Something Borrowed (11 page)

“Lance!” Camille hurried toward him from the other direction. “I'm so glad you came after all. I—”

She stopped short, belatedly coming into view of Oliver and me still standing there with our arms wrapped around each other. For a moment she just stood there staring. Then she grabbed Lance by the arm and dragged him off out of sight.

“What was that?” Oliver asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“Nothing,” I assured him. “Nothing at all.”

We got our drinks and returned to the party. The sun was beginning to sink toward the horizon, but the weather was getting warmer and stuffier by the moment, and a few adults were starting to join the little kids in the pool. When we rejoined Teresa and the others, Rocco and Jason were debating whether or not to jump in for a swim.

“How about it, Oliver?” Jason said, turning to us. “You up for a friendly game of water polo?”

“Not me, mate.” Oliver glanced down at me. “Actually, I may slip out for a smoke. Where'd you put my bag, darlin'?”

Before I could answer, a shriek went up from the direction of the back door. When I looked that way, I saw Camille clutching a phone and looking distraught.

“Uh-oh,” I said. “Looks like Bridezilla crisis 9,264 has begun. I'd better go see what's up.”

Teresa came along as I hurried toward Camille. Oliver trailed along behind us.

“What's going on?” I asked my aunt Hazel, who was standing nearby, along with an elderly neighbor lady and another older woman I didn't know. Fortunately, Lance was nowhere in sight.

Aunt Hazel fluttered her hands. She's a fluttery type of person at the best of times, and with Camille moaning and gnashing her teeth—well, practically—she looked as if she might take flight at any moment.

“The woman on the phone just asked for Camille,” she said. “I didn't think to ask if it was something that might disrupt the party.”

“There, there, dear.” The neighbor lady patted her on the arm, then looked at me.
“It seems one of the flower girls can't make it to the wedding.”

“Chicken pox?
Chicken pox
?” Camille cried, tossing the phone onto a chair. “Are you
kidding
me? Kids are all vaccinated against that these days! Who gets chicken pox anymore?”

“The Bakers just moved back from Hong Kong,” Aunt Hazel reminded her soothingly. “I guess they don't vaccinate for that over there, maybe?”

Camille looked ready to cry. Aunt Hazel shot me a helpless glance. I traded a shrug with Teresa and then glanced around for Mom—she could defuse this crisis if anyone could. But she was nowhere to be seen.

“Babe?” Oliver tugged on my arm. “My bag. Really, I could use a ciggy. Where'd you put it?”

“Um, I stuck it in the pool house.” I waved vaguely toward the little building.

“Cool.” He hurried off without another word, looking relieved.

I wasn't thrilled that my new man was apparently so addicted to his gross little habit. But at the moment it was the least of my concerns.

“Listen, Camille,” I said. “Believe it or not, this isn't a huge deal. It's not like Brittany Baker was your only flower girl. The others will just have to pick up the slack.”

“What?” She looked as scandalized as if I'd suggested she walk down the aisle naked. “But there have to be
three
flower girls! It will look totally lame if there's an even number—everyone knows that!”

My brain hadn't quite finished processing that ridiculous proclamation when there came a piercing scream from the direction of the pool house. Everyone at the party stopped short and turned to look.

“Oh, dear,” Aunt Hazel fluttered. “What was—”

At that moment someone came shooting out of the pool house. It was Oliver. He was clutching his bag and streaking for the exit, as wide-eyed and pale-faced as if he'd seen a ghost.

“Hey,” I called out to him. “Oliver, wait . . .”

I didn't bother to continue. He was already gone.

“Wow,” Teresa commented. “Guess he
really
needs that smoke.”

Meanwhile, everyone else was buzzing about the scream. A moment later my mother stepped out of the pool house. She was wearing her tasteful Talbots bathing suit, a pair of slides, and a sheepish smile. As usual she looked great.

“It's all right, everyone,” she called out. “Sorry if I startled you with that scream. Now, where did that young man go? I'm afraid I just scared him half to death. He walked in while I was changing.”

Several people shouted with laughter, while others giggled a bit more discreetly. I could feel my face going several shades of red. So much for my supercool date . . .

