Geek Groom (Forever Geek Trilogy #2) (7 page)

“I know, Mom. I do.”

She smiles. “I can’t tell you how glad I am that you came here tonight. I never expected you’d turn to me for advice.”

I shake my head. “I didn’t come only for your advice. I came for you. I love you, Mom.”

“Oh my darling girl, I know you do. And I love you. And tonight you’re going to sleep in this bed—”

“I can’t! If I don’t go back, Evan will think—”

“Who cares? He deserves a bit of discomfort. And tomorrow, you can go and work it out. In what way makes sense to you. But tonight, please, just stay here and rest. Think. Think about what he said. Think about why he feels the way he does and then decide what you’re willing to work on, and what he just needs to accept as part of who you are. You’ll know what’s what.”

She takes the cup from my hands, kisses me again, and as I drift off to sleep, much easier than I thought possible, I can’t help but wonder if she didn’t slip me a sleeping pill.

T
he sky is somewhere between navy blue and rose when I wake. It’s not even six am. I quietly slip into the clothes that Mom has left in the room. It’s pure comfort clothes. Loose black yoga pants and a long-sleeve red cotton shirt. It’s good to get out of the dress and into something soothing. In the bathroom I find a new toothbrush and enough hair paraphernalia to tie my hair up in a loose bun.

The scent of coffee lures me downstairs. I’m expecting Mom. Instead, I find Dad.

“Mom told me you were here. I figured you’d sleep in later than this.”

I shrug.

“I’m going to the sunrise ceremony up on Signal Hill. Want to come?”

“I thought you boycotted Canada Day until noon?”

“Oh, I’m not going to participate. I’m going to peacefully protest.”

I notice then that he’s wearing a forget-me-not, the traditional Memorial Day flower in Newfoundland for July 1. The poppy is a November 11 symbol.

I won’t bore you with the history too much, but here’s what’s happening right now. Back in 1916 during the Great War, the battle of the Somme was about to begin. The Royal Newfoundland Regiment awaited orders in the trenches of Beaumont Hamel. Of the more than 780 that went over the top on the morning of July 1, only 110 survived. It was a devastating loss for Newfoundland. So when we joined Canada in 1949, it was a bitter pill to swallow that this was also the day of the year when the rest of the country celebrated the formation of Canada. There’s about a million layers of complex politics here that you don’t need to know, but suffice it to say, for some people, my father included, this is a day fraught with internal conflicts.

That’s how I find myself fifteen minutes later standing with my father, back to the ceremony, overlooking the narrows of the harbour, contemplating loss and peace and forgiveness.

“I thought I’d find you here.” Evan lays a tentative hand on my shoulder. “Morning, sir,” he says to Dad. Sir. Sure fire sign he’s wondering if my father is going to shove him over the ledge we’re standing on.

“You want me to go?” Dad looks me in the eye. Who knew I had such a fierce protector? Maybe I am spoiled.

I nod.

“You went to your parents’?”

“Yea. Are you mad I didn’t come home?”

“No. Sad.”

“I think Mom drugged me. For real. I’m not exaggerating.”

“I wouldn’t put it past her. She was an angry bear when I called there last night.”

“You might be right about them, and me. They are a bit indulgent, aren’t they?”

“I wasn’t right at all. I was a dick.”

“A bit.” Let’s call a spade a spade, after all. “But I wasn’t much better.”

“Can we go home and talk?”

“Only if you can give a spoiled princess one thing.”

“Jill.” He rakes his hands through his hair. “I didn’t mean—”

“One thing.” I’m doing a classic Dr. Laura Carew hand in the air.

“What?”

“Marry me on Saturday.”

I
hope you don’t think that was the end of it. We had a lot of talking to get through and there were even a few more harsh come-to-Jesus moments as we worked our way through what was said.

Here’s where we stand. I’m acknowledging that I’m overly sensitive when it comes to my parents and that I’m quick to anger. I’ve also conceded that Evan might make a decent lawyer, if that’s something he wants to explore. But I do believe he’d be better served doing something different. I’ll just keep that to myself right now.

For his part, Evan keeps trying to reassure me that he doesn’t really think I’m a spoiled snot. He’s also going to stop acting so cocky when it comes to acting like he knows what I’m going to do, since my failure to come home Sunday night scared the hell out of him.

