2 Months 'Til Mrs. (2 'Til Series) Read online

  “What kind of stuff?”

  Cara’s little voice chattered on and on, but Catherine heard none of it. She was in shock. How had she said yes to Fynn without one thought about Cara at all? Not that she would have turned him down because of—

  “What did you get?” Cara asked, like they were two little girlfriends.

  “Oh, I got wonderful things,” she said evasively. “I’m just glad that you had a great Christmas.”

  “Mom says that next year I won’t have to have Christmas in the hospital,” Cara said happily, too young to realize what that really meant for her mother. Yes, Renée likely wouldn’t be in the hospital next year, but she probably wouldn’t be at home either.

  “That sounds wonderful,” Catherine choked out.

  “And Cat?”

  “What is it, sweetie?”

  “I liked your gift the best of all. But Caramellie will always be my favorite.”

  “Mine too.”

  Catherine felt tears come to her eyes. She’d gotten Cara the other two complete sets of Sweet Treats sundae houses and dolls that she had always wanted when she was a little girl—Chocolattie and Strawberry Mary. Georgia and Tara had needled her mercilessly when they caught her shopping for more sundaes last fall, reminding her that she was dangerously close to becoming some kind of rabid collector, but it was all for a good cause. She knew Cara would play with the toys and love them with all her heart just like she and Josey had.

  She hung up the phone in a daze and found Fynn in the bathroom where she’d left him, now mid-stroke with his razor. “Were you going to tell me about the water?” he asked her reflection.

  Catherine grimaced. “I hoped you wouldn’t notice.”

  “You’re just lucky I didn’t find out in the shower,” he said, playfully grim.

  “How does Renée feel about this whole thing?” she blurted suddenly. Her stomach was a chamber of butterflies fluttering about. She’d only been engaged for less than a day and her buzz was totally ruined by a phone call—a nice, sweet, adorable phone call that reminded her about the reality on the other end of the line, the fact that their marriage, their future, was about more than the two of them.

  “What do you mean, how does she feel?” Fynn asked, like the question made no sense.

  “Cara is her daughter. She chose you to care for her, not me.” Call her crazy, but Catherine figured there would be some thought on his part to the fact that they would be married and the little girl of whom he would become the guardian in an undisclosed timeframe would be her responsibility too. Sure she had been blinded to that thought by the refracted glare from the diamond last night, but now it was patently obvious. They would basically be parents together. True, most people intend to take that leap together when they marry, but this went beyond egg-and-sperm or fertility drugs or blind adoption; this was a dying woman’s child they were talking about. It seemed only right to ask how Cara’s mother felt about the eventuality of her daughter’s primary woman-figure in her life being… well, Catherine Marie Hemmings. And speaking of which, it might have been nice to ask Catherine Marie that as well—considering Miss Ninny herself (excuse me, Mrs. Ninny), would probably be in charge of all that mothering stuff.

  “She’s fine with it,” Fynn assured her, putting down his razor and turning around.

  “Fine with it?” she eked. “Like Coke or Pepsi—makes-no-difference-to-me-as-long-as-it’s-wet—fine with it? Or looking-forward-to-Cara-having-a-new-mother fine with it?”

  The look on his face told her she’d caught him completely off-guard. “You haven’t even told her, have you?” she challenged.

  “Of course I told her.”

  “When?”

  He held his breath and she braced herself for the painful truth—sure it would be awful.

  “Months ago,” he mumbled.

  She choked on her own shock. “Excuse me?”

  “I told her three months ago.”

  “You told her what exactly?” Catherine’s heart was burning and racing, and her face was a deep blush tone.

  “I said you were the one. I asked for her blessing,” he said, plainly.

  “So you bypassed my dad and asked her first?” she joked, suddenly relieved. Everything extraneous to them had disappeared in that moment and suddenly all those butterflies landed in one fell swoop. He’d been wanting to marry her for three long months—it didn’t beat her five months, but it was nothing to scoff at.

  -18-

  “I can’t just elope,” she said to Connor, in answer to his brilliantly simplified advice.

  Right about now she was wondering why she had bothered calling him in the first place. Oh yeah, that would be to gloat. Here she was, happy, and he could do nothing to change that or cheapen it, and to make matters even better, he had opened with, “How’s that Fynn-ancé of yours?” and she’d simply said, “Fine, thank you for asking.” It was heavenly. Of course since then the conversation had spun out of her control.

  “Why?” he asked plainly.

  “No matter how much I would like to,” she assured him, “you know what Mrs. Hemmings would say to a quickie wedding like that—”

  “Praise the Lord!” he hollered with tent-revival exuberance.

  “As if,” she said snarkily. “She wants the legitimacy of a real wedding for her daughter.”

  “I already gave her the real wedding,” he pointed out, hammering that same fatal nail he’d used time and again. “Remember… a while back?”

  But she was immune to that type of pain now. She was getting married. It no longer mattered that he was younger and had gotten married first. “This one she can actually have a say in.”

  “Like you want her to have a say in anything.”

  “Maybe not. But she’ll get the mother-daughter struggle. I owe her at least that much.”

