The Wedding Caper (14 page)

I leaned
back in my chair and drew in a deep breath. I’d let life pile up on me. And now
I had to pay the piper.

I thought
back to my last lesson. Street smarts, eh? Looked like the only kind of
“smarts” I needed were the kind that would teach me how to stay on top of the
day-to-day things. I very nearly picked up the phone to call Sheila, to ask her
advice. But, why bother? I could pretty much imagine what she’d have to say:
Annie, you used to have a handle on
life.
. .but it
broke.

And she’d
be right.

To
further torment myself, I decided to open up the next lesson from
www.investigativeskills.com. I’m pretty sure it was accompanied by a heavenly
choir this time around, that’s how powerfully the words hit me when I read the
title to Lesson Six: A Good Investigator Is Able to Multi-Task.

Yikes.

I stared
at the screen in disbelief. Why even read the lesson? Hadn’t I already
struggled enough in this area? Hadn’t I proven that I couldn’t handle one thing
piled upon another? Why in the world would I want to rub salt into an open
wound?

Still.
. . I could use a few suggestions for
how to bring balance to my life, as the opening paragraph suggested. I needed
to know how to be all things to all people.

Didn’t I?

Chapter Fourteen

Sometimes I
wish life had subtitles.

Seriously.
There have been certain instances in my life that would have been greatly
enhanced by a few carefully thought-out words written beneath them. Take, for
example, the time I tried to rewire the thermostat in the downstairs hallway
and short-circuited the fan in the air conditioning unit outside. Subtitle: If
you don’t have a sense of humor, you probably don’t have any sense at all. Or
the time I insisted I could change the oil in the car and ended up in the
emergency room with eight stitches in my right hand. Subtitle: Should have gone
to Jiffy Lube.

Yep,
there were just some things a twenty-first-century woman shouldn’t attempt
without subtitles. In fact, there were some things a woman like me shouldn’t be
allowed to
attempt.
. . at all.

So why,
then, did I agree to make all of the foods for Devin’s post-homecoming game
party next weekend?
Thirty high school boys and their dates?
Was I crazy?

I sifted
through the bags of groceries with a sigh and attempted to put together a plan
of action. Where should I start?
Animal, vegetable or
mineral?
I took a look at the hodge-podge of high-carb, high-calorie
goodies and slapped myself in the head. What a way to spend my Saturday
afternoon. I could think of approximately ten thousand other things I’d rather
do.

The bag
of frozen meatballs looked up at me, teasing, taunting. Get to work, they
screamed. I supposed I could drop them into the
crock pot
before next week’s game and pour some barbecue sauce over them. I glanced
through my cookbook for a recipe for sausage and cheese puffs, which Devin had
specifically requested. Hmm. That doesn’t look too complicated. But they’ll
have to be made earlier in the day.

I stared
and the monstrous bag of frozen hot wings. What in the world was I supposed to
do with those? I’d never cooked a hot wing in my life. I flipped over the bag
and drew in a relieved breath as I read the instructions. Looked like they
could be popped in the oven on a cookie sheet to be warmed just before serving.
No problem.

Now for
the complicated one—the salsa dip. I read Sheila’s hand-scribbled
instructions one more time before starting: Take a jar of salsa and mix it with
creamy cream cheese. Spread it in a dish and chill. Then spread chopped onions,
tomatoes, and peppers all over the top. Cover with shredded taco cheese mix and
serve with chips.

Goodness.
Why didn’t I just buy a container of dip at the store?

I finally
turned my attention to the things that troubled me most—the sweets. Devin
had shown up with the oddest assortment of goodies to be pieced together,
everything from chocolate chip pizza cookies to homemade caramel corn. Add to
that about a zillion bags of chips, enough for a small army, and I knew my
hands were more than full.

I paused
a moment from my ponderings to think about
Janetta
Mullins. The woman was terrific at pulling together food for parties like this.
A real pro.
Should I give her a call?

Thinking
about
Janetta
got me thinking about the missing
money. Thinking about the missing money got me thinking about Jake. Thinking
about Jake got me thinking about the plight of the homeless. And thinking about
the homeless made me feel kind about bad about complaining about food
preparation at all.

The
telephone rang, interrupting my reverie. Thank goodness.

“Mom?”