I hurried over to Mom. “Uh—what?” was all I could manage.

Somehow, getting caught
in flagrante naked-o
appeared to have made Mom relax more than she had all day. Maybe she'd just needed a good laugh to loosen her up.

“Sorry about your date, Ava,” she said with an amused smile. “I hope he's not too traumatized. I know I haven't been to the gym quite enough lately. . . .” She ran a hand over her perfectly toned tummy.

“Nonsense, Jane!” A woman from Mom's gardening club was standing close
enough to hear her. “That was probably the best view he's had all week.” She tittered behind her hand.

Several others heard the remark and laughed as well. Jason was among them.

“Nice date, Ava,” he said, strolling over to join Teresa and me. “You invite him to this lovely party and he repays you by doing a Peeping Tom on your mom. What a perv.”

“Very funny,” I muttered. Okay, so maybe Oliver hadn't handled things too well just now. Did that mean Jason had to rub it in?

He kept grinning. I could tell he was thoroughly enjoying this. “It's a good thing the gate was open,” he added. “Otherwise he would've left an Oliver-shaped hole in it, like in a Road Runner cartoon.”

Teresa smiled wryly. “He
did
look pretty spooked, Ave. I'm guessing we might not see him again today.”

“Yeah,” Jason said. “He's probably halfway back to Philly by now. On foot.”

I sighed, not bothering to respond. It didn't matter, anyway—Jason would just keep on making jokes until he ran out. Glancing over, I saw that Mom had already spotted Camille's distressed face and gone to
see what was wrong. A few people still appeared to be laughing over the Oliver incident, but Mom gave no indication that she was paying them any attention at all. She already seemed to be over it, and I decided that the best thing to do was follow her lead.

It didn't matter, anyway. By the following Saturday nobody would even remember this. It wouldn't have any effect at all on the great time Oliver and I were going to have at the wedding.

By Tuesday I was starting to get frantic. Oliver still hadn't returned any of my calls, even though I'd left at least fifteen messages on his voice mail and sent him three or four e-mails just in case there was a problem with his phone. What was going on?

I was so distracted at work that day that I accidentally filed half the new shipment of Burpee seed packets in the Seeds of Change slots. “Please, Ava,” Mr. Baum said, looking slightly pained as he grabbed a misplaced packet of watermelon seeds. “Remember, your time off doesn't start until the end of your shift.”

“I know. Sorry, Mr. B.” I started putting the watermelons and the rest of the seeds
where they belonged as he hurried off toward the registers.

When I'd finished unpacking the rest of the shipment, I checked my watch. Just an hour to go, and then I was off until after the wedding.

My phone rang. I grabbed it out of my apron pocket and checked the return number. Then I let out a gasp.

“Oliver?” I cried into the phone. “Where have you been? I've been trying to reach you for the past two days!”

“Sorry about that, babe.” His husky voice was nonchalant. “Been kinda busy. The band got a call to come up to New York for a couple of gigs this weekend. Had to drop everything and hop a train.”

“Wait—what?” I was still so surprised that he'd finally called back that my brain was having trouble keeping up. “You mean this weekend as in
this
weekend? As in the weekend you're supposed to be going to this wedding with me?”

“Yeah, that's sort of why I'm calling. Gotta bail on that one—hope you aren't mad.”

No.
My mind refused to accept this. He couldn't be backing out of our date
four days
before the wedding. It just wasn't possible.

But it was. By the time I hung up I was in full Camille-worthy panic mode. After glancing around to make sure Mr. Baum was nowhere in sight, I ducked behind a display of hose nozzles and called Teresa.

“. . . and so now I have
four days
to find a new date,” I finished with a gasp. I'd blurted out the entire story without taking a breath. “Actually, less than that. Tuesday's half over already. And the rehearsal dinner is Friday night.”

“Yeah.” Teresa sounded a little distracted. “Listen, I'm on my way to the barn. But think about this, Ava. Is the universe trying to tell you something? Like, maybe you should just give up on the perfect date thing and go by yourself? You've been so obsessive about this that Jason's starting to call you Camille Junior.”

