Speechless (31 page)

I thank Joe on the way out and offer to buy him a beer at the pub around the corner. He declines, saying he already has a date “with a special lady.” Sensing I’m supposed to eat my heart out, I summon a disappointed expression. I owe him that much.

Later, walking home I feel relieved. Whatever happens now, I’ve done what I can and it’s out of my hands. Hopefully, it isn’t too late for the Minister to straighten this mess out.

Lola is outside, honking the horn impatiently. I throw some food down for Cornelius, kiss him on the head (a mistake, since I’m wearing sticky lip gloss) and hurry out of my apartment. I almost careen into Mrs. Murdock, although the scent of laven
der should have alerted me to her presence. Obviously she’s been using the bath bombs I gave her.

“Better hurry,” she says, “your ride is leaving without you.”

I run down the walk toward Mindy, Lola’s beloved 1965 Ford Mustang, named in tribute to her favorite TV series of all time,
Mork and Mindy.
Lola dropped a ton of cash rebuilding and painting Mindy’s chassis but she ran out of funds before she could get Mindy’s engine overhauled, so it’s always a roll of the dice as to whether you’ll get where you need to go. Mindy is sensitive to changes in the weather and it’s been damp all week. I could have offered to drive, but I’ve long suspected Lola keeps the old wreck simply to avoid taking her turn as the designated driver.

Lola allows Mindy to creep forward along the curb. I open the door, take a few running footsteps and launch myself into the moving vehicle. Lola presses down on the accelerator the moment my butt is in the seat and we chug away.

“What’s wrong with Mindy?” I ask, as the car shakes with deep, sputtering gasps.

“PMS.” Lola raises her voice over the whine as the engine catches and guns it through an amber traffic light. “She isn’t in the mood for idling today but as long as I keep her moving, we’ll get to the wedding on time.”

Lola guides Mindy through a series of side streets, turning onto a main road now and then. When there’s a red light in the distance, we peel off to a side street again, or cut through a parking lot or gas station—anything to keep Mindy moving in the general direction of the Capitol Theatre. When Lola pulls into a parking spot and cuts the engine, Mindy coughs twice and dies.

“Poor Mindy,” I say.

“She’ll be fine,” Lola assures me, “but we’ll need to call the motor league half an hour before we want to leave.”

The Capitol Theatre, a beautifully renovated old movie house, is the perfect venue for Decker and Jordie’s wedding. They aren’t having a formal meal, just tapas and sushi and fancy cocktails.

Lola and I head straight to the main bar, a beautiful mix of stainless steel and gleaming dark wood, and settle onto bar stools to take in the view. And it’s quite a view. Jordie is a set decorator for films and he has a skilled eye. Rows of tiny vo
tive candles line the upper balcony, which has been strewn with garlands of greenery and hot pink and orange gerbera daisies. Wrought-iron candelabras light the main floor where enormous urns burst with spring blooms. The rear wall of the theater is covered in a rich, midnight-blue velvet with holes punched throughout. Behind the curtain, strings of twinkle lights make the wall look like an expanse of stars.

“Wow, Jordie has a gift,” I tell Elliot and Günter when they arrive. “It’s magical.”

“There was a lot of hard work behind the magic,” Elliot says. “We spent most of yesterday helping them set up. But we didn’t work half as hard as this guy,” he adds, pulling over a short, stocky, balding man. “Libby, Lola, allow me to introduce Paul, floral artiste extraordinaire—the man behind those gorgeous arrangements. Paul, Libby and Lola are researching their book on the modern Canadian wedding.”

Paul shakes hands with us, saying, “The next few hours should give you two plenty to write about.” He seemed like a pretty ordinary guy at first glance but now that he’s grinning, his blue eyes twinkle with mischief. It has a magical effect on Lola, who strikes up an animated conversation and by the time Paul leaves to assist the grooms, Elliot and I are suspicious.

“He isn’t loaded, Lola,” Elliot cautions. “He owns a flower shop in the Beaches.”

“You’re telling me this
why?
It’s not like I only date people who are rich,” she says.