I have forgiven him, but the forgetting is a bit harder. Let’s just say that I’m trying very hard not to let his words run through my head in quiet moments. But I can’t help who I am. I will dwell on it for a while, although I’m handling it better than Mom, actually. She’s downright frosty with Evan all week, and a few times I’ve seen them in a huddle, Evan nodding and looking subdued while Mom gives him what I imagine is a bit of an earful. He won’t tell me what she says.

But all that doesn’t matter tonight. The rehearsal went off about as smoothly as it can go. Monsignor Shea was running a bit late, so Mom and Mary provided some comic relief reenacting their fight while Ingrid gave the colour commentary. I can’t help but notice that while our moms are bosom buddies, there is a bit of disconnect between our fathers. Then again, Tories and New Democrats famously don’t get along.

Want to know who is getting along splendidly? Ingrid and Daniel, Evan’s brother who lives in Texas. I met him for the first time today. And he and Ingrid have been joined at the hip since we picked him up at the airport. They’re out on the patio right now, and I swear to all that’s good and holy that they are giving each other some serious do-me eyes.

The clinking of a glass makes me look. It’s Evan’s mom.

“Thanks, everyone, for coming this evening, and thank you so much to Laura and Bruce for letting me use their kitchen to make this dinner tonight. I just wanted to say how happy I am for Evan, and for Jillian. From the first time I met this beautiful young woman, I knew, in the way a mother does, that I’d just met my son’s other half. I’m sure many of you here have heard the story of their very public fight in the middle of the road in the Cove, and for me, that was the moment I knew for sure that they were meant to be.”

There’s a roar of laughs because by now, everyone has heard that tale.

“Jillian. Evan,” she continues. “Don’t let anyone tell you marriage is easy. It’s not. It’s hard work. Perhaps the hardest you’ll ever do. But the secret to success is to know when to fight, and when to forgive. You’ll both change a lot in the years to come, but never ever change the way you feel about each other. Never stop believing that you’re meant for each other. And never, not for a second, let pride stand in the way of forgiveness.”

Well, that toast answers one big question. She knows about what happened this weekend. That was a pretty pointed and poignant speech.

Everyone is clapping and drinking Evan’s dad’s homemade partridgeberry wine, made just for this occasion.

“Sounds like we were just given our orders,” Evan says, refilling my glass.

“It’s good advice.”

“My mother’s no dummy. Seven kids. One husband. She knows her stuff.”

“Although, I do like the kiss and make up part the best.”

“Do you really have to stay here tonight?” He kisses my hand and tucks my arm into his as we head to the backyard, which is draped in white lights and full of tables laden with his mother’s gourmet version of cold plates.

“It’s tradition.”

“And when have we cared about that?”

“This time I care. When you leave here tonight, the next time you see me I’ll be walking down the aisle.”

“Then I better make sure I see all of you tonight before I leave. Tell me, Professor Carew, have you ever made love in your parents’ house?”

I pause for dramatic effect, as if I really need to think about this. “Not yet.”

Call me silly, but before the night is over, that answer might change. If we can get away with it.

C
liché. That’s what this is. A terrible, terrible cliché. Only instead of the bride being late for the wedding, I’ve just overheard that Evan is missing. Okay. Not just Evan. All the friggin’ groomsmen are with him. What’s upsetting me is that no one will tell me what’s going on. As if frantic whispers and mad dashes in and out of the chapel where I’m waiting are supposed to be calming.

Even Ingrid, my trusted partner in crime, is avoiding me.

The only calm person in the room is Mom, who is doing her best to keep me amused by telling me about her wedding.

I’m not listening because I’m not calm. Not in the least.

Enough of this. I’m going to find my groom.

“Jillian, you can’t leave,” Mom says, all her calm disappearing the instant I lay my hand on the door. “Someone might see you.”

“Let them. I’m going to find Evan.”

I’m out the door and halfway down the side aisle of the church when Dad comes rushing towards me.

“It’s all good. They’re here. Nothing to worry about.”

“Evan is here?”

“Sure is.” Dad is pushing me back towards the chapel.

“I don’t believe you.” I’m pushing back. I’m not stopping until I see him.

