On the Way to a Wedding (13 page)

He glanced at the old elevator and remembered riding it earlier this evening. A flash of doubt, and he wondered if the elevator had passed a building inspection lately.

He ran up the three flights of stairs. As he entered the hall, the door opposite Toria’s opened, and an old woman with silver hair peeked out and looked at him. Her gray cat wandered into the hall. She bent to retrieve the cat and went back inside.

Feeling uneasy, he paused, then continued down the hall to Toria’s door. Her neighbor’s door, across the hall, had a peep hole installed. Toria’s did not.

He knocked lightly on Toria’s door.

She opened it, still wearing the long dark brown sweater, and leaning on her crutches.

Again that feeling of protectiveness hit him. “Uh . . .” he said, speaking quietly and not turning around. “Can I come in? I think your neighbor is spying on us.”

Toria closed her eyes and shook her head. Then she whispered, “Mrs. Toony. She probably let Greg in.” She shuffled back with her crutches, allowing him to come inside.

He closed the door behind him and leaned against it. Something classical—something light, and airy—was playing on Toria’s old stereo.

The gentle music ebbed around him and he let himself relax against the door.

She stood directly in front of him, close, in the small entrance area. In the kitchen, a single light glowed over the stove. The other one had burned out. The June sun, now low in the sky, still filtered through the balcony windows into the living room. But here, near the door, it was not well lit.

“I forgot to return your pink card,” he said, still speaking quietly, as though the nosy neighbor could hear them through the door. And the hall, and her own door.

“Sorry.” She smiled. “You shouldn’t have come back for that. I can’t drive anyway. Well, I can
drive
but I don’t have a car,” she babbled.

“And I forgot to ask you which school―”

“You don’t need to do this.”

“I would like to.”

She looked up at him, and again he noticed her eyes.

The piece of music ended and a new one took its place. Something with the same gentle serenity.

“I―” he started to explain, but he looked into her eyes, which were several shades of green. Like the green of a quiet lake in the Kananaskis. And mixed with the green, a little gold―

He caught his breath and blinked. “I didn’t go to my own Grad,” he said. “This might be fun.”

“You didn’t go to your Grad? Why not?”

He shrugged. “Juvenile.” He’d never admitted that to anyone. Not even to Pro. “I wanted to piss off my parents.”
My father mostly
.

She smiled, like she understood.

“Which school?” he asked again.

She paused. A few seconds passed. “Aberton.”

Aberton?

“Do you know where that is?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, watching her mouth. “I do.”

It was
his
school. His old high school. Eleven years ago. Light years ago.

The peaceful music eased into his mind and a sensation of longing floated through him. He should just reach in his wallet, give her the pink card, and leave. But he didn’t want to leave.

“We didn’t have any of your mother’s cookies,” she said.

“Milk and cookies time?”

“Yes.”

“You sit down,” he said. “I’ll get the milk.”

He took off his work boots again, dropped his jacket beside them and walked into the kitchen. In the fridge, he found a jug of
skim
milk, along with a carton of eggs, a package of cream cheese and a jar of marmalade.

He could drink skim milk. He set it on the counter. Then he opened the cupboard directly above the counter.

Right the first time. It was the cupboard with the glasses. Two medium sized A&W root beer mugs, a set of crystal bourbon glasses with heavy bases and four clear mugs with shamrocks around the rims.

The A&W root beer mugs. They’d work. He filled them with milk, walked to the other end of the kitchen, past the small table, and turned into the living room.

She had a cookie in her hand and her left foot up on the coffee table next to the empty pizza box. “Tell your mother,” she said, licking her lips, “these are very good.” She took another bite.

He positioned her mug of milk on the coffee table beside her tensored ankle.

“You have a lot of wedding gifts,” he said, looking at the improvised bookshelves again.

“Shower gifts.”

Right
. Shower gifts. That came first. “You have a lot of shower gifts.”

“Yes, I do.” She sounded tired.