“True, you’ll usually date them if they’re gorgeous,” I offer helpfully.

“Could someone give me a little credit here?” she says. “You’re making me sound
shallow!
”

“Many have risked spinal injury diving into Lola, but we love you anyway,” Elliot says, slipping an arm around her.

Before the conversation can get ugly, the leader of the five-piece band steps to the mike at the edge of the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, as the percussionist gives a drum roll, “it gives me great pleasure to welcome you to the wedding of Jordie and Decker!”

An enormous movie screen descends behind the band and
the opening credits of the
Sound of Music
fill the screen. While Julie Andrews spins her way across the Alps, two figures appear on stage, dressed as Captain von Trapp and Maria. Cheers erupt as people realize it’s the grooms. Decker cuts a fine figure in the Captain’s dress uniform and Jordie looks fresh and pretty in Maria’s pinafore. The latter is holding an acoustic guitar in one hand and a bouquet of plastic edelweiss in the other. The bridal party, consisting of three nuns in full habit, appears behind them. The ring bearer and flower girl arrive next, in outfits similar to those Maria made from curtains for the von Trapp children.

The bandleader, who has stepped behind the curtain, reappears dressed in liederhosen and a fake moustache: We have our Uncle Max.

“That’s Oliver Blake,” Günter explains, “a pal from the music circuit. He married
his
boyfriend last year and encouraged the guys to make it official.”

“Dearly beloved,” Uncle Max begins. “We are gathered here today to honor Decker and Jordie. As many of you know, they were very young when they met and they knew in an instant that they were meant for each other. But let us hear the story from the grooms themselves, shall we?”

The grooms step to the mike and begin the duet, “Sixteen Going on Seventeen.”

By the time they finish, the audience is convulsed with laughter. Jordie curtsies as Decker bows. They gesture for silence and the two repeat their vows. Afterward, Günter gets on stage, takes the acoustic guitar and accompanies himself to “Edelweiss,” complete with German accent. The grooms dance. Many of the guests rush the stage and join in a lively rendition of “The Lonely Goatherd,” yodelling enthusiastically.

Elliot and I rush the sushi bar instead but we both keep our eye on Lola, who is bounding around the stage in a mad polka with Paul, the florist. It’s not like her to completely abandon her dignity.

“Interesting,” Elliot notes, “but it’ll never last. Paul’s far too normal and nice.” I nod in agreement. Nice-and-normal has never commanded Lola’s attention for long.

Elliot and I carry our overflowing plates to the balcony and sit by the rail to watch the show. Günter and Decker have joined the band, kicking things up a notch with an energetic cover of the Ramones’ “I Wanna be Sedated.” Lola and Paul are slam dancing the nuns, which reminds me to tell Elliot about how his vision of a crucifix played out at work.

“I’m glad I could help,” he says. “But since you’re in the mood to acknowledge my remarkable gift, why haven’t you followed my advice about Tim?”

“Who says I haven’t?”

He looks at me steadily. “Remember who you’re talking to. Look, in the words of the Reverend Mother, ‘When God closes a door, he opens a window.’ Your window is about to close and you, my friend, are going to get your fingers squashed if you don’t act soon.”

“Roxanne said almost the same thing.”

“So who else needs to tell you? Are you afraid to surrender your title as the Girl with the most Secondhand Bouquets?”

“Give it a rest, Elliot. It’s one thing to know what you should do and another to do it.”

An hour later, Uncle Max summons everyone to gather before the stage for the tossing of the bouquet.

“You’re up, Flower Girl,” Elliot says. “Don’t break a nail.”

“No danger,” I answer, waving my fingers at him, “I’ve gone acrylic.”

The band strikes up “Edelweiss” again, only this time Günter sings the lyrics in the mode of Sid Vicious. There’s a long drum roll as Jordie takes center stage and limbers up with some shoulder rolls. He turns his back to the crowd and heaves the plastic bouquet over his shoulder. The nuns surge forward, nearly trampling the von Trapp children, but the bouquet sails over their outstretched fingers toward me. I consider reaching up and snatching it dramatically out of the air. With this crowd, there’s pressure to put on a bit of a show. I could even do a little leap. Before I can do anything, someone deliberately steps in front of me and shoves me roughly aside. When I regain my footing, my hands are raised over my head—empty. The bouquet is in the hands of the man beside me: Elliot.

