In the Stars (4 page)

Be not afraid of growing slowly,
be afraid only of standing still.
        —Chinese Proverb

Chapter Six

A
good night’s sleep in a Ramada Inn close to West Edmonton Mall, a steaming shower combined with a delicious bagel and hot chocolate from a café down the street, and I am feeling on top of the world. Heather has just maxed out her credit cards at Bryan’s, La Senza and Aritzia, our feet are killing us from walking through the small-city sized mall, and we are carrying more bags than I thought was possible.

“I read in
Reader’s Digest
that West Ed takes up forty-eight blocks.” My nerves must be getting the best of me because I am beginning to sputter out random facts and trivia like I always do when facing something I dread. I try to stop then give in to the inevitable. “It holds world records for largest parking lot, largest indoor lake, largest indoor bungee tower and a few other things too. Did you know it would take three days of constant walking to visit the entire mall?”

Heather shakes her head and walks faster, but I can tell she’s smiling because of the way her ears went up. “I don’t know you, Miss Encyclopedia Brown. Can’t you just act normal? Stop being the super smart you and just enjoy shopping.”

I was this close to telling her about a lawsuit I had studied in law school where the plaintiff had fallen into the huge lake with the pirate ship in the center of the mall; instead I point at a dress in a store window and say benignly, “That looks nice.”

It doesn’t actually. It looks like a disco ball flattened and draped on a person and the ball-headed mannequin is wearing a silver and diamond crown that I’m sure not even Kate Middleton would be caught dead wearing in public.

“The sparkle look is definitely back in style,” Heather comments. “I should raid my mom’s closet. I know she wore hideous clothes like that back in the seventies and I doubt she’s gotten rid of them.”

Heather’s mom is as flamboyant and glamorous as Heather. I’m not surprised in the least to know that she owned a sparkly dress or two back in the day.

“If you think they’re hideous, why do you wear them?”

“Because a model needs to always be on top of the latest trends. It’s the only way to show that I am versatile and marketable.”

Sad thing is that Heather could wear a paper bag and pull it off. Sequins won’t even phase her. We finally exit the mall and stow Heather’s spoils in the trunk of her car. Then we climb in and Heather grins at me.

“Excited? This is it!”

I nod and sit on my hands so Heather can’t see they are trembling.

“So where to? Direct me. I am your chauffer. And bodyguard and moral support and whatever else you want me to be today.”

I bite my lip and clear my throat which has gone dry. “Okay, we have to get to Yellowhead Trail West and eventually onto the TransCanada Highway.”

Heather contemplates this and starts the car. “So going towards Drayton Valley?”

“Yeah, but not that far down. They’re closer to Wabamun Lake.”

It takes us only thirty minutes to get there, due in part to Heather’s lead foot and an uncharacteristic scarcity of traffic. I peer out the window, my knuckles white as I grip my hands together in my lap. “Okay, turn right up here.”

I don’t know for sure where we are, but at least I recognize the huge red barn with the smiley face on the side. Drew and I drove past that going to his parents’ because I remember he commented about how “gay” it was. Even back then the word made me cringe, and that was before all my equality and human rights courses in law school.

“Are we lost?” Heather frowns. We’ve turned onto a gravel road and the Civic is kicking up dust, making it difficult to see.

“They live on a dirt road, so this could be it.” I squint ahead of us and feel a sinking in my stomach. “Of course, it could also be the middle of nowhere.”

“I thought you knew where this was,” Heather snaps. She cranks the steering wheel to the side and swerves around a non-existent pothole. Heather always gets irritable after a day of shopping. Her guilt from spending too much money kicks in within an hour after we leave the store and then the guilt turns to anger. She’s a mean shopaholic drunk.

I laugh. “Heather, you need to kick your habit.”

She glares at me. “Shopping is not my problem. I’m angry because you led me out into the middle of the wilderness where we’ll probably run out of gas, get raped and then eaten by a bear.”

Suddenly I spot a wooden sign over a driveway. THE ADAMS it proclaims, with fancy little curlicues on the A’s. It is completely artsy and urban, without the slightest attempt to look rustic. My stomach leaps in my chest and I am more anxious than I was during my first exam in law school when I almost wet myself from the stress of it all.

“Heather, turn right. This is it!”

Her grumpiness dissipates and a smile appears on her face like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “Oooh, Charley, this is so exciting!” She pauses as we turn into the driveway and then says, “Holy crap.”

It is intimidating. The road runs directly to the mansion where there is a circular driveway like you see in old Jane Austen movies. The house has mahogany double doors, massive bay windows, a turret and is at minimum three stories high. There are two stone fireplaces that we can see, along with a four car garage, and a vaulted gazebo on the lawn that is bigger than our entire apartment.

