On the Way to a Wedding (11 page)

That must be it.

But, the little voice in her head prodded, if Ryder is getting married in three weeks, why is he helping you? Why is he being so nice to you?

Because he’s a nice person, another part of her argued. Can’t people be nice without having ulterior motives?

Did Greg have ulterior motives?

A knock sounded on the door.

Her heart raced. She took a step closer to the door . . . then stopped . . . and breathed. And gathered her wits.

Isabelle opened the door.

He wore his navy blue jacket over the denim shirt. And the jeans, and the heavy work boots. He was pulling the suitcase on its wheels, with the smaller one piggy backed on it. In his other hand, he balanced a pizza box with a brown paper lunch bag on top of it.

The wedding dress draped over his shoulder.

He looked at Isabelle, and then over Isabelle’s head at her. And he smiled, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Isabelle had that affect on people.

“Hi,” Isabelle said, sticking out her hand. “I’m Toria’s friend, Isabelle.”

And then even Isabelle seemed to realize he had his hands full. She reached for the pizza box.

“Hi,” Ryder said, smiling down at her. “I’m―”

“Ryder. I know. She told me.”

Toria had told Isabelle Ryder’s name, his first name. Not his whole name—Ryder Michael O’Callaghan—the name she’d seen on Pro’s prenup agreement at the cabin.

And she’d told Isabelle that Ryder had rescued her from the side of the road last night, taken her to his cabin, and then drove her back to Calgary this morning.

Isabelle, thankfully, had not asked for details about the overnight stay at the cabin.

Taking the pizza box and the bag into the living room, Isabelle set them on the coffee table.

“Cookies from my mother,” Ryder said. “She was baking and thought you’d like some.”

“I—tell her thank you. That was very kind.”

Isabelle was back, snatching the dress off Ryder’s shoulder and bundling it into her arms as natural as could be. Like men often showed up at the door with billowy wedding dresses over their shoulders. Isabelle dumped the wedding dress in the chair.

“Have a seat,” she said, taking the suitcase handle from him, and then rolling it part way down the hall. She parked the suitcase next to the wedding dress. “And sit down, Toria. You look faint.”

Ryder glanced at her.

Was he checking to see if she really did look faint? She did feel a little weak. Or was he checking to see if it was all right if he stayed?

She shrugged.

So did he, and then he bent down, loosened the laces of his work boots and stepped out of them.

“Toria?” Isabelle said, again. “Sit down.”

She didn’t need to sit. But she would. And maybe she did feel a little tired. She definitely felt hungry. She crutched over to the love seat and sat.

Still wearing his jacket, Ryder sat on the other end.

Instantly his scent touched her, tempting her with something that reminded her of spruce trees and fresh air. And peace. And at the same time, something exciting, and scary.

He was so close to her on the love seat. But that was the only place to sit since the chair was full of wedding dress.

“Would you like a drink?” Isabelle asked, standing in front of them, taking on the role of hostess. “I brought over some wine.”

“Wine? I thought you were bringing soup?”

“I thought wine would be better.” Isabelle exited to the kitchen.

“But I don’t drink,” Toria said, into the space that Isabelle had left. “You know that.”

Isabelle came back from the kitchen with the wine, a cork screw and three glasses. “This will make your foot feel better, dear.”

· · · · ·

Toria had a strange mother . . . and an even stranger friend.

This Isabelle character looked like a born again teenager. The old lady wore a green sleeveless top, a green and orange and red flowery full skirt, and purple and orange striped stockings. She was about a head shorter than Toria, and she might have been anywhere from fifty to a hundred years old. Her long hair was blonde and frizzy, like Rapunzel having a bad hair day.

And right now she was pulling the cork out of the wine bottle. Both wrists had bracelets made of woven cotton. Friendship bracelets, like his sister used to weave. Isabelle had four on one wrist and three on the other. She knelt on the other side of the coffee table, oblivious to the fact that she’d just dumped what was probably a designer wedding dress in a heap on the only chair in the room. The cork came out with a loud pop.

She filled the first glass and handed it to him.

A sparkling pink wine. He tasted it. Light and sweet and slightly exotic. Not bad but, with pizza, he would have preferred beer.