“I don’t believe it!” I exclaim. “The curse is broken!”

“I did it for you,” Elliot says, examining a bleeding gash on his hand from the impact of the plastic stems.

“How does it feel, Flower Boy?”

“Like I need a drink,” he replies, but he’s grinning.

Günter hurries over, carrying two glasses of champagne and gives one to each of us. “Oh, liebling, let me be your bride,” he burbles happily, daubing Elliot’s hand with a napkin.

“I did it for you,” Elliot tells him, winking at me.

“Come on, Lib,” Lola grabs my arm and pulls me toward the dessert table, “let’s celebrate your deflowering with wedding cake.”

After the cake is cut and distributed, the two of us fan out to interview guests. In what seems like no time at all, the bandleader announces the last dance: “So Long, Farewell.”

Jordie’s dad waltzes me around with relative ease, considering my two-left-size-12s. Lola, meanwhile, is cheek-to-cheek with Paul the florist and when the song is over, they step to the bar and exchange phone numbers. Then Lola and I bid the grooms good-night, and make our way to the door, where we’re given a small package.

I unwrap mine in the parking lot as we wait for the motor league to resuscitate Mindy. It’s a Jesus night-light with the grooms’ names and the date at our Saviour’s feet.

Lola lights a cigarette, takes a long pull and blows a smoke ring into the chilly air. “That,” she says, “was a fucking great wedding.”

“Amazing,” I agree, stuffing Jesus back into the box. “Give me one of those, will you?” I take the pack of DuMaurier Lights from her hand.

“Are you kidding?”

“Nope, I’m celebrating. Can you believe Elliot caught the bouquet for me?”

“Hmmmm? He’s fantastic, isn’t he?”

“I assume you mean Paul, not Elliot. Are you sure he’s single?”

“There were too many of his friends around for him to lie.”

“True. So, is he rich and famous?”

She shoots me a look, “Yeah, I hear he did the boutonnieres for the Oscars.”

“He’s not even that cute,” I say, then catch myself. “I’m sorry, Lola, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that you normally go for guys who are movie-star gorgeous.”

“Or, rich, as you noted. That’s the second time this evening you’ve accused me of being a gold digger and I’m not too thrilled about it.”

“
Gold digger
is far too strong a term,” I assure her. We’re silent for a minute as the motor league truck pulls into the lot. “You’re sure he’s not gay?”

“Libby,” she says, exasperated.

“I’m sorry, but I’m missing something. You’ve never been interested in a guy like Paul before.”

“You mean a decent guy with no agenda?” she asks, flicking her cigarette onto the asphalt and grinding it out with her foot. “Well, I’m a pragmatic woman and it’s becoming painfully obvious that my old ways aren’t working. I’ve decided to give ‘normal’ a try.”

She pops the hood and the guy with the jumper cables gives her an appreciative once-over. On his signal, she turns the key in the ignition and Mindy springs to life. We drive home in silence, each of us lost in thought. I jump out in front of my place while Lola keeps Mindy rolling forward.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say as she sputters away from the curb. I run alongside the car for a few paces. “Look, Paul seems great. Good luck!”

Her confident smile suggests she had only to make a decision for everything to fall into place. Walking back toward my door, I wonder if I have the courage to make the same decision so gracefully.

A
larm clock number four, which I so cleverly placed across the room last night, is buzzing incessantly. The first pillow I toss misses, but the second is a direct hit. The clock slides off the dresser with a crash, sending Cornelius skittering out of the bedroom. Still, the damned clock buzzes and now I am without pillows to block the sound.