“Phew.” Heather breathes out and blinks her eyes, squeezing them tight and opening them wide. “You never said they were gazillionaires. Crap, Charley, these people could buy
you
if they wanted.”

The car pulls to a stop in front of the front doors and we both stare. This is a moment that will forever be etched into my brain. My entire life hangs in the balance.

I climb out, knees shaking. Thank goodness I chose to wear flats for this occasion. Heels would have been detrimental to my health. I hear Heather’s door slam and feel her arm slip through mine. As if on our way to the gallows, we climb the granite steps soberly and I push the doorbell. Within seconds we hear muffled footsteps and then noiselessly the door swings open.

“Yes?” It’s her. She gave Drew his green eyes but the resemblance ends there. I had forgotten how much taller than me she is. And thinner. Although in this case I’m not envious of her waif-like appearance. Her cheeks are gaunt and her hair is short, spiky like a hedgehog, jet black with bleached blonde tips. It must be a new fad, and if this wasn’t my future mother-in-law, I’d think she looked ridiculous.

“Hi, Mrs. Adams? I’m Charlotte and this is Heather. We met—”

“I’m sorry.” She cuts me off with the clipped tone of someone who is used to getting her way. “I support many charities but the Girl Guides is not one of them. Good day.”

She closes the door with a tight smile.

“She uses too much Botox,” Heather mutters. “Did you see how her cheeks hardly moved when she talked?”

I hadn’t. “Do we leave?” This was not according to plan. She was supposed to be hugging me like a long lost daughter by now. I shouldn’t have rung the doorbell. These doors are wooden . . . knocking on them would have driven away bad luck.

Before Heather can tell me what she thinks we should do, I knock on the wooden door. My knuckles hurt and blood rushes to them, but I make sure the sound carries.

The door opens again. “Didn’t I tell you? No donations.”

“Mrs. Adams, I’m a friend of Drew’s.” I blurt the words out and her face thaws about ten degrees, although I suspect it is still within a glacial temperature range.

“Oh, I see.” She eyes me suspiciously. “Have we met? You look oddly familiar.”

I break into a smile so wide my cheeks hurt. “Yes! Yes, we’ve met a couple times. I’m Charlotte. Drew and I, uh, were friends for two years in university. I was here for Mother’s Day and we came out for Sunday dinner a few times and—”

“Hush, child.” Mrs. Adams winces as though my words are sledgehammers. “I suppose you want to come in?”

Her attitude is unfriendly but the words themselves are not, which I take as a good omen. At least she invited us in. Before she can reconsider, Heather’s hand shoots out and holds the door and I step inside. “Beautiful house you have,” Heather purrs. She slides out of her high heels and holds out her hand to Drew’s mother. “I’m Heather, another friend of Drew’s.”

“Charmed.” With Drew’s mother leading the way, we enter the house. Everything gleams, from the chandelier over the entrance way to the cherry hardwood floor. Large oriental rugs give the living room a semblance of warmth, and I have an instant memory of sitting in this room with Drew’s head in my lap.

In my memory his eyes are closed although I don’t think he was asleep and I rub his head, playing with his hair. I’d forgotten about that day. He’d had an argument with his dad about borrowing his father’s second Mercedes. Drew had gotten into a car accident and his car would take a few weeks to get repaired but his dad thought it would be good for him to go without. “Learn your lesson,” is what he said over and over. Drew had disagreed and they’d yelled at each other. When neither one would back down, Drew and I escaped to this sitting room where he laid down and blocked out the entire episode.

Mrs. Adams beckons and Heather and I sink on that same leather sofa. “Since you are friends with Drew, you must be here to pick up your invitations, no?” Her ultrathin eyebrows lift meaningfully and she stares at us. I wonder if she was a dancer in a former life. She sits primly in the chair, ankles folded and her back so straight I want to check if she has a two by four strapped to her spine.

“Invitations?” I echo. Invitations to what? A party?

Heather must be thinking along the same lines because she says “Yes, definitely.” She turns to me and says in an undertone, “We show up at whatever party this invitation is for and he sees you in a gorgeous dress and that’s how you win him back.”

Mrs. Adams ignores our whispers and turns her head toward the back of the house. I crane my neck to see what she’s looking at when she shrieks in a very shrill voice, “Frank? Frank?”

A moment later Frank appears. Dr. Adams himself. He wears a suit and tie and is talking on a mobile phone headset. He sees the three of us and removes the headset. “What?”

“Frank, bring me two of those extra invitations we have on the desk in the drawing room. Hurry, we have guests.” Her eyes widen and she waves her bony hand at us.

