A Wedding in Truhart (13 page)

“Oh, they aren't that good—”

He placed the tip of his finger against my mouth. “Stop putting yourself down.”

“Is this a therapy session?” I joked.

“You're trying to be funny. I know that tactic.” I could see him better now that he leaned away from the sun. His eyebrows were furrowed as he scrutinized my face.

“I haven't done anything with them.” I thought about the folders and files of all my pictures and what I really wanted to do with them. But I couldn't say it out loud. So I told him about how I eventually went back to a school near home for my teaching certificate. And then about my short-lived teaching career.

“Actually, I really like working with students. Art is such an important part of growing up and learning to express yourself. Unfortunately, art teachers are the first to go when budgets get cut.”

“I'll bet you were a great art teacher,” Nick said, leaning toward me. “In fact, if I'd had a teacher like you all those years ago, I might have become the next Picasso.”

I could feel Nick's breath against my cheek. He was close now and it thrilled and terrified me at the same time.

“Thanks,” I said. I barely had enough breath for that one word.

He leaned in closer until we were almost touching. His lips were a hairsbreadth from mine and hovered. I had this strange feeling of balancing on a needle. As if the next moment might change everything.

Then his lips touched mine.

The kiss was light, like a feather. But it was the sweetest I ever felt. He touched me so lightly, it was as if he was afraid I might break if he pressed more firmly. He kissed me again. This time his lips felt more solid. Then the contact stopped as we both inhaled, drawing something other than breath from each other.

Our eyes met and Nick pulled back.

“It's okay, you don't have to feel sorry for me . . .” I said.

What an idiot! How could I blurt something out like that? I had just experienced one of the most beautiful kisses of my life and I ruined it!

But Nick just looked down at me, a funny little lopsided tilt to his mouth. “If you think that is a pity kiss, then obviously I've done something wrong!”

“No, oh my gosh, Nick. I'm a moron. It was so—”

“Bump . . .”

“What?”

“Shut up.” He seized my mouth in a passionate, gut-stirring, heart-wrenching kiss that left no doubt about how he felt. He tasted of heat and fire and I smoldered under his touch.

All these years of chasing after Nick, of dreaming about this moment that I never thought would come . . . and now that it was happening I realized how little my dreams had to do with reality. When I had secretly dreamed of kisses, I hadn't been able to feel the heat or taste the desire. Those visions were a weak shadow compared to the way I felt now.

I ran my hands through Nick's hair and along the back of his neck. My legs parted and he fit perfectly between them, lifting me up to him until we were on the same level and every inch of our bodies molded against each other. My heart raced, keeping pace with his. His lips ran down my neck and his hands moved up to cup my breasts. I lifted his shirt and explored him, trying to memorize the feel of him.

For this moment, he was mine.

He leaned me backward until I was stretched out on the picnic table and he was on top of me. Our bodies flexed against each other in rhythm. I could feel his excitement aching against me and took advantage of my new power by pressing my hips closer.

I was beyond rationality, ready for anything . . . when the sound of a phone ringing broke through my frenzy. We both opened our eyes and stared at each other. It took me a moment to place myself back on earth. Back on a hard wooden picnic table with my shirt half up and Nick's hand inside my bra.

I looked around for my purse and saw it lying on the ground nearby.

“It's probably a telemarketer,” I said feebly. It finished ringing. I wanted him back on top of me with his hand moving in circles like they were a moment ago.

“Probably,” he said, making a trail up toward my face with his fingers. He cupped my cheek gently. “Oh, Annie. What are we going to do?”

“You can still call me Bump.”

“I could . . .” he said, moving his hand back to my breast and giving it a playful kiss, “but I don't think it will have quite the same meaning for me anymore.”

His lips parted in a Cheshire-cat smile and I felt deliciously evil. I laughed. I was delirious.

He kissed me again. This time with more control. But I wasn't satisfied. I wanted our crazy, plundering kisses back. I wanted the wilder Nick who had almost made love to me. I wiggled beneath Nick in a way that I knew would stir him.

He started to lose that control again when I felt him pulsate against me. I was either imagining something very erotic or another very poorly timed call was vibrating in his pocket.

“Damn!' he said, and the irritation in his face was unmistakable. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Who the hell . . .” He looked at the screen and moaned. “Someone from Truhart.”

He took the call and I saw his expression change.

“Aunt Addie?” We were close enough that I could hear Aunt Addie's voice. “Yeah, we stopped at a rest area.” I was having trouble hearing what she was saying as a breeze whipped at us and tugged on my shirt.

“Yes, Aunt Addie,” Nick said, still circling his hand around my breast. He absently looked down at my breast and suddenly jerked his hand away as if he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“No. I mean NO! You aren't interrupting anything. Annie is just coming out of the restroom.”