It’s all Mindy’s fault. If I’d driven my own car to the wedding last night, I wouldn’t have drunk so much bourbon. And if I hadn’t drunk so much bourbon, I wouldn’t have set my clocks for the ungodly hour of 9:00 a.m. on a Sunday. Nor would I have sprained my ankle jumping out of Mindy and chasing her half a block. I’d have known my limits.

I’m still contemplating those limits when the phone rings. Limping to the phone, I wave weakly to my new roommate, Jesus, who shines his light from the outlet near the stove.

“Libby, it’s Margo.”

“Margo! It’s Sunday.”

“I noticed. The Minister’s called an emergency meeting be
cause of the problem with Contact Culture. I hear you already know about it.”

“Yeah. I’m on my way.” Sighing, I hang up the phone and head for the shower. I can hardly complain about having to work on Sunday when I’m the one who sounded the alarm.

An hour later, I poke my head into Margo’s lair to find it empty except for her coat and briefcase. I start down the hall toward Mrs. Cleary’s office just in time to see Laurie disappear into the stairwell. She’s on the first landing before I can catch her.

“Hey, where’s the fire?” I call. It’s been our favorite line since the fateful power surge that almost rid the world of Margo.

“Pretty close, if the heat on my ass is any sign. The boss is cracking the whip.”

“I’m sure she wants to get everyone home to enjoy what’s left of our weekend.”

“The sooner you abandon that notion, the better, my friend. We’ll be lucky to get home before Tuesday.”

“Why, what’s happened?”

“The shit’s hit the proverbial fan and we’re on clean-up duty. The Premier heard about our little problem yesterday and hauled the Minister onto the carpet.”

“How did he find out?”

“Richard told him that Mrs. Cleary fired him.”

“Fired him!”
I knew it was a possibility but it still surprises me. “But why was Richard speaking to the Premier?”

“I guess they had time to chat between innings at the hockey game.”

“Periods. There are no innings in hockey.”

“Whatever. The point is, Richard took the Premier to a Leaves game last night and shared his tale of woe.”

“
Leafs!
And Richard knows even less about hockey than you do.”

“Ah, but the Premier is very fond of the game and Richard is very fond of the Premier, if you catch my drift.”

“Of course.” Perhaps the Premier would also fancy a new
watch. “But if Richard’s sucking up to the Premier, why would he admit he’s been canned?”

“Trying to tell his side of the story first, I suppose and suggest Mrs. Cleary has dropped the ball on this initiative. The Premier called Mrs. Cleary in a rage and demanded an explanation.”

Apparently Richard underestimated the Minister’s power to think on her Manolo Blahniks. She convinced the Premier that Contact Culture will give all students better access to the arts—and that it will provide benefits that After the Bell never had, such as opportunities to “shadow” artists at work. She also guaranteed everything would be in place by Tuesday’s launch, which means there’s a lot of work ahead to make sure the program will do what it needs to do. What’s more, the financing needs to be reworked because the money paid out to Loud Mouth Productions can’t be reclaimed.

The launch itself has been jeopardized by Loud Mouth’s bumbling. For starters, they distributed not one, but two media advisories, each providing different times and dates for the press conference. Since she has no confidence in the firm, the Minister has asked Laurie to take over.

The hubbub coming from the Minister’s office surprises me as I enter. It seems like half the Ministry has reported for duty. I squeeze into a corner at the back and immediately notice Tim Kennedy sitting to the right of the Minister. I suppose she’ll portray his involvement as “consultation” with stakeholders. Anxious as I am, I feel a little thrill at seeing him. He looks great in his faded jeans, but I wish he looked a little happier to see me.

“Libby!” Margo’s voice rings out above the din and I brace myself. Margo has never yet missed an opportunity to diminish me in front of Tim. “Thank God you’re here,” she says. “You’ll need to get started on the speech right away.”

What, no insults? It’s almost disappointing. At the moment, however, she’s intent on bringing me up to speed on the highlights of the reworked policy for Contact Culture. She’s in
formative, polite, and patient. Obviously her guilt over missing the screw-up is overpowering her normal personality. She ushers Joe over to walk me through the regulations, then calls on the Minister to discuss the overall tone for the speech.

