On the Way to a Wedding (18 page)

“She usually never asks for anything.” Ryder had an urge, a stupid urge, to put his arm around Toria’s shoulders to warm her up. “But now she has some big, important project and needs his help. So, he’s helping.”

Isabelle left the table with her wallet in hand. At the same time, Ryder’s cell rang, playing its programmed tune. He checked the readout.

Catherine.

Again.

He could get fitted for the tux today—except he’d promised the Star Committee he’d get their stars strung before noon. Before Mrs. Sid tried to put a stop to that idea. So, no time for a tux fitting. He turned off the phone.

“Work?”

“Wedding stuff.”

“Oh.”

“How are your wedding plans going?”

“Fine,” she said. “How are
your
wedding plans going?”

“Fine.”

“The grad decorations,” she said, pausing, playing with the strap of her purse. “I don’t want you to think you have to―”

He touched her hand, his fingers skimming hers. “I don’t have to.” Beneath his fingertips, her hand felt like ice. An urge, almost irresistible, made him want to wrap his hand over hers.

He took his hand away. “I hate
having
to do anything,” he said. He—and no one else—was in charge. “So don’t worry. I don’t do what I don’t
want
to do.”

Except, he’d have to deal with Catherine and her phone calls.

Eventually.

Chapter Eleven

So much for her plan to stay away from Ryder.

The rain had stopped. Clouds skidded across the sky. Toria followed Isabelle and Ryder out of the restaurant, wishing she could risk putting weight on her ankle. But if she did that too soon, she’d be back at square one and need the crutches for longer.

Part of her was sorry she’d committed to the grad decorations. She should have been talking to Aunt Glenda by now, convincing her reluctant aunt to pay a visit. But that, of course, was not the biggest problem. Working on grad decorations meant she was spending more time with Ryder, and the more time she spent with him, the more she―

“I’ll take you to the school.”

“But―”

“Your crutches will fit better in my truck.”

“Okay.” Her mind raced. “You can have the crutches. I’ll ride with―”

“Oh, good,” Isabelle said, as she opened the driver’s door of the Firebird. “You go with Ryder.” She dropped her big pink canvas bag on the front seat and knelt beside it. “I forgot my calendar at home so I have to go there first.” She reached into the backseat. “I’ll meet you at the school,” she said, her voice muffled.

Toria drew in a deep breath. There had to be a way out of this. Standing tall, she faced Ryder. “Are you sure you want to come to the school this early?”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” He’d already opened the door for her.

“It’s just that—none of the students will be in the gym—before the one o’clock spare.”

Isabelle handed Toria one of the bags of plumeria they’d made last night.

“Don’t,” he said, grinning.

“Don’t what?” She clutched the shopping bag of brightly colored flowers, pressing the handle of it against the handle of her crutches.

“Don’t worry about how I use my time,” he answered. “I want to be there.” He made it sound like she was doing him a favor. “I have some lumber I need to get to the gym.”

“For the waterfall?”

“Yeah.”

Unwanted, an image of Mrs. Sidorsky popped into her head. They didn’t need any more arguments. “You have to be nice to Mrs. Sidorsky, okay?”

“She’s not nice to me.”

“She doesn’t mean―”

“She’s bossy and likes to have her own way.”

Isabelle was back, carrying two more shopping bags. “Do you know anybody like that?” she asked Ryder, as she passed him one of the bags, this one full of aluminum foil stars.

Ryder accepted the stars and frowned at Isabelle. “Are you saying
I’m
bossy and like to have my own way?”

“It’s something to think about,” Isabelle said with a shrug, giving him the second bag of flowers. “I’ll see you later.” She hopped into her Firebird, revved the motor and backed neatly out of her stall. Three seconds later she was gone in a cloud of blue exhaust.

They were silent for a few seconds, watching the car disappear. “She needs to get someone to look at the rings on that engine,” Ryder said, mostly to himself.

Toria hadn’t recognized Ryder’s truck when they’d parked beside it. Now she glanced in the empty truck bed. “Where’s the lumber?”

“Different truck,” he said. “Why are you worried about Mrs. Sid?”

“I don’t like arguments.”

“Arguments can be good.”

“She means well, you know.”

“I mean well, too,” he said.

