A Most Unpleasant Wedding (3 page)

Evelyn Hopper looked up as her husband, Carl, paused in the doorway of her office.

“I'm off,” he said. He gave her a feeble smile.

“I'll see you later then.” She returned to her work.

He hesitated, started to say something, then left.

Evelyn waited until she heard the door downstairs close, then sat back, tossing her pen onto the desk.

She knew Carl was disappointed she hadn't offered to drive him into Middleton for his dental appointment. She shook her head. It was a dental extraction, for heaven's sake, not brain surgery. Of course, this was the man who wore those ugly glasses because contact lenses
tortured
his eyes and got upset if his socks had seams across the toes.

He'd told her he was going to walk the three miles into town. He couldn't take the car, he said, because he might not be able to drive home after the procedure. She had suggested he take a cab home — he could have taken a cab in, for that matter. It wasn't as if they couldn't afford the fare. He could have hired a registered nurse to accompany him, for all she cared. But she wasn't going to be his chauffeur. And she most definitely wasn't going to be his nurse. She had work to do. She was expecting a call from a client that afternoon.

She studied the image on the monitor — a mockup of a living-room design for a client in Toronto. It was a project that required finesse. The client had lots of money and no taste. They had hired her because the man's boss had recommended her. It would take some sweet-talking to get her way — something she was good at if she wanted to be.

She caught sight of Carl from her office window, trudging along, head down, looking like a whipped puppy.

She'd thought he'd be happy after they moved out into the country. He'd been such a sad sack that last year in the city. But, lately, he seemed even more down in the dumps and increasingly ineffectual. She sighed. She now appreciated what her grandmother meant when she'd told her never to marry a man who couldn't fix the plumbing.

She'd never seen it coming. When she met Carl, he was an up-and-coming advertising executive with plans for launching his own firm. He had a hobby — creative writing. She'd never thought much about it, certainly never imagined it would take over his life. He had a few short stories published, then a novel. Then one day, out of the blue, he announced he planned to make writing his career.

He'd changed in other ways that last year in the city, had become more melancholy, less interested in social interaction. At first she thought — when she had time to think about it — that his dissatisfaction was related to his job. Then he started complaining about the city feeling claustrophobic. At first, she thought his discontent had to do with some romantic notion of the writer in a pastoral setting, then she realized he merely wanted to escape.

She clicked the mouse and altered the colour of the drapes in her virtual living room. Not that she had any regret about abandoning city life. Having a permanent home for the horses was worth the inconvenience of living out here. The real-estate agent had extolled the virtues of living in cottage country, but the proximity of the lake had not been a factor in choosing the property — she didn't care much for the water. Nor did she see any advantage in being close to the various inns. Most of them had been in the same hands for years. And those hands were either unaware of the dowdiness of their establishments, or for some reason, felt obliged to maintain them in their original condition. While she received the occasional contract from the villages in the area, the bulk of her work remained in the larger cities.

Carl loved the farm. Of course, she thought, he would have loved a shack, anyplace devoid of stress and responsibility. She clicked on the davenport and moved it across the room, added a credenza.

Their daughter, Terri, she was afraid, had too much of her father in her. She'd given Terri every advantage, but the girl lacked polish and poise. She had chosen a nondescript program in university, a soft degree in the humanities with a few bird courses in the sciences. How she expected to forge a career out of that potpourri, Evelyn couldn't imagine. Terri was twenty-two, and reasonably attractive — although she would have been more attractive if she'd shed that layer of baby fat. Evelyn had encouraged her in sports, but the only thing she'd stuck with was horseback riding. The horses were the slender thread that held them together. Evelyn moved the mouse into the client's hallway. Terri had terrible taste in men. She shook her head. Maybe that was something else they had in common.

Tim and Gregoire approached the front desk. Tim looked pointedly at his watch. Rudley gave them a long look. “Yes?”

“Time for you to leave for your camping trip,” said Tim.

Rudley whipped out a checklist. “Are you prepared to mind the store while we're away?”

“You will never know you have been away,” said Gregoire.