Nick's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. He hopped off the table. I understood his problem. Aunt Addie was the enforcer. And if she had any idea what Nick was doing . . . well, the consequences could be mind-boggling.

“No, no . . . nothing's up,” he said too quickly.

I shifted on my elbows and my eyes went wide at the bulge in his pants. Nick caught me. He walked stiffly around in a small circle with a menacing look, challenging me to point out the obvious.

“Hey, Nick. Do you want any coffee from the vending machine?” I yelled, cupping my hands over my mouth.

Nick's scowl was unfair. I was only attempting to corroborate his alibi, after all.

“Sure, she's coming. Let me put her on the phone,” he said, trying to finish his conversation before one of us laughed.

I scooted off the table, pulled my shirt down, zipped up my jacket, and took the phone. I expected to hear all about serving dishes and tablecloths.

Instead I heard the panicked voice on the other end. I forgot about foreplay and tried to figure out what was going on. Aunt Addie was rambling and I asked her to pass the phone over to my mother.

“Annie, have you spoken to Charlotte?” my mother said.

“No.”

“Well, something horrible has happened.”

If June Lowell had done something to upset my sister I was going to turn the car around and go tell her exactly what I thought of her.

But my mother explained the problem. “Rain has been falling all day. Parts of the city are flooded. The GATE Network is asking Charlotte to do a special story about it for the network today. She just called to say that the club where her reception is being held is halfway underwater.”

“Oh no!” I pictured that beautiful room with the huge fireplace and the sparkling chandeliers afloat with tables and chairs.

“She says most of the city is going to be fine. But remember, the club was in a low-lying area, and a creek nearby went over the banks. Annie, she says the club is talking about shutting down indefinitely.”

“Well, tell her not to panic until she knows for sure.”

“I did,” said my mother. “But we saw the damage on television. They had twelve feet of water!”

Poor Charlotte. Another stress she didn't need.

While I talked to my mother, Nick and I slowly wandered back to the car. By mutual agreement the interlude was over. He opened the back door and placed my camera bag on the backseat before climbing in next to me. We buckled our seat belts while I finished talking.

I hung up and sat staring numbly at my phone. Nick must have seen the panic in my face because he reached over and grabbed my hand.

Had I heard right? Two worlds were on a collision course and I felt helpless to prevent it.

“Oh my God, Nick! My Mom says that if the country club in Atlanta isn't available we should have the wedding at the inn!”

I
have vivid memories of summer evenings when my father was alive and the inn was bursting with people. My parents would sit hip to hip at the piano, surrounded by a crowd of tipsy singers, while my dad played some well-known tune, and my mother would swing her fingers in midair, prompting the crowd to sing along. My brother and I would watch from our favorite vantage point at the top of the lobby stairs, hiding from Aunt Addie, who had long ago put us to bed. Oblivious to dirty dishes, crumpled tablecloths, and crumbs scattered on the floor, the party went on. My parents made sure that each guest understood that tomorrow was never as important as today.

It was a snapshot in time I will never forget.

Now, three days after I had returned from the long weekend in Atlanta, I collapsed on the couch in the lobby and wondered where my parents had found the energy. I had just finished cleaning up the last of the dirty dishes and stacking the chairs in the corner of the dining room. The pressure behind my eyes reminded me that I should be in bed, and my feet were killing me, even in my comfortable flat-heeled shoes.

We had served over a hundred guests tonight. I knew almost half of them, which made my job harder. Everyone wanted to stop me and talk about Charlotte, or the inn, or just tell me whatever was ailing them. With a smile on my face I had juggled each conversation while keeping an eye on the buffet and the water glasses. I dodged between the tables like an expert in the obstacle course while Aunt Addie managed things in the kitchen and my mother played her role as the master hostess.

The last guest had left an hour ago, and I rubbed the tension from my temples and circled my neck, trying to ease my headache. Behind me, my brother, Ian, rolled the vacuum across the lobby. He was singing a song in a falsetto that was supposed to be either Led Zeppelin or Jack White, I wasn't sure. He had worked behind the bar all night after driving home from Ann Arbor, where his band was backing up some semi-famous indie group.

“Hey, Bump, did you see Mrs. Weideman? Was it just me, or did she drink half the vodka behind the bar? I tried to replace it with water and she laughed at me and served herself when she thought I wasn't looking.”

“Well, she just had her last schnauzer put down, and now she is all alone,” I said. “Give her a break.”

Ian ran his hand through his long sandy-colored hair. “I'm just sayin'.” His brown eyes were speckled with hazel, the opposite of my own, which were hazel speckled with brown. Then he put the vacuum in the closet near the front desk and joined me on the couch. Slipping his feet out of his shoes, he lifted them to the coffee table and spread his long, wiry frame into a horizontal position, a typical Ian posture.

