On the Way to a Wedding (17 page)

“He said Dad left debts.”

“He what?” Surprise etched Samantha’s face and she clutched tightly to her silver box.

“Is that true?”

Almost immediately, the surprise was replaced by anger, then something that looked like . . . uncertainty?

“Of course not. Why would he say something like that? That was silly of him.”

Toria tightened her grip on the crutches and stood up straight. A new strength flowed into her. “You can’t spend more money on renovations. You don’t have the money.”

Her mother opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. Tilting her chin, she said, “So now
you’re
going to tell me what I can buy?”

“No. I just meant―”

“It’s not your concern. Don’t worry about it. We have plenty of money.”

“Maybe
you
do.” Toria gripped her crutches. “But I don’t. I don’t have any money.” A picture of her car in the ditch played in her mind. “I have to buy a new car.”

“Greg can―”

The buzzer sounded and Toria felt relief flow through her. Saved by the bell. Or, in this case, the buzzer.

Her mother frowned.

“It’s Isabelle.”

“Not that woman. I can’t stand her.”

What?
Who wouldn’t like Isabelle? “Why not?”

“She puts ideas in your head.”

Toria moved toward the door. “She’s driving me to school. We’re working on grad decorations together.” She reached the intercom and pressed it.

“But what if we need you for a decision?”

“Mom! Listen to me!” She twisted around on her crutches and almost stumbled. “I said I’m
not
getting married.”

“You’re just upset.” Her mother presented another false smile. “And you don’t have to yell. It’s not ladylike.”

“I’m not upset!” But she was. “All right I
am
upset—because you’re not listening to me.”

Samantha patted her silver box and smiled harder. “Geraldine said it’s all right if you don’t get her china pattern.”

“Well . . .” How could she answer? “Tell Geraldine, thank you!”

“Victoria, don’t be like that,” her mother said, setting the box on the table as though everything was perfectly fine. “Now, come and look at this.”

Praying that Isabelle would hurry, Toria hobbled over to the table.

Samantha opened her box revealing little bits of fruit cake wrapped in clear plastic and doilies, and tied with curling gold ribbon. “We thought you’d like to see the party favors.”

· · · · ·

Isabelle jammed Toria’s crutches into the back of the Firebird and headed for the driver’s seat. “Did Ryder return your call?”

The dark sky spit a few drops of rain on the windshield. “He didn’t need to. He’ll just show up at the school. If he wants to.”

“He wants to.”

“Why? You seem sure of that.”

“I am.”

A tiny flare of hope ignited but, just as quickly, guilt extinguished it.

The wheels of the Firebird squealed as Isabelle took the corner a little too sharp, turning left onto Collins Street. “So how come your mother looked so . . .”

“Upset?” Toria suggested.

“Upset is putting it mildly.” Isabelle merged into the traffic on Dottridge Avenue.

Speckles of rain gathered on the windshield. Not enough for wipers yet. “She’s trying to convince me I’ve made a mistake—cancelling the wedding.” Toria grabbed hold of the armrest while the Firebird’s motor roared and Isabelle changed lanes. “She’s going ahead as though the wedding is still happening.” An understandable approach, since her mother thrived on denial.

“Your Aunt Glenda needs to talk to her.” Isabelle shoulder checked and maneuvered to the right, getting ready to exit.

“I know.” The water on the windshield feathered into patterns. “As soon as I give Mom some time to adjust to the idea of no wedding, I’ll phone Aunt Glenda. I’ll have to tell her everything on the phone.”

“Will Glenda come?” Isabelle asked, as she turned on the wipers.

“Yes.” And hopefully Glenda could coax some reasonableness into Samantha. They were approaching the exit onto Stelmack Boulevard. “But it’s going to upset Mom.”

The more she thought about it, the more Toria knew she had to do something soon. Before her mother emptied her bank account on useless renovations.

The Firebird rumbled, adjusting to a decreased speed. “What is it with those two?” Isabelle turned onto Stelmack.

“Years of rivalry,” Toria said, remembering bits of conversations with her mother. “She thinks Glenda was the favored child.”

The wiper blades squeaked over the glass, halfway between the points of needing and not needing wipers. “Because?”

