The Wedding Shawl (6 page)

Nell turned away, but the harshness in Andy’s voice stopped her, and she looked back once more to see Andy leaning forward, his palm flat on the table. “Blackmail?” she heard him say. “Is that what this is?”

Tiffany tore off her sunglasses, and Nell saw the tears gather, then quickly begin to roll down her cheeks. She reached out and touched Andy’s arm.

He pulled back with a jerk as sudden as if she’d pressed a lighted cigarette into his arm.

Nell looked around. All around her people were laughing and talking, table hopping to greet friends; waiters scurried to replace pitchers and platters and baskets of fries. No one seemed aware of the drama playing out at the small table near the railing.

Just then a young waitress carrying an enormous tray attempted to move around Nell, and only then did she realize she was standing still, blocking traffic. Quickly, she headed back to her own table, looking back only when she’d handed off the napkins to Willow.

Andy was gone. She spotted him at the outdoor bar, grabbing a beer that the bartender slid across the counter.

Tiffany’s eyes were on Andy’s back, and the look of longing on her face was so intense that Nell quickly turned away. It was an awful, sad longing.

“You okay, Nell?” Pete stood next to her at the end of the table, wiping calamari from his hands.

She managed a smile, then looked across the deck, where Andy was heading back to the stage. “I’m fine. But is your friend Andy okay?”

Pete followed her look. Then he glanced over at Tiffany. “I hope so. I see she’s here. No surprise. We can always count on an audience of one.” He laughed, but his eyes were serious.

“You mean Tiffany?”

He nodded. “She’s okay, I guess. Kinda quiet. At first I thought she was just a groupie, fawning all over Andy. It bugged him. But after a while he warmed up to her. They knew each other when they were teenagers, he said. So they started hanging out, mostly at Tiffany’s instigation, I think. But Willow says, what’s wrong with that? Men can pursue women and no one thinks anything of it. She has a point, I guess. Anyway, they were together a lot these last months. But lately, I don’t know.

“The last couple weeks it seemed to get to Andy. He’d get this trapped look on his face. She came over early today, when we were setting up, offering to help. Andy tried to ignore her, but she wouldn’t let him. She said they needed to talk about things. It was important, she said. I thought I heard her say something about …” Pete stopped. He frowned, then laughed, scattering his words as if he shouldn’t have spoken them in the first place. He looked toward the stage. “Looks like we’re ready for another set. Gotta go.” He gave Nell a pat on the shoulder and melted into the crowd.

Nell watched him walk away, an uncomfortable feeling growing inside her. Across the room, Tiffany Ciccolo sat alone, her glasses back on and her face turned toward the stage. Her expression was unreadable.

By the time Pete had tapped the microphone to life, people had moved to their crowded tables and settled down, ready for another go-round.

The music grew in volume as the night darkened and the crowd thinned out, some settling in for the last few songs, others moving off toward home. Sam and Izzy left to take Birdie home, and by the time Pete stretched and Merry began belting out “Scarlet Begonias,” Nell’s lids were drooping. Beside her, she felt Ben’s head nod once or twice.

“You’re waking up just in time to help us tear down,” Pete said, coming up alongside Ben and clapping him on the back. “Good man.”

Hank followed him over and thrust a beer in his hand. “Good job, Pete. Here’s one for the road.” He looked around, spotted his wife across the deck, and waved her over.

But Merry ignored him. Instead, she walked over to the table where Tiffany sat alone, her elbows on the table, her head resting on her hands. She was staring off toward the water as if she’d lost something there.

Tiffany looked up as Merry approached. A neutral look, neither welcoming nor unwelcoming.

Merry sat down and put one arm around Tiffany’s shoulders. From the stage, Andy seemed not to notice. He wrapped up the thick cords and began to pack up his equipment.

Nell finished a cup of coffee that Hank had thoughtfully brought over and suggested to Ben that they leave.

“You folks go on,” Hank said. “I’ll help the band get their stuff together.”

But before they could get up, Merry made her way over to the table and grabbed Hank’s arm. “Go talk to Tiffany, Hank,” she said. Her voice was firm.

Hank frowned and followed the point of her finger.

“Tiffany Ciccolo. You know, Hank. The shooting guard. Go. She needs to talk.”

“To me?” Hank’s frown deepened. “Is there a problem?”

