A Most Unpleasant Wedding (4 page)

He dozed off, woke to a high-pitched whinny. He sat for a few minutes, trying to clear his head.

He thought of the expression on Evelyn's face. Anger? Surprise? He swallowed hard. Maybe pure hatred. He shook his head. Evelyn didn't hate him. Maybe impatience. She'd been impatient with him lately. He paused. Maybe for a long time.

He needed to talk to her. He reviewed what he would say. Talking to Evelyn was like walking on eggshells these days.

He got up and went out onto the veranda. Evelyn's car was in its usual spot. He surmised she was in the stable. Probably telling the horses her secrets. He shrugged. Lately, he'd taken to confiding in the horses himself. He sagged against the pillar, deflated. God, he needed a cigarette. He patted himself down, searching for his Player's Regulars, found them in his hip pocket. There were four cigarettes left, all bent, two broken at the filter. He removed one of the salvageable ones, straightened it, and lit up. He inhaled deeply. The cigarette comforted him, gave him a modicum of clarity. He dragged on it as he made his way down the path to the barn.

The stable door was open.

“Evelyn?”

No response.

He plunged the cigarette into a pot of sand by the door and entered the stable. He felt his way along the box stalls past Gert and Maisie. Bob plucked at his shirt as he passed.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “I didn't bring you anything.”

Ned's stall was empty. He stood there, staring into the empty space as if he expected the horse to be hiding in a corner, then backed away. He supposed Evelyn had taken Ned for one of her nocturnal jaunts up the laneway. She did that when she was trying to sort something out. The horses were her soulmates. Sometimes, he thought she loved the horses more than she loved him. He laughed, a laugh that ended in a sob. He knew she loved the horses more than she loved him.

He started back toward the door, blinded by tears, tripped and fell violently to the floor. He lay there against the cement, feeling lonely and abused.

Finally, he picked himself up and limped back to the house. He went to the liquor cabinet, poured an ounce of Scotch and downed it in one gulp. He poured another and took it to the couch. He turned on the television, hoping there might be something on that would cheer him up, found himself staring at a blurry version of something called
Lady Hoggers
. He turned the television off, took a slug of his drink. The Scotch tasted good. He comforted himself with the knowledge that his daughter, Terri, was coming home the next day. He hoped to God Evelyn would be in a better mood by then. He hated Terri to know things weren't a bed of roses at home. He finished the drink and lay down, waiting for her to return.

Tiffany sat on a stool, stirring a pot of fudge. The aroma of chocolate filled the kitchen. “This is like being at a slumber party.”

Gregoire checked the oven, then poured coffee all around. “I will have to take your word for that.”

Tiffany gave the fudge a few lazy swirls, then rested the spoon along the handle of the pot. “When I was a teenager, my friend Hortense and I would make fudge every Friday night while my parents were out shopping.”

Tim hoisted his coffee. “So this is like having the parents out shopping.”

“The parents were most anxious about how we are managing here,” said Gregoire.

Tim took out his notebook. “Very well, I would say. We've taken nine dinner reservations, checked in two guests, confirmed six reservations, and solved the plumbing problem in the Elm Pavilion. Thanks to yours truly.”

“I never thought you had it in you to be a plumber,” said Gregoire.

“Having three old ladies with a compromised commode is a great motivator.” Tim reviewed his notes. “Caught a mouse headed toward the Sawchucks' room. Live release. Tiffany fed the cat. Mr. Simpson walked Albert. I would say everything is in order.”

“I hope Mr. and Mrs. Rudley will be all right,” said Tiffany.

“They are only three hundred yards from the back porch,” said Gregoire.

“That's quite a long way in the woods. They could be attacked by a bear.”

The fudge began to boil. Tim reached for the spoon.

“Perhaps we should check on them during the night,” said Tiffany. “We could take turns.”

Gregoire turned to Tiffany. “Believe me, there is nothing to worry about.”

Tim opened the refrigerator, scanned the shelves. “I thought we had some roast beef left over.”

“I gave you the last for Mr. Carty. You said he wanted a doggy bag.”

“He's a bottomless pit,” said Tim.

“He's a growing boy. There is chicken and ham if you want a sandwich.”

