On the Way to a Wedding (21 page)

Mortgage?

The word clashed in her brain like someone singing the wrong words to a song. “There is no mortgage.”

“Oh, but there is.” Her mother tilted her head, lifting a brow. “Now.”

“You mean you took out a mortgage on the house?” How could her mother do that? Didn’t she know―

“I didn’t.” Her mother straightened, pursing her lips. “Your father did.”

· · · · ·

“She says Dad intended for me to marry Greg, all along. Even before I met Greg. She says that’s why he bought the wedding dress.”

Looking at the darkening sky, Toria sat in the passenger seat of Isabelle’s Firebird. How come there had to be so much rain now? Sure the spring was a drought, but why so much rain now?

She glanced at Isabelle. “And I can’t believe he took out a mortgage on the house. Why would he do that? Especially when he was making all that extra money with Greg?”

“Who knows?” Isabelle said, as she came to a stop at the traffic light. “And anyway, just because you have a wedding dress doesn’t mean you have to get married.”

Chapter Thirteen

Ryder sat on the floor watching his students lift a plywood sheet up onto the structure and then begin to nail it in place.

Eight-thirty. Classes wouldn’t start for another half hour and already the gym was filled with groups of students working on their committees.

He’d wanted to pick up Toria this morning, but they hadn’t made any plans. He’d gone to her apartment, but she wasn’t there.

A sense of longing wafted over him and he slumped. She wasn’t here either.

No, wait a minute. She was. She was walking in right now . . . with Mrs. Sid at her elbow. A ray of sunshine with a thunder cloud. He got to his feet.

She saw him immediately, but then quickly looked down, like she was trying to give Mrs. Sid her full attention. He started to step toward her, but he forced himself to stop, and think.

He was here to do a job. To build a waterfall. Well, to
supervise
the building of a waterfall. If he could just build it and leave that would be―

Not any better. Because then he’d have to go back to the job site and face the partnership problems. He sat down again. The students were lifting another sheet of plywood, trying to put it in line.

He tried to watch them, but he kept turning back to where Toria stood leaning on her crutches near the entrance to the gym, still talking to Mrs. Sid.

An awareness filled his senses. A feeling. Something he couldn’t name. Something he’d never felt before.

It was nothing. Just the muddle of his life. The letting go of control at work. The trusting that Jim could handle it. And it was the constant details for the house he was building.
His
house.

And, it was, of course, his approaching wedding. It hovered there, like an unpaid invoice waiting to be dealt with.

His parents had not talked about it. His mother had been elusive, telling him to take his time. And his father?

His father had said nothing. Nothing at all. They’d talked about his possible partnership with Jim Bondeau and the business in general. But not about the wedding. Not a single word. As if it didn’t matter.

Ryder glanced at Toria again. She looked tired. Had Lorimer visited her last night? Had they resolved their argument? If she hadn’t been getting married to that Lorimer jerk, he would have―

Shock reflected off the thought. He would have what?

Why was he even
thinking
like this? He pressed the heels of his hands into his temples. He had a wedding to complete, a deadline looming. No way was his father going to be able to say―

Say what? That he hadn’t been able to finish what he started? That he didn’t have any follow-through?

And what did his father have to do with it anyway? He’d quit doing what his father wanted a long time ago. And the arguments had stopped.

Somewhere along the line, the arguments had stopped. And he couldn’t remember why they’d had them in the first place.

Toria was still talking to Mrs. Sid. She hadn’t even taken off her raincoat. And now a student approached them. Donna—the one who was in charge of the stage. Toria started to turn and then she stumbled with her crutches, falling.

He leapt to his feet, but then he saw Donna had caught her . . . steadied her. Brenda was there now, bringing her a chair so she could sit, and Donna was helping her out of her coat. Mrs. Sid threw her hands up in the air, and left the gym.

And then Toria looked his way. And smiled.

A shot of desire charged through him, followed by a flood of confusion. He wasn’t attracted to women like Toria. She was spinny and ditzy and unorganized and—and―

And totally in charge of this gym and this grad project. Without seeming to be in charge. She gave complete control to her students and yet, without her here, nothing would get done. Before she’d shown up on Wednesday, nothing
was
getting done.