“Did you unplug the toilet like your mother asked a half hour ago, Ian?” yelled Aunt Addie as she shuffled into the lobby from the dining room. She spied Ian sprawled on the couch. “Get your feet off the furniture, Ian Adler!”

“What!? I am just taking a break. And I took off my shoes.”

It was an old battle between them. I was so used to it I didn't bat an eye, and neither did my mother as she rounded the corner, a dishcloth still over her shoulder. She sat down in the chair next to me and we both ignored Aunt Addie, who had come to stand over Ian, her voice rising to a piercing level.

“That went well, Annie. Thank you so much for all your help. I don't know what we would have done without you and Ian,” said Mom.

“It was like old times, wasn't it?” I didn't point out that in old times we would have had the assistance of half a dozen hired wait staff. “I can't remember the last time we hosted over a hundred.”

“It certainly has been a while,” said Mom with a sigh. Getting tired of the argument next to us, she took the towel off her shoulder and swatted Ian's feet. Immediately he lifted them off the table, which aggravated Aunt Addie all the more.

Placing a hand on her hip, Aunt Addie huffed and hobbled away. “I'm going to bed. I might still be able to catch tonight's episode of
Murder, She Wrote
,” she said.

“Yeah, and I hear there's an episode of
The Honeymooners
at midnight,” taunted Ian under his breath as she left the room.

Mom swatted Ian with the towel again. “Enough!”

“She can't hear me,” he said, lifting his shoulders and raising his hands, palms up.

“She hears more than you know,” Mom chided.

For several minutes we sat silently while the clock on the rustic oak mantel ticked away. The temperature had dipped this evening, so I had turned on the gas fireplace in front of us and we stared at the flames as they danced around the ceramic logs.

My mind wandered to Nick, who had called me only briefly on Tuesday to make sure I had gotten home all right. After Aunt Addie's second phone call, our car ride had been more subdued, as if we weren't quite sure how to act in a world with shifting tectonic plates. And even though he had rubbed the back of my neck with his free hand as we talked about Charlotte and the wedding, there was no discussion about what would happen next.

When I dropped him off at his fancy hotel in Detroit, Nick asked me solemnly if I would be okay driving the rest of the way to Truhart. He went on to ask if I wanted to stay the night. His crooked grin was adorable and sexy.

Was I tempted? Absolutely. The vision of the two of us wrapped in the sheets made heat rush to my face. But I didn't want a one-night stand with Nick. I wanted something more. Something even I couldn't put into words. For several days now, I had tried to imagine what would have happened if I had spent the night. Would we be calling one another every hour and making up pet names for each other like teenagers? Or would we have said good-bye in an awkward moment, too uncomfortable to look each other in the eye? That would have broken my heart.

No. It was better to wait. I had loved Nick for years. If something was going to happen between us, there was no reason to rush. My wisdom surprised even me.

“So, any more news from Charlotte?” asked Ian, yanking me out of my thoughts.

“Yes. I spoke to her before the dinner tonight. And I spoke to Henry this morning,” said Mom.

Charlotte had called us half a dozen times to fill us in on the wedding crisis. The country club had announced the need for extensive renovations and canceled all events through Memorial Day. She and Henry were in the process of searching every available venue within twenty-five miles of Atlanta for their reception. Several other areas in the flood zone had been deluged by the storm, but most of Atlanta had escaped major damage. Still, their search had yielded only a few options.

“I've been waiting to tell you all evening, but we've been so busy there just wasn't time,” said Mom with a wide smile. I closed my eyes, unable to look at the excitement on her face. “Henry likes the idea of having the wedding here.”

A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck. This was a bad idea.

Ian let out a low whistle. “Are you sure we can't just convince them to go to Vegas? I don't want to witness Charlotte turning into Bridezilla firsthand.”

“I don't know what you're talking about sometimes, Ian,” my mother said. “This is good news. It would be wonderful to have the wedding right here.”

I opened my eyes. “And Charlotte and June are good with this plan?” I couldn't see Charlotte agreeing to this easily. In fact, I was convinced Charlotte would have preferred the tackiest hall available. And June? Well, she was probably thinking it would have been better to wait a year—or ten—before the happy couple walked down the aisle.

“Henry says he can be very convincing. He insists that not only would it be perfect for Charlotte's family and friends here, but the inn would be a wonderful setting for their wedding. He says he loved the stories you told of growing up in Truhart when we were down in Atlanta, Annie.”

Why did I ever open my mouth with those stories of growing up? I wanted to kick myself.

My mother continued. “If Charlotte agrees, Henry and I think it should be a winter wonderland wedding. Henry was entranced with the idea of sleigh rides and snow for all the Southern guests. I think it would be perfect for us to show a little Midwest hospitality.”

Henry really had no idea.