Toria could hear her mother’s voice, complaining about her sister Glenda. “Apparently, no matter what Samantha did, Glenda did it better. Better report card. Better friends. Bigger bouquet of flowers for Gramma’s birthday.” They were almost at Wickens Street. “My mother was the little sister who never could.” More rain splashed down, smoothing out the path of the wipers.

Isabelle slowed for the next turn. The engine emitted low, heavy strokes. “So if the big wedding is supposed to impress Glenda, why not invite her?”

Pain and regret twined in Toria’s heart. It wasn’t about trying to impress Aunt Glenda. Not anymore. “She’s not just impressing her sister. She’s impressing everyone. Mom loves making impressions.”

Signals that told the world,
watch me, see how great I am, you can’t keep me down.

“And―” Toria added, “―there would have been pictures to send.” Like waving a red flag. A passing transport fanned a spray of water over the Firebird.

“She would have done that? Sent pictures?” Isabelle curved onto Wickens.

“Of course.” That was how her mother operated. “The pictures represent reality the way Samantha Whitney wants it to be. Perfect.” Toria looked out the window at the gray world slipping past. In her mother’s pretend world, everything and everyone was perfect. “She wants me to be perfect.”

“You already are, dear.”

No, she wasn’t. She was always competing—against some unseen, impossible standard. She was never good enough. Smart enough. Pretty enough. Not for her mother.

And not for Greg, who always seemed to find more ways she could please him.
Quit your job, finance a new car, move the wedding date ahead.

Way ahead. A year ahead.

A distant flash of lightning brightened the sky for a second. Just a few more blocks and they’d be at Tim Hortons.

And then, a thought came. She’d told Ryder he could help with the waterfall, but he could only
supervise
the building, not
do
the actual building. And he had not tried to change her mind.

But why would he want to? He had no interest in her or in what she did. The only reason he was helping at the school was to give himself something to do while his partner apprenticed. The students were simply a distraction for him. And so was she.

“You might have to leave town for that day.”

“What day?”

“The last Saturday of June. Your ex-wedding day?”

She almost laughed. “Oh, I’ll be here. I’ll be chaperoning at the Grad Dance.”

Isabelle glanced at her. “Won’t that look odd?”

“Odd?” Teachers chaperoned all the time. “Why?”

Isabelle stared straight ahead. “The teachers might wonder why you’re not at your wedding.”

Oh, that. “I’ll have told them by then.” Because Ryder would be gone. He’d work today and maybe tomorrow, but after the weekend, he’d be bored with this project. The rain tapped a steady rhythm over the car as she snugged her raincoat around herself.

Then Isabelle pulled into the parking lot and executed a perfect landing in the small space between a minivan and a black truck.

“Don’t worry, dear. Everything will work itself out.” She patted Toria’s hand. “Now, let’s go in and order some breakfast.”

· · · · ·

Inside Tim Hortons, from a table next to the window, Ryder watched as the pumpkin colored, supercharged Firebird came to a stop next to his truck.

“That’s Toria,” he said. His mind relaxed and his senses woke up. Sitting straight, he inhaled, filling his lungs. Not that he was
glad
to see her. It was just
amusing
to see her. Especially with Isabelle, who was getting out of the driver’s seat.

Today the old lady wore a bright blue kerchief that partially contained her wild blonde frizz. She’d conceded to the weather conditions by wearing a very ordinary beige trench coat that came to her knees. Under that, about six inches of a tourist-tropical print peaked out—blue, pink, white, orange. More conservative today, she wore plain stockings. Orange ones. And what looked like wooden shoes.

“Do you think that car is safe?” Pro asked.

“It’s the driver I’d be worried about,” Ryder answered.

Isabelle walked around to Toria’s door. She was already getting out, holding onto the door for support. The wind blew her hair over her eyes for a second and then she tilted her head, letting her hair sift away from her face.

Ryder felt a warmth in his chest and his head. Blinking, he touched his forehead. Cool, no sign of a fever. Just this odd sensation . . .

“I’d better be going,” Pro said. He drained the last of his coffee.

Ryder looked at Pro. “Aunt Tizzy?”

“Yes.” Pro got to his feet, picking up his coat from the bench.

“How’s Aunt Tizzy’s project coming along?”

“It looks promising,” Pro said, as he shrugged into his raincoat.

