2 Months 'Til Mrs. (2 'Til Series) (36 page)

Saturday, March 4
^th
 

Van Morrison serenaded her right out of a dream—a
nightmare actually. Tara had destroyed her cake, went face-first into it to hide
from—
oh my God, she killed my cake!
Catherine’s heart started beating
wildly. This was no dream. It had happened. A few hours of sleep couldn’t erase
it. Tara had literally shoved her face in the cake on purpose, just so the
police officer who’d pulled them over—
oh God, I took a Breathalyzer
(
passed
it,
she reminded herself proudly). But that was beside the point. Tara
killed the cake just so
some guy she’d had a one-night stand with a few
weeks before wouldn’t recognize her. Because he hadn’t stopped calling her
since. Because she didn’t want a commitment.

Because she’s out to get me.
 

Catherine cut “Brown Eyed Girl” short and answered the
phone groggily, “Hello?”

“Good morning, my bride. Are you ready?” Warm melted
butter first thing in the morning… and it would be that way for the rest of her
life. Her toes curled deliciously.

“You have asked me that every day for weeks now.” A
smile on her face in spite of everything that had happened last night. That was
a sign of dumb and lucky love; everything that could go wrong would go wrong,
yet she was still happy.

“Just making sure. A lot changes today.”

“Those changes are only for the better,” she said
earnestly. “I’ve been a homeless woman for a week and I can’t wait to sleep in
my own bed again—our bed again.” Catherine looked around at the other sleeping
figures in the room. They had all been up practically till dawn trying to solve
the cake dilemma, eventually falling asleep sprawled in chairs and across the
couch and loveseat.

“You sound exhausted. What did you girls do last
night?”

“Nothing much. Just made some cake, burgled a hall,
got nabbed by the police, and wiped out a convenience store.” There it was. The
truth. The whole truth. And nothing but the truth.

“Okay, I get it; what happens at the bachelorette
party stays at the bachelorette party. I just hope that the stripper was worth
it. Because mine sure was.”

“Fynn!” she exclaimed, startling the sleeping bridal
party.

“What’s going on?” Tara groaned, her face glazed with
a sugar sheen—residue from the murdered cake.

“It’s time to get up already?” Lacey asked, wiping at
her bleary eyes with hands that looked cramped into claws from squeezing a frosting
bag for hours.

“It’s 8 o’clock, girls. Up and at ‘em!” Georgia called
out as if she hadn’t been sacked out completely up until two moments ago. She
marched into the kitchen and started banging around like she owned the place.

“I’m going to have to go, Fynn. Seems like another
round of madness is about to begin.”

“Well, your mother is going to be bringing Cara over
to you within the hour. I just wanted to give you a heads-up. And I just heard
from Drew at the airport; she and Klein and the boys just landed. I know you
girls are all getting ready together, so I gave her directions to Lacey’s so
Klein can drop her off.” He sounded like he was in total control.

Glad someone is.

“Perfect. Thank you so much for handling that,” she
said, relieved.

“I aim to please. So… I guess the next I see you,
you’ll be the one in that spectacular dress I’ve heard about.”

My dress!
Catherine was stunned into silence.
She hadn’t ever gotten around to trying it on again—drove it all over the
country and got it a coach seat next to her on the flight back (refusing to let
it out of her sight for even a minute ever again), but she hadn’t tried it on.
Okay, she’d been too afraid to try it on. What if it didn’t fit? What if after
all this she had to walk down the aisle in jeans and a T-shirt?

“Catherine?” he prodded.

“I’m still here.”

“I love you and I’ll see you soon.”

I just hope everyone won’t be seeing too much of me
soon.
But she said, “I love you too.”

And then he was gone.

“What’s up with you? You going to be sick or
something?” Tara prodded.

Catherine put her phone down. “No. I just can’t believe
that the day is finally here,” she said quickly, swallowing back the queasiness
the best she could.

They all smelled the promised land at the same time.
Coffee. Blessed coffee. Thank God for Georgia and her unnatural morning highs.

