2 Months 'Til Mrs. (2 'Til Series) (19 page)

Saturday, January 15
^th

One week after she’d feared her mother might be right,
that two months would prove impossible, here she was pulling up in front of 117
Fir Lane with a complete wedding just waiting for her come March 4
^th
.
Vindication! She couldn’t have been more smug and satisfied had she carried
definitive proof of the Jersey Devil in the trunk of her car to validate all
her childhood nightmares. This was going to be epic.

Thanks to Vinnie, whose flower guy could and would do
anything, and Georgia, who helped her pick the blooms she wanted, Catherine was
entirely outfitted for the wedding—except for the dress, that is. She had simple
and dignified bouquets of creamy white lilies and tulips for the bridal party (long
stems bound by deep purple ribbons), and matching lily boutonnieres for the men,
and kitschy-cool centerpieces for the tables—large green sundae glasses filled
with white pompom flowers Catherine couldn’t even name now, a mere half hour
later.

She wasn’t just here to gloat, though. She needed to
finalize the guest list, and that required input from Elizabeth Hemmings, the
communications and social director for the household.

Catherine got out of the car, sidestepping Miss Kitty’s
daily constitutional by mere centimeters. That was a good omen she was sure—making
it all the way to the front step without stepping in shit. Kudos for her.

She reached out a fist to rap on the door just as it
swung open.

“Catherine! You scared me half to death!” her mother
shrieked, a hand to her heart.

“What is it, Elizabeth?” her father said from behind.

“Your daughter is here,” she answered curtly.

“So she’s
my
daughter again,” he said lightly,
coming around his wife, a twinkle in his eye. “What did she do this time?”

“She almost made me drop my pie… in my best dish.”
Elizabeth cradled the dessert protectively.

“I didn’t mean to.” Catherine fought to control her
tone and not escalate things. It was just her mother being… her mother.

“You sure it wasn’t all part of your wicked little
plan to come here and give a couple old fogies a scare?” her father prodded,
giving her a peck on the cheek and a warm hug.

“I wish I had known to expect you. I haven’t heard
from you in over a week,” her mother pointed out, judgment in the observation.
“As it is, we’re on our way out.” She was noticeably ruffled that she couldn’t
be a proper hostess even if her guest was her insolent daughter.

It had never even crossed Catherine’s mind that her
parents might have a life to live and places to be on a Saturday night. Of
course she’d come to expect that they might be busy throwing a party she wasn’t
invited to, but going out now too? “I was just dropping by because I happened
to be in the area. Only thirty minutes away,” she stressed, pointing out that
she was within acceptable drop-in distance this time as she was coming directly
from the flower shop in Philly.

All three of them stood there awkwardly on the front
step that was really too tight for two, until her mother suddenly broke the
stalemate. “Get in the car before we’re late.”

“Actually, I have stuff to get back to at home. I’ll just
call you tomorrow,” Catherine said quickly. She didn’t know what kind of hell
she was about to be dragged to, but it seemed imperative at that moment to
avoid it—it could be canasta at the senior center or dinner with—

“Connor and Lacey would love to see you, I’m sure. I
know that they’ve invited you several times and you’re always too busy to make
the trip. Perhaps this is fitting that you happen to be in town with time on
your hands,” Elizabeth said matter-of-factly.

Shit.
Catherine had to admit that her mother
was
good
—skilled at throwing her weight around with innocuous words.
Catherine had to toss four-letter words to get her point across most of the
time. Her mother’s way was an art.

“To the car, miladies,” her father said with a
flourish, sending them ahead of him. He popped the locks on the Buick and
Catherine shrank into the backseat like she’d been forced into the back of a
patrol car.

*****

“Cat, I’m so glad that you came tonight,” Lacey said,
bustling around the kitchen.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” she said, trying not to
wince at her own nickname that was like nails on a chalkboard coming from this
woman.

“It’s no intrusion at all. We’re family. You’re
welcome anytime,” she assured her.

Catherine noted that there wasn’t even a hitch in
Lacey’s demeanor so far. Not even when she first got there. She hadn’t faltered
one iota. Either Lacey was tough-as-nails or she actually didn’t have a problem
with the unexpected guest—her bet was on the former.