  “What makes that any different than an average Tuesday?”

  “Connor, I’m being serious.”

  “So am I, and let me just remind you that Mom and Dad eloped. If it was good enough for them, I certainly don’t think she would mind if you do it.”

  Catherine was momentarily caught off-guard. There he goes making a legitimate argument, she seethed.

  “Vegas, anyone?” he offered, filling the space she’d left unguarded.

  “You don’t get a vote,” she spat. “And why do you even care anyway?”

  “If I have to go to your wedding, I figure getting a vacation out of it will make it more worthwhile.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Like you were remotely interested in my wedding,” he charged.

  “But—” There was no defense though. She had hated every moment of Connor’s wedding—a bridesmaid along with all of Lacey’s sorority sisters who were giggling and getting along famously, reminding her of all the catty girls she’d run into when she had a brush with the Greek experience in college. It was a misstep really, a ridiculous idea that rushing would be fun. She forced Georgia into it. And in the end Georgia had been a top pledge pick for several sororities, while she hadn’t gotten any bids, at least not to any of the sisterhoods that counted. Thankfully Georgia didn’t join, and they went through college Greek-free but for the parties and some boyfriends. As far as Catherine was concerned, sorority chicks were the devil. No wonder Lacey rubbed her wrong.

  “You are such a grouch all the time,” Connor noted.

  “Did you ever think that maybe it’s you?” she asked.

  “I’m the grouch?” he squawked.

  “No, that talking to you puts me in a bad mood.”

  “I think that life puts you in a mood.”

  “Listen, I just don’t want your wedding advice, okay? I know that Mom and Dad would like to see me get married.”

  “Everyone is welcome in Vegas—says so on the commercials.”

  “Shut up, Connor. I have a strong feeling about this. And, if you remember, I was right about being Canadian.”

  “One-sixteenth Canadian—from a legal Ameri
can citizen no less,” he corrected.

  “Still, Canadian is Canadian…. And they did announce it that night at Trivor’s just like I said.”

  “Only because you announced that you already knew about their secret and you brought your Fynn-ancé as ‘cover’.”

  “Do you have to beat a dead horse, Connor? We’re actually engaged now, the joke is over.”

  “It’s never going to be over. The look on Fynn’s face was too classic when he realized you intended to use him to legally keep yourself in the country. Guy knew you a few hours and you were already hitching your marriage cart to his horse.”

  “Says the man who had no worries because he was already married to a legal citizen.”

  “Cat, we’re legal citizens.”

  “Sure, now we know that,” she said righteously. “But the flag—it was an honest mistake. And after the whole Wyoming debacle it’s obvious that Elizabeth and William Hemmings aren’t as transparent as we were led to believe.”

  “Because they planned to move to Wyoming and then decided not to?”

  “All out of nowhere,” she reminded him.

  “That is some rock-solid evidence,” he said patronizingly.

  “All I’m saying is they were acting loopy and I was being smart and proactive. And I happened to have known Fynn almost a week before I brought him to dinner with the family…. It just chaps your ass that your flighty sister might not be as flighty as you think.”

  “That’s what you take from all of this? You were wrong about everything, but it’s okay because you were just hedging your wild bets?”

  “Now you’re splitting hairs.”

  “I’m stating a fact.”

  “Blah-blah-blah”

  “You are such a pain in the ass,” he grumbled.

  “Badgering.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said badgering.”

  “This isn’t court. You are unbelievable!”

  “I’m just saying that I’m not always the most right, but I was hardly wrong,” she pointed out.

  “Whatever gets you through the night. But I stand firm that they were announcing the unexpected windfall sale of the Wyoming homestead that night, not our ancestral heritage as fractional Canadians,” he asserted.

  “Potato—potäto,” she said lightly. “And by the way, that sale of land is exactly why I think Mom would appreciate a real wedding.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you realize it was my wedding fund they used to buy that property?”

  “No it wasn’t.”

  “I’m dead serious,” she said, not even remotely guilty about telling the lie. Anything to shut him up and win the argument.

  *****

  “So what did Connor have to say?” Fynn asked, turning his attention from the TV as she came into the room from the kitchen.

  “Nothing of importance, as usual,” she grumbled, coming to the couch and curling up against his body like she owned him. She needed that comfort right now because just talking to Connor had made her wonder if she was being ridiculous about having a wedding. Maybe it was better if she just did what so many people were doing these days—

  “Didn’t sound like nothing.”

  “He was advising us to elope,” she said distastefully.

  “Aaah,” he said, dragging out the sound to fill the space rather than saying anything incriminating.

  “Do you think we should elope?”

  “What do you think?” he asked, obviously having no intention of answering wrong.

  She pulled away and looked at him, sitting up on the couch, challenging him to answer of his own accord.

  “I think we should do whatever makes us happy.”

  “Exactly. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  “So what makes you happy?” he asked.

  “I want the dress,” she said dreamily. “I definitely want that…. Oooh, and the dancing would be nice. And pictures to remember it by…. Oh, and a bouquet to hold because otherwise what will I do with my hands? And—”

  “It sounds like you want a wedding.”