“If someone inquires about reservations, you must check the master list. Margaret has a master plan for each room and cottage. You will be able to tell at a glance what is available and when.”

“It sounds like a mistress plan,” said Tim.

Rudley's eyes crossed. “And dinner reservations.”

“I can handle that with my eyes closed,” said Tim.

“I trust you've solidified the entertainment plans?”

“Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson have that in hand,” said Tim. “Mr. Bole will be performing a puppet show as dinner theatre —
Waiting for Godot
. After dinner, we will proceed to the canasta tournament, and, as the grand finale, Snakes and Ladders.”

“That should throw Mrs. Sawchuck into a panic.”

“We've prepared a special board for her table,” said Tim. “Slides and Ladders.”

“Good. The last thing we need is a padded wagon showing up.”

Norman Phipps-Walker came down the stairs with a bag slung over his shoulder.

“Ready for the grand excursion, Norman?” Rudley asked.

“Ready. I have my fishing equipment. Also a camera and a recording device. I understand there's a good population of owls up at Briar Point.” He paused. “Brilliant of that young lady to start her charter.”

Rudley nodded. “I don't know if I'd call Doretta a young lady. She's in her forties and built like a brick outhouse.”

“Someone told me she used to be a grade-school teacher,” Norman said. “She must have a gentle heart.”

Rudley nodded. “I understand the children loved her once they got over the fact she could lift a piano with one hand.”

Bonnie and Tee Lawrence entered the lobby at that moment, she in a tailored pantsuit with coordinated scarf, he in khakis, a plaid shirt, and a vest with many pockets. He carried a Bob Izumi fishing rod and reel.

Margaret bustled out from the kitchen with two picnic baskets. “Norman, Mr. Lawrence, here's your supper.”

Norman took his basket. “Are you going on Doretta's fishing charter?” he asked Tee.

Tee hesitated. “Yes.”

“Well,” said Norman. “No need for both of us to drive. You can come with me.”

“No need for either of you to drive,” said Margaret. “Lloyd's going into town for the Monster Marathon at the Regent. He'll drive you in and pick you up later.”

Bonnie looked distressed. “But I wanted to drive Tee in.”

Tee rolled his eyes. “I've told you, Bonnie, there's no need for you to drive me.”

“But I was planning to stop by the pharmacy and pick up the latest brides' magazines,” Bonnie fretted. “I was hoping to spend the evening getting some ideas for Miss Miller's wedding.”

“You don't have to do that tonight,” said Tee.

Margaret brightened. “As it happens, I have some recent copies. We're putting on
Father of the Bride
this season. I'll be happy to get them for you.”

Tee patted Bonnie on the shoulder as she continued to fuss. “There, you can plan to your heart's content.”

“But…”

Tee kissed her on the cheek. “And since you don't have to drive me into town or pick me up later, you'll have even more time to plan the wedding.”

Bonnie looked crestfallen.

“I'll get those magazines right away,” said Margaret. “And I'll ask Lloyd to drop you off. He's just finishing his dinner. He should be ready in a few minutes.”

“There you are,” said Tee. He gave Bonnie another peck, smiled. “Have a nice dinner, and I'll see you later.” He headed for the door.

“You could have dinner with Geraldine,” said Norman. “I'm sure she'd love to have you join her. She can tell you about our wedding. Avian motif. Bird songs in the background, that sort of thing. Afterwards, we provided a bird buffet so our feathered friends could also enjoy the occasion. Perhaps you'd like to include something like that in Miss Miller's wedding.”

Bonnie looked as if she were going to cry.

“Just give her a buzz,” Norman said as he turned to catch up with Tee. “She likes to dine at seven.”

Lloyd came out of the dining room.

“You know you're going to drop Mr. Lawrence and Norman at the dock,” Rudley said.

“Yes'm.”

“What movies are you going to see?”

“
Godzilla
and
The Monster who Devoured Cleveland
.”

“Sounds horrific.”

Bonnie was still standing in front of the desk, clutching her handbag to her chest.

“Don't worry,” said Rudley. “He's a fine driver and not dangerous in any way we know of.”