“Georgia told me she grounded you from seeing Fynn. It
must totally suck after spending every weekend together like clockwork.” Lacey
gave her a sympathetic smile—an awfully good imitation of the real thing.

Catherine gritted her teeth and nodded her head
curtly. Since when had she become a topic of conversation between them? It was
bad enough that Georgia was friends with Lacey now.
But to talk about me
behind my back, too
?
That’s beyond out of bounds.

“I’m just so glad that you two are getting married!”
Lacey gushed. “And the colors you chose for the wedding—the deep purple accents
to honor Josey and her favorite color… that’s just so touching.” Her eyes
glistened.

Don’t you dare fake tears for my sister,
Catherine
seethed.

“And that old mansion—I love that place. It’s the
perfect venue. I only wish it had been an option for Connor and me. I would
have snatched it up in a heartbeat. Mom must be thrilled with the location.”

The pressure inside Catherine’s head was growing with
each word out of Lacey’s chatty little mouth. How could Georgia do this to her?
The wedding plans? And Josey and the purple? And there was the whole “Mom”
thing she was hoping was just an awful phase. The hits just kept coming.

“What location should I be thrilled about?” the mom in
question asked, coming into the kitchen, one of Lacey’s dishtowels slung over a
shoulder.

“Uh….” Lacey was like a deer in the headlights.

Perhaps she didn’t know that “Mom” had bat ears and
eyes in the back of her head and all the other mom senses that made it
impossible to keep secrets
secret
in her presence… or even in the same
town.
Either that or this chick is diabolically intent on destroying me.
First, squeezing her stuffy ass into my family, and then in between me and my
friends. Next thing, she’ll be after my man
. Every bit of ground that Lacey
gained was being yanked out from underneath Catherine. Letting news like this
slip to “Mom” before she had a chance to say anything herself could be seen as
an act of war—

“If I’m thrilled, I think I should know about
what
,”
Elizabeth said plainly.

Lacey turned and busied herself at the stove, the
cutting board, the bread basket—anything within distance that faced the other
direction, so Catherine couldn’t see if a wicked gleam was in her eye.
God, I
could pummel Georgia right now,
she thought, her hands balled into fists of
fury.

“Well, Mom, that’s what I dropped in to tell you. Fynn
and I have finalized the wedding plans,” she said, a chill in her voice that
made it come out stiffly.

“You have?”

Is that a note of dubiousity or dubiousness that I
detect?
She powered forward, suddenly feeling  hungry for a kill. “March 4
^th
.
This
March,” she stressed unnecessarily—she couldn’t help herself. “In
Philly.”

“Oh. I thought you would do it in New York—where you
live,” her mother pointed out practically. More judgment to cloud the news.

“We considered it but—”

“It must be hard to plan from there,” Elizabeth noted.

“Actually, not really. It’s done.” Catherine shrugged
easily, enjoying this moment most of all. She had a definitive,
incontrovertible, perfectly perfect answer—an Elizabeth-Hemmings-proof answer.

“What’s done?”

“The planning—the wedding. It’s completely taken care
of. Planned.” In case her mother didn’t get it the first time.

“Aaaah,” Elizabeth said. It was more of an exhalation
actually, but it held so much undisguised disbelief that Catherine herself even
wavered in her certainty, and she’d paid the check and had all the paperwork
proving it was so. That was how strong her mother’s power was.

“Weddings can be very hard to orchestrate, Catherine.
Getting everything sorted out and scheduled—”

“I’m not crazy, Mom. I have a coordinator.”

“Who are you using?” Elizabeth asked, still wary,
making Catherine think of the old wisdom: if it seems too good to be true, it
probably is.

“SG Weddings,” Catherine announced as confidently as
possible considering.

Lacey started coughing uncontrollably in the
background, fumbling for a glass of water.

“Are you okay, dear?” Elizabeth asked.

Lacey turned to them, eyes red with the strain, still
coughing lightly. “I’m fine, Mom.”

And there’s that word again.

