The Wedding Party (15 page)

Stephanie had made a terrible mistake. She should never have led Freddy on. He was calling her several times a day, at the junior high where she taught and at home. She'd received a bouquet of flowers in seventh period from “your new best friend” and there were ten hang-ups on the answering machine when she got home.

Now Grant was at work and Freddy was calling and calling and calling. Finally, in frustration, she picked up the phone. “Stop! You have to stop calling me!”

“Hey, what's the trouble?” Freddy said.

“Listen, you have to hear me—I am not available! I can't date anyone! I live with my fiancé! If you don't go away and leave me alone I'll have to tell Grant!”

“Why would you do that? You wouldn't want to be responsible for me getting pounded, now, would you? Because the boyfriend…he works every night and you get so lonely.”

“Freddy, you are twisted,” she accused.

“But you invited me to see
Grease
next weekend…right?”

“I'm uninviting you! Leave me alone!” And she slammed down the phone.

It rang but she didn't pick up. This time, because he knew she was there, he left a message. “Stephanie,” he called in a singsongy voice. “Stephanie? Guess who made a killing in the market today? You're making a big mistake brushing me off. You really don't know what you're giving up…. We could have some fun. Maybe you should take some time to think about this. I'll give you—” The answering machine cut him off. Before he could call back and talk into the machine all night, she disconnected it and unplugged the phone. She ran into the bedroom and unplugged the extension.

The apartment was finally quiet.

D
ennis insisted on following Agatha home. She didn't live far from work and wasn't a bit concerned about driving alone late in the evening, but after three hours of talking, a couple of drinks and a good cry, Dennis said he'd feel better seeing her home. If she didn't mind.

Mind? She thought it very chivalrous indeed. She had quite forgotten how nice it was to be in the company of a gentleman.

It was just after eleven when they both pulled up in front of Agatha's little house. It was in old Sacramento, in a section only a couple of miles from Dennis's own house. Young moderns had revisited the neighborhoods, rebuilding and improving. She'd been renting the place for that past year and it looked something like a gingerbread house. It was sweet, tiny, and surrounded by shrubs, trees, vines and flower beds. There was a winding walk up to the porch; a light shone warmly from inside.

Dennis got out of his car. “Agatha, this is priceless. Did I tell you that I live in an older home not far from here?” he asked her, staring appreciatively at the house. “I renovated it myself.”

“You think of this as an older home?” she asked, laughing. “I would consider it a newer model. I find it quite hard to live in anything under four hundred years old,” she said. “I suppose the polite thing to do would be to offer you coffee or tea to make the remainder of your drive less taxing. After all you've put up with tonight.”

“And I think I'll accept,” he said, and walked up on the porch.

Once inside, there was even more for Dennis to appreciate, particularly the homey touches she had provided—old English mixed in with American. It immediately struck him how much more comfortable he was in a house like this than in a new, starkly white, modern construction. Charlene liked the bright, clean look of newer styles; he thought of them as cold. “This reminds me so much of my mother's house,” he said. “I'm drawn to these classic neighborhoods. They have so much more character.”

“The neighborhood might be old but my neighbors are mostly young. Career couples, small children and singles. My parents' cottage was similar to this house. It too had a porch, fenced garden, outbuilding and attic with dormer. Well, I'll set the kettle to boil. Do look around as much as you like.”

The furniture was old but sturdy, decorated with hand-tatted doilies and antique antimacassars. The Oriental carpet was threadbare around the edges, but that didn't detract from its rich color and texture; in its day it must have been beautiful. The wood was dark, stressed and highly polished, and a faint smell
of lemon oil hung in the air. There was a dry sink in the small dining room upon which she had placed a crystal decanter set and glasses. Dennis lifted one of the decanters, uncorked it and whiffed a very fine brandy. Agatha had such excellent taste.

“I rented the house, furnished, from a gentleman whose elderly mother had to be moved into an assisted-living facility,” she called to him from the kitchen. He could hear the water running behind her voice. “The decanters are mine, the crystal from Ireland, the linen and lace also. I didn't bring much, but there were some things I couldn't leave behind.”

“Will you buy the house eventually?” he asked her.