“Let's have chicken sandwiches and talk about the wedding,” said Tim. “That will take Tiffany's mind off the Rudleys being gnawed by bears.”

“It is marvellous,” said Gregoire, “Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson choosing to have their wedding here.”

“It's so romantic,” said Tiffany.

“Knowing Miss Miller, it should be an eventful affair,” said Tim. He paused. “I hope no one gets murdered.”

There was a long silence.

“That's a horrible thought,” said Tiffany.

“But not outlandish,” said Tim.

“Nothing like that will possibly happen,” said Gregoire.

They turned to the rat-a-tat-tat of steps across the dining room floor.

“Aunt Pearl,” said Tim.

She went immediately to the stove, peered into the pot. “Fudge. Wonderful. I just bombed out in the Snakes and Ladders tournament. A big one. Anaconda, I think.” She nudged Gregoire “You wouldn't have a little drink for an old lady?”

“How about a nice glass of cranberry juice?”

“How about a Black Russian?” She smiled as he dug into the cupboard. “How's my darling niece getting along?”

“She's enjoying herself immensely,” said Tim.

Tiffany took the fudge off the burner, set it aside to cool. “We were talking about the wedding.”

“I'm looking forward to that.” Pearl took the glass Gregoire held out.

“We were just saying something always seems to happen when Miss Miller is around,” said Gregoire.

Pearl waved that off. “Don't blame Miss Miller. Blame Rudley. We haven't had a week without sirens blaring since he bought the place.” She paused. “I can still see that unfortunate man dangling from the ski lift.”

Tiffany mixed a teaspoon of vanilla into the fudge, poured it into a pan, and set it aside. “I'm glad I wasn't here to see that.”

Pearl tested her drink, gave it a nod of approval. “The wedding's going to be a real wingding. I'll never forget my wedding.”

They leaned toward her expectantly.

“St. Albans. Great old thing from the seventeenth century. I wore a full-length gown with seed pearls. The bridesmaids were a veritable rainbow of pastels. Winnie and his attendants in morning suits. Cute little flower girl — fifth cousin or something. Cute little ring bearer. John Elgie from Coventry, the best church organist outside of London, played the wedding march. Lovely reception at my parents' country home. Then off to a honeymoon on the continent.”

“Sounds lovely,” said Tiffany,

Aunt Pearl thought for a moment. “Actually, it was a real bore. How Mother roped me into that, I can't imagine. By the time it was over, Winnie and I were wishing we'd eloped.” She drained her glass. “So a night in the woods. That's Margaret's camping trip.”

“I think it's just a trial run,” said Tim.

Gregoire sniffed. “Yes, it is a trial run. Mr. Rudley is hoping Margaret will be so put off by the experience, she will beg him not to repeat it.”

Tiffany smiled. “I think they really just wanted some time to themselves.”

“I have to admit, Margaret, it is rather relaxing here.”

Margaret emitted a soft snore.

“So much for lying awake deep into the night, listening to owls and so forth.” Rudley folded his arms behind his head, stared up at the nylon ceiling. Time was, a tent was canvas, he thought. Wonderful chemical smell.

He'd loved camping out when he was a boy. He and his pal Squiggy Ross would hike up into the woods, pitch a tent, do a little fishing. They'd fry the fish over an open fire, bake potatoes in the coals. Toast a few marshmallows. Take turns telling ghost stories. No one thought anything of letting two young boys go off into the woods overnight. It was a more innocent time.

He smiled. His old friend Squiggy, the blue-eyed boy with the blond curls and gap-toothed smile. Squiggy was still camping out, but now it was in downtown Galt, minus teeth, minus hair, with a cap between his knees, collecting change for a cheap bottle of wine.

Like most boys, Squiggy wanted to be a fireman. Rudley had always assumed he'd be a doctor like his father. Then he took a summer job at the Baltimore Hotel and he knew he'd found his calling.