“Listen,
Mom
,” Catherine said, stressing her
place as the
real
daughter who the woman had spent thirty-six hours in
labor with (
no wonder she has no love loss for me
). “Regardless of what
you think about when or where or how I do this, I wanted to know who you want
to invite.” A slam and an open-ended show of goodwill in one tidy package. Of
course every mother wants the opportunity to flaunt her daughter’s nuptials to
family, friends, and acquaintances far and wide.

“It’s your wedding, dear,” Elizabeth said abruptly.

So I’m “dear” too? No special term of endearment
for your biological daughter? You don’t even care to invite anybody to my
wedding?
Catherine couldn’t believe it.
I know she had people on Connor
and Lacey’s guest list. But with me she’s totally hands-off. Like I don’t
matter at all—

“Although… it would be nice to invite Uncle Dick. He
is
like a member of the family.”

“Of course,” Catherine groused. 

“And make sure you don’t skip any of your aunts or
uncles on either side or we’ll never hear the end of it. The family is still
talking about Grant’s wedding ten years ago when he didn’t invite Aunt Judy and
Uncle Al. Oversight or not, it was just rude, and
we
are not going to be
rude.”

Catherine felt a smile tickling the corners of her
mouth.

“And if you have room for the cousins you shouldn’t
slight them—they’ve invited you to all of their weddings, remember?” Her mother
began ticking off guests on her hands, quickly running out of fingers. “And
John and Fran Trotter are such dear and longstanding friends. And the Hoovers,
Garibaldis, Swanes, and Klavens. Oh, and we can’t forget old Ms. Fricks and her
dear friend Miss Alba—”

Now that’s more like it….

“We will have to go over the seating chart once you
find out who’s coming,” her mother said expertly. “You don’t want Uncle Dick
near Ms. Fricks after that whole mail incident in ’82. She never forgave—”

“We’re not doing a chart,” Catherine interjected.

Her mother stopped dead in her verbal tracks. “No
chart?” she asked, as if her daughter had suddenly slipped into a foreign
language. Catherine had already gotten an earful from Georgia about how a
chartless reception is unkempt and lazy. Of course her mother would be just as
appalled. But Catherine was lazy and sometimes even unkempt, so chartless was…
well, her. And it
was
her wedding after all.

My wedding!
  

Sunday, January 16
^th

“Hello?” Fynn’s voice was grainy.

“Did I wake you?” she asked sweetly.

“It’s after midnight; of course you woke me.”

“You put your phone next to your bed,” she said with a
smile.

“I didn’t want to get anymore crap for missing your
calls. I keep the phone strapped to my body at all times now.”

“So you’re saying that I’m in
bed with you
right now?” she asked silkily.

“I guess that’s what I’m saying.” She could hear the fog
on his end clearing quickly.

“Good thing I’m not wearing anything then.”

“I like that image,” he said, fully awake.

“So you’ll never guess what happened. I went to my
parents’ house—”

“Wait just a second. Back up…. You said you were
naked,” Fynn reminded her.

“Of course I’m not naked.”

“But you—”

“I was trying to wake you up.”

“That’s just cruel.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, and now you need to finish the job.”

“Finish yourself. Later. I can’t think about phone sex
now.”

“Funny, that’s
all
I can think about,” he
groused.

But she ignored him. “Like I said, I went to my
parents’ house to tell them about the wedding plans and work on the guest list,
and guess what?
They
were on their way out to Connor and Lacey’s!” she
exclaimed in disbelief.

No reaction from the other end.

“They
forced
me to go with them, Fynn,” she
said, upping the ante on her night and again getting nothing in return. “It was
just awful. Lacey spilled the beans about the wedding before I could even tell
my mom anything about it!” Righteous indignation. “I never even told Lacey!
Georgia was obviously blabbing all about my life to her new best friend. Can
you believe she would do that to me? I mean, what kind of matron of honor would
do something so—so—so completely dishonorable!”

She could hear Fynn breathing on the other end of the
line.

“Well?”

“I didn’t think you needed me for this,” he said calmly.

“What do you mean I don’t need you for this!” she
snapped. “I called you to tell you. Are you even listening to me?”