While he was picturing people bundled in furs riding in horse-driven sleighs like a quaint Currier and Ives print, I pictured unshaved men, and women for that matter, in Elmer Fudd hats and camouflage hunting jackets behind the wheels of SUVs with snow chains and gun racks.

But something else my mother said was making my heart race faster.

“Winter? Snow in April is a little optimistic, even for Truhart.”

“No, Henry thinks we should make it a New Year's Eve wedding,” Mom said with smile.

“Are you kidding? We can't plan a wedding that quickly!”

“Of course we can. We
are
an inn, after all. Hosting is what we do.” My heart was racing in panic. But Mom barely looked fazed. “We are already prepared for guests, and anyone we can't accommodate can stay at a hotel nearby. All the other details are just little things that need to be handled.”

Details? I looked around the room at the peeling paint, worn carpet, and frayed curtains and tried to think of them as details. I would die if June Lowell said anything about the way our inn was falling down around us.

I stared at my mother and tried to come up with other reasons to change her mind. What could I say that wouldn't insult her?

“Our band doesn't usually play weddings,” said Ian, “But hey! You never know who might be there. Maybe Scarlett will put us on
The Morning Show
if Charlotte won't. And as for wedding music, if they come here I guess the band can start working on the chicken dance.”

I nearly fell off the couch at the thought of June Lowell doing the chicken dance.

“You can practice your piano instead, Ian,” Mom said. “I didn't pay for eight years of piano lessons just to have you wailing on the electric guitar your whole life. This is going to be classy.” I thanked God for small favors. “You can play something nice, like Barry Manilow.”

Ian practically choked. “Uh, Mom, leave the music to me, okay? I promise not to play anything that will embarrass Charlotte.”

Ian and I exchanged a look, knowing full well how Charlotte felt about our mother's favorite artist.

Mom moved to the edge of her chair and leaned forward, her hands on her knees. “Well, I for one would be excited to have the wedding here. All my life I thought the three of you would be married at the inn. I used to tell your father how beautiful it would be to see him escort one of you girls down these very stairs.”

She waved her hands in a sweeping gesture and for a moment I saw what she saw. A grand chalet with cathedral ceilings, pine log trusses, and a massive split-stone fireplace that rose all the way to the rafters, dominating the room. An incongruous vision of my father and a golden haired girl in white, coming down the stairs, sprang forth in my mind, forming a lump in my throat.

Dad wasn't here, so that dream would never happen. But if this was so important to my mother, and if Charlotte agreed, I vowed to make it work. I would simply have to put myself in charge of damage control.

I leaned over and hugged my mother. “It would be beautiful.”

“Yes, I think it would,” she said after a moment. She put her hands on her knees and rose. Circling behind Ian, she kissed him on the top of his messy head. “Bridezilla. You've been watching too much TV, Ian. Charlotte would never be demanding. Good night, you two. Don't stay up too late.”

When she left the room, Ian followed her with his eyes. Once he was sure she had gone, he said, “Hey, Bump, just to be safe, if this thing happens why don't you make sure all the Barry Manilow sheet music is hidden by the time this wedding rolls, okay? Charlotte will lose it if she hears ‘Copacabana' at her wedding.”

I put my head in my hands. “Oh my God, Ian. Barry Manilow songs are the least of our worries.”

“What do you mean?”

I lifted my head and gazed at him. “Ian, you met Henry's family last summer, right?”

“Yeah, I was backing up the Good Fridays in Atlanta and we all went out to lunch before I left town. They seemed nice. What's the problem?”

His feet were back on the table and his lanky frame was horizontal again. I noted the perpetual two-day-old stubble on his chin and his overlong dark blond hair that was the exact same shade as my own. Ian was good-looking in a rocker sort of way. He was bright and creative, and over the years he had been in and out of relationships with various women who, strangely, found him appealing. He didn't have much money, but that never fazed him. His eyes were sharp and his ears could detect perfect pitch. So, as I stared at him, I couldn't help but wonder how he could be so dense.

“Ian . . . come on. Tell me you didn't pick up on a few subtle differences between Henry's family and ours.”

Ian's eyebrows rose. He stared at the ceiling. His mouth dropped open as he tried to figure out what I was getting at. “They're Southern?”

“Are you kidding me, Ian? Is that the only thing you noticed?”

“Well . . . yeah.” He crinkled up his forehead as if there was something he was trying to figure out. “I mean, they were nice looking—but so are we.” Then he laughed at himself. “Well,
I
am at least.”

I hit him on the thigh with the side of my hand. My neck was getting sore from looking sideways at him, so I moved to the corner of the couch and faced him, drawing my feet up. “That's not the only difference, you idiot. Didn't you notice the expensive clothes? Did you eat at their club?” He nodded. “They're loaded,” I finished.