  She looked deep into his eyes, trying to read something that wasn’t there. He was entirely open. It was really up to her.

  “I do.”

  -19-

  “I can’t believe I’m leaving,” Catherine whined. She stole a glance around her at the other people bustling through the airport on the way to and from their homes. Minnesota was simply a quasi-vacation destination, but Fynn felt like home to her, so even though she was technically going home it always felt like she was just going away again. “I hate this part.”

  “Me too,” Fynn said, squeezing her hand reassuringly.

  The gesture felt strange, the ring a hard immovable object fighting for space between her fingers, reminding her that everything was different now. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” she asked. “Everything is about to change.”

  “Why would you even ask that?”

  “Because you’re ornery and set in your ways.”

  “Me? Set in my ways?” His shock was overdramatized.

  “Well you are,” she sniffed, thinking back to the man she’d first met, all singular and irascible. He had no need for her or anybody. And their whole thing since had hardly ruffled his regularly scheduled life. “You have to admit that having a weekends-only relationship and me out of your hair all week long has been pretty ideal,” she prodded.

  “But life is real, not ideal,” he reminded her.

  “Don’t go throwing my mother’s words at me. It’s bad enough dealing with them popping in my head at any given time with no warning.”

  “First of all, I don’t like being alone. I happen to like being with you,” he said earnestly, making her tingle deep inside. “So I’m glad I was all grouchy and crotchety and unlovable so I was available when you came careening into my life.”

  “Careening? Really?” she asked, thinking back to the tiny little clown car she’d driven into Nekoyah.

  “Okay, whirring into my life.” He smiled a crooked smile at her.

  “Fair,” she admitted.

  She felt a slight hitch at the thought of never flying back to New York at all. She had spent her entire adult life there, was she really ready to say goodbye to that part of her? And why did he assume that was something she wanted?

  But suddenly Fynn’s mouth was upon her, stopping her and her thoughts in their tracks.

  *****

  Catherine twiddled her thumbs, bored, wishing she didn’t have to wait alone. How she longed for the days when people could see you off at the gate. She hated that all the goodbyes had to be said prematurely—by airline standards, a whole hour before you actually went anywhere, like eating before swimming. She’d been here so many times before, the seconds chipping away at her resolve to go anywhere.

  She wondered if Fynn was waiting somewhere else in the airport at this very moment, just in case her flight was canceled, or to make sure that she took off safely. She felt oddly a bit like Romeo and Juliet being kept apart by society at the behest of the TSA.

  Her phone came to life and she checked the display: call your parents. It was like a message from her subconscious. Or Catherine Marie. Or God.

  She blinked and looked again: covered you princess. She couldn’t believe how bad her eyes had played tricks on her. It was just Tara being Tara. She’d obviously caved and put in vacation time for her. That made her feel a little bad about not telling her the news of her engagement, but she wanted to surprise someone with that Bling! ring moment.

  She checked the time. She had a seemingly interminable wait ahead and only her phone to keep her company…. Oh, alright! she practically screamed at herself, pulling her parents’ number up on the list. Better now than later, when she would have plenty of other things to do.

  So nervous… and this was just listening to the ringing in her ear. It was like she was about to admit to her parents all over again that she’d backed into the mailbox with Dad’s Buick
. But this is good news! She couldn’t help it; she feared their judgment, seeing as how she’d gone from broken up to engaged in a matter of days. At this rate she would never outrun her reputation for being capricious and impulsive, descriptions that had floated around her name in various circles ever since she was a little girl in a ballerina tutu who decided mid-recital that she would rather be a police officer and started handcuffing her fellow ballerinas-cum-criminals on the stage. Of course Catherine still insisted that was the fault of Madame LaPierre, the ballet teacher, who had allowed her to wear her gummy bracelets during the show, giving her the tools to enact her vigilante justice—she should have known something bad would happen.

  “Hello?” Her father’s deep voice greeted her.

  She heaved a sigh of relief. Maybe she could just tell him and be done with it. He had always been more forgiving of her ways, more understanding of her means.

  “Hello?” It was her mother’s pleasant, almost-musical phone voice this time. Elizabeth Hemmings always showed any caller the utmost respect, even sales calls received the professional courtesy of a proper greeting. It was only after she found out who was calling that curtness would take over if need be.

  “Mom?” she asked, bewildered.

  “Catherine?” Her mother sounded surprised, as she did whenever her daughter called, seeing as how the Hemmings household lived in the dark ages before caller ID.

  “Where’d Dad go?” Though it wasn’t really surprising that as soon as his wife picked up he felt free to hang up.

  “Oh, you know him,” her mother said, shrugging off her husband’s lack of phone etiquette.

  “I really wanted to talk to both of you,” Catherine said carefully.

  “Everything’s okay, right?” Elizabeth asked quickly, but before she could answer she heard her mother calling out to her father to pick up the phone and talk to his daughter. All of this was done at full volume, probably because her mother’s hands were too full to cover the mouthpiece—cooking or ironing or folding something.