A Wedding in Truhart (17 page)

“A
re you sure you don't regret it, Annie?” asked Mom.

I nodded my head and thought for the millionth time how much I regretted it. The trip to Atlanta in August, and even Nick's visit in October, seemed years ago.

Bing Crosby crooned “White Christmas” on the radio and I stared out the picture window in the dining room at a winter scene that was anything but white.

For the first time in recent history, Northern Michigan had just celebrated a snow-free Christmas. Although the sky had been overcast all week, nothing white and fluffy fell from the sky. The ground was frozen solid in gray and brown hues, making the landscape look like a dirty filter over a camera lens.

As I looked at the barren scene before me, branches swaying in the December wind like skeletons, I could barely make out Mary Conrad's rooftop. Her house had been empty all week while she spent Christmas in Chicago, which meant Nick hadn't come home for the holidays. Again. But this year Nick's absence was my fault.

Actually, no. It was his fault.

Dozens of times I had replayed the night of the art show in my head. I should have kept my feelings to myself. I could admit that much. If I had just said nothing about Mary and the show, if I had hugged Nick and given him a kiss and kept my big mouth shut, everything would have been fine.

“Annie?”

I looked down and realized I was stabbing the table with the tines of one of the forks we were polishing. I turned toward my mom as she stared across the dining room table at me, a worried frown on her face. She had been looking at me like that a lot lately. I tried to smile, but my lips twisted into a messy contortion.

Why was she asking me about regret? I stared at her, wondering if Grady had mentioned the horrible scene in the lobby. He had never brought it up to me, but I caught him studying me as he did odd jobs around the inn. His solemn eyes looked as if he wanted to say something, but whatever it was, he kept his mouth shut.

“What do you mean, Mom?” Maybe I hadn't heard correctly.

“Do you regret not going to Las Vegas with the other girls in the bridal party?”

The day after Christmas the entire bridal party had taken a flight to Las Vegas, where they were celebrating a bachelorette weekend. While Charlotte, Bebe, Patty, and even Brittany had enjoyed the shows and been pampered at one of the ritziest spas in Vegas, the boys had celebrated their own way. Aunt Addie was very concerned about this, but Charlotte assured us it would be tame. On the final night in Vegas, both bridal parties met up and celebrated together at a chic French restaurant at the Bellagio, a place I had only read about.

I could only hope that Nick woke up next to a fat Elvis, discovered a bad tattoo on his chest, and suffered a hangover the size of Texas. It would serve him right.

“I don't regret staying home, Mom. I'm not much of a bachelorette-party person. Besides, Ian and I want to help get the inn ready for the wedding.” I didn't tell her that Ian and I had sunk a large chunk of our savings into getting the inn in decent shape.
The same amount Nick probably tipped some long-legged waitress in Vegas.

“Well, Charlotte felt really bad about the fact that you couldn't go to Las Vegas. You should have taken Henry up on his offer to fly you and Ian out there.” Neither Ian nor I wanted to be Henry's charity-case future in-laws. “You and Ian have put a lot of work into this wedding, Annie. I can't tell you how much I appreciate everything. But sometimes I feel like you are giving up too much for this.”

If only she knew how much this wedding was costing me.

“Actually, Mom, you're kind of my excuse. I don't think I would like Las Vegas much,” I said as cheerfully as I could.

My mother grunted. “Well, I don't think I would either. But I would be interested to see what all the hype is about. And I would love to see a show and maybe that handsome single magician . . .”

“Well, I can't argue with you there.” I wasn't about to tell her he was gay.

It was three days before the wedding. Charlotte, Henry, the wedding party, and the immediate family were set to arrive tomorrow afternoon. That meant Nick would be back as well. Unless, of course, he had decided that he couldn't handle Truhart anymore. Stupid man. I jammed the rest of the utensils in the drawer and tried to keep from chipping off a piece of wood in frustration.

“Hey, it finally came, Bump!” Ian walked into the dining room with a large box in his hands.

