On the Way to a Wedding (26 page)

Isabelle adjusted her long skirt again. “Dead men don’t care.”

The words clunked into place and Toria lifted her head to look at Isabelle.

“Well, even if he were alive,” Isabelle shrugged, “he wouldn’t care. He’d want you to be happy.” Isabelle leaned forward on her crate, took Toria’s hand and squeezed it. “And so does your mother—want you to be happy. If she stopped to think about it. She’s just used to . . .”

“Me always doing what she wants.”

Isabelle nodded, her pumpkin earrings nodding with her. “And now you can do what
you
want.”

Isabelle had a way of making everything sound so simple. Toria looked at her friend. “But I don’t know what that is.” She wanted Ryder, but she couldn’t have him. There was nothing more to want. “I don’t know what I want.”

“Well, if you did know, what would it be?”

Trust Isabelle to put it that way. Toria laughed to herself, and listened to her inner voice. “It would be to go somewhere quiet. And think.” And get over this. And move on.

“That’s a good idea.” Isabelle nodded. “Greg is here. Did you see him in the gym?”

“Yes.”

“And your mother will be back at any moment.”

Her mother would be on a face-saving mission. Trying to resurrect the doomed wedding. “I know.” Toria let go of a long breath.

“And, of course, Ryder is there.”

Isabelle hadn’t asked about Ryder. Not all weekend.

And Isabelle hadn’t explained about Friday night. Hadn’t explained why she and Pro and Pro’s Aunt Tizzy hadn’t come to the apartment. Isabelle had been evasive, saying something about last minute changes of plans.

So now what?

Her mother clung to her wedding fantasy. Greg still expected it to happen. A mortgage hovered in the mix.

And Ryder was getting married.

That’s why it had seemed . . . safe, to be around him.

If she could be the person she wanted to be, she’d walk back into the gym and kiss Ryder. Right there. Right in front of everyone.

The man who was getting married.

He wouldn’t let her, of course, but that was what she wanted to do. She wanted impossible things.

She sighed wearily. She could face her mother. And even Greg. She’d already done that, several times. But they didn’t believe her. They wouldn’t believe her until the wedding day arrived—and she didn’t.

But Ryder? Could she face him?

Could she stand seeing him again, knowing he was not a possibility in her life?

Why had she found him now? Why had fate introduced them, only to have them never be together?

“Okay, that’s a good idea,” Isabelle said.

“What is?”

“To get away. To somewhere quiet. And think. Take a little time to put things in perspective.”

Déjà vu. Isabelle had used those same words a week ago. “That didn’t work last time,” Toria said, remembering the aborted trip to Kalispell.

“Yes, it did,” Isabelle said, like everything in her—Isabelle’s—life was going according to plan. “You decided not to marry Greg.”

That was true. “But I can’t go to Kalispell now. Aunt Glenda’s already here.”

At least, the sisters were talking again.

“Go to Pro’s cabin.” Isabelle gathered a section of her skirt, making little pleats with her fingers.

“
Pro’s cabin?
” Sometimes Isabelle conjured up the strangest ideas.

“The cabin where you met Ryder? Can you find it again?”

“Yes, but―”

“Go there. Give yourself some time alone.”

“But . . . I’d have to phone Pro. Ask him for the key.”

“You don’t have to talk to Pro,” Isabelle said. “I have a key.”

Toria’s mind flickered. It felt like she was in a different conversation than the one Isabelle was in. “You have a key to Pro’s cabin? How?” On Friday night? When Isabelle was with Pro and Aunt Tizzy?

“Never mind that, dear. Just go. Take my Firebird. You can drive a standard, can’t you?”

Toria felt her head nodding, automatically, as Isabelle bounded over details.

“Your suitcase is still in it from the weekend. Just go.”

“But . . . Mrs. Sidorsky. Do you think Mrs. Sidorsky will be all right?”

“We have Mrs. Sidorsky on side now. Don’t worry about her.”

· · · · ·

They hadn’t stood a chance. Ryder had caught the first blast and everyone on the waterfall committee dripped water. Even Lorimer and Catherine got wet.

But Mrs. Sid was laughing. Never in his whole time at Aberton had he heard her laugh.

