Paige Torn (14 page)

Everyone shakes their heads and Rick nods. “Great. It's pretty straightforward. Plus, I'm excited about having all the small groups going through the same thing. All right. Have a good Sunday.”

“Sleep well,” I tell him.

“Thank you. Hopefully that will wait until after I get home.” He yawns.

I head out to my car after waving good-bye to everyone. Layla texted me during the meeting.

W
ANT TO GO LOOK AT DRESSES TODAY
?

I write her back as I walk across the parking lot. S
URE.
L
EAVING CHURCH NOW.
W
ANT ME TO COME TO YOUR PLACE AND PICK YOU UP
?

My phone buzzes as I climb into the car. S
OUNDS GREAT.
S
EE YOU SOON
!

I drive to Layla's apartment. I feel germy. Children have been all over me this morning. One little girl fell on the playground and spent the next ten minutes crying alligator tears and leaking snot all over my shoulder.

I don't feel very bridesmaid-y.

I get to her apartment, walk through Murder Alley and up her stairs, and knock on the door. “Come on in!” she yells from inside.

I walk in and she is standing in the kitchen, wearing a green apron and oven mitts. She has her hair in a haphazard bun on the top of her head. Peter is sitting on the couch watching football.

“Hey, Peter,” I say, walking past him into the kitchen.

“Hi.”

And there you have it, folks. The longest conversation I will have with Peter this week.

“What are you doing?” I ask Layla.

She grins at me and turns back to peering into her oven. “I'm cooking!”

I look around her kitchen. About nineteen dishes are stacked in the sink, flour dusts one of her counters, and there is a slimy bag of potato peelings on the counter. “You read the
Pioneer Woman
blog again today, didn't you?”

“Possibly. But don't those potatoes look amazing?”

I look in the oven too. She has some kind of potato casserole bubbling in the oven. It smells good, anyway.

“Did you guys not go to church today?” I ask her.

“We went to first service. There's a playoff game on today.”

Priorities and all that.

“Oh,” I say.

“Yeah. And I decided to get culinary while he's watching the game. Apparently, these potatoes are like the best potatoes ever known to man and perfect for football game days.”

I'm not a huge potato fan, but I blame that on my way-distant Irish heritage. A family can only stomach so many potatoes before someone in the lineage can't stand them.

“How was Sunday school?” Layla closes the oven door and sets the timer for another five minutes. “What allegory did you study today?
Diary of a Wimpy Kid
?”

I grin. “I went to service instead.”

“No way. You skipped out on singles' class?” she gasps. “People are going to think you up and married, you know.”

“Maybe. It was really nice.”

“Up and marrying?”

“Service.”

“Right. It was a good sermon today.”

“Rick asked me to start coming to the youth group on my off weeks from the toddler class,” I tell her.

“Oh yeah? What did you say?”

I shrug again. “I said sure.”

“You have a hard time telling him no.”

I lean against the counter. “I do not.”

“Do too. When was the last time you said, ‘No, Rick. I can't do that'?” She leans against the opposite counter, crossing her flour-covered arms over her chest.

I think about it. “One time he asked me to chaperone a broomball game.”

“And
I
said no for you because you were so sick you couldn't even text.” Layla sticks her finger in the air. “Doesn't count.”

“I don't know, Layla. I don't mind helping out.”

“Mm-hmm.” She opens the oven again and pulls the casserole out.

“What's in that?” Something about the way it's starting to congeal just seconds out of the oven doesn't look right to me.

“Potatoes, chives, cheese, milk, flour, and gelatin.”

“Gelatin? Like Jell-O?”

“Like baking gelatin.” Layla tosses me an empty box from the counter.

I look at the front of it.
Preserving Gelatin. 4 packages.

“How much of this did you use?”

“All of the packages. It's what the Pioneer Woman said to do.”

“Where's her blog?” I ask.

Layla points to the kitchen table, where her laptop is set up. I click the touchpad, and the screen lights up to the blog.