“Just go. Now.” Merry placed both hands on his back. Her head barely reached his shoulder blades. She gave him a shove.

Hank hesitated, but Merry stood resolutely behind him.

Finally he walked over to the table.

Tiffany looked up, her expression still sad, but she welcomed the bar owner with a smile. Then she reached up and hugged him.

“I guess it’s weird to have a wife throw her husband at other women,” Merry said to Nell, her eyes making sure Hank didn’t abandon Tiffany Ciccolo. Out of habit, she began cleaning up the table, using a rag Hank had left behind. “He doesn’t necessarily like it when I offer his shoulder like that, but Hank’s easy to talk to, you know? When he coached our team a lifetime ago, we’d dump on him. This big lug of a guy. But he’d listen. He always listened.” She stopped and laughed. “Maybe that’s why he’s such a great bartender.”

The sound of car keys broke into Merry’s chuckles, and Nell looked up. Ben stood nearby, a key ring dangling from his fingers.

“My chauffeur,” she said, looking back to Merry.

But Merry was already off, hugging some friends at the next table, wiping surfaces, her smile selling a few more beers. She was beginning to believe Cass, Izzy, and Willow when they suggested that Merry Jackson was the real force behind the Artist’s Palate.

Ben wrapped an arm around her and led her over to the steps. “I know what you’re thinking. ‘If only I had a tenth of that energy.’ ” He looked over at Merry, then pulled Nell close. “But you have all the energy I need, my dear.”

Nell laughed. “For once in your life, you’ve crawled inside my head and come out with the wrong thought. I was trying to imagine Merry’s elfin body on a basketball court; that’s what I was thinking.” And she was also thinking that beneath her bubbly exterior, Merry Jackson was a compassionate young woman—and one whose husband very nicely allowed himself to be pulled into that compassion, whether he was comfortable there or not.

Chapter 6

T
he next day Tiffany showed up exactly when and where she told Izzy she would. Eleven a.m. sharp. Twenty-two Sandswept Lane.

Nell opened her front door to an apology.

“I’m so terribly sorry, Mrs. Endicott,” Tiffany began. She stood on the stone steps, a large bag slung over one broad shoulder and a notebook binder in the other hand. She wore a short-sleeved knit shrug, a single button holding it in place, with a tank top underneath, a silky summer skirt, and red sandals with clunky heels that lifted her to Nell’s height. In her hand she held a bouquet of fresh flowers. The same huge sunglasses covered her eyes and half her face. “For you,” she said.

Nell waved the apology away and suggested that Tiffany call her Nell. “I’ll answer more quickly,” she laughed, lowering her head to smell the daisies. “These are lovely. Thank you. Now, come on in. Izzy’s pulling some scones from the oven. Let’s talk wedding.”

Tiffany had called early that morning, and Izzy suggested that they meet at Nell’s house. It made more sense. Tiffany could get the lay of the land, determine what equipment she’d need to bring, how many stylists they needed.

Izzy waved at Tiffany from the island. “The blueberries are from the market. The rest is all Nell. You’ll be happy you came.”

“You’re great, both of you. I might have fired me if I’d been you.”

Izzy laughed. “You may wish we had when you get through with my great-grandmother Chambers, not to mention Great-aunt Florence—she’s ninety and has beetle-black hair.”

Tiffany smiled and her shoulders relaxed. She pushed her hair back behind one ear and sat on a stool, opening up the three-ring binder and slipping on black-rimmed glasses. She leafed through the book, asking Izzy questions and scribbling down notes.

She was the kind of young woman people might easily forget. Plain and pleasant. But her coppery hair now added some signature to her, Nell supposed. People would remember the beautiful hair, if not the person. Whatever had bothered her the night before was hidden there behind the glasses, and Nell suspected that was where it would stay. Tiffany Ciccolo was keeping her distance.

Her movements were purposeful. Efficient and businesslike. Perhaps to erase any lingering images of how she might have looked the night before.

After scones and coffee, they did a quick tour of the bedrooms where the women in the bridal party would dress the day of the wedding. They’d use Nell and Ben’s bedroom, dressing room, and bath, as well as the guest rooms. It would be more than enough room, Tiffany said, satisfied. She’d carefully written down the names of the wedding party and Izzy’s relatives who needing styling services that day, and assured her it could all be done in an hour or two. Easy. Tiffany would bring champagne, orange juice, bottled water, and nibbles, along with her stylists. She suggested Izzy have some favorite CDs or an iPod loaded and ready to go. This would be another fun part of the day, she promised.