The water stopped. She stood in the kitchen doorway, drying her hands on a towel. “I'll go home to England…eventually.”

This hit him with sudden, unmistakable sadness. When he looked at her, he knew he couldn't hide that emotion from showing in his eyes. She was lit from behind by the kitchen light and seemed almost ethereal. Mystical. There was a glow behind her hair, almost like a halo. He couldn't take his eyes off her. He was in a trance.

She cleared her throat and broke his spell. “There have been so many times I've wondered if I'd ever find someone special again, after all I've been through. It was hard for me to believe people get two chances.” She smiled wistfully. “Just knowing your story, Dennis, knowing about you and Charlene gives me so much hope. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

He nodded toward a picture on the buffet of a fam
ily of four. He suspected a relative or close friend. “Who is that?” he asked.

“My family. Me. Martin and the children. It was taken five years ago, not long before they died.”

He frowned. “It doesn't look anything like you,” he said.

She took off her glasses and placed them on the dark cherry table. “I try to project a much quieter image for the work I do. It's very important I cater to the brides, you see. They're my bread and butter.”

He stared at her with his mouth slightly open. “Damn shame,” he said. There was nothing homely about Agatha in her present incarnation; she was lovely. But the woman in the family portrait was much more provocative, with her fiery-red hair, all ablaze in long curls, a mischievous twinkle in her eye and a come-hither tilt to her smile. She was a vixen. “If you don't mind, I think I'll have a brandy rather than tea or coffee.”

“It's entirely as you wish, but I'm concerned about your driving. I understand the laws in this country are very strict.”

He smiled, poured himself a small draft in the snifter. “I'm not driving anytime soon,” he said softly. He extended the glass toward her. “Will you join me, Agatha?”

He could see a very slight movement, as though she started to accept, then withdrew. “I've had my doubts about dinner and ice cream…and of course, I've had second thoughts about you following me home to be sure I'm safely tucked away. There's no question
about it, having you in at this late hour is inviting gossip. But joining you in a brandy…? Dennis, I know that eventually Ms. Dugan is going to disapprove. Strongly.”

“Has it escaped your notice, Agatha, that Charlene hasn't called? Her ex-husband has called her out on an emergency and I haven't heard a word from her all evening.”

“She can't help but notice the empty bed.”

“We don't live together.”

“Really? In these modern times? Astonishing!” Then it crossed her mind that the fact did put a slightly different stamp on it.

“Charlene likes her independence,” he said, and even he noticed there was an edge to his voice. “I didn't mean to sound annoyed. I'm not. Oh, I was annoyed earlier this evening, before I stopped by the shop to cancel our appointment. Since then, I'm afraid my fiancée hasn't even crossed my mind. I should probably be ashamed of that.”

“I should say so,” she said. But it was then that she accepted the glass.

“It must have occurred to you by now that this has nothing to do with the bridal business.”

“Oh?”

“Or with Charlene.”

“She
is
your fiancée.”

“But this—me being here, having a brandy with you—is only about you and me.”

Well, at least he was the first to say it. Over the past three weeks her affection for him had grown pro
portionally. She found herself hoping against hope that he would come, and Charlene would fail him, stand him up yet another time. Agatha's meager protests against dinner, dessert, the lateness of the hour they dallied together at her house were halfhearted. She wanted nothing more than for him to stay.

As for Dennis, he was growing more and more attracted to her by the day, by the moment. He found himself driving by the Bridal Boutique on his way home from work, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. While he'd been more than a little put out with Charlene's many schedule conflicts, at this point he was not a bit unhappy that she was elsewhere.

Still, neither of them knew what they were going to do with the situation.

Agatha walked into her small living room and chose to sit in a chair with an ottoman. She didn't trust herself otherwise. This was becoming very tense. She knew the remainder of the night could answer some questions—and she welcomed his attention. Yet this could not possibly be more wrong. He belonged to someone else! She was the wedding planner!

Dennis took the corner of the sofa nearest her. He sat forward, his elbows resting comfortably on his knees. “Agatha—”

“Dennis, I must be frank,” she said, interrupting him. “You have me at a disadvantage. I'm completely unprepared for this…this…situation. Since losing my husband five years ago, I don't know that I've been alone with a man, unless it was on an elevator.”