Ryder waited a beat, thinking Pro would say more. And then, “You’re not going to tell me what it is.”

“It’s too complicated to explain.” Pro grinned. “Want to go out for a beer tonight?”

“Can’t. I’m visiting my parents.”

Pro nodded, as though Ryder visiting his parents was a normal thing to do. Tactful of Pro not to mention that.

“I’ve got to go,” Pro repeated. “Say hello to Toria for me.”

“Sure.”

Pro exited the door on the opposite side of the restaurant. Ryder looked out the window again watching as Isabelle yanked Toria’s crutches out of the backseat. She passed them to Toria who took them with one hand while she tried to loop the strap of her purse over her shoulder. Her navy trench coat was buttoned to her neck and the rain danced over her hair.

He’d drive her to the school, he decided. Because there was more room in his truck for the crutches.

They were at the restaurant door now, Isabelle holding it open, letting Toria go ahead. Toria stopped just inside the door when she saw him. Isabelle bumped into her, Toria smiled, and so did he.

It felt like freshness and light had walked in on a stormy day.

Or something like that. It was an odd feeling, anyway. Maybe he was still hungry. Maybe he needed to eat more. He got to his feet and moved Pro’s empty dishes to make room for Toria and Isabelle.

Reaching the table first, Isabelle slipped out of her raincoat and plopped it on the bench that Pro had just vacated. She sat and rummaged through her huge, pink, canvas bag.

Toria arrived at the table and stood beside him, leaning on her crutches. Without thinking, Ryder lifted her purse strap over her head and set the purse on the table. Then he stacked her crutches in one hand, and helped her out of her dripping coat with the other.

“Thanks,” she said, looking flustered.

And pretty. Her damp hair curled around her face again, the way it had when they’d been caught in the rain on Monday.

A sense of wonder, of unreality, floated around him. He stared at the crutches and the raincoat he was holding. Was that only three days ago?

He felt like he’d known her forever.

After shaking out the coat, he folded it in half and tossed it and the crutches on the bench behind them. Then he waited for her to slide in on his side of the table.

“What would you like to eat, dear?” Isabelle asked, still searching in her bag.

Ryder sat down and heard Toria say something about orange juice and bagels, and he noticed he was breathing with a renewed kind of energy.

Toria propped her purse at the end of the table by the window. “Was that Pro?”

Pro?
Of course. She would have seen Pro . . . would have wondered why he’d rushed off.

“Yeah,” Ryder answered, looking at the door where Pro had made his hasty exit. “He said to say hello. He had to leave—has something to do before he goes to his office.”

“Oh,” she said. “Must have been important.” She was rubbing her arms like she was cold. She wore long sleeves today, a cream colored turtleneck, some soft fabric. And jeans.

“It was,” Ryder said, looking at the way the turtleneck smoothed over her throat. “His crazy Aunt Tizzy.”

“Pardon,” Isabelle said, looking up from her search.

“He has something to do for his crazy Aunt Tizzy—before he goes to work. He wanted to have breakfast with me first.”

“That was nice of him,” Isabelle said, as she foraged in her bag.

“To have breakfast with me?”

“To help his aunt,” Isabelle clarified.

“Yeah,” Ryder said, feeling a little dazed. He watched as Isabelle deposited a hair brush, a mirror—a large one, and a paperback novel on the table. He moved the ketchup aside.

“Have you met her?” Toria asked. “His aunt?”

“Not yet,” Ryder answered, watching the collection on the table grow. Isabelle added an orange pad of paper, a letter opener and one of those Magic 8-balls. “But I probably will some day.” And then a can of apple juice, two elastics, a pair of black gloves and finally a purple embroidered wallet.

“I knew I had it,” Isabelle crowed, holding the wallet with both hands. She set it on the table and began to repack her bag.

“Pro talks about her a lot,” Ryder said, speaking to Toria but still watching Isabelle. “She sounds like she’s off her rocker but she’s the one who raised Pro—his parents died when he was young. His Aunt Tizzy took care of him—he’d do anything for her.”

“Nice,” Toria said, approval in her voice.

And something that sounded . . . wistful, like
she
wanted a crazy aunt. Or just an aunt, crazy or not.

“He helps her a lot?” she asked, still rubbing her hands over her arms.