“See?” Layla says, coming over behind me. She points to the screen. “Layer the potatoes, chives, and cheese in a nine-by-thirteen baking dish. Then pour the milk and flour mixture over it.”

“Where does it mention gelatin?”

She frowns at the screen. “It did say it right after that. I scrolled down to see what direction was next, and it said to sprinkle four packages of preserving gelatin over the pan.”

I scroll down. And get to her next recipe.

Whole Berry Breakfast Casserole.

It calls for four packages of gelatin.

I look back at the potato casserole, and the whole thing seems to be almost breathing. It looks alive.

Which is not how potato casserole should look.

“Oops,” Layla says sadly.

“It smells good,” I tell her, trying to be nice. It does smell good even if it looks strange. Potato casserole should not wiggle like that.

I am suddenly pretty certain I'm not going to be hungry the rest of the day.

Layla sighs, pulls off her oven mitts, and brushes the flour off her arms into the sink. “People like me shouldn't be allowed to cook.”

“Oh come now, Layla. You made those brownies that one time, remember? Those were good.”

“They were from a box. I've seen monkeys on YouTube who can make those brownies.”

I snap my fingers. “And you made those green beans with garlic and brought them to the church potluck.”

“From the frozen section. They were even in a steamable bag so all I did was throw them in the microwave.” She sighs and washes her hands. “At least Peter can cook.”

This is news to me. “He can?” I ask quietly. “What?”

“Lots of stuff. Pancakes. He made this meatball soup a few weeks ago at his apartment that was his mom's recipe growing up.”

I had no idea.

“I'm going to get ready to go. I want to look like a bride and not like that girl with the crazy hair from whatever that Pixar movie is when I'm trying on wedding dresses.” She disappears into her bedroom and closes the door.

This is awkward. Just Peter and me. I can't decide what will be more awkward. To join him in front of a football game I couldn't care less about? Or to stand around in the kitchen with a pan of potato Jell-O?

Eventually, the potato Jell-O starts scaring me, so I go into the living room and sit on the glider chair.

Peter looks over at me. “Smells good in there.”

I blink, feeling what I imagine the first people to experience a movie with sound felt like.

They are speaking aloud!

“Well, it didn't turn out too well, so I wouldn't get your hopes too high.”

He shrugs. “Okay.”

A few minutes of complete silence go by, save for the low drone of the announcers on the TV.

“So,” I say, “Layla said you can cook?”

“Hmm?”

“She said you can cook? Pancakes? Soup?”

“Oh,” Peter says, looking at the TV. “My mom had left a container of the soup in my freezer. I just stuck it in the pot and stirred it.”

God bless their future children. I immediately start praying that one set of their parents will move into town so they at least have a chance of a good solid meal once a week.

Layla opens the door, looking cute in a gray sweater dress, black leggings, and boots. She pulls a red scarf around her neck and grabs her jacket.

My dashboard showed it was seventy-one degrees when I was driving over here after church. She is going to roast, but I don't say anything.

It is January, after all.

“Ready?” she asks me cheerfully.

I stand and nod. “Yep.”

“Bye, sweetie.” She leans over to kiss Peter. I look away. It is awkward watching friends kiss.

“Bye. Have fun.” Peter offers her a smile before turning back to the TV.

Layla opens the door; I grab my purse and follow her out.

“I vote we go to Panda for lunch first,” Layla suggests.

“Didn't we just have Panda?”

“You can never have too much Panda Express, Paige. Never. And anyway, I'm buying. My grandpa just sent me a big check as a wedding present.”

“You don't want to save that money for something other than fast-food Chinese?” I ask her, unlocking my car.

She slides into the passenger seat, and we both buckle our seat belts while I turn the ignition.

She shrugs at me. “Like what?”

“I don't know. A down payment on a house? Or at least an apartment without Murder Alley?”

She waves her hand. “Potato, po-tah-to. What you call Murder Alley, I call a peaceful stroll. And anyway, Peter wants us to move into his apartment after the wedding.” She makes a face, and I feel my nose wrinkling as well.