“What's that?” asked my mom.

Ian put the box down on a table and grinned at me. For the last few weeks we had found ways to slowly improve things at the inn. The trick was not letting Mom know how much money we had spent.

Ian pulled out his pocket knife and began cutting open the box. “When I was playing a gig in Columbus last month, I mentioned to a production assistant that we owned an inn. He said that occasionally they get promotions for special beauty products in trial sizes for the bands he manages. He had a whole lot of extra products and was hoping to unload a few on me.” Ian finished cutting and peeled open the top of the box.

“Check this out,” he said, throwing aside a clump of the packing material. He picked up several small bottles of shampoo and soap. The brand was far more luxurious than we had ever been able to afford, and my mother placed her hands on her throat.

“Ian, I can't believe you were able to get this!”

Ian grinned. “And you always thought I'd amount to nothing . . .”

She cocked her head at him. “It's all very strange how we're suddenly finding all these connections for fancy hotel goods. If I didn't know better—

“Hey, I have never actually tried before. I guess that's what a little effort can do.”

She laughed as she held up a shampoo bottle. “Well, Ian, fancy shampoo won't help pay off our bank loans. But it sure makes me feel better about this wedding.”

Ian stopped smiling and I saw concern in his hazel eyes. The truth was, everything we were doing was nothing more than a Band-Aid on an open wound.

Now it was my turn to ask about regrets. “Do you regret having the wedding here, Mom?”

She placed her hands on our shoulders and shook her head. “No.”

I had the feeling there was something she wasn't saying. She had been working hard managing things too. Hopefully no one would notice the patch job on the roof or the duct tape holding the tables together under the tablecloth. Grady had patched the walls and Mom had bought slipcovers and pillows at an outlet store. Ian and I had pooled our money to buy new linens and sheets as well. Ian even revamped our tired old website. Of course I made him remove the massage package he had built into the website. I don't know who he thought would handle that, but there was no way I was rubbing oil on some old man's back.

Charlotte was clueless about our efforts. She had stayed in Atlanta for Christmas. We had watched her on television making gingerbread houses from milk cartons, decorating Christmas trees with origami, and reporting on the experiences of the department store Santas. We missed her but loved seeing her growing success.

We talked on the phone several times a week, making sure the details of the wedding were in place. She assured us that everything would be wonderful no matter what, but I could still hear anxiety in her voice when she talked about Henry's family.

I couldn't blame her. June wasn't exactly making things easy.

June had overruled our choice of photographer, insisting that the one Scarlett recommended would be more appropriate. She was flying him up from Atlanta on the chartered plane with the guests. Then, after we negotiated a deal and reserved almost three dozen rooms for extra guests in Gaylord, June had left a long message on the answering machine explaining that she had reciprocal club privileges with the Grande Lucerne Resort and Spa across I-75. It was a little farther away than the hotel we had booked, and much more expensive, but she felt her guests would “appreciate the amenities.”

“I am totally going to use the bubble bath tonight,” Ian said, holding up a blue miniature bottle.

Mom snatched it from him. “Oh no, you're not. We need to make sure there are enough for the guests.”

“How many guests do we have now?” Ian asked.

We all turned our heads to see a huge pile of unopened presents on the buffet that the mail carrier had delivered. Next to them was a stack of RSVP cards we had been marking off.

Charlotte and Henry had printed the most elaborate wedding invitations I had ever seen. They popped up like picture books with little white shapes of a sleigh and snow-capped hills beside the words
“Charlotte Adler and Henry Lowell invite you to share in their union, December 31, New Year's Eve.”
Of course, June Lowell must have had a hand in it. And even though I wanted to say something snarky about everything June did, I had to admit the invitations were beautiful.

“We are at seventy-one out-of-towners and eighty-two locals.” Mom said it with pride. The number was nowhere near the original four hundred or more guests who might have attended in Atlanta. Still, with every RSVP I felt a sense of panic.

“Well, I'm guessing that by now that is all we will get?”

