” Pro said. “But Aunt Tizzy has something important she needs me for. So,” he looked at his watch, “I’d better be going.”

· · · · ·

After that, Ryder drove Toria to Cochrane. On the way, he spent about ten minutes telling her about the beams, and then, when she did not tell him to
not
worry, he forgot about worrying. They spent the rest of the time talking about the Grad Dance, Isabelle’s involvement with the students, and the importance of hands-on learning.

“If you insist on building this waterfall, you’re going to have to do it in a supervisory capacity.”

“I know how to supervise. I do it all the time.”

“These are students, not framers.”

“We’re all students of some sort.”

She ignored that comment and continued. “The students will build it. You will act as a resource person.”

“Wow. A resource person. Never thought I’d be a resource person.”

“Don’t be silly.”

At the Cochrane RCMP office, no one had any real questions for Toria. The papers were quickly signed. She cleared out her glove compartment and they headed back to Calgary and the school.

· · · · ·

Catherine waited on the couch in the dressing room, studying the guest seating, and penciling in changes while her mother paced.

“Can’t he leave his work for one blessed morning?”

“He said he’d be here,” Catherine told her. “He will. He’s reliable.” That was one thing about Ryder—he was reliable. She might not be able to get him to do much but if he said he’d do something, he would.

Now, was it a good idea to sit Aunt Anita beside Aunt Matilda? Probably not. The two sisters never got along . . . never wanted to share the limelight.

“It’s ten-thirty. He was supposed to be here half an hour ago. Can’t you reach him on his cell?”

As though she hadn’t already thought of that. “His cell is out of service.” And it was odd for Ryder to have his cell turned off. “He’ll be here. Don’t worry. Something must have happened at work.”

Her mother continued to pace. “Maybe a roof fell on somebody. He
would
think that was more important than getting fitted for his tux.”

“His work is important to him,” Catherine said without looking up.

“His work is his life. He should have finished his degree.”

A warning clanged inside her head and her pencil broke. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Her mother stopped pacing and turned to face her. “But, Catherine, three
years
of an engineering degree and he walks away from it? For a summer job?”

“He . . . he liked it. And he was making too much money to go back.”

Her mother returned to her pacing and said, “Anyway, he’s thinking of finishing his degree once his work slows down. Once he has a partner helping him.”

“How do you know that?” Ryder hadn’t told her anything about going back to school.

“Remember, sweetheart, his mother works for your father. She mentioned that Ryder was thinking of finishing his degree. Not that the woman cares one way or the other.” The pacing stopped, and her mother faced her. “Your sisters’ husbands make a lot of money too, you know, but they’re lawyers. They work in an office . . . with set hours.”

Here we go again. “Lawyers who don’t make nearly the kind of money Ryder does. I thought you liked it that he made a lot of money?”

“Of course I do. I mean . . . it doesn’t matter. It’s just that your sisters―”

“Can we talk about something else?”

“Yes. Yes, we can.”

A pause. Now what?

“Catherine?” Her mother sat on the couch, smoothed her skirt and folded her hands in her lap.

Not a good sign.

“How do you feel about him?” her mother asked, making eye contact and holding it. “About Ryder?”

“What do you mean?”

“How do you
feel
about him?”

“I’m marrying him.”