Mr. Adams disappears, leaving his wife to gaze at us. “Would you like some wine?”

I have never been this awkward in my entire life, not even when Danny Somerset kissed me in the third grade behind the playground at recess.

“Thank you, but we’re driving,” I say. Heather shoots me a disappointed look, but for once in her life doesn’t say anything.

The house is so quiet that we can hear Mr. Adams’ footsteps as he comes back into the room. He winks at Heather and waves the envelopes in his hands. “Knowing that these pretty girls will be there makes the situation more tolerable, don’t you think, Marilyn?” He hands us the envelopes, white and creamy, and then leaves the room. Mrs. Adams smiles at us with her lips while her eyes shoot daggers at her husband’s retreating back.

The envelope feels like a lead weight in my hand. The envelope is a little
too
creamy white. A little too girlish. Almost, you know, wedding-y. Suddenly I have no desire to be invited to this party.

Heather rips hers open and despite my better judgment, I stare at the two sheets of paper that have fallen into her lap. One is a snapshot of Drew smiling his Armani-model smile with his arms around the waist of a thin, plain girl with red hair and almost translucent skin. The other has gold-etched words that break my heart more than sticks and stones ever could.

Mr. and Mrs. William McLean
are pleased to announce the marriage of their daughter,
Sylvia Veronica,
to
Andrew Franklin Adams,
son of Dr. and Mrs. Franklin Adams

“He . . . he’s getting married?” I stutter. And this is it. My worst fear has come true.

If you are patient in one moment of anger,
you will escape a hundred days of sorrow.
        —Chinese Proverb

Chapter Seven

T
he room appears to be spinning, and I feel as though eternity has passed despite the clock on the wall only moving ahead by three seconds. Mrs. Adams raises an eyebrow. Her eyes bore into mine and I feel violated, as if she sees my failures and weaknesses and knows just how pathetic I am. “You did not know this? Then why are you here for the invitation?”

I panic. “I mean, I, well, we knew this, obviously, but, uh—” My breathing is rapid and my cheeks are flushed.

“But it feels more real seeing it in writing. Ha-ha, you know Drew, never thought he’d tie the old knot.” Heather is smooth. She smiles and her words make sense. Of course this is why we act in shock. Mrs. Adams actually smiles with tight lips.

“I might like some of that wine right about now,” I manage. Heather agrees and Mrs. Adams rises from her chair and glides to the kitchen. I hear the clinking of glasses and it’s all I can do to keep it together. I continue to stare at the invitation.

“He’s getting married.” The words hurt more when I say them aloud.

Heather slaps my wrist, leaving a red mark and her eyes dart toward the kitchen. “What is your problem?” she hisses with fury. “You’re not a quitter. Married isn’t married until he’s married. We need to find him. Win him back! You belong with him? So fight for him. Be the Charley I know and love.”

My eyes never leave the paper. “He’s getting married in a week and a half. On Thursday, April fourteenth. In Victoria. How in the world am I going to get out to Victoria? This is impossible.”

Mrs. Adams reappears with three goblet-style wine glasses on a black pewter serving tray.

“The wedding has come as a shock to us as well,” she contributes. She places the tray on the coffee table in the center of the room as Heather stands up and grabs two glasses. She brings me mine and sits down again.

“So, you don’t like the girl?” I ask hopefully. Maybe the parents are disappointed that he’s marrying someone like her when he could be marrying someone like me.

Mrs. Adams waves her hand as if brushing away a pesky fly. “No, no, she’s fine. And we’ve been hoping Drew would settle down for a while now, but . . .”

She trails off and takes a sip of wine, her eyes downcast. Heather swirls hers around in the goblet then takes a swift drink as well. I, however, am on the edge of my seat.

“But?” I prompt.

Mrs. Adams looks up at me and her face slides back into a mask as though she realized that she’s spilling family secrets to two girls who she just met. She takes another sip and looks at Heather. “You are exquisite, but I’m sure you are told that all the time. What do you do for work?”

Heather beams. “I’m Miss Calgary right now, and holding the crown is a lot of work. But as soon as my reign is up in a few months, I hope to break more into commercials and modeling for makeup companies.”

Mrs. Adams nods her head approvingly and places her wine on the side table to her left. “Enchanté.”

There is another long silence as we all search for something to say. A buzzer goes off in the next room, and Mrs. Adams gets to her feet. “That is the timer on the oven. It is dinner time.” For a moment I am terrified that we will be invited to dine with them. As much as the roast in the oven smells delicious, I don’t think my nerves could handle the awkwardness of having to make stilted conversation throughout. Clearly Mrs. Adams feels a similar amount of conflict. Her face contorts, displaying her inner turmoil, torn between being polite and kicking the two strangers out of her house so she can eat in peace.

