2 Months 'Til Mrs. (2 'Til Series) (26 page)

Monday, January 31
^st
 

“Oh my God! Fynn!” she exclaimed. The knock at her
door had nearly startled the bejeezus out of her. “But I thought I was supposed
to meet you halfway.” That was the plan, a road trip to Ohio to hand off Cara
so Fynn could take her back home to her mom. 

He had a twinkle in his eye and a sly smile. “Are you
going to let me in or not?” he asked through the gap where the chain held the
door fast.

“I haven’t decided yet…. It isn’t really proper, you
know. Seven hours is hardly a drop-in,” she said coyly, channeling her mother’s
famous wisdom.

“You Hemmings women are tough,” he said with chagrin. “I’m
just relieved that you’re actually here. I was worried that I might be in the
wrong place.”

She looked at him questioningly. “I know you haven’t
been here many times, but you know where I live.”

“I meant that you might still be holed up at your
mom’s, considering—”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, perhaps a
bit too stridently. But the implication was there—she didn’t know what she was
doing and needed her mommy to help her babysit…. Obviously now was not the time
to share the news of their exciting field trip to the doctor yesterday.

“It sounded like you girls were having fun there,” he said
simply.

“You know, I can handle a five-year-old for a few
days.”—
not
. But at least she sounded cool and collected and righteous.
“For your information I took Cara to my parents’ for a visit because I thought
she should meet them.” And then for the best defense: “And might I remind you
that I am still in the middle of planning
our
wedding.” Just to make
sure that
he
knew that
she
knew that he wasn’t
doing anything
on that front so he couldn’t possibly have any idea the amount of stress she
was under, and therefore it only made sense that she would need an extra hand in
order to get things done this weekend—certainly
not
because she didn’t
know how to take care of a child.

“I guess you had it all under control then. You’re
doing better than I did the first time I had Cara alone. I practically had Drew
move in with us for the whole weekend,” he admitted.

Catherine laughed tightly. She had won the round, but
only by cheating.

“Anyway, I drove through the night hoping to take my
girls out to… breakfast,” he said, sneaking a peek at his watch to make sure it
was still breakfast time.

His words—“my girls”—made her feel all gooey inside. There
was something tender and warm and safe about that kind of possession, and she
wanted to crawl right inside and curl up in it.

“So, can I come in?” he asked, probably wondering why
they were still speaking through the gap in the door.

“Uh… we aren’t decent,” she said quickly, grasping the
first excuse floating past in her mind to hold him off. Her apartment was a
mess, still exhibiting the aftermath of the tornado that had spun through while
she was packing to leave for Minnesota last week. Cara had actually asked if
she’d been robbed when she first walked in, pointing at the dresser drawers
that were half hanging out, clothes bursting out of them. That’s how bad it was.
“You wait right there. We’ll be out in a minute.” She reached her arm through
the opening and pushed at his chest coyly before shutting him out.

He didn’t need to see her life like this. She was
relatively neat at his place, and she’d been known to clean for days before the
times he’d come to see her…. This dirty little secret—that she was slobbish and
slovenly—she planned to keep to herself until after the vows, when it was
harder to get rid of her.

*****

Girls on one side of the booth and boys on the other—Cara’s
rules—so Catherine gazed across the table at Fynn, his handsome face covered in
some serious stubble that looked sexy as hell even though she knew it felt like
sandpaper—untouchable unless you were into getting a case of windburn (at this
point she’d go willingly).

“What’re you lookin’ at?” he asked over his tray of
wrappers, sounding totally New York.

“I’m just admiring my knight in shining armor who
looks like he could use a good night’s sleep and a Bic.”

He rubbed his face with his hand, yawning. “I don’t
sleep well without you.”

Aw shucks.
Even if it was a big load of—

“Fynn, guess what?” Cara said suddenly. “Cat got me
drops and I have them twice a day.”

“Drops?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Cara nodded her head enthusiastically.

“Gumdrops?”

“Nope.” She was sucking on her chocolate milk straw,
the milk all gone, though most of her meal was still in evidence—
she ate
much better at my mom’s
.

“I can explain,” Catherine said quickly.

Fynn stared back at her, his expression open, waiting
for just that.

The little girl who could not keep a secret for a meal
or even a moment was now completely occupied spearing hotcakes drenched in
syrup onto her plastic fork, having lost interest in her drops already. Catherine
eyed her like she was a ticking time bomb, wondering when and what she might
share next—
an exposé on the present sorry state of my apartment, broadcast
to the table and McDonald’s at large?
She groaned slightly. “I should have
said something yesterday on the phone, but I didn’t want to worry you or Renée
over nothing…. I know I should be returning Cara the way I found her—”

“What happened, Catherine?” he asked gently.  