“I thought you just wanted to rant.”

“Of course I want to rant. This is totally
rant-worthy. Georgia shouldn’t be telling Lacey anything about the wedding. And
if she’s sharing this, what else is she telling her? That she thinks I’m nuts
to be getting married in two months? That my flowers are stupid and my band is
insane? That my wedding planner is mafia and my whole wedding is going to be a
nightmare?”

“Our wedding planner is mafia?” Fynn asked.

“Maybe…” she mumbled, “… but what does it matter
anyhow?”

“Well, just don’t piss him off…. You know, the whole
horse head in the bed thing—I wouldn’t want to wake up and find Magnus’s head—”

“What are you talking about?” she blurted in
frustration. He was supposed to be helping her feel better and instead he was
off on some tangent.

“
The Godfather
.”

Now it was her turn to breathe blankly back at him
through the phone.

“You’ve never seen
The Godfather
,
have
you?”

“No,” she said smartly.

“And I’m
marrying
you?” he asked, utter shock
ringing in her ear. “How did I not know that?”

“There are a lot of things we don’t know about each
other. I hardly think not having our movie lists in sync is our main problem,”
she said testily, not in the mood for joking.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, starting to
sound testy himself.

“I’m just saying that we haven’t talked about a lot of
stuff.”

“Like what?”

“The future—”

“Marriage
is
the future,” Fynn pointed out
firmly. “We take it down the road to the end.”

“You’re simplifying it.”

“No I’m not. If
we
are what matters, then we
simply go down the road
together
and face everything that comes our way
together
.”

“I’m talking about stuff like separate accounts or
joint accounts. One kid or five kids. Public or private schools. Country or
city—”

“Is that what this is about?” Fynn asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Country or city? Are you reconsidering the whole
marriage or just the living arrangements?” he asked, a sharp bite in his words.

“I’m not reconsidering anything,” she stressed,
feeling that roiling in the pit of her stomach reminding her she was in
dangerous territory. “I’m just angry with Georgia and pissed off in general. I needed
a sounding board and you—”

“I was giving you a sounding board. You wanted a
yes-man.”

“So I wanted a yes-man. What’s wrong with that?”

“I don’t know what you want from me moment to moment
these days.”

“Like I said, there is a lot about each other that we
don’t know.” Obviously the whole
love
thing had masked that fact until
now. Love was blind to the truth, but her mother was right about one thing:
life is real, not ideal.

“Listen, it’s late. I’m tired. You sound tired. Why
don’t we just talk tomorrow?” Fynn offered plainly.

He was being smart and steady and logical, and it
pissed her off. She didn’t want to let cooler heads prevail. She wanted to
clear the air with hot heads. She wanted to have it out right here and now—what
he was thinking and feeling, what she was thinking and feeling. Hash it out so
she didn’t waste any more time on this if—

“Cara is going to be up first thing in the morning and
I don’t want to be a bear,” he added.

And there was another thing. She was so wrapped up in
her side of the drama that she had forgotten that Fynn even had Cara this
weekend.
What kind of mom am I going to be… to anyone?

“Fine. Tomorrow,” she said with a deep heaving breath
like it took all her strength—which it did.

But instead of the click she expected to hear as he
hung up the phone, she heard, “I love you, Catherine Hemmings.” His voice was
as smooth and buttery as it was the first time she’d heard him speak to her.
Heck, it was even better now.
He loves me!

“I love you too,” she said sadly, wanting to drop
everything and step through the phone and into his arms.

“Then why do you want to fight with me?” he prodded
playfully.

“I don’t want to fight with you.”

“You have a funny way of showing it.”

“I just wanted you to be there for me and when you
didn’t react—when you weren’t mad at Georgia too—”

“You want me to whack her? Or have her whacked?” He
was obviously still stuck in the mafia portion of the conversation.

“I want you to be mad at things when I’m mad at them.
I want you to support me. To feel what I’m feeling. I want us to share—”

“A brain?”

“Everything,” she said breathily. “Inside and out.”

“Sounds hot.” 

“You
would
go there.”