They trudged into the kitchen, taking in the aftermath
of their hard night. It was difficult to look at in the light of day. Ring Dings
and Devil Dogs boxes were ripped wide open, with plastic packages littering the
table top, countertops, and floor. It looked like a herd of PMSing women had partied
hard. That poor, unsuspecting Wawa clerk must have thought they were nuts,
cleaning him out of prepackaged baked goods like that.

“I was hoping this was all just some freak nightmare,”
Lacey said flatly.

“No such luck,” Tara said, staring dazed into the
refrigerator.

They all joined her, gazing into the light at a
three-tier cake. It looked pretty good, considering. At least there was that
much.

Catherine stared at herself in the full-length mirror
in the dressing room and felt her stomach flutter with excitement. She couldn’t
believe that she was actually wearing her wedding dress. No stuck zipper. No
back cleavage. It fit perfectly. Just like this day fit her perfectly.
Everything she’d done to get here seemed trivial. She was marrying the man of
her dreams. In fact he wasn’t even thirty feet away in another room, donning
his tuxedo at this very moment. In less than an hour she was going to be Mrs.
Catherine Trager.

She spun around one more time and caught Cara’s eye in
the mirror. After watching her unabashed joy all morning, getting her hair and
nails done and even a touch of makeup, Catherine was surprised to see a little
frown on her face.

“Come here,” she said, pulling Cara over toward the
couch to sit down while everyone else was bustling about. “What’s wrong,
sweetie?”

“I miss my mommy.”

“I’m sure she misses you too,” Catherine said softly.

“She was going to come.”

“I know she was, honey. She wanted to see you looking
so beautiful.”

Cara’s eyes filled with tears.

Catherine held her chin and looked earnestly into her
eyes. “We’ll have to take
tons
of pictures so she can see everything
that happens today, especially so she can see the prettiest flower girl ever….
A picture tells a thousand words you know.”

“Really?” Cara asked, amazed.

Catherine nodded. “And speaking of pictures, I have
something I want to give you for being such a special little girl in my life
and sharing this day with me.”  

“A gift for me?”

Catherine reached for a small box on the end table and
handed it to her.

“It’s so pretty; I don’t want to open it,” she said in
awe, staring at the bright purple box with the silver bow. But childhood
inquisitiveness took over within moments and she opened it anyway. “What is
it?” she asked breathlessly.

“It’s a locket.”

“Like yours!” Cara exclaimed.

Catherine nodded, touching her own locket that was like
a part of herself that she never took off.

Then she reached into the box and took out Cara’s
locket, popping it open for her.

“That’s Mommy and me!” she squealed. “But what about
the empty side?”

Tears came to Catherine’s eyes. “That is for you to
fill when you’re ready,” she said earnestly. She hung the necklace around
Cara’s neck where it dangled into the small ruffles on her beautiful white dress.
A purple ribbon ran around the princess waistline in the same color as the
bridesmaid dresses. Elizabeth Hemmings had come through again.

Cara poked at Catherine’s necklace. “Can I see what’s
in yours?”

“Of course.” She opened the locket, capturing the
little butterfly ring before it fell to the ground. She showed Cara the picture
she had inside. “It’s me and my sister Josey,” she choked out.

“You have a sister?”

“Yes. She died when I was eleven. But this locket lets
me keep her close to my heart.”

“Like I can keep Mommy,” Cara said, understanding what
no child her age should have to.

“Yes, sweetie.”

“You still need another picture too,” Cara pointed
out.

“I do. I was hoping to put a picture of
you
in
there.”

“Me?” Her eyes were saucers.

“Yes, you. You are such an important part of my life
and I want to keep you close always.” 

Seven more glorious words: “And now announcing Mr. and
Mrs. Trager.”

It turned out the DJ wasn’t suck-ish at all. He did
his job with aplomb; right down to those wonderful words that she could just
hear over the constant
I’m married!
cycling through her head. Vows and
rings… and the perfect kiss—she was totally legit!