Kyle attempted a shot at Mrs. Sid but missed and got Catherine instead. And then when Lorimer tried to be gallant and rescue Catherine, they emptied their water pistols into him.

Ryder didn’t think they were trying very hard to hit Mrs. Sid. They just wanted her to think there was a water fight going on.

And that she was winning.

Someone near the gym doors shouted, “Hey! The principal’s coming!” And every student in the place grabbed one of Mr. Harvey’s towels and mopped up. By the time Budge walked through the doors, the floor was dry.

Silence crowded the gym. The students stood facing the principal, each with a wet towel hidden behind their back. Brett and Brandon kicked the water pistols behind the waterfall.

“Everything all right, Mrs. Sidorsky?”

She’d stashed her gun under her coat again. Some hair from her bun had come loose, but she stood ramrod straight, in her prim and proper way. “Everything’s fine, Mr. Burrows.”

He stayed by the entrance, surveying the gym. It seemed as if he was trying for a stern expression, but he wasn’t getting it quite right. After several long moments, he left, closing the door behind him.

A gym full of war whoops sounded as towels were tossed into the air.

“It was never like this when I went to high school,” Catherine said, looking puzzled.

Lorimer flapped his wet suit jacket. “Not for me, either,” he said.

· · · · ·

Toria inched onto Wickens Street, careful with the accelerator so she wouldn’t rev the engine as she tried to slip away undetected. Not an easy feat in a bright orange classic Firebird.

Two students leaving for lunch saw her as they dashed down the back stairs. They gave her a thumbs up. She waved back.

Heading for Pro’s cabin was a good idea. She was
not
running away. Not this time. This time it was like climbing out of a dark hole and crawling into the light. This time was different. A week ago, she was escaping from Greg and her mother. And the china. Now she was giving herself some space.

And maybe that translated to running away from Ryder.

He’d wanted to talk to her about Friday night. And it was her fault, not his. Normally he wouldn’t have kissed her. It was the beer, and the circumstances. Ryder would not have―

But, he did.

Stop.
She focused on the road as her mind threatened to collapse on itself. Ryder was a blip on the radar of her life. Ryder was a wakeup call. Ryder was an example of how good life could be.

And Ryder was getting married. To someone else.

She needed some time to sort it out, to make peace with it. And she still needed to talk to her mother about the mortgage. There had to be a mistake. Her father would not have risked their security. But right now she couldn’t deal with that. She couldn’t deal with one more of her mother’s ploys. Not now.

When she turned onto Stelmack Boulevard, her cell started ringing and the readout said
Greg
.

She answered. “It’s over, Greg. Stop calling me.” She ended the call, dropped the phone on the seat beside her and felt energized. And free.

Don’t be so sure of yourself.
Her mother’s words—the constant message—played in her mind.

She brushed the thought aside. She could do this. She could get on with her life. She’d take a break now, and then she’d come back, refreshed from a few days at the cabin. She’d deal with her mother then. She’d figure out her mother’s mortgage. Then.

Now she’d go straight to the cabin. The old brass key dangled on the Firebird’s key chain, offering a safe haven only a couple of hours away. An image popped into her head. A row of eleven jars of peaches, lined up on the shelf above the counter.

She couldn’t survive on Aunt Tizzy’s peaches. She’d pick up bread, cheese, some fruit and some eggs on her way out of town. There was coffee at the cabin. Her suitcase was in the trunk. She didn’t need anything else. As she shifted gears, her cell started ringing again. This time the readout said
Mom
.

Foreboding washed over her and her stomach tightened. She’d better answer, or her mother would worry.

“Hello?”

“Victoria? Where are you?”

“What is it, Mom?”

“Victoria,” her mother started, seeming hesitant. And then the words came out all at once. “Victoria, if you don’t marry Greg, I’ll lose the house.”

A chill fell over her and she almost drifted into the next lane of traffic. Not a good idea, answering her cell while she was driving.

Trying to concentrate on the road, she said, “Mom, it’s a mistake. There can’t be a mortgage. Dad would never have―”

“He had to. It’s a big mortgage. Over half the value of the house. I can’t make the payments. Greg is waiving the payments.”