“She has eardrops. For swimmer’s ear. The doctor said
it’s probably from the tub or something. I didn’t take her swimming outside or
anything.” She put a hand to her chest to assure him she would never be that
negligent in her caregiving.

“It will clear up in a jiffy,” Cara added, trying to
snap her fingers like Pop-pop had been teaching her to do yesterday.

“Oh,” he said simply, like what was going on right
here and now didn’t even matter anymore. Case closed. No big deal.

“That’s it?” Catherine blurted. She’d been afraid to
tell him. Felt guilty as hell about not saying anything. And that was all he
had in him?
Oh?

“It happens.”

What happens? People like me tend to get into these
little pickles? Or Cara is prone to swimmer’s ear? Or—
“So it’s completely
fine?” she challenged, her tone icy and brittle in response to the man who
seemed to feel like this little hiccup was expected of his wife-to-be.

“What do you want me to say?” he asked, taking a sip
of his coffee and rubbing his face like it was just too hard to deal with this or
her.  

She wanted him to feel something. Mad that she’d kept
something important from him. Or impressed that she’d gotten Cara medical
treatment and handled the whole thing on her own just like a mother would.

“Can I go play now?” Cara asked, pointing toward the
ball pit and jungle gym room across the way from their table.

“Sure you can,” Catherine said, relieved to have
little ears out of the way for a few moments. Being around kids was exhausting,
always trying to be on your best behavior. She got out of the booth and let
Cara slide out. “Be careful!” she called after her as she galloped away. Catherine
sat back down and turned her attention to Fynn again. “Spill it. Obviously
everything’s
not
fine.”

He glanced toward Cara, immersed in her little-kid world
of fun. When he looked back at Catherine, her stomach full of hotcakes and
sausage and coffee and juice
and
hash browns curdled at the sight of the
haunted look that had come over his features.

“The doctor says that Renée probably has less time
than they hoped.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling lower than low for her thoughts
that immediately went to:
I hope her funeral doesn’t overshadow our wedding— 

“She definitely won’t be strong enough to make it to
the wedding,” he said grimly. “But Renée still wants Cara to be our flower
girl. She thinks that it’s important for her to feel a part of our family—her
new family.” His voice was shaky and tears filled his eyes.

“Of course. Certainly,” Catherine said quickly, hoping
he couldn’t see what was selfishly swirling inside her… that this turn of
events could ruin everything.

He grasped her hand tightly across the table, like he needed
to hold on for dear life or he might lose her, too. “I didn’t know that this
was going to be so hard.”

What exactly?
she wondered.
Getting married?

“I thought that I could handle Renée being sick… and
taking care of Cara. I thought that I could… but it just sucks. It totally
sucks,” he said, defeated.

“If it’s all too much. If you want to postpone things until….”
she mumbled the words, unable to finish the morbid thought on her mind.

“It’s not that. It’s just… I hope that Cara is going
to be okay. She seems to love it in Nekoyah, but her mother has always either
been with her or she’s been there to go home to. The inevitable is coming and I
don’t know if any of us are really ready.”

“Cara is a strong little girl. You guys have prepared
her the best you can,” Catherine pointed out. She looked over at the playground
and the little girl with her brown hair in a perfect French braid that she had
done for her, wondering if
she
was prepared for what was coming. French
braids she’d been practicing since she got her first Barbie, but the rest of
it?

“When it happens, though, it’s going to be a lot different.”

“I know.” Her tone was steely.

“God, Catherine… I didn’t mean to ignore what you went
through with your sister—”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said brusquely. She didn’t
want to talk about Josey even though he was right, she had been bitterly
thinking about how she’d had no preparation for losing her little sister all
those years ago. A part of her envied Cara the time she was being allowed with
her mom even while that envy was entirely misplaced because the little girl was
still going to lose her.

“I
am
worried about it. About you. Are you
okay?” he asked. “I didn’t think about what talking about all of this might do
to you.”

“It doesn’t do anything to me,” she said firmly.

“Anything?” He physically pulled back, pulled his hand
off of hers like her skin was frigid.

“I mean, it isn’t about me at all.”

“It’s about all of us,” he said earnestly. “I
love
you.”

She looked into his stormy blue eyes. “I love you
too.”

“Well that’s all that matters, right?”

“Right,” she eked out.