Finally, after receiving far more help than I need, I retreat to my office to write. Margo calls me hourly to offer assistance. She brings me coffee, and, incredibly, pastries. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s groveling. The Minister also drops by twice to see how I’m faring. It’s the first time I’ve really felt like a valued member of this team…the first time I’ve felt needed.

Despite their frequent interruptions, I soon become so absorbed in the work that I have little time to wonder what Tim is doing. I barely notice when Laurie stops by to tell me there’s Chinese food on the boardroom table. By the time I finish a draft it’s already dark outside. I’ve been hunched over my computer for seven hours; Tim is probably long gone.

The boardroom is empty when I arrive but the table is still covered in takeout containers. I fill a paper plate with a little of everything until it’s sagging ominously in the middle. Using a second plate as reinforcement, I add a little more chow mein. Then I set my plate on the table and reach for the fortune cookies. I don’t much like the taste, but I love cracking them open and prying out the message—especially since I adopted Lola’s habit of reading them aloud and adding the words
in bed
to the end of every fortune, as in
“Success in life must be earned with earnest efforts…in bed.
” I pry one open and read to the empty boardroom:
“You will be blessed beyond your wildest dreams…in bed.”

“Lucky you!” Startled, I drop the cookie fragments on the floor. Tim is standing in the doorway with his empty plate.

“The cookies never lie,” I mutter, a flush surging from my feet toward my face like a rogue wave.

“You’ve taken five,” he notes. “Maybe that one was meant for Margo.”

“Well, it’s mine now and I read it out loud, which means it will come true. Lola says so.”

He glances at my overloaded plate. “What does she say about testing the weight limits of disposable dinnerware?” Finally, he’s really smiling and I’m so relieved I forget to take offense at the reference to my gluttony.

“My creativity improves on a full stomach.”

“I’ll tell Clarice there’s a work of genius underway.”

Voices drift down the hall. Suspecting we may not be alone for long, I take the plunge: “Will you have dinner with me?”

“Ah, so that’s why you’ve taken enough for two,” he says.

“Not
now,
I mean some other time.”

Tim’s smile fades and he considers for a moment. “I don’t know, Libby. What’s changed?”

“
I’ve
changed.”

“People don’t change much at thirty-three.”

“I’m thirty-four now. I’ve matured.”

He shrugs and says, “Let’s consult with the cookies.” He selects one from the carton and cracks it open.
“The time is right for second chances…in bed.”

“Let me see that!”

Tim crushes the slip of paper and puts it in his pocket. “The cookie has spoken—but I’m only committing to dinner.”

Most people leave over the next hour, but the Minister, Margo, Joe and I burn the midnight oil. While Mrs. Cleary rehearses the speech, I draft fact sheets, hypothetical media questions and responses. By the time sunlight begins to stream through the leaded glass windows, we’re ready for one last run-through. The flow of traffic along University Avenue picks up outside and the noise of the rush hour provides a backdrop to our mock media scrum. When the Minister is confident we’ve examined Contact Culture from every possible angle, she calls Bill to drive Laurie, Margo and me home.

Bill walks into her office moments later with the morning papers. On the front page of
The Star
is a story about Contact Culture. After all this work, our news has been leaked. It must have happened overnight because the facts, hammered out only
hours ago, are accurate. Interestingly, the story has the byline not of the paper’s Queen’s Park reporter, but of beauty editor Lynn Seward, who has been a staunch supporter of Mrs. Cleary’s since they ended up in a mud bath together at a Mexican spa a few years back. Today’s article practically qualifies as a puff piece, it’s so positive about the new program.

The Minister seems genuinely shocked about the leak. “It’s the Premier’s doing, I’m sure of it. You sent our materials to him last night, didn’t you Margo?”

Nodding, Margo says, “I suppose he thought it best to get the true story into friendly hands.”

“Well, we can always count on Lynn, but unfortunately, this leak has stolen my thunder. What’s the point of a press conference now? The other papers will run the story on the back page because it’s already old news.” Her disgruntlement eases quickly, however, as she notes the extremely flattering stock photo they’ve used.