How the hell . . .

He squeezed his head again. Why had he ever thought she was a bimbo? Being around Toria was unsettling. And soothing at the same time. He liked her, even when she told him what he couldn’t do. And yet―

Focus O’Callaghan.
What he needed was a problem to focus on. Maybe Jim needed him. Maybe he should call and see if―

No, Jim would call him. That was the plan.

The other plan was to get this waterfall sheeted. Waiting for these kids to do it was frustrating and he wanted to take over.

But Toria wouldn’t let him.

· · · · ·

Work progressed throughout the morning and the lunch hour and now it was just past one. Ryder watched as Brett and Brandon lifted another sheet, and then Megan tacked it. He could have done it in two minutes with the nail gun. But, he conceded, they needed to learn. And they needed the satisfaction of doing it themselves.

“What kind of corsage should I buy, Ryder?”

“Corsage?” Ryder was sitting on the floor again, watching them work.

“Y’ know,” Brett elaborated, as he positioned the plywood. “You’re supposed to get them this little bunch of flowers they wear on their shoulder.”

“Or their wrist,” Megan said, looking up from pounding nails.

“Well, what would you want, Meg?” Brett asked her.

“Depends on the guy.”

“Like, give me a hint.”

“Roses, I guess.”

“What kind?”

“The color matters.” Brandon joined the discussion. He leaned across the structure, measuring. “Color is important. Each color means something.”

“It does?” Brett nudged the plywood into place.

“Yellow means friendship,” Brandon said, closing his tape measure.

“I like pink,” Megan said, slipping her hammer into her utility belt. “What’s pink mean?”

“Let me check.” Brandon pulled a chart out of his pocket. He stared at it a moment. “
Damn
. Pink can mean lots of things, depending on the shade of pink.”

“We need someone from Home Ec over here. Those people know their pinks,” Megan said.

“How about Derrick?” Brett asked. “He’d know. Right?”

All three of them had stopped working as they stood around Brandon and his chart. Ryder listened, curious. He hadn’t gone to his Grad. He’d never bought a girl a corsage.

“Just because he’s gay doesn’t mean he knows,” Megan said. “What’s the chart say?”

“Deep pink is gratitude and respect,” Brandon read. “Light pink is sympathy.”

“Like a funeral?” Brett grimaced.

“Maybe,” Brandon said. “Or maybe you have sympathy for her being your date.”

Brett elbowed him. “Read more.”

“Light pink can also mean,” Brandon paused, and looked up, “
I think you’re special
.”

“I think we’re doomed,” Brett said.

“Orange is desire, or new beginnings,” Brandon read, sounding hopeful.

“I like desire,” Brett said, nodding his head.

“How about red?” Megan asked.

“Love, respect, courage.”

“How about white?” she asked.

“White means Humility,” Brandon read. “Or,
I apologize
.”

“Uck,” they all said.

Brandon looked again. “But red
and
white is unity . . . or mending bridges.”

“I’d go with red and white,” Brett said, looking off into the distance.

“You need to apologize?” Brandon asked.

“No, not freakin’ apologize. But if I needed to, like, mend bridges, y’ know?”

They stopped talking for a moment, as if they were weighing options. As if the choice of a corsage was harder than building the waterfall.

And maybe it was.

“How about we just ask
them
what color they want?” Brett said.

“Yeah.” Brandon closed the chart. “We could do that.”

· · · · ·

“They don’t look like they’re working,” Mrs. Sidorsky said.

“They’re having a discussion. Planning. It’s part of the process,” Toria answered. “How many chairs are we putting in the Refreshment Area?” Her cell was vibrating. She risked a glance.

Greg, this time.

“Who is it?” Mrs. Sidorsky wanted to know.

“Greg,” Toria said, without thinking.

“Oh!”

“Oh what?”

“You’d better take it. He’s your fiancé.”

“I―”

“You go ahead. Answer. I’ll go over and count chairs.”

Toria braced herself. The phone continued to vibrate. Mrs. Sidorsky waited, smiling. What to do?

There was nothing to do but answer it. “Hello?”

