On the Way to a Wedding (20 page)

He picked up the travel brochure for Hawaii. “What’s this? You guys going to Hawaii?”

“Oh. That. Catherine dropped it off. She said you were taking your honeymoon there.”

“We are?” They hadn’t talked about it. When would he have time? He pushed the thought aside.

He still had to phone her about rescheduling the tux fitting. That was supposed to be yesterday. Now another day had gone by. Another day closer to the wedding. Everything was moving along on its inevitable path.

Except him. Ever since his trip to the cabin.

No, before that. He’d gone to the cabin because the poodle had been the last straw and he’d needed to regroup. To get away and think, Pro had said. To put it all in perspective, Pro had said.

But Ryder still didn’t seem to have the right perspective. In fact, things seemed to be getting worse.

He was lucky he’d met Toria and he had the high school job to keep him sane. “Toria liked the cookies. She said to say thank you.”

“She’s very welcome.” His mother handed him the drink and then sat down at her sewing machine. “How’s her ankle?”

“She’s still on crutches.” Another four days, and then she could try to put weight on her foot. He tasted the hot chocolate. Rich and satisfying. “I gave Jim total charge of the sites today. And yesterday.”

“Mmm hmm.” His mother concentrated on her sewing.

Something about the wedding was bothering him but he couldn’t say what. Everything inched along that inevitable path, and he was starting to resent the inevitability. It was as if he’d suddenly been flung out of orbit and his world didn’t make sense anymore.

“Mom? Do you think I’m doing the right thing?”

“What right thing, honey?” She adjusted the pink fabric on the machine. “Getting a partner for that business of yours?”

Well that, too. “Yeah.”

“Jim seems like a competent young man. Not as experienced as you, of course, but he knows about accounting. And he’s been a framer before.”

“Yeah.” Just say it. “Do you think―”

His mother waited, listening, her eyes on the sewing in front of her.

“The wedding. Do you think it’s happening . . . too fast?”

Her scissors clattered to the floor and she bent to pick them up. And then instead of answering his question, she asked, “Do you think it’s happening quickly?”

“I don’t know.”

His mind flashed on the past three days . . . the students working on the waterfall, Toria watching as three students discussed the Refreshments Area, Jim sounding more certain each time he called in with a report, Toria leading Mrs. Sidorsky away from the Music Committee, the elevator jolting to a stop, Pro’s cabin with the fire ring behind it―

“Do you like her?”

“Who?”

His mother paused. “Catherine. Your fiancée.”

“Oh. Right. Of course I do. Why would you ask me that?”

His mother nudged the fabric under the needle of her sewing machine. “She’s just . . . different from you. Nothing specific.”

Different? Was she?

They had all the same goals. The house in Royal Oak―

No, not
house
. The
estate home
in Royal Oak. That was the goal—estate home. Impressive home. Something his father would be forced to admire.

But, the decorating. Ryder paused, tripping over the thought.

What about the decorating? The way it would change from a house to a home . . . He and Catherine weren’t quite on the same page for that.

More like they were in different books. Not that it mattered. They had other things in common. Like―

He drew a blank. She liked the theatre, especially dressing up for it. And he didn’t mind going. She liked the opera, too. And he didn’t mind going to that either. Except for that time it conflicted with skiing.

Catherine didn’t like skiing. Last year, she’d spent all that money on ski outfits, and then ended up staying in the lodge for most of their week in Banff.

But she did like the house they were building. With its arches and gables and facades. She wanted all the trappings and he—and he―

His throat felt tight and suddenly it was hard to swallow the hot chocolate. He felt trapped.

Then there was the poodle. When he was ready to get a dog, it would be a Golden Retriever. Or a Lab.

“Mom?”

“Yes?” She glanced up from her sewing for a second, then looked down again and adjusted a pin, realigning it.

“What if I didn’t get married? I mean, right now? Would that be a big problem? I know all the invitations . . . and everything.”

“Not a problem,” she said as she worked at her sewing machine. “The important thing is you’re ready.”

“I am ready. To get married. I just wondered what you would think if . . .”
If what?

