A Wedding in Truhart (2 page)

I was closer to thirty than twenty, a grown woman who was beyond acting like a star-crossed teenager. But even so, my heart sped up at the knowledge that Nicholas Conrad was coming toward me. Dozens of my diary entries between the ages of eight and fourteen were devoted to him. I knew everything about him: his favorite candy from the vending machine in the golf shack, his batting average on Harrison County High School's baseball team, and the type of car soap he had used on his royal blue 1995 Grand Prix. I knew every girlfriend he took to homecoming and why they weren't good enough for him.

And Nick? He didn't even know my real name.

“Hi, Bump,” he said.

M
y unfortunate nickname was bestowed on me when I was five years old. I was playing with my stuffed animals along the large stone hearth in the cavernous pine lobby of the inn. My Puffalump teddy was being chased by Alf, the ugliest stuffed animal ever created. I'd like to blame it on Alf for being so aggressive, but I lost my footing and fell forehead first into the corner of a coffee table in front of the fireplace. The result was a substantial knot right in the middle of my forehead. The nickname “Bump” stuck.

So, there I was, with a droopy collar, hair sticking out on one side of my head, and a dried layer of sweat on my body, flashing a crooked smile at a man who called me Bump.

He leaned forward to kiss my cheek at the same time I reached out to grab his shoulders for a hug. We ended up colliding in an awkward nose-smashing greeting. I laughed and jumped back. He managed to look as if nothing unusual had happened.

I felt thirteen again.

“Hi, Nick.”

“Welcome to Atlanta.”

“It's great to finally be here.” I smoothed my hair, conscious of the uneven side. And then I added a huge insight to the conversation. “It's hot.”

“Consider yourself initiated to summertime in Georgia,” he said, narrowing his gaze to the side of my head where I was trying to tame that curl. “Sorry to hear Ian couldn't come.”

Why my brother, Ian, and Nick got along so well was completely beyond my understanding. Ian was a long-haired college dropout who spent half his life with a guitar in his hands playing dimly lit bars from Indiana to the Upper Peninsula. Nick was a former high school star pitcher with near perfect standardized test scores, who earned a full ride to Vanderbilt University and joined one of the most successful architectural firms in the South. He was driven to succeed the same way Ian was compelled to loaf. Yet their friendship had lasted all these years.

“You know Ian. He had a gig in Grand Rapids last night and said he would help with the inn this weekend.” I didn't add that we only had one guest booked tonight. The summer had been a struggle.

“Nick! It's so good to see you,” said my mother, coming up behind us with Aunt Addie.

Aunt Addie squealed, “Nicholas Conrad! Look at you, dressed up in a suit like a fancy businessman.”

“Aunt Addie . . .” Nick started, before being swooped up in a sloppy bear hug.

“It's been way too long since you were home, young man,” Aunt Addie said. “We can't have you turning all soft and getting Southern on us, can we?”

She said it loud enough that a few people nearby frowned.

Nick cracked a smile. “Don't worry, Aunt Addie. I still know how to fire a muzzle-loader and wrestle a four-wheeler.”

“Hmm,” she said, examining him closer.

“Darling, are these the people from your hometown you have told me so much about?” said a breathy voice followed by a sinewy bare arm that wrapped itself around Nick's elbow.

Nick nodded to one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. She had long black hair, perfect bone structure, and blue eyes framed by thick black lashes.

“Brittany, these are the Adlers. Virginia, Adelaide, and—”

“Annie,” I said, holding out my hand before he introduced me as Bump.

Brittany batted her eyelids and stared at Aunt Addie's blue cabbage roses as if they were slightly out of focus. After a moment she looked toward me, leaning forward until my view was taken up by her generous cleavage. Her eyes traveled from my fake designer shoes to the top of my frizzy head. She shook my hand, turned to Nick and smiled. “You never told me how cute they are.”

Cute? Should we have put our hair in pigtails and painted freckles on our faces?

“How nice to meet you,” said my mother, ever aware of her hostess manners, even when she was away from the inn.