“But―”

“Greg holds the mortgage . . .” Her mother paused, losing steam.

Toria pressed the phone to her ear, gripping the steering wheel with her other hand. Emptiness and Responsibility circled through her mind.

“I can’t talk now, Mom. I have to drive.” She ended the call.

A sick feeling threaded its way inside her as she remembered her mother’s single-minded focus on the renovations, her strength of purpose in executing this wedding. If there was a mortgage, then there were no savings. And no savings meant her mother was—destitute.

Toria approached the intersection for Dottridge Avenue. Turn right and head for the mountains. Turn left and―

That was the way to her apartment.

The decision crashed into place. She turned left onto Dottridge Avenue, making the detour to Collins Street and Dalhousie Towers.

· · · · ·

Catherine Margaret Forsythe stood next to Ryder in the middle of the gym. Apparently, these students were decorating for their upcoming Grad Dance. And Ryder, for some reason, had decided to help them. Throughout the room, the buzz of conversation mixed with the sounds of hammering, the clank of tables and chairs being moved, and occasional bursts of laughter. Assorted flowering plants filled the air with their perfume, mixing with the smell of freshly sawed wood. Groups of students busied themselves with everything from setting up chairs and hanging murals to arranging paving stones and . . . painting rocks?

What a mess.

But it wasn’t her problem. She was here to deal with Ryder. He’d always struck her as levelheaded. Difficult to manage, yes, but not impossible. Now he was going through some kind of crisis. He hadn’t meant a thing he’d said on Friday night. Trying to cancel the wedding was his way of coping.

He’d visited his father, recently, by the looks of things. And where his father was concerned, it was hard for Ryder to make decisions.

Unlike her. She made decisions all day long. The BD Builders home buyers relied on her. She told them what matched and what increased resale value. She rescued them from their own stupidity. All the time. Because she knew what worked and they didn’t. They needed her.

And so did Ryder.

Determination filled her as she welcomed this new challenge. She’d get Ryder on board with the wedding planner, and then she’d manage the other distractions in his life so he could concentrate on his wedding.

First, he needed to settle the partnership deal with Jimmy Bondeau.

A trace of irritation popped into her head. The stupid man wasn’t returning her calls. She’d have to deal with him.

But right now, Ryder needed to sign the partnership agreement, get a schedule worked out and register for his remaining courses at the University. That would keep his father happy.

But do you think Ryder could figure that out on his own?

No. Not him. He was here, volunteering at a high school when he had a wedding to prepare for.

Men.

“You need some lunch, Ryder. We’ll leave now. Would you like to go to Kipling’s or La Petite Maison?”

“I don’t have time to eat.”

He knelt on the floor and studied some drawings. A boy dressed in a black T-shirt, black jeans and black runners shifted the drawings as he explained something. A girl with long, shiny brown hair and bib overalls sat cross-legged next to them. She was arguing with the boy about colors. Ryder penciled something on one of the drawings and then stood up.

Catherine touched his arm. “There’s someone I want you to meet. She’s a wedding planner. She’ll―”

“Isabelle?”

Catherine looked over her shoulder and saw the old, frizzy haired lady dressed in the horrible orange outfit. The woman had disappeared right after the water fight and now she was peeking in the gym door. She took one look at Ryder, and quickly left again. But he’d seen her, and now he was heading straight toward her.

What was that all about?

Catherine humphed and followed. This was annoying, but maybe she would have to do something with these people. Ryder wanted to be involved here and she could help him. After all, decorating was her job.

“If these decorations are that important to you, I can help.” She rushed to keep up with him and almost collided with a potted fig tree.

“Yes,” he said. “You can.”

His eyes glowed with purpose. She’d never seen him looking so—emotional? “It’s your father, isn’t it?”

“I’ve got to catch her.”

“If you would finish your degree, he would―”

“I don’t need a degree.” He stopped walking and looked at her, like he was finally seeing her. “But I’ve got three years done. I suppose I could finish it.” He pulled his cell from his belt and walked away from her. “I have to make a call.”

“If you signed that partnership agreement with Jimmy,” she said, hurrying to keep up, “you’d have more time.”