Should he have brought some beer?

No. That would have been pushing it. He hadn’t expected to be invited in. Not really. He was just bringing her the pizza and the cookies. And her luggage. And the wedding dress.

He looked away from the wedding dress and back at Toria, who cradled her glass of wine in both hands as she sat huddled on her side of the love seat.

She was wrapped in a long, dark brown sweater, still wearing last night’s jeans and the pink blouse. The sweater sleeves were turned up so they didn’t cover her hands. She glanced at him and then looked at her wine.

Awkward. They sat next to each other on the love seat, fully clothed, and last night they’d slept together on that old couch, practically naked. Nothing to feel awkward about. It had just happened. Because she’d been so cold, and they’d been―

Stop. He didn’t need to replay that. He shrugged out of his jacket, dropped it on the carpet beside the love seat, and scanned the room. A meager array of furniture—this love seat in red velour, the mismatched light green chair holding the wedding dress, and a garage-sale-style coffee table facing a set of bookshelves. An improvised set of bookshelves—varnished one by tens and blue painted cement blocks.

To his left, wall to ceiling windows led to a sunny balcony with two rusty lawn chairs, a dented aluminum watering can, and a piece of tree stump acting as a table for a flower pot of pink . . . daisies? He wasn’t sure what they were called.

To his right, the wall boasted two professionally framed pictures that looked out of place with the rest of the room. The hall at the end of that wall, just past the bookshelves would lead to the bedroom, or bedrooms. He had a feeling this was a one bedroom apartment.

Taking a moment, he studied the framed prints. Giraffes, made of fabric, silk maybe. Calm, soothing scenes done in browns and greens.

But his attention was pulled to the makeshift bookshelves in front of him, crowded with what must be wedding gifts waiting to go to their proper home.

She would move in with her fiancé after the wedding. They didn’t live together now. Somehow, he knew that.

But then, he didn’t live with Catherine either because she hadn’t wanted him to move in. She wanted them to start fresh in the new house that was still being built.

It wouldn’t be ready on time. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about it.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the bookshelves again. And all those gifts competing for space. Nesting blue, green, and orange mixing bowls in hard plastic, a teapot that looked like a frog, a crystal vase, several white china tea cups in some delicate pattern, one of those strainers, like his mother had, only in brass—a colander, and then a pile of sheets—beige and navy and still half wrapped with striped yellow wrapping paper. And towels and oven mitts and a toaster oven. All tucked in between a teak based lamp with a white shade, some pitiful pieces of stereo equipment, an old black land line and an ancient answering machine.

All of it a soothing, comfortable mess. Like at his mother’s. Except this apartment was even more ramshackle than his mother’s house.

He shrugged. Just now, at this frozen moment in time, he liked it. It was at least familiar. And it wasn’t like he had to live with it. He would be living with Catherine and he’d say one thing for her—she knew how to organize a space.

Her own and anyone else’s.

The coffee table was almost as cluttered. The pizza box, the cookie bag, the wine bottle and glasses, the corkscrew, a roll of paper towels, a prescription bottle of pills—probably the 292s, a stack of unopened mail, some woman’s magazine—Chatelaine, same as his mother.

They subscribed to the same magazine.

Another piece of mail rested upside down on the light beige carpet. Little pink and red hearts cascaded over the back of the envelope, some of them were sparkly, and some of the sparkles had sifted onto the carpet, winking at him.

“So will you come back to the school?” Isabelle asked, as she separated a paper towel from the roll. “Just for a few days? To help them with the grad decorations?”

“Grad decorations?”
What was she talking about?

“Yes,” Isabelle said. “When they finish Grade Twelve they have a special celebration―”

“You teach high school?” He tried to remember what she’d told him. She’d said a teacher. “For some reason I thought you taught kindergarten.”

Wrong
. He didn’t mean to insult her.

She laughed, not insulted at all. “I’ve always wanted to teach ECS, but it’s very difficult. And my father was―”

She stopped. Like talking about her father was a problem.

“Her father was a history teacher,” Isabelle said. “Before he retired.”