He started to walk around her to sit on his side of the love seat, and then he noticed the envelope on the floor, in the same place as before. A few sparkles flashed in the light from the setting sun. He picked up the envelope, walked around the cluttered coffee table and sat down beside her.

She handed him a cookie out of the bag. He handed her the heart covered envelope.

“What’s this?” She took it from him. “Oh, I almost forgot. It’s from a student.”

The envelope said
Miss Toria Whitney
. A large envelope, covered with pink and red, shiny and sparkly, heart stickers.

Her face softened, as if she was giving in to something. She tucked one slender fingertip under the flap, opened the envelope and pulled out the card. A cascade of red and pink hearts showered over them both, like confetti thrown at a wedding.

He leaned closer, to read over her shoulder. A thread of air separated them.

“You’re reading my mail.” She nudged him away with her elbow.

“It’s just a student,” he said. Several of the shiny hearts had landed in the weave of the brown sweater and on the front of her pink blouse.

“Don’t say
just
a student.”

“All right.” And one of the red hearts had fallen on her throat, at the opening of her blouse.

He wondered what the student had to say, and he leaned close again. His denim covered arm lightly touched her sweater covered arm. Not a problem, he told himself. Easier to read over her shoulder.

By now she was focused on the card, and she didn’t push him away.

Dear Miss Toria,

“Miss Toria?”

“I like that better than Miss Whitney. And they’re not supposed to call me Toria.”

We know you said we would be able to handle this just fine but we can’t. Mrs. Sidorsky is not playing fair. She said we could pick our own theme, and then she impositioned her theme on us.

“Impositioned?” He turned his head, which was right next to hers.

“They like their own words,” she said, without looking away from the card.

“What about spelling?” He watched her eyes, her whole expression.

“They’re communicating.”

“Yeah, but shouldn’t―”

“Will you let me read this?” She glanced up at him. Their eyes connected for a microsecond, and then she looked back at the card.

So did he.

Mrs. Sidorsky wants Beauty and the Beast.

He stopped reading, disgusted, and pulled back from the card. “Beauty and the Beast? That’s a fairy tale!”

“You’d like these kids,” she said, still reading the words.

He leaned close again.

Like, we’re going to decorate some fairy tale? We’re not in kindergarten. For
Christ
cripes sake.

Oh, and the results from the provincials are coming in. We scored highest in the province, even though you never followed their curriculum. But don’t worry, we never told anyone.

“I thought you taught history? That’s a provincial exam?”

“No. It’s not,” she said. “I still teach some history, I started there, but I mostly teach mathematics. That’s a provincial.”

Mathematics? Toria? It didn’t add up.

He laughed at his own pun. Normally it would not be funny. Must be Isabelle’s wine messing with his brain. And naturally, Toria, in her scattered way, would not follow the curriculum.

Longing wove through his memories. He would have liked a teacher like this, like the one sitting next to him.

Whoa
. Where had that thought come from? He didn’t need a teacher. He kept reading.

So we were wondering if you could please please please come back? Just to help us get the gym in shape? Otherwise Mrs. S is going to embarrass us. Miss Isabelle said you might be able to fit us in.

Toria dropped the card in her lap and frowned at the bookshelves. Could she say no to her students?

“We’ve got to do this,” he told her.

Lost in thought, she didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she looked at him. “We?”

The room had darkened. The sun was gone behind the mountains. Twilight. Yesterday, he’d met her, at twilight. He’d found her car in the ditch, almost twenty-four hours ago.

He had a sense of traveling through time, like he was reliving a memory. Sparkles of hearts twinkled before his eyes and he blinked. Maybe he should turn on the lamp on the bookshelves, assuming it worked.

His arm still touched her shoulder, and a little chocolate chip cookie crumb balanced on the edge of her lip. She had beautiful lips—soft and full.

She was staring at the bookshelves now, not seeing them. He watched her eyes, that unbelievable shade of green . . . It was the light, from the leftover sun, playing tricks with his mind.

