On the Way to a Wedding (9 page)

“What doesn’t matter?”

“If he meets our poodle before I buy her.”

The brass bells rattled again and Ryder walked in. So much for taking a day off. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised. “You can’t stay away from a job site, can you, sweetie?”

“I’m not at a job site. I’m here to see you.”

He might say he was here to see
her
, but he was looking at Jimmy. The man would want a complete report of what he’d missed today.

“Aren’t you—I thought Ryan was craning.”

“I know. I’m on my way,” Jimmy said, as he headed toward the door.

“How’s that lot in Royal Oak? Get flooded?”

“Yeah, it’s a mess.” Jimmy had his hand on the door knob but he turned to face Ryder. “The weeping tile in the footing is keeping up but we’ve got the usual problems with the ground faults.”

“Other than that, we’re on time?”

How did Jimmy put up with this?
“For heaven’s sake, Ryder. You were just there yesterday.”

“Right,” Ryder said, looking at Jimmy. “And I’m taking today off. Did Pro tell you?”

“No,” Jimmy answered. “I guess he thought you’d tell me.”

“It was a last minute decision.”

“Pro’s cabin?”

“Yeah.” And then, like he was finally paying attention to
her
, he said, “Have you two met?”

“This morning, at Tim Hortons. I asked Jimmy to bring over our carpet samples.”

“Lots of rain out there? In the Kananaskis?” Jimmy asked.

“Yeah. Lots.”

“You could have stayed longer.” Jimmy pulled the door open, keeping his hand on the edge of it. “It’s drying up now, and everything’s under control here.”

“I know,” Ryder said. “I know you can handle it, Jim. I’m just not―”

“I know,” Jimmy said, on his way outside. “Catch you later.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning. At seven.”

And if she knew Ryder, he’d be there at six. The man had a problem letting go. She’d have to teach him about delegation.

He turned back to her and then noticed the pile of sample books on the counter. “Carpet samples?”

“Yes,” she said, from the other side of the counter.

He approached from his side. “I thought we picked those out.”

“Your colors are too light. The designer wants something more . . .”

“More what?”

“Fashionable.”

“Fashions go in and out of style.” Ryder drummed his fingers on the counter.

Of course, Ryder knew nothing about fashion. He needed to take her advice for those kinds of decisions. And speaking of advice―

“Pro brought over his prenup.”

“Oh,” Ryder said. He put his hands on the edge of the counter, pushing himself up. “That.”

Yes, that. But at least he looked contrite. “You really think we need a prenup?” She smiled, making it extra sweet.

“I never thought about it,” he said, watching her eyes. “It’s Pro, being a lawyer.”

Damn that man. “I think we know what we’re doing. We don’t need him interfering with the wedding, too.”

Ryder raised one eyebrow. “Too?”

“The partnership agreement with Jimmy. You were ready to sign it.”

Ryder’s mouth opened, and closed. A quick breath, and then, “Don’t worry about my partnership agreement. You worry about getting this wedding organized, all right?”

“I am.” She pulled out her folder for the wedding. “We need to get you fitted.”

He stood back. “I forgot about that. I’ll take time from the site. Tomorrow.”

“That will work.” She reached for her list. “I’ll put you down for ten?”

He hesitated a second. “Ten. I’ll be there.”

“Jimmy really will be useful,” she said, adding a note to her list. “He’s got a degree in Accounting, you know.”

“In
business
. I know.” A short pause. “He even knows something about framing.”

Better change the subject from Jimmy and the contract. And the degree. For now. “Too bad about the rain.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, touching the carpet stack. “The job site is going to be slick with mud.” Then he frowned. “It’s a hazard.”

“I meant the rain at the cabin.” Sometimes Ryder could be so distracted. “You did get to the cabin, didn’t you?”

His hand rested on the samples, but he seemed to be looking at the BrewWell unit, or at something beyond that. At any rate, he was sidetracked, again. “Yes. I did get to the cabin.”

“I knew you wouldn’t stay long.” She flipped through the wedding folder.

“You did?”

“You need to learn to relax.” Closing her house file, she set it on the counter. “My mother says you don’t know how to relax.”