Her father who now lived in Kalispell. But― “I thought you had a wedding to plan?” Ryder accepted the paper towel Isabelle handed to him.

“I don’t,” Toria said. And then, “I mean—I do. But my mother—and―”

“Your fiancé’s mother,” he said. “They’re planning it.”

“Yes.” She also accepted a paper towel from Isabelle. “That’s right.”

“Toria is wonderful with teenagers.” Isabelle opened the pizza box. “They’ll do anything for her.”

“No, they won’t,” Toria said, shaking her head and grimacing. “I just let them do what they want to do in the first place.”

“And what do they want to do?”

“They want to build a waterfall,” Toria said.

“A―” He paused with the wine glass halfway to his mouth. “Why?”

“For their Grad Dance,” Isabelle explained, as she lifted the first piece of pepperoni, bacon and mushroom from the box, and handed it to him.

He set the wine glass down, and slipped the paper towel under the pizza slice.

“They’re decorating the gym,” Isabelle said. “It’s happening the last Saturday of June.”

The thought flashed through his head. That date kept turning up. “The same day as your wedding,” he said, turning to Toria.

“And your wedding,” she answered.

Another reminder. Another poke, prodding his mind. Dread. Anxiety. Inevitability. His head ached, his chest tightened and his arm stiffened as he held the pizza. Surprised by the strength of those feelings, he made himself let go of the tension. “Right,” he said.

He took a bite of pizza, realizing how hungry he was. You can’t fill up on cookies.

“So,” Isabelle persisted, “you can help them build their waterfall, can’t you, dear?”

“I don’t know.” Toria accepted a piece of pizza, catching the dripping cheese on her paper towel.

“I can build a waterfall,” he said, like he would say I can build a deck or a garage or your whole frigging house.

“You can?” Isabelle pressed her palms together like she was giving thanks. Ahead of time.

“I’m a framer. I’ve never built a waterfall but how hard can it be? A little pump. Like people put in their garden ponds.”

“It doesn’t have to be huge. We were thinking about eight feet with a―”

“We?” Toria interrupted. “
Eight
feet?”

“You know they talk to me,” Isabelle said.

“I’ll bet they do.” Toria wiped some cheese from her lips.

“We’ll frame it,” Ryder said. “Cover it with some six mil poly and then Styro foam—or maybe expanding foam. Then we can set up a pump and―”

“But,” Toria interrupted again, “don’t you have to be at work?”

Work?

Right . . . work. He’d forgotten about work. Just for those few moments. Must be the crazy company he was keeping. He glanced at Isabelle.

But wasn’t that what he was supposed to do? Let go of work? Prove that it didn’t own him? It was the perfect solution.

“I’m trying out a business partner,” he said. “This will be an opportunity to test him. I need to get out of his way for a few days.”

· · · · ·

By eight o’clock, Toria and Isabelle had each eaten a slice of pizza and split one. He’d eaten three slices and discussed grad decoration plans, mostly with Isabelle, since Toria looked sleepy.

And they’d finished the first bottle of wine. Isabelle was opening a second bottle when the intercom buzzed.

Toria instantly snapped awake, fumbled her empty wine glass, and dropped it in her lap.

Isabelle, in the middle of removing the foil top, stopped and said, “Who could that be?” Then she went back to inserting the corkscrew.

The intercom buzzed again. One long buzz followed by three short stabs. Someone was in a hurry.

Isabelle set down the wine bottle, with the corkscrew poking out the top, and got to her feet. But instead of answering the intercom, she gathered the wedding dress into her arms and calmly carried it down the hall.

The buzzer sounded again. Longer, more insistent.

“Are you going to get that?” Ryder asked.

Toria didn’t say anything. She was staring at the empty wine glass in her hand, twirling it by its stem. She looked groggy. Either too much wine, or . . .

The pain pills?

“I’ll get it,” he said. And then it stopped buzzing.

Isabelle had returned to the living room and now she was rolling the two suitcases down the hall.

Like she was hiding them?

In another moment, Isabelle was back in the room. “Let me take that, dear,” she said, motioning for Toria’s wine glass.

Toria reached to give her glass to Isabelle and, he saw it then, Toria’s hand was trembling. Why―?