Tiffany took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. It was then that Nell noticed how tired she looked. A sleepless night, her eyes said.

As if sensing Nell’s look, Tiffany turned away and looked around Nell’s kitchen. “This is a dream room,” she said, admiring the sixburner stove, the inviting island, and the hanging rack of copper pots and pans. Sunlight poured through the open windows, flooding the breakfast area and highlighting the bamboo floors.

Nell’s cooking area spilled directly into the family room, where wide couches and comfortable chairs sat on sisal rugs. At the far end the stone fireplace was surrounded by bookshelves crammed with books, small pieces of art, and family photos.

“I’ve always loved this house,” Tiffany said. “It’s even more beautiful on the inside. Someday … someday this is exactly the kind of house I want for my family. When I was in grade school I had a friend who lived around here, and we’d cut through your backyard on our way to the beach sometimes. My friend said all the neighborhood kids did it, but I was pretty sure we’d be arrested.”

“Not a chance. There was an open invitation. So you grew up here, Tiffany?”

She nodded, her eyes still scanning the comforts of the homey living area. “Not around here, though. We lived out near the highway. But I went to Sea Harbor High, so I knew some kids who lived in town. Not many. There were cliques. You know how high school can be. Popular kids. Smart kids. Nerds. Geeks. All that awful branding.” She fingered the edge of her sweater.

She half smiled, almost apologetically, Nell thought. As if it were her fault that there were cliques, or that she wasn’t in the right one.

“Did you knit your sweater? It’s lovely.”

“Me?” Tiffany looked surprised, and then she laughed. “No. I’m still on scarves. But I keep trying. I’ve spent several paychecks in Izzy’s store. When I was in high school, my friend’s mother tried to teach us both how to knit once. She was such a cool knitter.” Tiffany paused, a wistful look following her words. She looked down at her cotton shrug. “But this? My sister knit this. She’s a fantastic knitter. She sends me sweaters and hats and socks all the time. Sheila’s, like, amazing. You two should meet, Izzy.”

“Does she come to visit you in Sea Harbor?”

“No. Never. She lives in Nebraska. But I keep trying to get her back. Who knows? Maybe someday.” Tiffany slipped off the stool and walked over to the window above the sink. She looked out at the yard.

“This is a perfect place for a wedding. It’s so beautiful, it should be in a magazine.” She pointed toward the back of the yard and to a circle of fruit trees and shoulder-high rosebushes that nearly hid a small frame house. “I remember that little guest cottage back there, right near the woods. We peeked in the windows once. It had the highest bed I’d ever seen. I wanted to hide away in it and never leave.”

Izzy laughed. “That’s exactly what I used to do. It was my special place when I’d come here to spend summers with my aunt and uncle. I thought the backyard—woods, trees, hammock, cottage—all belonged to me. I loved it here. And now—well, now it seems the perfect place to get married. Come see.” She headed for the French doors. “Aunt Nell and a friend have turned the yard into a wedding forest, green and soft and peaceful. It’s a paradise.”

Nell followed the two women outside. She noticed Claire at the far end of the yard, almost invisible in a green T-shirt that blended in with the bushes and trees. The gardener was hunkered down beneath the tall pines, mulching a border of brilliant green and yellow hostas.

Izzy gestured to the deck steps and the flagstone path. “My aisle,” she said. Then she pointed out the grassy area where they’d set up chairs, where she and Sam would stand side by side and promise to be together the rest of their lives.

Tiffany looked over the whole yard as if watching a movie. “It’s just perfect.” Her voice caught, and for a minute Nell thought she might need a tissue. But then she seemed to catch herself, and she coughed lightly as if clearing away a frog in her throat. “Weddings make me emotional,” she said, and then asked Izzy if they could check upstairs one more time. She wanted to be sure there were enough outlets for curling irons and dryers.

But Nell suspected she needed a change of view before her emotions got the better of her. She watched them disappear into the house. In her salon encounters with Tiffany, she’d not seen that emotional side of her, but the thought of Izzy’s wedding gave her a catch in her throat. She certainly understood.