“I apologize if I make you nervous, Agatha.”

“But, you see, I'm not in the least nervous. In fact, I haven't enjoyed myself this much since my husband was alive. I'm rather embarrassed to admit, I don't want you to leave.”

“And I didn't follow you home to be sure you were safe. I just couldn't stand to see the evening end.”

“But if you stay any longer, someone might do something he or she will live to regret.”

He seemed to think about this for a moment, then put his brandy on the coffee table. He half rose, leaned across the short distance that separated them and gently touched his lips to hers. She met his kiss, though hesitantly. Her eyes slowly closed and he moved over her mouth softly but purposefully. Her lips parted slightly, and with a tenderness that promised future tempest, he probed the inside of her mouth with his tongue. He gave her lips a delicate nibble, then withdrew and returned to his seat.

“Well now,” she murmured, shaken to her core.

He smiled handsomely. “I'm not going to do anything tonight that could prove regrettable,” he said. “I wouldn't put you in a position like that. But I'm not leaving either. Not until you ask me to. Because, Agatha, I haven't enjoyed myself this much in a long time either.”

“But you're to be married, Dennis!”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

“Well, blimey,” she said. “Looks like I've lost myself a perfectly good client!”

 

Long before Agatha finished weeping through the story of the loss of her family, long before Dennis insisted on following her home and long before Stephanie disconnected her phone and answering machine, Charlene was left to follow Jake away from the Jersynski house. She found herself parked behind him in the driveway of his small house. She wasn't entirely surprised. Jake wasn't in a mood conducive to a public gathering.

He didn't bother to wait for her, to escort her up the walk and to his door. He got out of his car, slammed the door, let himself in the house, flicked on the porch light, and was out of sight before she'd even gathered up her purse and coat. By the time she entered his house she could hear him talking on the phone in the kitchen. “What time was that? And they said what? Oh, that's beautiful! Fucking beautiful!” He paced in the small kitchen. “Okay, I've got a pen, give me the number. Got it. How are the kids holding up? Okay, I'll be in touch. And Sam…is her story still—Never mind, never mind. I'm going to talk to her myself, tomorrow.” He turned off the phone and slammed it onto the counter just as Charlene entered the kitchen.

“You can catch more flies with honey,” she said, throwing her coat over the back of a kitchen chair and her purse on the table.

“Imbeciles. Doesn't anyone care about keeping this woman safe?”

“Jake, stop it, please. I'm exhausted and I'm starving,” she said, and sank into a chair.

“I am way too old for this shit,” he said, running a hand through his errant, curly hair. He leaned wearily against the kitchen cabinet. “The medical secretary in the E.R. went on break and someone from a ward upstairs relieved her. Someone called and asked if Meredith Jersynski had been brought to the emergency room and was she all right. The stand-in receptionist said she'd been discharged.”

“He was one up on you.”

“Fools. This wasn't supposed to happen,” he said. “We were on top of it. We had her covered.”

“I know,” she said, sympathetic. And now they didn't know anything again.

“She's a good kid, Charlie, I'm sure of it. Just a simpleminded little girl from Odessa. I mean, she might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but there's not a mean bone in her body. And she loves those kids. She'd do anything for those kids…and she was only a kid herself when she had 'em.”

“Jake, this isn't your fault. This can still work out for her.”

He hung his head for a minute. “I should've never gone over there. Now he's on to us and knows we're on to him.”

“Well, you could have waited a little while….”

“I'm a screwup.”

“You're not a screwup,” she protested. “I said you were a hothead. There's a difference.”

“Yeah, not much.”

“Yes, much. You're one of the best cops I know, with one of the worst tempers. You'd think in twenty-five years you'd have mellowed out.”

“I
am
mellowed out! Can't you tell?”

She actually thought about this for a moment, frowning. It was possible. She looked around the kitchen. “Your house is in really good shape, Jake. I'm not sticking to the floor or anything. And there's fresh fruit in the fruit bowl. Since when do you eat things that are good for you?”