“Hello, darling.”

“Hello,” Toria repeated, watching Mrs. Sidorsky, who was
not
going over to count chairs.

“I wanted to let you know your mother and my mother will be at your apartment on Saturday.” He paused. “Tomorrow,” he added, as if she had lost track of the days.

Wishing Mrs. Sidorsky would leave, Toria said, “Saturday.” And she also wished she had not answered the phone. Except she’d had to, or risk having Mrs. Sidorsky find out the wedding was cancelled. And then Mrs. Sidorsky would tell everyone, and Ryder would know.

It shouldn’t matter if he did know because
he
really was getting married. But, somehow, Toria felt safer with Ryder thinking she was engaged. It was like she was doubly protected from this—this inconvenient infatuation of hers.

“I know you’re under a lot of strain,” Greg’s voice said. His appease-the-client voice. “You need to forget about your father.”

Her mind buzzed. Of course, she needed to forget about her father, but Greg kept reminding her, and her mother kept reminding her. They would never let it go. And then, like a book opening to the right page, the beginnings of a plan formed in her mind.

“On Saturday,” she said, agreeing. “What time?”

“Does one o’clock work for you?” he asked, like it was a business appointment. To him, it probably was. He was letting Samantha and Geraldine smooth out a minor problem for him, so he could deal with more important things.

“One o’clock is fine. Are you coming?”

“I’m leaving for Edmonton. I’m on my way to the airport now.”

That made sense. Perfect sense. She’d been slipped into the slot of taxi travel. How come she’d never noticed how little time they spent together?

“I’ll drop by Monday night when I get back, darling,” he said, still in his appeasement voice. “Play nice with the parents.” He disconnected.

Toria turned off her phone and stared at it.

“Is everything all right?” Mrs. Sidorsky wanted to know.

Toria looked up. She could see the wheels turning, the gossip forming.
Trouble in paradise.
She’d have to fake this.

“He’s going to Edmonton for the weekend,” she said, trying to sound disappointed.

“Oh.” A small note of sympathy. “Well, don’t you worry. It will make it all the nicer when he comes back.”

· · · · ·

A few minutes later, Isabelle appeared, carrying two heaping bags of plumeria. “Hello, Mrs. Sidorsky,” she said. “Mr. Burrows was wondering if you could help him with his opening comments.”

Mrs. Sid scurried off and Toria wondered if Isabelle and Mr. Burrows had some kind of system where they traded off on the lady.

“What was that all about?”

“It was nothing, Isabelle. Don’t worry about me.”

“You just looked . . .”

“That was Greg.”

“Why did you pick up?”

“I happened to say it was Greg and Mrs. Sid expected me to . . . you know.” Ryder would be bored soon, and he’d leave and then she’d announce the cancelled wedding, but until then―

“Now you’re calling her that.”

“Calling her what?”

“Mrs. Sid.”

“Oops.”

· · · · ·

Right after they’d solved the corsage problem, Brett, Brandon and Megan had to return to classes. Ryder studied their progress. They’d have to work quickly to get the waterfall finished by tonight.

And then Toria was there. He could sense her standing behind him. The noise in the gym had masked the sound of her approach on her crutches, but he knew she was there so he turned around.

She looked shy, like she always did when they first started talking. A sense of warmth, of goodness, of all is right with the world washed over him. He wanted to reach out and touch her―

What a crazy way to think . . .

“You’ve got a lot done.”

“They’ve got a lot done. I could have finished this thing yesterday.”

“You have to let them do it.”

“They have to be in classes, Toria. Just let me do it.” He knew she wouldn’t, but she was fun to annoy.

“You supervise.”

“I don’t have anyone to supervise. They’re all making flower wreaths.”

“Leis.”

“Listen,” he said, touching her shoulder. Awareness brushed him and he took his hand away. “We need to finish the sheeting today. The expanding foam needs to be applied before we leave tonight.”

“I know. And here he is now.”

“Who?”

“Your new student.”

A tall, young man with baggy clothes draped over his thin body ambled toward them.

“Hi, David.”

“Hi, Miss Toria. Thanks for getting me time off.”