2 Months 'Til Mrs. (2 'Til Series) (24 page)

“I’ll think about it,” Tara said, her mouth full,
handing a cupcake to Cara.

Catherine’s mouth opened in shock. “Where did you—”

“I hit the coffee shop next door.”

“What about the rest of us?”

“I was hungry and I knew Cara was hungry, but you two voted
the other way on snacks. Besides, should you really be eating baked goods at a
time like this?” Tara raised her eyebrows at her knowingly.

“Thanks, Tara,” Cara said, trying to bite the cupcake
and sending frosting up onto her nose.

“Now what?” Catherine moaned, hungry and dress-less.

“I think we should spin her around a few times and
send her back in,” Tara offered, pointing at Cara who was now twenty percent
covered in sugar. “A frosting bomb. Get ‘em right in the Vera Wang. One
fingerful would have them shaking in their boots….” She put a protective
big-sister arm around the now thirty-five percent sugar-coated Cara. “She’ll
stop them dead in their stuffy-ass tracks. Priceless paybacks.”

“I don’t have time for revenge,” Catherine said
abruptly, wondering if entertaining Cara and Tara at the same time was the most
brilliant of ideas. “And could you watch the language, please?”

“What did I say?” Oblivious to her native tongue and
its tendency to speak freely.

“Let’s just focus,” Catherine said, not wanting to
bring any more attention to the language in question by repeating it. “I need a
dress—we
all
need dresses—pronto.”

“So does Drew, but she didn’t have to come. Why’d she
get a pass?” Tara demanded.

“Get knocked up and live outside the tri-state area
and maybe you can get a pass too,” Catherine said darkly.

Georgia looked up from her phone. “There are a couple
more places up ahead.”

“Are you using some kind of wedding app?” Tara
snickered.

Georgia ignored her.

“That is so lame. Are you serious?”

“Then what’s your plan? To hit J.C. Penney?” Georgia
chortled.

“Why not? They have wedding dresses.”

“Yoo-hoo! Bride here!” Catherine waved her arms
enthusiastically. “I think that this decision is up to me.”

“And?” they both answered in unison over the sound of
Cara skipping around them in circles singing, “Yoo-hoo, yoo-hoo,” over and
over.

“And first I want to
thank you
, Tara, for
getting our flower girl a cupcake—next time we can just get her some speed.”

“What’s speed?” Cara asked, stopping short.

“It’s—”

“Don’t, Tara. You’ve done enough,” Catherine commanded,
although she was the one who’d stepped in it this time, thinking that a child
in the throes of a sugar rush was rendered deaf. “It’s nothing, sweetie, do you
have to use the bathroom? Need a drink?”
 Want a pony?
Anything to make
the speed go away before Cara saw Fynn or her mom again.

“You know, speaking of dresses,” Tara offered, “now
that Drew’s all preggo, shouldn’t we be trying on bridesmaid dresses with those
fake pregnancy bellies so we can be sure she won’t look ridiculous?”

Catherine glanced at Georgia and saw the slightest
glimmer of consideration in her eyes and wondered if everyone else in the world
right now was crazy or if it was just them.

“Where did you girls go today?” William asked.

“We went
everywhere
.” Cara rolled her eyes.
“I’ve never seen so many dresses before. And I tried on the veils but then the
lady made me stop and there were vermin so we had to leave….” She spoke like a
trip-hammer.

Catherine grabbed a plate and started dishing up assembly-style,
snaking in front of her mother who was carrying Cara’s plate through the line
in front of the stove—some people hadn’t had cupcakes mid-day and were
starving
now.

“Vermin? Where did you go? To the wild, wild west?” her
mother chuckled.

“We went to New York Shitty.”

“Excuse me?” Elizabeth Hemmings almost dropped Cara’s
plate.

“Where are the veggies?” Catherine asked, trying to
deflect attention. She didn’t know if it was an honest five-year-old slipup or
if somewhere along the way she’d started channeling her grandfather who called
it The Big Shitty. Either way it wasn’t something she wanted to get into—all she
wanted to get into at this moment was the hotdog on her plate.

“I didn’t make any,” her mother said plainly.

“No peas? Or carrots? Or the mixed bag?” Catherine
asked in shock.

“With hotdogs?” Cara twitched her nose distastefully.

“There are sliced tomatoes on the table,” Elizabeth
said. “Have them or not.”

“
Have them or not?
” she exclaimed.

“Move along Catherine; you’re holding up the line.”

“Is this boxed mac and cheese?” she asked, holding the
serving spoon poised over the full pot, bewildered.

“Yes. Cara said that’s her favorite.”

“I’ve always said that I
love
blue-box mac and
cheese and you never—are you really my mother?” She turned, searching for the
telltale signs where the Elizabeth Hemmings mask ended and the imposter began.

“Stop being ridiculous and dish up. We would all like
to eat this year.”

“I know I would,” her father seconded, bringing up the
rear of the line.

Catherine wondered what alternate universe she had
landed in. Elizabeth Hemmings made homemade mac and cheese and
always
served cooked vegetables with a meal—whether roasted chicken or
hotdogs
.