“Really.” He nodded, his focus on the carpet pieces.

“Yes. And she wants everything finalized at the gift registry.”

“I thought everything
was
finalized,” he said, turning to look into her eyes.

“The china, yes. The crystal, you didn’t like. And we’ve got to finish with the carpet and the paint chips.”

“Why don’t―” He cut himself off and sucked in a deep breath. “Why don’t
you
decide on the crystal? I trust your judgment.”

“Now you do? You didn’t like it before.”

“It seems . . . ornate.”

“Ornate? Of course, it’s ornate. It’s beautiful. You’ll get used to it.” She checked it off, and ran her finger down the list.

The poodle
.

She straightened her shoulders and set her jaw. “I think we should go to the kennels this afternoon.”

“I wanted to talk to you about that.”

She was not about to argue again. “Now that you’re here―”

“Don’t you have work to do?” He looked around the empty office.

He was searching for excuses. “I’m the office manager. I can do what I want. And you need to meet our poodle.”

He folded his arms. “I don’t want a dog.”

“You will once you see her.”

“I hate little dogs,” he said, arms tight across his chest. “They yap.”

She sighed. Why did he have to be so stubborn? She gave him a little smile, and waited.

He closed his eyes, dropped his head, and let his arms fall by his sides. And right at that moment, the bells jangled again.

Wouldn’t you know it? Mrs. Milton had decided to come in this afternoon. Just when she was getting Ryder to cooperate.

“Appointment?” Ryder asked.

“Yes,” Catherine said. Keeping her voice low, she leaned toward him across the counter. “I didn’t think she’d come in today.”

Catherine stood up straight and called across the room. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Milton. I’ll be right with you.” Then she turned back to Ryder and lowered her voice again. “She’s choosing her interiors this afternoon.”

“All in one afternoon?”

“She makes all the decisions. She’s divorced. No husband to consult with.”

Ryder spread both his hands over the carpet samples. He was probably thinking about work. It would be a miracle if he stayed away for the whole day.

“I’ve got to go,” he said.

“Job site. I know.”

“No. Not the job site. I’ll . . . I’ll visit my mother.”

His mother?
Almost as bad as the job site
. That woman could be so flighty.

“Good. Tell her hello from me.” And who knew? Maybe Nancy O’Callaghan would encourage her son to pay some attention to his wedding.

At least he’d get measured for his tux tomorrow.

· · · · ·

Ryder sat in his truck outside the BD Builders Show Home Office, as Catherine, his
fiancée
, went through her spiel for the divorced Mrs. Milton, helping her choose suitable flooring, painting, molding, fixtures and tiles.

Were those the things that made a home?

The weather was changing again. Bits of sunshine escaped the cloud cover. The breeze picked up, then dropped off and whipped back.

Catherine had a gift for organization and a flair for decorating. She managed the Show Home Office and the BD Builders clients. And the gift registry, the house plans, and―

His breath hitched. There it was again. Jitters.

—the wedding.

Catherine also masterminded the wedding. The hall, the caterers, the band. The march down the aisle. Where they would stand, what they would wear, and what they would say for their vows.

Vows
. His mind flipped to the contract with Jim. He shook his head. Contracts and vows. And a poodle.

Everything felt rushed. Too much at once. Too many things needed decisions right now. He looked up at the clouds moving across the sky.

What if they could postpone? Would that be possible? At least until the partnership deal was done? One crisis at a time?

Was marriage a crisis?

No. Marriage was simple. It’s what he wanted. It would make his father happy. Finally. Because not only was he getting married, he was marrying Herbert Forsythe’s daughter.

Well, he was marrying
Catherine
. She just happened to be Herbert Forsythe’s daughter. And she was talented, competent, in charge.

He
could
compromise about the colors in the house. Then maybe she’d compromise about the poodle.

Life was about compromise, wasn’t it?

He inserted the key in the ignition, and twisted. The engine flared to life. And in his mind he saw all those dark walls.

His heart sank, because he wanted light. Did that matter?

After all, he had everything he wanted. His business was doing well—so well, he needed help. He was building his own estate home and he was getting married like his father had always hoped.