· · · · ·

Toria spent the next hour on the stage in the gym. Ryder balanced on the school’s ladder, tossing strings over the curtain rods, while she worried at the base of the ladder and handed him stars. Two students, Brenda and Donna, had somehow escaped class—she didn’t want to know—and they stood in the center of the gym, instructing Ryder on heights for the starscape.

“I don’t like this ladder. It shakes,” Toria told him.

“The ladder’s fine.”

“I can see why Mrs. Sidorsky didn’t want them climbing on this thing. It’s dangerous.”

“As long as Mrs. Sid doesn’t climb on it, it’s safe.”

She sighed, feeling the futility of this conversation. It was pointless, she realized, trying to mend the rift between Ryder and his former teacher.

“Last one,” she said, handing him the last silver star.

“Oh, Ryder! It looks uber cool!” Brenda shouted, twirling. Then she stood still. “I mean, Mr. Ryder.”

Ryder dipped his head and grimaced at her.

“I mean, it looks great. It really does.” She clasped her hands and glowed at him.

Donna, the quieter one, smiled, looking pleased with the project. Her project. She hurried over to the lighting panel. “Lights out,” she called.

Toria, on her way down the stage stairs, had almost made it to the bottom step when the gym pitched to blackness. She stopped moving.

And felt Ryder’s arm come around her waist. “Hold on, tiger. I’ve got you.” He gathered her crutches away from her, tightened his hold and lifted her down the last step. They were on level floor.

But he kept holding her. Then, effortlessly, he swung her around, so she faced the stage.

A whirl of sensation spun over her, feelings she could not name. She clamped a hand on his arm. “I’m all right. Give me my crutches. I can―”

“Look at the stage.”

She stared into the blackness and felt his arm, pressing her to his side. Felt hard muscles and warm body and that familiar spruce smell. And then Donna turned the lights up.

Blue light illuminated the stage, highlighting two hundred and fifty silver and gold stars suspended at various heights, gently turning and shimmering in unseen air currents.

The magic washed over her like a wave. And at the same time, heat coming from Ryder’s body pressed against hers and took her away from reality, to another realm where responsibilities didn’t exist, where she could follow what her heart wanted, where she could be who she―

The gym doors opened and someone clicked on the main lights.

“Hey! Ryder!” Mr. Harvey, the school janitor, bellowed from the doorway. “You order some stuff?”

“I did.” Ryder released her, returned her crutches and then headed to the door.

· · · · ·

Toria came back to earth, lined up her crutches and fitted them under her arms.

Mr. Harvey left and a man wearing taupe colored overalls and heavy work boots poked his head inside the door. He located Ryder, held up an index finger for a second, like he was testing the air, and then disappeared again.

Ryder, at the door by now, followed him outside.

Crutching her way across the gym, Toria dodged between potted plants, bags of fabric flowers, and islands of paving stones. By the time she reached the entrance, Mr. Harvey was back, propping open both doors.

“How’s the ankle, Miss Toria?”

“Fine,” she answered automatically.

Ryder came through the doorway, carrying a coiled orange extension cord. Then the man with the taupe colored overalls and work boots reappeared along with another man in a similar uniform. The two workers lugged a heavy looking orange machine about the size of a big wash tub.

“It’s a compressor,” Ryder said.

“What do we need a compressor for?”

“My nail gun.”

Gun?
A sense of foreboding stole over her. She tightened her grip on the crutches. Mrs. Sidorsky wasn’t going to approve.

Ryder’s workers hauled in three more loads. Two ladders, rolls of plastic, cans of
expanding foam
—at least, that’s what she thought he’d called them. Two saw horses, the nail gun, a box of staples, a box of nails, four hammers, a circular saw, a huge pile of lumber and a tray of Starbucks Frappuccinos.

“How much is this going to cost?” Mrs. Sidorsky wanted to know. Mrs. Sidorsky had arrived with the third load and now she hovered near Toria’s shoulder.

“We’re within budget,” Toria answered, remembering what Ryder had said—and wondering.

One of the workers handed Ryder a sheet of paper and a pen. He signed and then accepted the rest of the tray of coffee drinks from Brenda. Three glasses remained.

