On the Way to a Wedding (27 page)

“I am.”

“What?”

“I’m taking him on as a partner.”

What?
“That’s―” That’s not what she’d expected. She’d been prepared for more arguments but this problem had somehow solved itself. “That’s wonderful,” she said. “Then you can finish your degree. Your father will be so pleased.”

“My father doesn’t care,” Ryder said, as he exited the gym. “Do you have a number for a florist?”

A florist?
Oh good.
She followed him out of the gym, flipping through her cell directory. “There’s one near here.” She gave him the number.

He punched it in as he walked. “Isabelle! I see you!”

Standing next to a bulletin board, the old lady talked to a young girl in a painting smock. The sadly neglected bulletin board displayed a banner,
Diplomacy starts with You,
along with some football team photos and some straggling essays. The hallway smelled like chalk dust and textbooks.

This Isabelle woman didn’t seem to be going anywhere for the moment, so Ryder came to a halt. Catherine put away her cell and pondered her next move.

“Do me a favor?” Ryder held his cell in his hand, in the middle of making his call to the florist.

“Of course.”

“Help them with the rock colors. So it looks like a rainbow waterfall.”

A rainbow waterfall?
It had to be Ryder’s father, clouding his judgment. Ryder didn’t care about waterfalls, or rainbows.

But maybe painting a waterfall would be fun? A change of pace from picking out tiles and paint chips and trim. “I can do that,” she said. “Then we can talk about the wedding planner?”

“Wedding planner,” Ryder repeated, sounding distracted. “Get her to come to the gym.” He had the phone to his ear, waiting for the call to go through. “She can help with the rocks,” and then speaking into the phone, “I need some roses sent to the gym at Aberton High School. Right away.” He rushed past her, heading toward the old lady in the orange outfit.

Roses.
The image settled in her mind. Warmth flooded over her, and she felt herself smiling. He was easier to manage than she’d thought. Or, she was better at managing him than she’d thought. She inhaled, thinking of the roses.

She liked roses. Maybe she’d forgive him.

But first she’d call Geraldine to join her here, and then she’d find out who was in charge of the painting.

· · · · ·

He caught up with Isabelle again. This time, one of the library volunteers had distracted her but as soon as she saw him, she headed down the hall.

Terrific.

“Don’t go anywhere, Isabelle. I’ll follow you—and I need to make this call.”

“Yes, sir. Roses. How many?”

Isabelle paused, looked back at him, and then moved into a workroom. He followed her. No students in here, only tables littered with paint cans, unglazed clay pots and stacks of colored paper.

“A dozen,” he said. “Make that two dozen.”

“Color?”

“A dozen red. A dozen white. Mix them up.” Unity, he thought. And mending bridges.

“And the card?”

Right
. The card. He thought a moment. “Way to go, Mrs. Sid.”

“S. I. D.?”

“Right. Don’t bother signing it. She’ll know who they’re from.” He gave his credit card info and the school address, and turned off the phone.

Isabelle sat on a high stool by one of the tables, tapping a stack of paper into place. And then it hit him.

It hadn’t bothered him when Catherine had brought up his degree—his non-degree. Not one bit. He didn’t need it. He was all right without the piece of paper. But, he shrugged, he had three years done, he could finish the fourth, if he wanted to.

The degree and the partnership agreement lined up in his mind. Maybe he’d been dragging his feet because of Catherine’s pressure. Was that it?

He’d think about it later. The loose ends in his life were solving themselves, getting neatly tied off. Except for one.

“You know where she is,” he said. “Tell me.”

“Why should I?” Isabelle sat up straight on her stool, holding her chin high.

“Because I’m in love with her, that’s why.”

“Well,” Isabelle said, a big grin on her face. “It’s about time you figured that out.”

· · · · ·

As Toria raced up the stairs, careful of her recently recovered ankle, her cell started ringing.

Greg
. Again. She paused on the landing of the third floor and answered the phone. “What!”

“We need to talk.”

“I don’t want to talk.” She pulled the door that led into the hall. “Why is there a mortgage? I don’t want to marry you!”