“Bite your tongue!” I said. “I'm nothing like Camille. Since when does Jason know anything about me, anyway?”

“Whatever. We can psychoanalyze you later. Just think about what I said.”

She hung up. I frowned down at my phone for a moment, annoyed by her comment. Or rather Jason's comment.

Deciding I didn't have time to worry
about it, I hurried to the back room and reached into my bag for my unblack book. Then I sat down on a folding chair and started dialing.

I reached deep into the book.
Deep.
As in guys-I-hadn't-talked-to-in-years deep. Fifth-grade-summer-camp deep. Still no luck. Maybe Teresa was right. Maybe it was fate that I go to this wedding on my own. The universe certainly seemed to be conspiring pretty hard against me. . . .

Then I stopped short as a beautiful idea hit me. A beautiful, gorgeous, well-built idea with shoulders made to fill a tux and abs to die for.

“Ava?” Tommy stuck his head into the back room. “Mr. Baum is looking for you. Something about the orchids?”

I groaned. I'd promised to rearrange the orchid display so the plants with the best blooms were up front to tempt the customers. Normally I liked doing that sort of thing—it certainly beat stacking heavy bags of potting soil. But today it was just another obstacle in my quest for a new wedding date.

“Tell him I'm taking care of it right now,” I said, standing up and hurrying out.

As I shifted the dendrobiums and cattleyas around on their mesh table with one hand, I dialed Rocco's number with the other. I hadn't paid that much attention to him at the pool party, since I hadn't thought it mattered, but I couldn't remember him mentioning going to the wedding. I crossed my fingers as the phone started to ring.

The universe was with me this time. Nobody had asked him yet.

“You're on, Ava,” he said, sounding pleased. “It should be fun. And hey, while we're at it, why don't we get together tomorrow night? You know, get a little better acquainted, figure out what I should wear . . .”

“Perfect,” I said. “How about dinner at that new Italian place in Bryn Mawr?”

“I'll pick you up at eight.”

I was smiling when I hung up. Why hadn't I thought of Rocco sooner? It would have saved me a lot of trouble and anxiety. I had no expectations of True Love at this point; all I needed was a congenial date to fill out the tux. Rocco was perfect for that. He was a friendly guy with a terrific sense of humor, and there was no question that he would cut an impressive figure in formal
attire. I was sure the two of us would have a fantastic, friendly time. All the other girls would be drooling over him, and I'd still have plenty of freedom to flirt my heart out with Andy and/or Kwan.

My phone was still in my hand as I reached over to pluck an old blossom off a phalaenopsis. I thought about calling Teresa to gloat, but decided it could wait—she usually turned her phone off while she was at the barn anyway.

Just then the phone rang in my hand. My heart stopped; for a second I was certain that it was Rocco calling me back to say he'd just been run over by a bus or something and couldn't make it.

But when I checked the number, my aortas and ventricles started pumping again immediately. It was only Camille.

“What is it this time?” I asked without preamble.

“Ava? Is that you?”

I rolled my eyes. “No, this is the mugger who stole Ava's phone.”

“This is no time for jokes, Ava.” Camille sounded testy—what else was new? “This is an emergency!”

I held the phone out from my ear a few
inches as she launched into one of her patented Bridezilla rants. Her shrill voice poured out of the tiny speaker, shattering the peace of the quiet greenhouse. A couple of passing customers gave me funny looks, but I just smiled at them as if everything were normal.

When Camille finally stopped for a breath, I returned the phone to my ear. “Let me get this straight,” I said. “You're freaking out because the caterers got the wrong kind of
olives
? Who even notices olives?”

“I do!” she cried. “And for all the money Daddy is paying them, you'd think they could get it right! But they simply refuse to make this good; they claim there's not enough time to order the other kind, and Mom refuses to drive into Philadelphia with me to look for them, and Bob won't have time after work . . .”

Normally in this sort of situation I would have pretended to get another call and then passed Camille off to my mother or the wedding planner. But thanks to the resolution of my latest date crisis, I was feeling generous.