“He’s here. I promise. Just give them a second to get—er, to get in place on the altar and we can get going.”

“What’s going on, Dad?”

“This is a story only Evan can tell you. But it’s one you’ll never forget.”

He must be here because I see all my bridesmaids coming towards me, a cloud of wispy soft yellow chiffon floating down the hall. Ingrid is smiling. My sister-in-laws look mad enough to kill.

I wonder which look I’m going to have when this is all over.

“Care to tell me what happened,” I say to Ingrid as we stand at the back of the room while Mom makes sure all the girls are in their proper marching order.

“I told you those swords were a bad idea.”

“Please tell me no one else was stabbed.”

“No. Not stabbed. It’s okay. Nothing’s ruined. Evan is here. He’s fine. You’re stunning. I’m possibly in love. This is a perfect day.”

Sweet Mother of God. Can I handle Ingrid infatuated with my brother-in-law? Only time will tell, because right now the opening strains of Handel’s “Hornpipe” from
Water Music
on the huge organ are reverberating through the old stone church. I might not be the best Catholic around but I know when to respect tradition and history, and St. John’s Catholics have gotten hitched in this grand old building since 1855. That’s part of why I decided to fight for a church wedding. Plus, it helped reign in some of Evan’s more fantastical wedding suggestions. Landing before him in a hot air balloon was just the tip of the iceberg in those early planning days.

My stomach is all knots and flutters. The fine silk of my ivory one-shoulder sheath gown is cool on my skin. Until this morning I wasn’t sure which dress I was going to wear. There was this one, and another that had a slight sleeve. It wasn’t that tight but I just knew that I wanted to wear something soft and light and flowing. Plus, it harkens back to my slight fascination with the Duchess of Cambridge and the Jenny Packham toga gown she once wore.

Plus, there’s the pictures. The stark white of the other gown wouldn’t have looked nearly as nice with the pale yellow bridesmaids dresses and the light taupe pants and vests the boys are wearing.

At least I hope that’s what they’re wearing. I’ve never actually seen the suits. I showed Evan pictures of what I liked, and he agreed. Another blessing for a church wedding. There’s no way they’ll be clad in togas.

“Ready, my girl?” Dad’s arm is trembling.

“Absolutely.”

You know, I’ve always wondered at the phrase “she felt a smile spread across her face.” But really, sometimes you just smile in spite of yourself. I want to look serene as I walk down the aisle, but I just can’t wipe this grin off my face.

At the rehearsal yesterday, this walk had seemed to take forever. But now it’s like there’s a magnet ahead that’s drawing me towards the altar. Towards Evan.

Oh my God! Is that the man I’m marrying? That steaming hot piece of masculine perfection standing there? He looks perfect. Cool and perfect. The closer I get, the better I can see his smile. His eyes meet mine and I can’t look away. Suit be damned. There’s nothing I can see but his face. The way he’s watching me. And walking down the aisle to meet me.

Is this when he’s supposed to do that? I thought we had to be further down. But I don’t care. Still, I speed up, more so that I can reach him faster than for any sense of planned decorum.

“Stunning,” he says as he reaches us. “You are perfection.”

Are those tears in his eyes? In my eyes?

“Take care of my girl,” Dad says.

“Till my dying breath,” Evan says.

And now we’re walking together towards the priest.

It’s all a blur now. I’m repeating things and Evan is repeating things. It’s all church sanctioned words and I know I should be listening, but honestly, I’m in a daze. This is my wedding. Evan is marrying me despite all my neurotic ways. He loves me just as I am, half crazy and all.

It’s funny how we practiced all this yesterday and now I’m just on autopilot, taking my cues from the priest and Ingrid. We sit to listen to the readings, and now my brain comes back to me. Likely because I’m not looking at Evan anymore, so I can breathe.

“Are you okay?” I whisper.

“You were right,” he says.

“About what?”

“The swords.”

Ryan, or I guess right now the Monsignor, gives us a look that says shut-up.

So what about those damn swords? I said plenty about them over the months. What was I right about? I want to ask him but instead I pay attention and listen to the readings.

Now we’re getting down to business. It’s time for the vows. We say the vows everyone says because neither of us is creative enough to come up with anything else. But they work for us. Their simplicity, the honesty of them, that’s all we need.