Margaret arrived at the desk carrying a pile of magazines. “I found you six copies.” She plopped the bundle into Bonnie's arms.

“Thank you, Mrs. Rudley,” Bonnie said in a small voice. “I think I'll go now and freshen up for dinner.”

“Mrs. Lawrence seems upset,” said Margaret as she watched her walk down the front steps, shoulders hunched. “But I'm sure the magazines I found will do. None of them is more than a year old.”

“She's a rather delicate little thing,” Rudley said.

“He doesn't seem particularly sensitive to her.”

“Opposites do attract, Margaret. Look at Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson.”

“Yes, Rudley, but Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson clearly respect each other. Mr. Lawrence seems almost condescending.”

“Some men are beasts.”

“Perhaps being here, with our example, meeting other exemplary couples, perhaps that will rub off on Mr. Lawrence.”

“Or perhaps on both of them. He can stop being so condescending, and she can stop being such a ninnyhammer.”

Tim cleared his throat. “Your camping trip?”

“Your gear is waiting for you on the back porch,” said Gregoire.

Margaret pried the pen from Rudley's hand. “Time to go, Rudley.” She beamed. “I'm so looking forward to this experience.”

Jack Arnold shoved his wallet into his pocket. He had his hand on the doorknob, then hesitated and turned back. He grabbed a bottle of Glenlivet, slopped two fingers into a tumbler, saluted the bottle, and downed the drink in one go. One for the road.

He glanced at his watch. Eight-thirty. He was headed into town, hoping to catch some action at the hotel. The fact that he'd killed half the bottle that day didn't worry him. He'd been drinking and driving for years. If the cops in Sarnia couldn't detect he was DUI, the hicks out here wouldn't. He'd just finished a big dinner and felt quite capable of steering several tons of metal along a winding country road.

He put his glass down on the table by the door and left.

Great evening, he thought. Warm. Half-moon. Water lapping against the dock. Not a soul in sight. He heard muted laughter as he passed the inn. They were having some kind of games night. He'd heard someone mention Snakes and Ladders. He hadn't played that game since grade school and couldn't imagine why the whole inn would crowd into the drawing room for that sort of entertainment. Of course, most of the guests were either infirm like the Sawchucks, or old nuts like the Phipps-Walkers, or just plain weird like that red-headed woman with the thick glasses. Educated woman. Saucy. He didn't like saucy, educated women. The laughter faded as he approached the parking lot. Here it was just the frogs and crickets. He belched and climbed into his vintage Cadillac.

The Caddy was old and a bit beat up, with dents and scratches here and there he'd never bothered fixing. He liked to think of the car as an extension of himself — getting along in years with the bumps and bruises from a life lived hard and a little recklessly but still with a charge in the engine.

He pulled out of the driveway, paused to decide which road to take. The one to the left ran along the shore before curving to meet the main road. The one to the right led up through the woods, he believed, before meeting the highway a mile or so along. He glanced to his right, caught sight of a familiar figure hurrying up the road in the distance. Hell of a time to go for a walk, he thought. He turned the wheel to the left and set out along the shore road.

Trevor Rudley reached down the back of his pajamas, pulled out an insect, held it out. “What do you think this is, Margaret?”

She squinted in the dim light. “I think it's a pillbug.”

“How am I supposed to sleep with all of these insects crawling over me?”

She took the bug from him, released it into a corner of the tent. “They're just innocent denizens of the soil. We have a net to keep the mosquitoes off.”

He started to crawl out of his sleeping bag. “Let's go home.”

“We just got here.” She gave him a reproachful look. “This isn't about the insects. You like insects. You just don't like being away from the front desk.” She snuggled up to him. “Rudley, it's wonderful here. The clean, earthy fragrance of the forest carpet, the crickets chirping, the owls hooting, the brook gurgling over its rock bed.”

“We could get that from the back porch.”

“Privacy. We can't get that from the back porch.”

He thought about that for a moment, smiled. “I have to admit you're right about that, Margaret. No Lloyd sneaking up on me, depriving me of two years of life, no Gregoire nagging me over cilantro and fennel root. No Aunt Pearl suffocating me with her whisky fumes.”