“It should be,” she said. “But you know how the cousins on your dad's side always plan at the last minute. I have a feeling they'll show up with kids and dates we don't know about.”

“Hopefully we'll meet the dates we don't know about before they have the kids we don't know about,” said Ian, wagging his eyebrows.

“You know what I mean, Ian.”

“Well, I guess we could just put them up in the golf shack.”

“Don't worry. June made sure to book extra rooms at the Grande Lucerne for her group. I am sure we will be fine either way. I just hope Nestor has planned enough food. Speaking of Nestor, don't forget to pick him up at the Traverse City airport. You should be leaving soon, Ian.”

Ian patted his stomach. “Nestor is one person I would never forget.”

Aunt Addie pushed open the double doors of the kitchen with enough force to make the walls shake.

“I still can't find them! I've looked everywhere!”

“What is that?” asked Mom.

“Those blasted Christmas decorations. I can't believe we misplaced them this year. Of all times to lose them.”

Ian and I sent each other a stealth look of relief.

She still hadn't found them. Thank God!

The lost decorations included dozens upon dozens of figurines made of pasta, courtesy of Aunt Addie's “food craft” phase years ago. Macaroni reindeer, spiral swirl Santas, and even a crèche of penne, spaghetti, and shells, had been on display at the inn every Christmas since I could remember. They were so hideous that when Aunt Addie was gone one Saturday morning in November, Ian and I had snuck up into the attic and grabbed them out of the Christmas decoration bins. Now they were hidden where we hoped she would never find them.

Right now the inn was perfectly decorated. A giant white fir from a Christmas tree farm down the road dominated the main lobby. A smaller tree stood in a corner of the dining room. Garlands of pine and spruce draped over almost every imaginable doorway and the large stone fireplace. A new centerpiece rested on the table in the lobby, a Christmas gift for Mom, purchased from one of the fancy decorating catalogues she always admired but never ordered from. Even the grounds of the golf course were adorned with twinkling lights, thanks to Grady.

Ian and I were calling the tragedy of the missing decorations “Pastagate,” which Aunt Addie said was insensitive.

“Maybe someone got hungry and cooked them,” said Ian.

Aunt Addie put her hands on her hips and snarled, “That is not funny, young man! Do you know how many hours I put into making those? They've been a part of our Christmas for over twenty years, now.”

She started on a familiar tirade about the importance of Christmas traditions and how our generation never appreciated them.

Ian looked at her with a straight face and interrupted. “Well, have you asked Al?”

“Al who?”

“Al Dente!” he said, lowering his eyebrows.

Aunt Addie reached out to hit him on the behind. He ran out of the room, giving her a wide berth. “I'm off to pick up Nestor. See you later,” he called as he left.

Mom had a hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh. I had already given in. Aunt Addie swatted me on my backside since she couldn't reach Ian.

“You should never have been so easy on him, Virginia. That boy needs taking down a notch or two.”

“Don't worry, I'm sure the decorations will show up next year,” said Mom. As Aunt Addie turned away, Mom looked to me and mouthed “thank you.”

 

The next day, clattering and banging came from the kitchen as Nestor organized himself. He had been busy prepping the kitchen since he arrived. Aunt Addie was yelling at Ian about the music blaring on the speakers in the dining room. And above it all, my Mom was shouting into the phone to her cousin who was on a runway in Chicago.

It was zero minus two days. Just in case I had forgotten, the calendar behind the desk reminded me that soon my little sister would become Mrs. Henry Lowell. I was looking forward to everything about as much as a root canal. I was going to smile and be the good hostess, but I dreaded the possibility that June and her friends would judge us. And even more, I couldn't help but feel that I was losing a little sister. Suddenly it all seemed so permanent.

And then I thought of Nick.

In my dreams last night, Nick had turned into the preacher marrying Charlotte and Henry. When it came time to read their vows they had pledged never to return to Truhart ever again. The wedding guests had cheered and laughed while Aunt Addie sat with the dogs on boxes of macaroni and cried.