He reached out and brushed away the crumb at the edge of her lip.

“Cookie crumb,” he said.

She’s getting married. Get out of here
.

She smiled, and blushed.

And she’s had too much to drink, for her.
And never mind that, I’m supposed to be getting married. In a huge wedding that is going to impress the socks off my father.

He moved away from her, sat forward and drained his mug of milk. Then he got to his feet. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning,” he said, wondering at the same time why he was saying it.

But it wouldn’t be a problem. In the morning. In the daylight.

“Why?” She was standing up, too, swaying a little.

“We can go out to Cochrane and talk to the RCMP. You can check the car, see if there’s anything in it that you want.”

She swayed a little more as she tried to get her crutches under her arms.

He wanted to touch her—a bad idea. And anyway, she was steady now. He headed for the door.

She followed him.

At the door, he pulled on his boots, picked up his jacket and turned to her. This was confusing.

But, he was never confused. He knew exactly what he was doing.

“Lorimer,” he said. “Do you love him?”

Except for when he asked questions like that.

“I thought I did,” she said, dreamily. “I mean, yes, of course.”

Chapter Eight

Ryder rolled over and turned off the alarm before it could ring. The digital readout on his bedside table said 6:18 a.m.

Surprisingly, his head felt clear. He’d actually slept. And as far as he could remember, he hadn’t thought about the partnership agreement all night. But, he’d been dreaming about something else.

Wanting to remember, he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to catch a fragment. And he sighed. It was on the brink of recall, all jumbled like morning dreams often are—a dark, winding, rain-sloshed road, something white waving in the wind, a fire blazing in a potbellied, black stove.

And something else. Words that repeated over and over in his mind, taunting him.

I thought I did?

Why had she said that?

No use trying to figure it out. Who knew what she was thinking? Especially after the wine. She was just being her spinny, scattered self. He threw back the blanket and sat up.

But, how could she be a teacher? And—even more strange—a mathematics teacher? Weren’t they supposed to be logical?

And what was
he
thinking? Why had he volunteered to drive her to Cochrane?

Because it was a good idea, his logical brain told him. Driving her to Cochrane was a distraction, something to keep his mind off work. He needed to get away from work for a while, let Jim work on his own, and let the man demonstrate what he could do. And then they could finalize the partnership agreement.

With that out of the way, Ryder could cope with this building frenzy. And, he could get on with his life—with finishing the new house in Royal Oak, marrying Catherine, and―

And proving, once and for all, to his pigheaded father that he was just as good as his father was.

A sense of futility threatened. Ryder slumped his shoulders and blew out a breath. He couldn’t do anything about the partnership agreement right now. Pro would deal with it. And he couldn’t do anything about the wedding—it would roll along, and happen the way Catherine wanted it to happen. And he couldn’t do anything about the poodle.

He stood, headed for the shower, and cranked it on.

Maybe, just maybe, he could do something about the damn poodle.

· · · · ·

I thought I did?
Oh God, why had she said that?

Toria got out of the shower. She’d overslept, and she never overslept. Since Monday night when she’d made the decision to go to Kalispell to see Aunt Glenda, she’d stepped into a whirlwind. What to do first?

She needed a car. And, if she was going to help her students, she needed to talk to Mrs. Sidorsky. And Ryder―

A chill fluttered over her skin. They were going to Cochrane. Oh dear.

Fitting a crutch under one wet arm, she stood on her good foot. Then she reached for the green towel on the rack and tugged it off.

It would be all right, she told herself, as she blotted the towel over her body with one hand. He probably hadn’t even noticed what she’d said.

I thought I did?
What was wrong with her?

It was true, though, she
had
thought that. Way back in the beginning, she’d been swept away . . . and look where it had got her. That was not going to happen again. Not ever.

She propped the crutch against the wall, steadied herself on one foot, and then wrapped the towel around herself. Today was Wednesday. Today would be better. She would stop by the school. But first―