Brandi.
She sounded anxious.
Nothing new
there.

“What’s
up, honey?”

“I need you.”

Ah, the
bliss of those words. They were enough to make any mom throw her son’s
snackables
overboard and focus on the things that really
mattered in life.

My child
needs me.

I quickly
put the groceries
away,
content in the fact that next
week’s game night would be a smashing success. Within minutes, Brandi arrived
at the house with a large bag in her hand and a suspicious gleam in her eye. I
knew that look all-too-well, which explained the sudden niggling of fear that
coursed through me.

My
beautiful eldest daughter gabbed all the way from the front door to the
kitchen. When we arrived at the table, she pulled from the bag the loveliest
red rose I’d ever seen. It was large, full, breathtaking, and
.
.
.
fake
. I had to look twice just to make sure
my eyes hadn’t fooled me.

“What
made you decide on silks?” I asked as I fingered it.

Brandi
shrugged. “We’re spending so much on the facility and the food, I needed to cut
back. So I thought silk flowers would be a nice way to do that. They’re so real
looking, no one will ever know. Aren’t they pretty?”

Indeed,
they were. In fact, they were eerily true-to-life. I had to give it to her. The
girl really knew her roses. Then again, with nearly a dozen boyfriends coming
and going over the past several years, she should.

“So,
here’s the thing,” she said with a crooked grin. “I know you’re really crafty
and all—”

“I’m
really what?” My mind gravitated at once to the women in the Amish country,
seated with their quilting projects in their laps.

“Crafty.
You’re so good at putting things together. Remember those centerpieces you and
Nadine worked on? They turned out great.”

“Well,
yes, but she did most of the work,” I argued. “To be honest, I’m not—”

Brandi
continued on, undaunted. “I’ve had the most fabulous idea and it will save us
so much money. I want you to put together the bridesmaids’ bouquets for the
wedding.”

“S–Say
what?”

She
emptied the bag of voluptuous roses out all over the clean end of the table.

I took
one look at the whole mound of red silk goodies and clutched my head in my
hands. Subtitle: When life gives you lemons,
make.
. .
wedding bouquets?

My mind
reeled. What do these kids think I am—a decorating diva? Sure, I watch a
little home improvement TV, but that’s purely recreational.

Brandi
rambled on and on.
Something about boutonnières for the guys
and corsages for the mothers and grandmothers.
I’m not sure I heard a
word of it. I mean, I saw her lips moving, but it was almost like I’d
instantaneously lost all of my hearing the minute those roses hit the table.

Funny
thing was
,
it returned when she began to sing my
praises once again. “You’re the best, Mom!” She finished her zealous speech,
planted a kiss on my cheek, and beamed with joy. “I just can’t wait to see what
you come up with.”

Um,
me either.

My expression
must’ve spiraled downward, because Brandi reached out to give me what felt like
a sympathetic hug. “I need you, Mom,” she whispered.

Ah, those
words.
Those magical, lyrical words.
They sprinkled
pixie dust on a mother’s weary soul. They roused her from her slumber and
caused her to believe she could attempt the impossible. Even when she knew in
her gut she shouldn’t.

I thought
about my lesson plan once more. A good investigator is able to multi-task.

Accomplishing
several things at once might appear difficult to the average human being, but
I’d never claimed to be average. No, in my daughter’s eyes, I was Super
Mom—able to leap tall buildings in a single bound—and certainly
capable of piecing together red silk roses in a fashionable display. I could do
this. I could.

My
courage rose as I chewed on that idea. Hadn’t I already proven myself as an
editor, investigator, wife, friend, neighbor and civic leader, and overall
terrific person? Surely I could make my mark as a floral designer, as well.

 Brandi’s
eyes lit with pleasure as she looked over the flowers. “Oh!” She clutched her
hand to her chest. “I nearly forgot. Nadine asked me to call when I got here.
She wants to talk to you.” Brandi pulled her cell phone from her purse and
within seconds I found myself chatting by phone with my sweet Southern sister.
The words just flowed.

“Yes,
dah-
lin
, the roses are luv-lee!” and “Bless your
heart, Nadine, I do hope I can do them justice.”

She went
on to encourage me in my task, even giving me pointers. Question: Why does it
not surprise me that Nadine has conquered the art of floral arranging? Is there
anything the woman can’t do? Truly, I wanted to be Nadine when I grew up.