They made their rounds, Catherine squirming with
discomfort as each well-wisher had to harp on the
finally
part of the
equation—finally settling down, finally found a man, finally put to rest that lesbian/transgender
rumor. But at least Aunt Judy looked like she’d eaten some rotten road-kill
crow. It turned out that even the well-intentioned but wholly off-base
meanderings of their guests couldn’t kill her buzz.

I’m married!

As she turned to receive the next guests, she found
safe territory at last—her father’s embrace. He held her there for several
moments, not speaking, tears in his eyes. This had been his perpetual state
since the moment they lined up to walk down the aisle so he could give her
away.

“William, she has other guests you know,” Elizabeth
Hemmings reprimanded.

“I’m not a guest. I’m the father of the bride. I’m
allowed to be selfish,” he said with certainty.

“Well, as the mother of the bride, I have something
I
would like to say.” He released Catherine and her mother stepped between them.

“It was a lovely wedding, dear.” She grasped her
daughter in a hug that took both of them by surprise.  

“Thank you for that.” Catherine knew full well that
things were far from perfect, but she agreed that it
was
lovely. And she
and Fynn were perfect together so all the rest was inconsequential.

“I want to thank
you
,” her mother said
earnestly, pulling away and looking unerringly into her eyes.

“For what? I’m the one who owes you thanks for all you
did for me. The invitations, Cara’s dress, babysitting—”

“I know that I wasn’t as… thrilled as you wanted me to
be about the wedding.”

“Don’t—”

“No, Catherine, I have to say this. It’s just when you
said you were going to have it on March 4
^th
, I didn’t think I could
bear it. It wasn’t fair for me to put that on you… I just couldn’t think of
that
date as anything other than….”

“What, Mom?” she asked, trying to understand her grave
tone.

“A day for a funeral.”

“Oh, Mom… Josey… I didn’t know. I didn’t even
remember,” she said, her voice strangled. She remembered the day Josey didn’t
come home; it was vivid in her mind still. But the days and weeks after that
were just a cold and somber blur…. To have picked the day of her funeral… for a
wedding? No wonder her mother had—

“I don’t want you to be sad. This is a celebration,
Catherine. You’re starting your own family today. I couldn’t be happier for you….
And you have given me back this date—put joy in my heart and contentment in my
soul again. Whether you realized it or not, you forced me to deal with
something I’ve been avoiding for years.”

They embraced again, Catherine thankful she had
decided to go waterproof on her eye makeup. But this day was testing the bounds
of that guarantee.

“What is
that
, Uncle Dick?” Elizabeth Hemmings exclaimed,
breaking out of the hug abruptly so she could more properly focus on him.

“The photographer tossed me a cookie when she was
snapping photos, wanted me to catch it in my mouth for a memorable moment.”

Catherine took in the pink dog-bone-shaped biscuit in
his hand, one end already gone, and looked to her mother with shock and awe
that said she had no idea what the photographer chick was thinking.

“Not too bad.” He took another bite. “A bit dry
though,” he added around a mouthful.

“Catherine Marie!” her mother reprimanded. “What did
you do?”

“What did
I
do? I didn’t toss him the biscuit!”

“You hired the photographer.”

“She came recommended,” Catherine pointed out, not
that Tara’s recommendation would mean so much as a hill of beans—but the chick’s
other clients all spoke in woofs and meows of approval.

“She is feeding your guests dog treats.”

“We only know that she fed Uncle Dick a dog treat, and
you have to admit he isn’t the easiest guy to coax a smile out of,” she snorted
nervously. “Look, he’s happy.” It was hard to deny that fact as he chomped away.

Suddenly the musical sound of forks and knives against
glasses saved the moment and Fynn swooped in to give the guests what they
wanted, dipping her for a kiss. When he pulled her upright again, she came out
of her Fynn-fog to find a complete stranger mere inches from her face, like he was
also trying to get some lip action.

“Beautiful ceremony,” he said.