Aunt Addie's gaze hadn't moved from Brittany's chest and I had to jab her with my elbow to get her to stop staring. Nick saw me and his mouth turned down at the corner. If I didn't know him better I would think he was suppressing a smile. But Nick didn't smile much, at least not at me.

The last time I'd seen Nick was several years ago, as he had stood beside his father's grave. As long as I lived I would never forget how he had looked that cold April morning. His mother and sisters had clung to him, their breath coming out in billowing clouds of white and their gloved fingers clutching tissues as they failed to hold back tears. He had stood stoically in a gray wool overcoat, practically holding his family upright. His face had been pale, and his lips were compressed to thin lines. As if something had made him too angry to cry. I cried for all of them, and maybe a little bit for myself that day too. My own father's grave was just a few rows away.

I realized that Nick was gazing intently at me. He stood with his head tilted and his hands in his pockets. Did he know what I was thinking about?

“Where's your camera?” he asked. “I'm used to seeing you with a camera around your neck all the time.”

“She doesn't do that as often anymore, Nick. Remember how much she loved it?” Aunt Addie interjected.

Explaining how I had given up photography for teaching wasn't something I wanted to discuss. I had just been laid off from the local high school and didn't want to elaborate on my apparent double failure.

Charlotte left Henry's side and looped her arm in mine. “I can't wait to introduce you to all my friends.”

Henry hailed a waiter and grabbed several drinks from his tray. “These are a house specialty. Gin, tequila, and a secret ingredient. You have to try them,” he said, handing them to us.

Aunt Addie's eyes grew wide. “I love a good drink.”

Ian always watered down my mom's and Aunt Addie's drinks back at the inn. I started to caution them, but Charlotte grabbed my arm. “Let me introduce you to some of my friends.”

“Wait. You know how Mom and Aunt Addie are with alcohol. Maybe I should warn them—”

“They'll be fine,” Charlotte said, dragging me into the Governor's Room.

With every hour, the party grew louder and the night stretched longer. The room was brimming, and I couldn't even fathom how all these people knew Charlotte and Henry. I found myself introduced to dozens of relatives and friends of the Lowells. Names started running together and I was pretty sure we met more people than lived within the city limits of Truhart.

Several of Charlotte's friends commented on her success and I tried not to brag. With help from Nick, she had landed an amazing job as a correspondent on
The Morning Show
last year. But it wasn't easy. She worked long hours and everyone knew she had to deal with a difficult and demanding lead anchor. Scarlett Francis.

“So far, Charlotte has been able to avoid her tantrums. But we have a bet going on how long it will take before she gets her first tongue-lashing,” confided one of Charlotte's coworkers.

“Is she really that bad?” someone asked.

A balding man leaned in and said, “Oh yeah.”

“We keep telling Charlotte to keep her head down and pretend she has connections on Capitol Hill. God forbid the woman finds out she is from the flyover zone,” said a red-faced man who waved down the waitress for another drink.

I couldn't help myself. “Charlotte doesn't need to justify herself. She has worked hard making a name for herself and it shouldn't matter where she is from.”

The red-faced man grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray and looked beyond me. “Sure she works hard, but let's be honest—she is young, blonde, and pretty . . . all the things that make her GATE material,” he said, mentioning the name of the network they all worked for.

“She was a weekend anchor on our local station by the time she was twenty-two, and was doing headline stories in Detroit before moving to Atlanta.”

“Dime a dozen,” the man said, guzzling half his glass as if it was water.

“She even won an award for her feature on abandoned houses in the city. That one put her right in the thick of some of the most violent neighborhoods in the nation.”

“If you say so,” he said, looking at the man next to him and winking.

I could feel heat rising to my face. My voice sounded shrill. “I suppose just because Charlotte is young and pretty people think she is only a piece of fluff, but I would like to see half the anchors on TV get out of the newsroom and actually visit the flyover zone . . . even Scarlett Francis.”

It took me a horrified moment to realize that everything was quiet and my comment practically echoed off the ceiling. I looked behind me and saw that everyone was holding their drinks in the air. June Lowell tapped on her glass and beckoned everyone to turn their attention to Henry and Charlotte in the center of the room.

I wanted to shrink into the carpet but instead smiled and raised my glass.