“What is that?” he asked, leaning across the table and
looking at her closely.

“What?” Her hand went to her neck self-consciously.

“That redness you’re trying to hide from me.”

“Oh that! It’s nothing.” She shrugged.

“Where did you find poison ivy to roll around in this
time of year… in New York?” he joked.

“It’s not poison ivy,” she said smartly.

“Then what is it?”

“Cat has a bee infection,” Cara offered, appearing tableside
from out of thin air.

“A what?” Fynn asked, a chuckle in his voice.

“It’s hives, alright? I have hives! Are you happy
now?” Catherine blurted.

“The doctor said they’re in her head,” Cara noted.

“What are in her head?” he asked, an amused expression
on his face.

“The bees, silly. That’s why you can’t see them,” Cara
said definitively.

Tuesday, February 1
^st
  

This was definitely the worst Tuesday on record. After
Fynn and Cara had left yesterday she’d expected a certain amount of relief… and
peace and quiet and
calm
to take their place, but instead it was just an
immense emptiness that moved in. She felt awful. And so alone it made her whole
body ache—
unless I have the flu, which seemed likely what with Murphy’s Law
still in effect around the globe.

She stared down her clock—
God, six comes awfully
early.
Perhaps she should have considered giving herself a day off before
starting a new and painful, sadomasochistic routine. She didn’t want to be all
that she could be this morning. Last night it had sounded like a brilliant
idea. Tara was so inspirational, giving her an impressive and patriotic spiel,
telling her to make her family and country proud and get her shit in
order—meaning her flab in check—so she would be a bride to envy. The bride of
brides. A princess among her lowly subjects! But in the weak light of day it
seemed a bit too idealistic.
Let’s get real:
I’m voluptuous, take me
or leave me!

The phone startled her and she rolled over and shoved
her head under her pillow to dampen the noise. Everyone she knew happened to be
aware that this was way too early to reach her.

Five excruciating rings and then the devil herself—

“Cat! I know you’re still in bed! Up and at ‘em! Only
thirty-two days left! Up-up-up! If you don’t get up and run your ass off, I’m
moving in and dragging you out of bed each morning…. How do you like them
apples?”

CLICK

Of course it would be Tara making idle threats to get
her out of bed.

And then the ringing started all over again. Three
times before Tara’s voice blared through the apartment. “If you don’t think
I’ll do it… just try me.”

CLICK

I’ll tell her I ran. Like she would be able to tell
whether I actually went or not.

Three more god-awful rings. “I
will
know, Cat.
You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. Remember that. I’m watching….”

CLICK

Now that’s just plain creepy.

What the hell does she even know about exercising?
Tara
didn’t have to do anything to stay trim, and to add insult to injury, she didn’t
have to try to fit in a wedding dress that was too small either. Probably would
have been smart to try on the
perfect
dress before actually buying it—cash
and carry. Less than forty-eight hours and she had come to rue the day she’d
let Tara talk that Oleg Cassini original dress right out of a much thinner
woman’s hands. Total cost: one huge lie and eight hundred dollars—dollars she
could have sewn together and worn instead and actually
fit in
with
enough left over for her entire wedding party to have dresses, ties, vests—and
even make matching linens for the reception.

Instead, she owned a spectacular, pearl-beaded,
angel-hair-strapped dress with the faintest dipping sweetheart neckline, in a
shade of white even Georgia would approve of—just to the latter side virginal.
The bodice was embroidered with swirling and dipping vines ending in
intricately beaded buds. The dress skimmed the floor when she walked and would
be stunning with a pair of peep-toe heels. Everything about it was exquisite
and ethereal and her dream-come-true—but for the fact that she couldn’t zip it
all the way up without creating some impressive cleavage with her back fat.

But even that didn’t make the exercise medicine go
down easier. In her mind, since the silk skirt was full and perfect for hiding
what lay beneath, only half of her was actually a problem, so it stood to
reason it should only take half the time and effort to fix it… like exercising every
other day—starting tomorrow. Or maybe she could just wear a little jacket or a
shawl of some sort—it would be chilly out in early March and Elizabeth Hemmings
always said to wear a coat in the winter…. 

The ringing started again.

Christ!
Catherine pulled herself up and out of
bed begrudgingly and began blindly searching the dark apartment for something
to run in. Maybe she should have opted for a gym membership, or better yet,
exercise videos to do in her own time in front of her own TV. But running was
free. And she was sure she had a pair of running shoes somewhere….

The phone stopped and then started again, Tara getting
her point across that she would annoy her thinner if need be.