Um,
if I ever grew up.

By the
time I hung up the phone, I felt strong, invincible. It’s amazing what ten
minutes of chatting with an “Encourager Extraordinaire” will do for you.

Brandi
left with a smile on her face and an “I love you” on her lips. Then, with
scissors in one hand a hot glue gun in the other, I turned my attentions to
transforming my kitchen table into an artist’s pallet.

The red
roses toyed with my imagination. I picked up a few and rehearsed my strategy by
pressing them together in a bundle and winding a bit of ribbon around the
stems. Yep. I could do this.

Subtitle:
Woman of God discovers amazing new talents and abilities.
Story
at eleven.

I put the
bouquet to my chest and practiced walking the aisle, just to see how it might
look. With no mirror in sight, I tried to follow my reflection in the kitchen
window. No such luck.

I hummed
the wedding march and reflected back on my own big day. Somehow, prancing
around the kitchen with a bundle of flowers in my hand got me tickled. The
giggles began quite innocently, but quickly escalated into full-blown laughter.

Sasha
sprang up and down, up and down, trying to get in on my glee. I snatched her up
in my arms and danced around in circles, flowers now forming a halo around her
head. Round and round we went, spinning like maniacs.

“Annie?”

“W–Warren.”
Subtitle: Oops! “Sorry, I thought you were replacing the windshield wipers on
the truck.”

“I’m
done.” He gave me the strangest look. “Are—are you okay?” He reached to
take Sasha from my arms, as if sensing the need to protect her from me.

“Who,
me?” I snatched a lone red rose from the bundle and stuck it in my teeth,
tossed the rest on the table, then took the pose of a Spanish dancer. “I’m just
terrific!” I mouthed the words through clamped teeth and very nearly dropped
the flower. For effect, I clapped my hands in a cha-cha-cha off to one side.

“Annie,
I—” Warren shook his head then stared in silence.

I pulled
the rose from my teeth. “What?”

“Nothing.”
He put Sasha on the floor and she rubbed up against my leg, ready to play once
more.

“Come on,
honey.” I stuck the rose behind his ear then slipped my right arm around his
waist and my left into his unsuspecting palm. I leaned in to whisper, “Doesn’t
all this talk of love and weddings make you feel like dancing? Doesn’t it make
you feel—invincible?”

“Um,
I—”

Subtitle:
Confused husband contemplates psychiatric help for deranged wife.

But I
didn’t need psychiatric help.
On the contrary.
I
simply needed to know that the man of my dreams would still ask me to our high
school homecoming game all over again, if he had the chance.

I managed
to get him to take a couple of turns around the kitchen with me. He even added
an impromptu spin at the end of our choreography, a sure sign I’d gotten to
him. Warren tipped up my chin with his finger and gazed into my eyes. A feeling
of warmth flooded over me as he leaned down to plant a gentle kiss on my lips.
Yep. He’d still ask me to the homecoming game.

After a
moment, he snapped to attention. “I almost forgot why I came in here.”

“Ah. I
have that effect on you, do I?”

He
laughed as he pulled the rose from behind his ear and placed it back on the
table with the others. “Yes, you do. I came in to tell you that Richard Blevins
just called on my cell phone. Something about the Get Out to Vote rally. He
wants to pass off the brochures and placards to you. He’s not going to be able
to participate this year.”

Something
about hearing Richard’s name sent a ripple of guilt through me. I’d been so
busy, I hadn’t gone back to visit Judy. And from what I’d heard through the
prayer chain, she had taken a turn for the worse.

“When is
he coming?”

Warren
shrugged. “Sometime tomorrow afternoon. Is that okay?”

“Sure.
The kids are all coming over for dinner after church. I’m making pot roast.”

“
Mmm
.”

“We’d
planned to play board games after,” I explained. “But nothing out of the ordinary,
so it’s fine if he stops by.”

Still, it
did hurt my heart a little. In the old days, Richard would have passed the
items off to me before or after Sunday
School
. I still
couldn’t get used to the idea that he wasn’t teaching our class anymore. In fact,
I couldn’t get used to the idea that he seemed to have distanced himself from
the rest of the world. Something about that just
felt.
. . wrong.