“Why thank you. Are you a friend of Fynn’s?” she
asked, squeezing her new husband by the arm, waiting for him to step in and
handle the close-talker.

“No. You invited me,” the man said.

“I didn’t—”

“Out on the sidewalk…. You tossed me an invitation.”

“I
what
?” she asked in disbelief.

“You tossed it right at me while you were hurrying
along. A little rude not addressing it, but—”

“I don’t even
know
you.” Her mind was madly
searching for some recognition—short, stocky, seventy-six percent bald—nope,
nothing.

“We pass everyday on the street. I wave. You nod,” he
said lightheartedly.

Is that the bar for a wedding-invite-worthy
relationship these days? I guess that’s what I get for being polite to people….
“Um—” She squeezed Fynn’s arm even tighter, wishing to God he would get her
away from this creepy crasher.

“I’ll have you know,” the guy said, ignoring the
get-the-hell-away-from-me vibe she was sure she was sending, “I had a bitch of
a time finding the place. You do know that the invite said
Penis
Grove,
right?”

She froze for the slightest half second, total
disbelief that some guy would pick up an errant wedding invite off the sidewalk
in New York and show up like an invited guest, and further, have the gall to
point out a typo to the bride.
Only at my wedding,
she thought
dolefully.
He better have brought a helluva gift.
Through gritted teeth
she forced politeness. “Well, we hope you have a wonderful time.” With that she
steered Fynn away, ready or not, pushing him onto the dance floor and taking
the lead, pitiably, in a slow dance. Anything to keep away from people with
mouths that they just couldn’t keep shut. She hugged him close and closed her
eyes, allowing him to take over.

“Cat!” Tara hissed in her ear.

She opened her eyes to see her friend’s wild and
frenzied appearance before her. “I’m in the middle of a dance, Tara.” As if
that fact weren’t obvious.

“Oh my God!” she squealed. “Did you see who’s here?”

“If you’re going to claim a celebrity sighting at my
wedding I’m going to have you committed,” Catherine growled.

“I just realized who that guy is!” Tara said, pointing
at the tuxedoed best man and then ducking behind the two of them the best she
could. “He cleans up good. Nice chin. Almost didn’t recognize him without the
beard and the fuddy-duddy cop suit.”

“What are you talking about?” Catherine asked, playing
dumb. She’d been waiting for this moment. It was like a practical joke had
fallen right in her lap, and after all she and Tara had been through over the
past weeks it only seemed fair to let it play out.

“The guy,” Tara said, teeth gritted as she tried not
to make any sudden movements to draw attention to herself. “You know…. The one from
Illinois… who we met… when you were moving. The one who—” She stopped like she suddenly
smelled a rat. “Do you know him?”

“No. He just showed up today,” Catherine said simply,
not batting an eye. She was enjoying Tara’s consternation. But it
was
true that she didn’t know him, at least not as Jason Banks, best man. And he
had
just gotten in today. Of course
Detective
Banks was another story.

“You mean he infiltrated the wedding party? Is this a
sting?”

“Maybe you should ask him,” Catherine said blandly.

But Tara wasn’t listening. “I
knew
I should
have gone blonde for the wedding. I told
you a bridesmaid of each color
would have totally rocked. And I would have been incognito. Now look at
me—shamefully recognizable.” 

“What about me?”

“At least you have a veil.”

Catherine snickered.

“Seriously, what if he’s here to arrest us for leaving
the state? … What if he has handcuffs right there in his pocket? I can’t go
back to jai—” She stopped, looking to Fynn, realizing she’d said too much.

“I thought you were into handcuffs,” he said, a smirk
on his face.

Tara scowled at him, ill-humored.

“He knows all about our run-in, Tara,” Catherine admitted,
patting her man—her husband!
—
on the chest.

“She probably told you it was all my fault, too,” she
said darkly.

“Pretty much… but I don’t believe her.” A twinkle in his
eye.