“Victoria, you’re distraught. You don’t know what you’re saying. You can’t just throw this away.”

Did he mean the house? She hurried to her apartment. “Throw what away?”

“Us,” he said, simply.

She reached her apartment and jammed the key in the lock, still holding the phone to her ear. “Greg, do you love me?”

“Of course I do, darling. How could you doubt that?”

The apartment door opened. She was inside, slamming the door behind her and leaning against it.

But then the buzzer in front of her sounded, making her jump. She stared at the little beige box next to the kitchen wall.

“Let me in,” Greg said, on the phone, his voice soothing. Not really soothing. Pseudo soothing. Fake. The buzzer sounded again.

Was he in the lobby? “You’re at my apartment?”

“We need to talk, darling.”

Damn.
How did he get here so fast? He must have left the school right after she had.

Just talk to him about the mortgage
, the voice inside her head argued. They needed to talk about the mortgage. Her mother needed her.

“Victoria?”

The buzzer sounded again.

Her hand hovered above the button on the intercom.

“Buzz me in, darling.”

He could help her mother. She could help her mother. Her whole body tensed. She could marry him, and . . .

And get on with her staid boring unloving life.

“I’m not letting you in,” she told the phone.

She heard a distant buzzer, over the phone connection, coming from the lobby.

“Your neighbor already has.”

No!

“I don’t want you making a scene,” Greg continued in his unbelievably calm voice. “I’m going to knock once and I expect you to open the door.”

She spun around, stared at her door and turned the dead bolt. What if—Was he—“Greg? Are you marrying me because of the mortgage?”

“Of course not.”

“But Mom said―”

“Yes, I hold the mortgage. It’s just a technicality. I would have told you, but I didn’t want you to worry. Don’t even think about―” Greg stopped talking. And then, “What the―”

Toria could hear him swearing into the phone.

“Victoria?” His tone had changed.

“I’m here,” she said.

“The damn elevator is stuck. The door won’t open.”

Saved!
She turned off her cell, ran into her bedroom and grabbed the wedding dress. Then she peeked out her door, heard Greg shouting from the elevator, and took the stairs.

Chapter Seventeen

Standing in the cabin’s little bedroom, she twirled around in a circle.

She wore the ivory couture gown, the Emilie Celeste original, with its French lace capped sleeves, its embroidered bodice with the delicate Swarovski Crystal detail, and the full skirt of satin and organza. Her father had wanted her to have it. Her mother had loved it on sight. And so, without even a boyfriend on the horizon, they had brought the dress home from Paris.

Her mother had promised a professional seamstress for the alterations, but they didn’t need any. The dress fit her perfectly.

What they’d done was outrageous, now that she thought about it. They’d picked out her wedding dress without any input from her. She should have felt offended.

But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d fallen in love with the soft, flowing, romantic style of the princess dress called, the Madeleine. She’d thanked them for it, hung it in her closet and gone about her life, thinking that someday she would meet him, her prince.

As she walked into the kitchen, she listened to the swish of satin and organza. The sun, now low in the sky, streamed through the leaded panes of glass. To allow more light into the tiny room, she bunched the yellow checked, lace trimmed curtains to the ends of the rod. And then she concentrated on making a sandwich.

Her bag of groceries sat on the counter next to the propane stove. The shelves above the counter displayed a selection of china bowls. She chose a white one and turned it over. Wedgwood, England 1759, Countryware.

If she ever chose a pattern of her own, it could be this one.

She opened the carton of eggs, took out two, and cracked them into the bowl. Then she retrieved a fork from the tumble of cutlery in the blue plastic box and mixed the eggs, being careful not to splash on her dress. She could have looked for an apron, but an apron over a wedding dress just didn’t seem right.

Taking a deep breath, she considered the last few days. It had all happened so quickly. She’d fallen in love. This is what it was like. This feeling of connection and completeness. And ache.

Nothing could come of it but, somehow, the peace of having found it—found what love is—spread into her being. The wonder of how good life could be bloomed in her mind. And the guilt she’d felt about her father lessened, and faded.