“The stars look better than I thought they would,” Mrs. Sidorsky admitted. And then, “Why aren’t you in class?” she shouted, as she noticed Brenda and Donna sipping their drinks. The two teenagers quickly slipped out of the gym.

In a moment Ryder was there, handing Mrs. Sidorsky a Frappuccino. Toria felt a sudden sense of calm, and she relaxed. He was making a peace offering.

But then he said, “Don’t they need you at the principal’s office?”

· · · · ·

Ryder liked working with high school students. They learned quickly, they had creative ideas, and some of them were even good persuaders—bringing the school caretakers on side as they worked out the problems with the water pumps. In fact, the caretakers seemed pleased to be included in the project.

“Does this angle look good, Ryder?”

“It’s perfect,” he said.

Budge had thanked him privately for doing this
community
work. Apparently some of Ryder’s best helpers were frequent flyers at the principal’s office.

Four boys sat on the floor amidst paper and pencils and protractors. Mr. Benjamin, one of the caretakers, looked over the shoulder of one of the boys. And, oddly enough, one of the math teachers stationed himself outside the perimeter of the group. As he watched the calculations taking place, he squinted and scratched his head.

Ryder checked the latest additions to their drawing. And that same awareness of peace and purpose invaded his thoughts again. He grinned, knowing he was where he needed to be right now.

He liked these kids. He’d already arranged summer jobs for two of them. And if they wanted to work on Saturdays during the university year, he could arrange that too.

Working here felt . . . fulfilling. Almost as satisfying as watching a house take shape. And it didn’t have anything to do with Toria, he told himself. Again.

He watched her dealing with the students, shuffling along on her crutches, going from group to group, sometimes mediating disagreements, mostly letting them solve their own problems, only interfering when Mrs. Sid tried to veto something.

Toria spent a lot of time doing that—appeasing Mrs. Sid. Right at this moment Toria was urging Mrs. Sid away from the Waterfall Committee—on the pretext of showing her the plumeria.

Plumeria
. He shook his head. Who knew that’s what leis were made of?

His cell started playing the William Tell Overture. “O’Callaghan.”

“Catherine called.” Jim’s voice. Right to the point.

“And?”

“I told her you’re taking time off to let me get some experience being in charge,” he said. “And I told her I had no idea where you are. And I don’t.”

“Good. West Hillhurst?”

Jim updated him on the West Hillhurst project. And on the two crews working in Royal Oak. “We’re right on schedule,” he finished, a touch of pride slipping into the report. Then he added, “And I have no idea why two of my crew disappeared for an hour this morning. But they came back with invoices initialed by you so I’m assuming they were where they were supposed to be.”

“They were. It’s for my personal account.”

“Right.”

· · · · ·

Toria sat with Mrs. Sidorsky in the Leis Section, and for something to do she threaded the colorful flowers onto a string while the older teacher complained.

“Back when I first started teaching,” Mrs. Sidorsky was saying, “we didn’t waste a lot of time on grad decorations. We spent that time teaching the students.”

Toria’s enthusiasm drooped and she almost squashed a flower. She hated it when Mrs. Sidorsky went into this rant. They had this same conversation at least once a day.

Well, not conversation, she thought. More like—soliloquy.

“Your father believed in teaching,” Mrs. Sidorsky said. “He wouldn’t let them get out of a single class.”

No. He would not have. Not a single class, Toria thought, as panic flickered around her, hemming her in.

“He was an excellent history teacher. Have I told you that?”

Only about a hundred times. And Toria was sick of hearing it. Over and over. Her hands stopped working and her chest tightened.

“I’m sure he wanted you to carry on in his footsteps,” Mrs. Sidorsky said, never taking her eyes off the gym as she waited for something to go wrong. “Why did you quit teaching history anyway?”

Toria dropped her needle. Her hands were shaking. Her arms and her legs were shaking. Did her voice work?

“I still teach history,” she said, hearing the tight words.

Mrs. Sidorsky didn’t notice, just steam rolled ahead. “One class of history,” she said, with what sounded like disdain. “Your father wanted―”

“Hello, Mrs. Sidorsky.” Isabelle joined them and pulled up a chair.

Toria inhaled and focused on the crushed fabric flowers in her hands. It would be all right. Isabelle was here. Isabelle to the rescue.