The Baltimore was a magical place. He relished entering the lobby every morning. The gleaming oak hardwood floor with its scarlet runner. The long solid oak front desk with its leather-bound register, and the bell you struck smartly for service. The amber wainscoting and old-fashioned wallpaper with its pastoral motif. The umbrella stand just inside the front door. He chuckled. Back then, it was safe to leave a good umbrella in a public stand. Everybody in town knew your umbrella. They'd beat anyone to a pulp if they caught it on them. The dining room, one step down through frosted French doors. The aroma of bacon and eggs and toast. The wide staircase with its curved banister. The elegant old elevator with its brass gate. He'd started as a scullery boy that first summer, worked his way up to janitor. The year before he left to go to college he'd graduated to bellhop and thought he knew everything there was to know about the operation of a hotel.

His father had not been delighted when he informed him he'd be forgoing medical school. “Innkeeper,” he'd said. “Probably better than being a vaudevillian — although not much.” He'd worked in grander hotels during his apprenticeship, interned at more pretentious resorts, but not until he laid eyes on the Pleasant did he feel the thrill of having rediscovered the Baltimore.

He considered his father's words. Of course, he could have been a vaudevillian. He was almost as good a dancer as Fred Astaire. At least as good as Gene Kelly. Kelly didn't have the body for dance, in his opinion. Always looked like a bull pirouetting about. He shrugged. Great dancers were a dime a dozen. “How many great innkeepers do you know?” he asked Margaret. She did not respond. He smiled. He knew what she would say: “You're the best, Rudley.” That's what she would say.

The fudge was ready. Tim helped himself to a piece. “I saw Officer Owens in town today.” He winked at Gregoire. “He looked rather dashing.”

Tiffany gave Tim a frosty look. “How very nice for you.”

Gregoire gave the counter a wipe. “It is better than having him here, which we do all too frequently.” He paused. “He is always welcome, of course, in his unofficial capacity.”

Tiffany looked away. “Officer Owens' activities are of no concern to me.”

Tim and Gregoire exchanged glances.

After a long pause, Tiffany said, “I've had second thoughts about Officer Owens. I'm not sure we're compatible.”

Gregoire rolled his eyes. “Just last week you were telling us it was refreshing to have an uncomplicated relationship. You said that was the problem with your previous situations. That your beaux were oozing with existential angst and performance anxieties about their iambic pentameters and arpeggios.”

She gave him a defiant look, then relented. “You're right. I did say that.”

Tim made a pretence of searching his memory. “Let me see, you said you liked the fact he was transparent, that you didn't feel he was playing games. You said he was easy to be with. Thoughtful. Unlike Officer Semple who, although he could play a musical instrument, was self-involved.”

She folded her arms. “True.”

Tim raised his brows. “So?”

“He's not sufficiently challenging.”

Gregoire removed his apron. “I do not understand this business of a challenge.” He balled up his cap, stuffed it into his pocket. “You are attracted to someone. You do things together you enjoy. You go to fine restaurants. You eat magnificent food, drink excellent wines. Perhaps you prepare gourmet meals together. You go to the theatre. After, you stop at the café for dessert and cappuccino. You travel, sample the local cuisine. What is it with these complications and challenges?”

Tiffany looked at him, bewildered.

Tim straightened his tie. “What Gregoire is trying to say is that you don't need to subject your soul to constant nitpicking. You hook up with someone you like and go with the flow.”

Gregoire sniffed. “I think I said it more eloquently.”

Tiffany turned away, turned back, lower lip quivering. “The truth is I've learned something disturbing about Officer Owens. Something unforgivable.”

Gregoire's eyes blazed. “He has been unfaithful. I will give him a piece of my mind.”

Tiffany shook her head.

Tim cleared his throat. “He drinks too much.”

“No. He's a veritable teetotaler.”

“He has struck you.” Gregoire balled the corners of his jacket into his fists. “I will tear him from limb to limb.”

“No. Officer Owens is a gentleman.”

Tim took a turn around the kitchen, stopped in front of Tiffany. “Let's see. He doesn't use deodorant. He turns into a werewolf when the moon is full.”

She closed her eyes. “He hunts.”

Tim and Gregoire looked at one another.

“He's the most perfect man I've ever met and he kills animals.” She began to wail.

An owl hooted. Twigs snapped. Margaret sat bolt upright. “Rudley, what was that?”

He responded without opening his eyes. “In my dreams, it was a Siberian yak.”

She grabbed him by the shoulder. “No, really, there's something thrashing about in the bushes.”