She could let go of her father. And her mother. She could live her life, not borrowing
their
dreams and goals.

She flicked the lighter on the propane stove, set the frying pan on the burner and added a dollop of butter.

She’d tricked herself into thinking Ryder was safe. Safe, because he was getting married. She’d taken pains to make sure he thought
she
was getting married. So she’d been doubly safe. But it hadn’t worked.

She’d fallen in love.
How had that happened?

She tipped the scrambled eggs into the hot pan. The yellow mixture rippled with bubbles as the liquid swirled.

Letting the eggs cook, she pulled the loaf of French bread from its paper wrapper, sliced two pieces and placed them on a tin plate. Then she picked up the dill pickle jar and gripped the lid, straining until it popped.

Life would go on. If Greg really held the mortgage, then maybe it was for the best. Her mother could let go of the house that had chained her to Calgary, and finally return to her family in Kalispell and make peace.

Toria spread butter over the slices of bread and cut a pickle into thin strips. The eggs were almost done. Pushing them aside with the spatula, she put the buttered bread face down in the pan to warm.

Her mother would be all right. Her mother was strong and capable.

And Greg? Toria felt no regret about leaving him in the elevator. Well, she smiled, maybe a tinge of regret. But someone would have heard him and called the building super. And the elevator would finally get fixed.

She assembled her egg and pickle sandwich on the tin plate. Tin plates and china. Strange. Pro and his Aunt Tizzy had an interesting cabin.

Taking her sandwich, she stepped outside, feeling the breeze in her hair and the ripple of the light wind as it sifted over the wedding dress.

She followed the brick path to the patio behind the cabin, then continued down the dirt path that led to the fire ring. As she walked between the trees, it was like she was walking down the aisle carrying her tin plate, instead of a bouquet.

The natural grasses next to the path feathered against her dress. Sitting down on one of the six wooden benches that surrounded the fire pit, she set the plate on her lap and took a bite of the sandwich.

A tiny chickadee landed on top of the fire pit’s stack of wood, paused for a second and then disappeared down the slope, following the path that led to the lake below.

Toria took a second bite of the sandwich and felt her appetite returning as she tasted the tang of the dill pickles with the warm eggs. Some bread crumbs dropped onto the organza covered satin. She brushed them away, letting her hand pause a moment on the smooth fabric. Then she rested her palm on the rough wood of the bench. The smell of the fresh washed air, after the recent rains, mingled with the scent of the dry wood stacked in the fire pit.

She’d light the fire later tonight.

A magpie landed on the bench opposite her. He tilted his head, bowing. His long tail feathers looked like a tuxedo coat.

She rose to her feet and curtsied to him. He bent his head again, and then he lifted up into the sky. She could hear him talking to the other magpies, hear them flitting in the trees all around the cabin. Far off a pair of crows argued. Beside her, a squirrel scampered up a lodge pole pine.

She sat on the bench again and finished her sandwich supper. Then she stood, shook the crumbs from her skirt and twirled around, closing her eyes and savoring the sound of the rustling satin. Letting herself feel it for one moment longer.

It was time to go inside and get changed. The light was dimming. She could barely see the lake at the bottom of the hill. It had been turquoise in the daytime. Now it shone silver, reflecting the moonlight.

She’d hung on to the threads of her old life for long enough—afraid to disappoint her mother, afraid to disappoint her father. But somewhere between her father’s death and the rushed wedding plans, she’d realized it was not the life she wanted.

She would not disappoint herself.

She’d come here to forget Ryder. That’s what she’d told Isabelle. But thoughts of him pushed through the restraints of her mind. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. She remembered his eyes when he challenged her, his laughter when he stopped being serious, his battle with Mrs. Sid. His never letting anyone push him around.

Her complete opposite. And yet, he had never pushed her. He’d accepted her.

And he’d kissed her.

The birds chattered overhead, a twig fell to the ground, the wind sighed through the trees, and one thing became more certain.

Ryder O’Callaghan was going to be hard to forget.