Catherine Forsythe thought he was good enough to marry her. So he had to be good enough for his father, good enough for Donald O’Callaghan—who always wanted him to be more than he was.

He gripped the steering wheel. So now, what to do?

An image popped into his mind—of a sagging old couch in a cold cabin. Of being warm, and holding on to―

Wrong.

That was not part of his life. His life was organized, focused, perfect.

He glanced in the back at the fluffy wedding dress spilling off the edge of the seat. And on the floor, at the two red suitcases that didn’t belong to him. At six o’clock, he’d bring them to her apartment. And the pizza. He’d said he’d bring pizza.

She’d need something to eat. And maybe he could help her since it was her first night on crutches. That was a good thing to do. It was part of the whole Good Samaritan package he’d stumbled into.

But for now, he’d visit his mother. It was Tuesday and she didn’t work today. His father would be gone, so it might be a decent visit.

He put the truck in gear, shoulder checked, and then it hit him. He hadn’t kissed Catherine.

But, he thought, as he backed out of the parking area, he hadn’t wanted to.

· · · · ·

Toria paid the cab driver. By the time she had her purse strap over her shoulder, he was opening the door for her. She juggled the crutches out of the cab and stood up. The air was cool, but at least the sun was shining through the clouds.

“You all right from here?” he asked.

“I’m fine.” She was always
fine
.

“Thanks a lot. Have a great day.”

Yes. A great day
.

She followed the instructions from the redheaded physiotherapist and crutched her way up the sidewalk to Dalhousie Towers. After unlocking the main door, she maneuvered her way to the mailboxes and took out a shiny magazine wrapped around this morning’s mail. With the bundle tucked under her arm, she made the unfamiliar detour to the elevator bay.

She hated elevators. Especially this one. But the alternative was three flights of stairs, and she didn’t want to attempt stairs today.

The elevator behaved and deposited her with a clunk, only slightly above the level of the floor.

In front of her apartment door, she fumbled the keys out of her purse, dropped one of the crutches, and then dropped the keys. As she was picking them up, her across-the-hall neighbor opened her door.

“What did you do to your foot?” Mrs. Toony asked. Her silver hair was tightly stretched in tiny pink rollers.

“I twisted my ankle,” Toria said, retrieving the fallen crutch.

Mrs. Toony frowned. “At the school?”

“No, not at the school.” She didn’t elaborate, but she got the other crutch under her arm. “How are you, Mrs. Toony?”

“I’d be a lot better if I didn’t get my sleep disturbed.”

What?

“That boyfriend of yours. Over here at midnight last night. Pounding on your door. It’s none of my business if you want to have him
visiting
that late but you should give him a key.”

Toria felt her chest tighten. “Sorry about that.”

To get some attention, Mrs. Toony’s old gray cat wound around her legs. She prodded the tired animal with a fuzzy-slippered foot and went back inside her apartment, mumbling something about
back in my day
.

Toria aimed the key at the lock, but her hand shook.

So, Greg had come over last night. Their argument had bothered him, more than she’d expected.

She took a slow breath, tried again, and fit the key inside.

This time the lock turned, and the door opened on her little entrance with its burgundy mat. Straight ahead was the galley kitchen. To her right, a short hall led to the living room.

Her purse dropped to the floor, and her bundle of mail slipped from under her arm. Too tired to pick it up, she poked through it with the foot of one crutch and saw Chatelaine magazine, the Shaw bill for the Internet, a Royal Bank statement, a brochure from the Bay for crystal stemware and—a large white envelope with big loopy writing and little heart stickers scattered across it.

She picked it up and left the rest. Carefully, she hobbled to the love seat, propped the crutches on the coffee table and sat down to open the envelope, addressed to Miss Toria Whitney and no doubt from one of her students.

Then she looked across the room at the bookshelves, at the answering machine—with the light blinking.

Dread twisted her stomach and the card tipped out of her hands, falling to the carpet.

That would be her mother’s empty messages, crowding the machine’s memory. Had anyone else called? Better check the messages and delete them. She reached for the crutches, touched one, and then the phone rang.