“I know, honey. You take your time.”

Time. Right. He had time. Two and a half
weeks
of time.

He heard a door close, heard footsteps on the stairs coming up from the rumpus room, and then his father stepped into the kitchen.

Ryder’s mind jerked and all thoughts of postponing anything fled. He knew what he wanted—his estate home, his sophisticated wife, his place in the universe.

“Hi, Ryder.”

His dad looked at the sewing machine with the fluffy pink, and Ryder could hear what the next words out of the man’s mouth would be.
How long will this be out here? How long will this be taking up space?

But his father didn’t say that. Instead, he . . . smiled?

Funny to see him smile.

“For Jilly and Joanne?” Donald Michael O’Callaghan asked.

“Yes,” his mother answered. “They both want to be princesses and Kathleen doesn’t have time to sew.”

His father nodded, still smiling. Then he walked over to the pot of hot chocolate and poured himself a cup.

Ryder watched and tried to understand, but something was out of sync.

Was his father mellowing out? Were his grandchildren doing this to him? Had those two little girls put a spell on Donald O’Callaghan?

“I hear you’re looking at a partner,” his dad said.

“Yes. Jim Bondeau.”

“I’ve heard of him. Used to work for Foster. Does good work.”

The words buzzed, sounding strange. Ryder blinked.

Was that encouragement? Hard to tell. It was like a glitch in the matrix. “How come you’re up so late?”

His father raised his eyebrows. “Late?”

“It’s ten-thirty. On a weekday. You’re usually at the office at five o’clock in the morning.”

“Not tomorrow,” Donald O’Callaghan said, helping himself to one of the little muffins on the platter. “Tomorrow’s Friday.”

“So?”

“So, I don’t work Fridays anymore.” His dad shrugged, looking down at the pink fluff rippling along under the needle of the sewing machine. “Switched to a four-day work week.”

“You did?”

“Yep.”

“When did that happen?”

“About two years ago.”

· · · · ·

Toria hovered on the edges of dreams. Another restless night of trying to sleep and fight off the images. Of Greg with a huge diamond ring, clamping it around her wrist. Of her mother in her big empty house. Of Mrs. Sidorsky falling down the waterfall. Of Ryder in the cabin, sleeping next to her, his warm body pressed against hers―

She awoke with a start.

Out of bounds, she told herself. He’s getting married. And even if he wasn’t, he was not the right person for her. Not right at all. He made her
feel
too much.

She hated this raw, exposed, vulnerable emotion. Pulling the pillow over her head, she tried to shut out the world.

And then she heard someone knocking at her door.

Or was that part of the dream?

She groaned, rolled over and peeked out one eye. Looking past the tipped over teacup, she spied the alarm clock.

Seven o’clock? The sun had been up for an hour and a half, but only a dim, cloudy light seeped into the bedroom from behind the curtains. Isabelle was supposed to come at eight. Why was she here this early?

Because it wasn’t Isabelle, a warning voice told her. It was Greg. And she was not answering that door. She was going to have to speak to Mrs. Toony about letting people in.

The knock came again. Several light taps, and then a voice. A female voice. Not Greg. And not Isabelle, either.

Her mother.

With a dreary burden settling over her, Toria forced herself to get out of bed. Might as well get this over with. She grabbed her robe and her crutches, and stumbled down the hall. The knocking continued, persistent.

She stood in front of the door, braced herself, and then opened it.

Samantha Whitney waited in the hallway.

“Oh, good.” Her mother pushed past her. “I’m glad I caught you,” she said, with her fake smile firmly in place.

“Good morning,” Toria said.

It
was
a good morning. And it was going to be a good life. For her. She was moving on, learning. She didn’t have to be the person her mother wanted her to be.

“Is there something wrong with your cell? I tried calling you yesterday. Several times.” Displeasure laced her mother’s careful tones.

Toria winced as guilt clouded her thoughts. This was not going to be easy. “We’re very busy at the school.”

“Geraldine and I are very busy too. We need to finalize the―”

“Mom, I’m not marrying Greg.” The words were out, uttered in a reflex.