The latter wins. “Well, ladies, it was a pleasure to meet you and I hope to see you at the wedding. There is an email on the invitation for you to RSVP. I know Drew will be delighted to see old friends.”

Definitely our cue to leave. We stand, thank her for the invitations, Heather downs her glass of wine along with my untouched one, and moments later we are out of the house.

“That was weird,” Heather states. She slides into the car and starts the engine.

I walk around to the driver’s side and open the door. “Come on, man, I’m driving home. You’re a bad enough driver without having two glasses of wine in your system.”

“Truth.” Heather doesn’t seem to mind that I just insulted her driving skills. She slides over into the passenger seat and I buckle up behind the wheel.

“So, what did you think? Didn’t it sound like there’s something going on? Like Drew shouldn’t get married to the girl or something?” Now that we’re free of the house, it’s time to over-analyze every detail.

“Sort of,” Heather agrees. “It was strange. His mother is strange. How in the world did Drew turn out normal?”

“I think his dad is pretty cool,” I say. “He used to go watch Drew play football and stuff.”

“So are we going to email him?” Heather asks. “The email address is right there on the invite. You can tell him how you feel, find out if there is any chance that he has lingering feelings for you. That’ll be easier than you having to fly out to the wedding, don’t you think?”

I contemplate the scenario. How would I feel getting an email from him? Amazing, giddy, obviously. But what if I were the one engaged? It’d be a shock for him to hear from me, but an email is too quickly deleted and forgotten. Or what if his fiancée reads it instead? It could get problematic really fast.

“I don’t have the guts to email him,” I confess. “I wouldn’t know what to say or how to make it sound right. I need to see him face to face. He’s engaged now. Life is different than when we were in college. We should just talk to each other like responsible adults.”

Heather nods her head. “I wish I could go with you, but I’ve got a few luncheons next week that I can’t miss. The press is going to be there and it’s imperative that I get my face out there more if I want to land commercial gigs.”

“It’s fine.” I can’t fly out there alone! I only managed to get through today because I had Heather to lean on. How in the name of all that is holy am I going to survive finding him myself?

My phone buzzes and I toss it into Heather’s lap. “Can you see who it is?” See, Heather? This is called not distracted driving. Watch and learn.

“Yeah, it’s a text from Josh.”

Without waiting for permission she opens the message and reads it out loud. “So I dump you after the movie and then you disappear? I swear it was a legitimate call from work, otherwise I’d never have left. Smiley face. Where are you guys?”

“Poor Josh. We forgot to tell him about this trip, didn’t we? He’s probably pacing around the apartment, looking for food and someone to talk to,” Heather adds with a giggle.

“Tell him: We are driving back from Edmonton. Shopping trip at West Ed. Stopped to see Drew’s parents. You can eat my ramen if you’re hungry,” I dictate and bite the inside of my cheek.

“Done.” Heather sends it and gives me a long look. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that maybe Josh can get some time off from the firm and come with me to Victoria.” The idea had popped into my mind the instant the text appeared. There is no such thing as coincidence.

“You’d make Josh do that?” Heather asks. “Really?”

“What? You don’t think he’d come? He’s my best friend, other than you. I’m pretty sure he’ll do it.”

Heather groans. “I can’t believe for someone with genius level IQ that you are so stupid. Yes, Josh adores you. That’s why he’ll go with you if you ask. But would you really ask him to watch you hunt down an ex?”

I have no clue what the big deal is. “Um, I guess. It’ll be fun. Josh hasn’t been on a vacation in years and he works too hard. It’ll be good for him. Not to mention, I’m sure I won’t be with Drew the whole time. And even if I am, Josh can hang out with us too. There’s no such thing as three being a crowd.”

My phone buzzes for a second time. Josh again.
Did you find out where Drew is?

Heather responds for me once more.
Yes. Going to Victoria next week. Wanna come?

And neither of us are surprised when, thirty seconds later, Josh answers in the affirmative.
Sure. Just let me book the time off from work . . . I really don’t want you going alone. See you when you get home. We will discuss details then. Drive safe.

Honestly? I have the greatest friends in the world!

It buzzes again and Heather reads:
And thanks for the ramen. I’ve got one in your microwave now.

“Just don’t hurt him,” Heather says and then leans her seat back and closes her eyes.

“Hurt who? Drew? I have no intention of hurting anyone,” I sputter, taking my eyes off the highway to stare at her. Except maybe the fiancée, but I’m sure she’ll get over it.

Heather doesn’t respond and I am left with my own thoughts. What the heck did she mean by
that
?