She sat down at the table next to Cara, turning and
whispering, “This is not the same mother I grew up with. I think she’s an
alien.”

Cara giggled.

“So, what’s your poison? Are you a mustard-and-ketchup
gal? Or an everything-but-the-kitchen-sink kid?” Catherine asked, liberally
applying condiments to her own dog.

“I like mustard. But not
that
mustard,” Cara
noted, pointing at the Gulden’s Spicy Brown poised in Catherine’s hand and
wearing an
eew
look on her face.

“I have some yellow mustard in the pantry, Catherine,”
her mother directed.

The woman buys mustard she has never served in this
house in her life, but she couldn’t serve me pickles last night when I have
always eaten them on my—

“So, did you girls find dresses?” Elizabeth asked,
sitting down at the table and unfolding her paper napkin to place it properly in
her lap. Cara quickly followed suit, and Catherine, who was a tucker—under the
edge of the plate just like her father—watched in awe. This little girl was
going to be all jacked up by the time they left Chesterton.

“We found
lots
of dresses,” Cara pointed out.

“Did you buy any of these dresses?” Elizabeth asked with
a smirk.

Cara shook her head forcefully.

“Actually, I was wondering if maybe you could help me
find a flower girl dress for Cara,” Catherine said carefully, wanting to take
the focus off her own dress issues. “The dresses were all just too busy and ornate
and mature. I was thinking something long and simple; maybe with a ribbon that
wraps around at a princess waist.”

“I think we can figure something out,” Elizabeth said,
watching Cara busily stringing macaroni on the tines of her fork. “Maybe we
could go pick out some fabric and make something.”

“That sounds perfect.” Catherine breathed a sigh of
relief. Her mother had experience in this realm—two flower girl dresses back in
the day and countless princess costumes for Halloween.

“What color is the bridal party going to be wearing?”

“That isn’t quite settled yet.”

“You have that beautiful purple accent on the
invitations…. That would be a lovely rich winter color for the bridesmaids.”

“You know… you’re right, Mom,” she said dreamily, suddenly
picturing it so easily.

“Have you given any thought to having Lacey in your
wedding party?”

Oh my God, she’s diabolical!
All the goodwill suddenly
made sense. Elizabeth Hemmings was dangling a handmade flower girl dress in
front of her and being so helpful and kind and nonjudgmental…
and I fell
right into her trap
. 

“I already have my wedding party,” Catherine pointed
out as gently as possible considering she did still need a dress for Cara from
this woman.

“It’s only Georgia and Tara; you certainly have room
for another.”

“And Drew,” she said a bit more forcefully, aggravated
that her mother would disregard her favorite sister-in-law-to-be.

“And me!” Cara sang, holding her hotdog, still waiting
for the mustard that Catherine was currently wringing in her hands.

“Fynn only has a best man and two ushers,” Catherine
said practically.

“Then Connor can be an usher too; to balance it out.”

“Mother,” she warned.

“I’m just saying… you were in Lacey’s wedding party.”

“As an afterthought—a stand-in.”

“Well, you certainly didn’t make her feel welcome in
the family. I’m not surprised that she didn’t actually pick you.”

Catherine stopped herself before she said,
you
didn’t like her either!
As if that little fact would excuse her. Of course
it wouldn’t, because Elizabeth Hemmings had always been cordial and polite no
matter how she felt. And all that “not liking” stuff was water under the bridge
now anyway.

“Picking her would be a nice gesture,” her mother said
simply, acting as if the ball was in her court to do with it what she wanted—as
if Elizabeth Hemmings truly wouldn’t have a problem either way (which was
certainly not the case).

She gave her mother a look of teenage proportions—the
one that says
you’re-completely-unfair-just-like-life-and-the-whole-universe-are-unfair. Yesterday
came rushing to the surface. She’d seen Cara traipsing through the living room
on the new wood floor and rushed in to pull her out and save her from her
mother’s wrath, only to get in trouble herself for wearing shoes in there
—
a
grown woman who had wiped her feet at the welcome mat!
Sort of
. Her
mother said Cara wasn’t hurting anything by playing in there. Catherine was
eighteen
before she was allowed to even step foot in the living room but for holidays…. And
then there was dinner last night—
the tacos
—

“The tacos again?” Elizabeth Hemmings challenged.

Catherine shook her head. She hadn’t realized she’d
spoken out loud.

“Really, Catherine, I told you I didn’t forget the
pickles on purpose. Though I don’t know why you need them on tacos anyway,” her
mother pointed out.  

Just like her to use judgment to divert blame,
she
thought snarkily.

“You’re the only one who uses them,” Elizabeth
Hemmings added with a shrug.

“Exactly!” Catherine announced in triumph, pointing
her finger at her mother. She had her right where she wanted her—her mother
didn’t
care
about the pickles… or her.