Her mother paused for a beat. And then, “Of course you are.”

Resolution welled in Toria’s soul and her heart started to beat faster. “You need to talk to Aunt Glenda.”

“Glenda? What does she have to do with any of this?”

“She’s your sister. You need to get over your argument with her.”

Her mother paused, narrowing her eyes. “Have you been talking to her? Is
that
why you’re being so difficult?” Her lips compressed to a tight line. “She puts ideas in your head.”

“You need to talk to Aunt Glenda,” Toria repeated, but her resolution was fading.

“Certainly not. She’s jealous of me.”

“Then I’ll talk to her,” Toria said, trying to hold on to those last wisps of determination.

“You can’t. You have no business―” And then her mother drew herself up, jutted her chin and huffed an indignant breath. “You’re going to tell her I’m having some financial difficulties, aren’t you?”

Samantha Whitney always had financial difficulties, from as early as Toria could remember. But that was not what they needed to talk about.

“Well, they’re temporary,” her mother insisted. “And my finances are none of Glenda’s business.”

Toria sighed. Temporary or not, her mother needed to stop her irrational competition. “You need her, Mom.”

“I most certainly do not.”

“Aunt Glenda can help you.”

“
You
can help me. Marry Greg and get these stupid ideas out of your head. This is what your father wanted.”

Doubt chased resolve. Toria took a step back, wobbling on her crutches. “You can’t know that.”

“Why do you think he spent a fortune on that dress?”

How had this conversation deteriorated so quickly? Toria felt like a fallen leaf, being brushed away by a passing hurricane. “He bought it because you were in Paris and he thought I’d like it.” A tiny pause. “Someday.”

“He knew you’d fall in love with Greg once you met. And you did. You’ve just got cold feet now and you’re behaving like a baby, getting worked up about a china pattern, for Pete’s sake.”

“I am not marrying him.” Toria knew the words sounded unconvincing, even to her own ears.

Then the buzzer sounded, blasting like an intruder.

Oh, no. Not Greg. She cringed, and then she glanced at the clock on the stove. Half past seven. Isabelle? Please, let it be Isabelle.

“Victoria, how can you talk like that? You know you love Greg. You know how much it meant to your father to see you together. He was so happy when the two of you finally met last Christmas.”

“I’m not marrying Greg.” She flung out the words, knowing they had no effect. Moving one crutch slightly, she edged toward the intercom.

“You are,” her mother said, blocking her way.

The intercom blared once more and Toria tried to reach it.

“Don’t answer that! I need to talk to you!”

The words hit her like a slap across the face and she froze, remembering all the times she had done what her mother wanted. And not what she, Toria, wanted. She reached past her mother and pressed the intercom button.

Samantha Whitney clenched her jaw and her eyes flared. “Tell me this nonsense is over. Right now.”

Toria’s mind whirled, remembering days of her childhood, hiding from her mother’s anger. Her father would step in, when he was there. But often as not, that only made things worse. Even as a child, Toria had tried to mediate between her parents. But usually she’d just give in to whatever her mother wanted.

It didn’t have to be like this.

And now her mother leaned against the apartment door, as though she would block whoever tried to interrupt her. “Greg called me last night and do you know what he said?”

A new line of attack. Toria knew that, and she didn’t want to talk about Greg. She needed to change the subject. “You have to stop spending so much money on renovations.”

“On
my
suite,” her mother emphasized, as if it made a difference. Then she stood up straight. “You can’t back out now. You have to marry Greg.”

“I’m not marrying Greg,” Toria said, pressing the intercom button one more time for good measure.

“You have to. This is all your fault.” Samantha Whitney drew herself up and folded her arms. “If you hadn’t argued with your father, he’d still be here.”

Toria felt a black horror slam into her and her world went still. She stiffened, her hands grew cold and she squeezed the crutches.

Her mother was right. It
was
her fault.

Her fault.

“You will marry Greg. We will all live in our home in Varsity Estates. It’s going to be beautiful—my own little suite.” Her mother glowed, smiling for real. “And,” she added, clasping her palms together and dropping them against her heart, “Greg will take over the mortgage.”