“His name’s Jason by the way…. The best man—aka
Detective Banks,” Catherine admitted. “He’s an old friend of Mr. Joel Trager
here. And he’s here for the wedding and that alone.”

Rather than looking beaten, Tara was thoughtful. “Is
this Detective Banks single?” A wicked gleam replacing her jittery panic.

“Yes,” Fynn said warily

“And is he born and raised in Illinois by any chance?”

“Tara!” Catherine exclaimed.

“I was just wondering.”

“And now for the traditional cutting of the cake!” the
DJ announced, interrupting all else.

“Oh shit,” Catherine said under her breath. She’d
forgotten all about the cake since this morning—lost in absolute joy and unabashed
excitement.

“What’s wrong?” Fynn asked. “Did I step on your foot?”

“No. It’s just—first of all I want to remind you that
I
love
you. And second—”

But she was too late. The cake was on its way, rolling
toward them, and Fynn’s mouth dropped open in shock as it started to come
unglued.

“What the—”

“I—I can explain,” Catherine said quickly, wringing
her hands together, grabbing for her wedding ring and spinning it on her finger
as if trying to screw it on more tightly so he couldn’t slip it off her and
leave and pretend they were never married at all—an annulment before the first
piece of cake was even cut—or more accurately, grabbed before it rolled onto
the floor.
We should never have used Ring Dings.

At least the Devil Dog layer was staying put.

Fynn looked like he was holding back an explosion—expletives?
vomit? laughter? Catherine hoped this part wasn’t being caught on camera, hoped
the photographer was busy tossing dog biscuits to other unsuspecting wedding
guests instead of shooting the cake, and hoped the young videographer (another
cousin of Tara’s) was busy taping people’s feet like he had during the entire
wedding ceremony.

“Are you okay?” she asked, against her better
judgment.

“What happened to the cake?” A perplexed squint on his
face.

“It looks like it should have stayed in the fridge,”
Catherine admitted. Lacey had warned them about that possibility. But they
couldn’t leave it at her house. And there was no fridge space for the cake here
what with everything else that was being served.

“But what is it made of?” he prodded.

“I’m no expert here, but I would say Ring Dings and
Devil Dogs,” she squeaked.

“I thought we picked out a lemon cream—”

“Of course we did,” she said forcefully. “I don’t know
what kind of establishment—” But she couldn’t keep up the charade. “I lost the
cake,” she blurted. “I lost everything.” She looked up into his bewildered face,
sheepishly, fluttering her lashes and reaching her right hand to clasp her left
and protect her wedded finger again.

“Catherine, you got some ‘splainin’ to do,” Fynn said
in a mock Cuban accent.

“I didn’t want to worry you. I mean, I had the whole
thing under control. The whole wedding—the linens, the photographer, the DJ,
the—”

“Speaking of DJ, I thought we had a band,” he said,
bemused.

Sure, that part you remember.
“We had a lot of
things. But after we broke up, I canceled all of it—”

“We were back together by the next week.”

“I know. But when I tried to
un
-cancel, our
wedding planner, Tara’s Cousin Vinnie, had already sold everything out from
under us.” She shot daggers at her friend who was standing at two o’clock in
the background, then turned back to Fynn again. “I was an idiot and I didn’t
want you to know that I had lost everything by being rash and impulsive and
ridiculous.”

“But I know you’re all those things,” he said plainly.

“I just wanted it to be perfect.”

“I didn’t choose perfect. I chose you.”

She smiled. “Warts and all?”

“Well… hives and all,” he chuckled, kissing that pesky
spot on her neck that she’d tried to hide with makeup.

“That bee disease just won’t go away,” she mumbled.

“Maybe if you’d stop getting into trouble,” he
offered.

“A toast!” Georgia proclaimed, her voice booming
through the speakers over top of everything. “To the bride and groom: Fynn, you
bring the common sense to this relationship; Cat, you bring the
non
sense.
Together you guys make all the sense in the world!”

Catherine looked into Fynn’s unwavering gaze and saw
forever right there in his eyes.