Peter, with all his charming personality and engaging wit, is not the best housekeeper. And yes, I am being sarcastic.

“That places freaks me out. I just know something lives there with him.” Layla shudders.

I gag. Now I really am not hungry.

“Or we can just go look at dresses,” Layla says after a second.

“Good idea.” I back out of my parking place. “Where am I driving to?”

“Marcello's. We'll start there.”

Marcello's is a big national wedding dress chain, which usually means they can offer better prices but the dresses are not as unique as the smaller boutiques. However, the biggest reason to go to Marcello's is their legendary customer service. Supposedly, from the moment you walk in, people wait on you hand and foot. You want coffee? You get it. You want a caramel macchiato? You get it.

One of our friends who used to be in the singles' class told us that she'd mentioned offhand something about being hungry for shrimp while she was there with her mother-in-law, and one of the ladies who worked there came out a second later with a full shrimp dinner for her.

I kind of want to go and just see if all the buzz is right.

It's about a thirty-minute drive from Layla's apartment, so Layla starts messing with the radio, tuning it to a country station. “I think I want to walk down the aisle to Keith Urban,” she says dreamily.

“Sadly, I'm pretty sure he's already taken. And for that matter, so are you. And anyway, I'm pretty sure he's too short for you.”

Layla laughs. “No, you dork. I meant I want to walk down the aisle to one of Keith Urban's
songs
.”

“Like what? The song where the girl is like a bird? The song where the girl is like a song?”

She purses her lips. “True. He doesn't really have very good wedding songs, does he?”

“Not so much.” Not in my opinion anyway. But I am way more traditional than Layla. I think brides should walk down the aisle to that “Here Comes the Bride” song.

I pull into Marcello's and we both just sit in the car for a few minutes, staring up at the huge, beautiful building in front of us.

“Wow,” Layla whispers.

“Yeah.” I nod.

Huge, beautiful white dresses hang in the windows on mannequins who are poised to marry other faceless mannequins in black tuxedos.

“I bet they get some Mr. Potato Head parts at their wedding.” I elbow Layla.

She looks over at me. “Whose wedding?”

“The mannequins. Because they're faceless. So they'll need Mr. Potato Head's …” I sigh. “Never mind.”

“You have the weirdest sense of humor sometimes,” Layla says, climbing out of the car.

This, coming from Layla Prestwick.

We walk through the doors and a tiny woman looks up from a reception desk. “Welcome to Marcello's.” She smiles at both of us. “Who is the bride?”

“I am.” Layla raises a hand like she's back in kindergarten.

“Wonderful! Congratulations. Let me see which of our consultants is free. Would you care to have a seat?” She points to a comfy-looking couch underneath a white archway covered in vines and twinkle lights. “Can I get either of you anything to drink?”

Time to test the waters. “Actually, do you guys happen to have caramel macchiatos?”

She nods. “Small, medium, or large?”

This is reason enough to get married right here. I look over at Layla, who shrugs.

“Two larges, I guess.”

“I'll have those right out. While you're waiting, miss, please look through our catalog and see if anything catches your eye.” She hands Layla a book three inches thick. “If it does, fold the corner down and the consultant will pull the dress for you to try on.”

“Okay.” Layla starts to look overwhelmed.

“Dresses are in the front; veils and accessories are in the back.” She disappears behind a wall of white dresses.

I look at Layla. Her eyes are big. “Paige,” she whispers. “There's like three million dresses in here.”

“Good thing you aren't getting married until October.”

“We may have to move it even further out. Holy cow.” She opens the catalog and makes a face. “Nope. Ick. Oh wow. Not my style. Ew …” On and on she goes for the first thirty pages.

The woman comes back holding two huge white mugs with
Marcello's — It's your day!
written on them in blue.

A little corny, if you ask me. Which no one has.

“And Liza will be your consultant today. She'll be right out.”