She sighed. “Alone at last.”

He plucked a slug from his arm. “Virtually.”

A twig snapped.

Rudley froze, slug poised.

“It is us.”

Rudley sighed. “Come.”

The tent flap opened. Tim poked his head in. Gregoire hovered at his shoulder.

“We're not here,” Rudley said. “We're camping in Algonquin Park.”

Tim ignored him. “Shall I take away the supper dishes?”

“Please.”

“Did you enjoy the trout?” Gregoire asked.

“Excellent.”

“I grilled it over an open fire. Just as if you'd caught it and cooked it yourself.”

Gregoire ducked outside the tent, came back with a picnic basket. “We brought you a thermos of coffee, raspberry scones, and a cognac nightcap.”

“Wonderful.”

“And what would you like for breakfast?”

“Surprise us.”

“Should we expect you home by noon?”

Rudley gave Margaret a jaunty smile. “Unless we decide to toss our unmentionables into the bramble bush and cavort in the brook, or braid daisy chains.”

“I really don't want to hear this,” said Gregoire.

“And how are things back at the ranch?”

“You will be pleased to know everything is functioning as usual,” said Tim.

“That's enough to make me shudder,” said Rudley. He gave them an expectant look as they lingered. “You may leave now.”

“Thank you for the treats,” said Margaret. She turned to Rudley. “Wasn't that sweet of them?”

“They're like children,” said Rudley. “You can't get away from them.”

“Nor would we want to.”

Rudley crossed his eyes. “Why do I sometimes feel like the headmaster of a school for incorrigibles? I'm surprised Tiffany hasn't shown up.”

“Tiffany said she was making fudge this evening.”

They finished their snack. Rudley collapsed back against his pillow. “Being an innkeeper can be a trial at times.”

Margaret poured two glasses of cognac. “Oh, you love it.” She handed him a glass. “Bottoms up.”

Carl Hopper woke to the sound of an approaching car engine. Or was it the sound of silence following the sound of an engine? Light pierced the gap between the curtains. The light cut a swath across the window, then was extinguished.

The room was dark. He fumbled for the light switch, knocked a glass over, gave up. He was sitting in the recliner in his living room. His jaw throbbed.

He sorted through a grainy set of mental images. He'd gone to Middleton for a dental appointment. The dentist had given him a prescription for Tylenol #3. He'd gone to the library, taken a couple of the pills, sat in a dark corner, and rested for an hour. After that, he'd made his way to the hotel for a bowl of soup. Then he started to walk home. A guest at the West Wind had come upon him weaving along the road and had given him a ride to the laneway. He'd fallen asleep on the couch, woken sometime later in pain. He'd taken two more pills and sat down in the recliner, meaning to watch the evening news. That was the last thing he remembered before the engine woke him.

He ratcheted the recliner into a sitting position as he heard footsteps on the veranda. The door burst open. He caught a glimpse of Evelyn as she switched on the light in the hallway and hammered up the stairs. He reached for the table lamp, finally located it, and turned it on. The glass he had tipped over had, fortunately, been empty. He looked around for his pain pills, spotted them on the floor a few feet from his chair. He was trying to figure out if he had the wherewithal to get up and get them when Evelyn came downstairs.

“Evelyn?”

She turned, startled.

He grinned. “I dropped my pills. Could you get them for me? And a glass of water, please?”

Her surprise turned to anger. “Get your own pills, you pathetic…” The words dissolved in an explosion of disgust. She spun and slammed out the door.

He shrank back against the cushions, stunned. Finally, he got up, made his way to the kitchen, ran the tap for a glass of water, and dropped into a chair at the table. Gave a mirthless laugh as he realized he had left his pills in the living room. He wobbled back to the living room, bent to pick up the bottle. The change in position brought on a wave of vertigo. “OK, soldier,” he muttered, “you can do this.” He snared the bottle, then grabbed the edge of the coffee table and levered himself up. He went back to the kitchen and took the pills. He sat down, resting his head against the wall. The wing of his glasses bit into his temple. He took them off and stuffed them into his breast pocket.