I’m too tired by this point to care much about this latest twist, but as we’re heading for the car, I notice that Margo is smiling in a self-satisfied way. I suspect the Premier isn’t to blame for the leak after all. It was a ballsy move on Margo’s part, but she gambled and won. We couldn’t get better press if we paid for it and she’s set the tone for tomorrow.

The press conference is going off without a hitch and enough reporters have shown up to make it legitimate. The Minister has rehearsed enough that the speech sounds natural and sincere and she performs beautifully in the Q-and-A that follows. Lynn Seward is glued to the Minister’s side. I overhear her ask Mrs. Cleary—on the record—about her beauty regimen. Taking the question seriously, the Minister describes, in painstaking detail, her approach to cleansing and toning.

The rest of the reporters focus on the benefits of Contact Culture. No one mentions our connection to Loud Mouth Productions, nor the recent dismissal of a high-profile political
consultant. Perhaps these details will follow, but the positive coverage will continue to buoy Contact Culture through any rough waters ahead.

The Premier calls as the news conference ends and we can hear the Minister tittering on the phone in her office. Evidently he, too, is pleased. She emerges shortly to share his congratulations and propose an impromptu celebration at the local pub. I’m the only one to decline, but then, I’m the only one who has a date with Tim. Mrs. Cleary stops by my office on the way out.

“Libby, thank you.” For the second time in a week, she’s addressing me by my given name. “Everyone came through in this crisis, but without your intuition, I doubt we’d have anything to celebrate.”

“That’s nice of you to say, Minister. I’m happy it all worked out.”

“I did well at the press conference, didn’t I?” she says, smiling broadly.

“You did.”

“And…?”

“And you looked
fabulous
doing it,” I reply, picking up on my cue.

“Oh, stop,” she laughs. “Are you sure you won’t come with us?”

“I’m afraid I have other plans.”

“Well, you’ll be missed.” When she reaches the door she turns and eyes me cagily. “Do give Tim my regards.”

“Cheers,” Tim raises his wineglass to mine, “and congratulations.”

“Congratulations yourself. You share the credit on this one.”

“Yeah, but rumor has it that it was you who saved the day.”

“You know better than to believe in rumors. Anyway, all I did was follow a hunch.”

“Do you get a lot of those?”

“I’ve got a book on developing my intuition.”

“What’s your intuition telling you right now?” He’s leaning toward me and I think he’s flirting, but I don’t want to presume too much too soon.

“I have a very strong hunch…that you’ll order the chicken.” While he’s laughing, I summon my nerve and stampede toward my opening with the subtlety of a hormonally-challenged rhino. “And as for rumors, I heard you’ve been seeing someone.”

“Well, what did you expect?” he asks, his voice chilling as he leans back in his chair. “Did you think I’d sit at home and pine? We only went out a few times, Libby—it was hardly a relationship.”

The conversation has taken a dangerous turn and I scurry back to cover. “I know that, but I like to think it might have been if one of us weren’t an idiot.”

“I hope you’re referring to yourself?” he says, obviously more hurt by my past performance than I’d imagined.

“Don’t hold back, now.”

“I’m only agreeing with you.”

Examining my cutlery with interest, I decide I am an idiot—for thinking he’d really give me a second chance. I’m tempted to bolt, but indulging that instinct is what got me into this bind in the first place. I have to stick it out this time.

“May I take your order?” the waiter asks, interrupting the awkward silence.

“The lady is still deciding,” Tim tells him, “but I’ll definitely have the chicken.”

It isn’t much, but I take it as encouragement. I promptly order the chicken too. Once the waiter disappears, I say, “Relationships have never been my forte, Tim—but a girl can’t be good at everything. I got spooked last time, but I promise to try harder if you’ll give me another chance.”

He sips his wine for a moment and ponders. “You know, Melanie didn’t have a sense of humor.”

“Past tense?”

“Well, she may have one now, but I haven’t seen her in weeks, so I wouldn’t know.”