“Dog Shit!”
Catherine groaned, suddenly remembering
how she’d thrown out her only running shoes last year, after stepping in a
heaping, steaming pile of crap outside of her parents’ house. Of course at the
time she’d never intended to actually run
in those shoes, but now that
she needed them—
ugh
. She grabbed an ancient pair of Keds—the closest
thing she had to “athletic” footwear. So far she’d lost ten minutes to her fruitless
search, fully intending to count those minutes as several reps of squats and
curls, seeing as how she’d had to look under, over, and around everything in
her apartment.

By the time she reached the sidewalk outside, she was
already out of breath—slightly—just from running down the stairs, and she even had
gravity working in her favor for that part. She looked first one way down the street
and then the other—both directions seemed to stretch unnervingly to infinity. Running
her block was a good start, she reasoned. At least that way she’d never be too
far from home—she’d heard gang and drug activity were high in the early morning
hours and considering it was before seven, it couldn’t hurt to take
precautions.

The first steps were cleansing, the morning air was
fresher than what came later in the day, and the audio track of the city was
eerily subdued. Beautiful actually. By the time she rounded the first corner, though,
the internal commotion started—her joints first, and then the stitch in her
side, lethargy in her arms that she feared might be some kind of attack (heart
or maybe a stroke)—all of this over a steady backbeat of wincing pain in her
feet that explained why Keds were not in any way, shape, or form meant for
athletic activity. She made the next two turns through a combination of running
and walking and jogging and dragging herself along. Then the final turn, an
impressive uptick in her pace in spite of the blisters on her feet. She found
herself driven by thoughts of scoring some pre-breakfast goodies—maybe
something smothered in butter and covered with—

Stop it!

Lo and behold, the downside of exercising. The little
talked about but dangerous syndrome of eating
more
than usual. She was starving
and ready to add an extra meal to her day, one she wouldn’t have even been
awake for if not for this whole shaping up thing.
 

She was halfway up the stairs to her apartment when
her phone rang on her hip.

“Hello?” she said in between heaving breaths.

“Catherine?” The voice, fittingly, sounded far away.  

She tried to catch her breath before saying anything
further.

“Are you okay? You sound like you’ve been running. Are
you being chased?” Fynn chuckled at his wittiness.

Way to kick a girl on her last breath.
“I’m
great… fine… well, hanging in there.” Each description less confident as she
quite literally clung to the railing for dear life, hoping not to pass out as
her body seemed on the verge of revolt from exertion. This running thing was
entirely overrated.
Everybody’s doing it,
Tara’s voice in her head
reminded her. But she feared that if she remained a disciple of Tara’s philosophies
she was going to end up in the paper. She could just see it now—above the fold:
Woman Dies Trying; below the fold: To Fit Her Wedding Dress. All of it next to
a picture of her sprawled, chalk-outlined body.

“I actually can’t believe you answered this early. I
was just calling to leave a message on your voice mail that I was on my way back
home. Sorry I didn’t call last night but it was kind of late when I got Cara
settled. A neighbor is staying with her until Renée is released from the
hospital. It should be just a few more days.”

“Did Cara get a chance to see her?” Her breathing was
finally normalizing.

“Yes. She told her everything you guys did. Wouldn’t
stop talking.”

Great,
Catherine thought, gritting her teeth. Some
of what happened over the weekend could be entirely misconstrued when told through
the voice of a young child.

“You know, Renée thinks that maybe you’re—” His voice suddenly
cut out and she pressed her phone closer to her ear as if that would make him
come back to her. “She didn’t like—” More static. “—and when Cara showed her
the drops—” Total silence. “—mad. It’s too much—thankful that Cara is back—”

“Fynn? You keep cutting out,” Catherine said,
frustrated by technology… and Fynn… and everything.
So Renée thinks I’m
totally inept now? Over a tiny case of swimmer’s ear that was probably brewing
even before she was handed off to me?

“I’m going to—” Static. “I think we need to—” More
static. “But we can figure that out—I’ll call when—” Silence.

The connection was completely lost now, but she was no
idiot. She could fill in the blanks. We need to talk was never good.
And just
what do we need to figure out?
She bristled with anger.
How to let me
down easy? How to tell me that even though he loves me, he loves Renée and
Cara, too… and they win? All over a bunch of circumstantial evidence that I’m a
bad caregiver… and the word of a five-year-old who believes goshmillion is an
actual number?

The aching, pinching, wincing thrill of victory
suddenly became the crushing agony of defeat. She definitely deserved a big
honking muffin what with the morning she was having.