“Thank you, everyone, for coming,” Henry said. “I never thought I would meet someone who would make me as happy as Charlotte has . . .”

As he continued, any reservations I had about Charlotte making a hasty decision disappeared.

“And one last thank-you to my good friend Nick Conrad, for introducing me to Charlotte and being a constant source of support to both of us. Nick, thanks for everything and I am so glad you agreed to be my best man. With you nearby for moral support, nothing can go wrong.”

Nick extended one of his rare smiles to the couple and his gaze traveled the room. Our eyes met for a moment and his turned cold. I could practically hear him say,
“Getting yourself in trouble again, Bump? Just like old times.”
And then his gaze rested on a point beyond my shoulder and I turned to see what was there.

I recognized Scarlett Francis immediately. She was shorter in real life, but no less imposing than she seemed on TV. Her cropped red hair glowed in the light of the overhead chandeliers. Her severely cut green dress could have been made of silk, but on her it looked more reptilian. Her vivid green eyes narrowed on me like laser beams. Had she overheard my earlier comment? Judging by the disapproving expression on her face, I had to say the answer was a resounding yes.

I turned back to the center of the room and raised my glass higher as everyone around me finally said, “Here, here” at the end of Henry's toast. Then I drank the entire glass in one gulp.

Behind me someone shouted, “Who is your maid of honor, Charlotte?”

“Why, my sister, of course!” she said without hesitating. “Annie!”

I choked up . . . literally, when the bubbles from the champagne flew up my nose.

While I sputtered and my eyes watered, everyone clapped politely. Then I felt a solid hand pat my back. I looked up at Nick through wet eyes.

“She is really touched, isn't she, Charlotte?” he said loudly. Everyone laughed and went back to their conversations.

Except me and Nick. He stared at me, that unnerving expression plastered on his face. He reached for my glass and put it on the table next to him.

“Can we have some water here?” he asked a passing waiter.

“I'm okay,” I assured him.

“Are you?” he said, sounding like he didn't want an answer. Before I could say anything, he put his arm around me and practically pushed me toward an oversized potted plant at the side of the room.

“What's wrong with you?” I asked.

“I'm just saving your hide from getting ripped open, Bump.”

“What—”

I looked back to see Scarlett Francis waylaid by an older woman.

“You had better hope she forgets that little comment you made, or else you will be speared and roasted over an open fire.”

“Are you suggesting I'm like a pig on a spit?”

Nick frowned, looking me up and down. “No. You definitely don't look like a pig . . .” I could have taken it for a compliment, but I knew better. “Did you even get a chance to eat something?”

“Yes, I did. I had a bite of the fish paste on a miniature piece of bread . . . Oh, I mean the salmon pâté.” I bent my wrist daintily for emphasis and grinned.

“You're not that out of place and you know it.”

“You're right. But someone forgot to tell a few of
these
people.”

“Charlotte seems to enjoy it here, and she's made a lot of friends.”

He ruined my fun. I knew I was being childish. “Well, I have to admit, I like Henry a lot. You met him in school?”

“Studying for our statistics final, freshman year.”

I imagined Nick diligently working away in the library, surrounded by textbooks and friends. But that was where my imagination stopped. I knew so little about him since he'd left Truhart.

“How are things back home?” Nick asked, changing the subject.

I couldn't help but notice he said
home
, not
Truhart
. It made my heart beat just a little faster. But I had to stop myself. He hadn't said it deliberately. Since his father's death, Nick seemed to avoid Truhart like the plague. Sometimes I wondered if he was ever coming home again.

I couldn't think of anything dramatic to say that would make us more interesting than this fancy hotel and his globe-trotting friends. So instead of trying to compete, I tucked my hair behind my ear and gave him Aunt Addie–style news.

“We are having a beautiful summer. A little dry, but at least the temperature has stayed in the eighties. Echo Lake has been full of boats since Memorial Day weekend. Ian caught a pike last month that came in second in the Truhart Fishing Derby. The Timberfest is starting in a week, and I hear the planning committee is splurging on a giant bouncy slide this year. That might bring in the younger crowd! And . . . oh, we have a new bakery next to Ike's Hardware.”