“You know how I feel about pointing.” Elizabeth
Hemmings never shook a straight forefinger at anyone—it was at least as bad, if
not worse, than the middle finger. In fact, in the Hemmings household
the
finger
was the pointer finger.
That
had been nailed into her children’s heads
well enough that when David G. introduced Catherine to the
real
finger
in second grade, she was stupefied… and she gave that finger to everyone all
day long. That very well was the defining moment of her life—the solitary
confinement hallway punishment, the note home… it was all the beginning of her
downfall.

Catherine dropped the offensive hand gesture at her
side—her mother’s accusatory stare-down could make a criminal drop a loaded
weapon.

“Now, what is your problem?” Elizabeth asked, finally
willing to converse now that she was no longer being held at the tip of a
pointer finger.

“Tacos, no pickles… served in the dining room? A
summer meal in the winter? No lima beans or mixed veggies with hotdogs? Really,
Mom, you’re slipping.”

“We have company.”

“It’s just me. You never do this for—”

“
And
Cara
. I thought it would be fun for
her… especially considering—” But Elizabeth stopped right there. No need to
explain any further to her selfish daughter just why she might try to make Cara
feel comfortable and welcome and part of something.

Sunday, January 30
^th

“Yo, Cat, can your mom watch Cara today?”

“Um….” Catherine fought to read the smeared numbers on
the alarm clock above her head, her eyes trying to drift closed again.

“WAKE UP!” Tara screamed through the phone.

“Huh?”

“I’m coming to get you.”

“Tara?” she choked out. “Where are you?”

“On the road, bitch. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

“Fifteen what?” Hours, she hoped.

“Minutes. Be dressed and ready. I’m not even stopping,
so wear shoes you can run in. We’re on a mission. Peace out.”

Catherine propped herself up on an elbow and blinked
at the phone in disbelief. The room was grainy with early morning light. Her
room. In Chesterton, Pennsylvania. Her mind was reeling, gears not catching, her
body stiff and sore from two nights too many sleeping on the floor. There were
plenty of spare rooms and beds to go around, but Catherine had obliged Cara’s
request for a “sleepover”.

She noted that her old Strawberry Shortcake sleeping
bag was empty, laid out perfectly straight on the floor. Cara had obviously been
careful to “make it” after she got up—probably Gramma Lizzy’s teaching.

That was what Cara had taken to calling Catherine’s
mom. Gramma, like her mommy used to call her own grandmother when she was
little, and Lizzy because that was what she called her best friend Elizabeth
back in Iowa. For her part, Elizabeth Hemmings hadn’t even batted an eye,
accepting the nickname with willful abandon. And Catherine’s dad had suddenly become
Pop-pop. Cara had thrown all her desire for the grandparents she’d never had
straight onto them and they had heartily obliged.  

But there was also the look Catherine had seen pass
quickly over her mother’s face when she thought no one was looking. Deep sorrow
that overtook her enchantment. Cara was just shy of Josephine’s age when
everything had broken into a thousand tiny pieces and couldn’t be put back
together again. And her brown hair and smile were so vividly reminiscent of
Josey’s memory that it was almost heartbreaking. But Cara was a little girl in
her own right, one who needed them all, for she too would come to know great
sorrow.

Catherine got up and wandered down the hall toward the
stairs, following the smells of coffee and French toast wafting up from the
kitchen, making her whimper with delight.

“… And when I live with Fynn I get to have a dog too.
Magnus will be my dog.” Cara’s little voice trilled happily through the house.

“Having a dog is a wonderful thing,” Elizabeth
Hemmings agreed.

Says the woman who never allowed our dog in her
house,
Catherine chuckled to herself, trying to sidestep the creaky stairs.

“And my mommy says that I am going to have a big
family… with cousins even,” she said happily. “I’ve never had any of those
before.”

“That’s so exciting,” Elizabeth agreed, though
Catherine could hear the slightest waver in her voice.

“And my friend Cat is going to be just like my mom.
She is going to teach me stuff and take care of me. And Mom says I don’t have
to worry one bit about anything because I am going to have so many people who
love me that I won’t miss her at all,” Cara said plainly.

Catherine felt tears welling in her eyes and stopped
where she was on the stairs, willing them away.

“Do you want cream in your coffee, Catherine?” her
mother called out, proving her hearing was still shipshape.

She swiped at her eyes and descended the last of the
stairs, sniffing discreetly before walking through the doorway into the
kitchen. “Good morning.” She tried to sound as chipper as the lump in her
throat would allow. “God, my contacts are really bothering me today,” she said,
trying to explain away the redness and watering.

“One lump or two?” her mother asked, holding a spoonful
of sugar in midair.

“One.”

“So what are you doing up so early?”

“Tara called and told me to get up and be ready to go
somewhere.” She shrugged her shoulders and took the mug of coffee her mother
handed her, walking around the table to sit next to Cara.

“Where?”

“She didn’t say. But considering it’s Tara, maybe it
would be better if Cara didn’t come,” she said knowingly, a roundabout way to
ask for a favor.

“I’m sure we can think of something to do here, huh,
Cara?” Elizabeth prodded.

Cara nodded her head exuberantly, thrilled with the
idea.