2 Months 'Til Mrs. (2 'Til Series) Page 13

  There was a click and some scrabbling and then her father’s voice came back on the line. “Catherine! I didn’t realize it was you!” The joy in his voice was unabashed.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “How did you make out driving back home on Saturday?” He spoke so loudly, making her pull the phone from her ear.

  “Oh, fine. Just fine.”

  “I was looking at your tires—”

  Elizabeth cut off his concerned-dad spiel. “William, she said she has something to tell us.”

  “Well… Mom, Dad, I have—”

  “What is it, dear?” Elizabeth Hemmings asked warily, as if waiting for the “C” word or some other awful news to accost her. Of course she would assume it must be something terrible, because Catherine Hemmings never had anything worthy of parental pride to say, not since high school when she’d graduated with honors. No, in the last sixteen years her news had been more toned down, in the realm of moving to a new apartment for cheaper rent, or needing her birth certificate to get a passport to go to France to study English of all things—that dream was short-lived as she was in college at the time and her parents weren’t paying for something that “bass-ackwards” her father had said, in no uncertain terms. Yeah, her news had been decidedly un-newsworthy for years. So her mother’s wariness was well within playable bounds.

  Catherine tried again, “I’m getting—”

  “Huh? What?” her dad bellowed. “I can’t hear you through this damn phone.”

  “Try the one in the den, William,” her mother directed through the phone connection, as if he would hear that when he hadn’t been able to hear anything else.

  Catherine listened to the clicks and thumping and rustling sounds on the other end of the line, imagining the musical-chairs panic that was probably ensuing in search of a phone that would work for her father.

  Her dad’s voice filled her ear again suddenly. “Catherine, are you there?” As if she would have hung up in the interim.

  “We’re both here,” her mother answered for her, exasperation heavy in her voice.

  “Catherine?” he asked anyway.

  “Yeah, Dad, I’m here.”

  “Finally… these cordless phones are just crap. A bunch of cheap plastic crap. Can’t stand any of them.”

  “Your father would like to reopen the pony express. And I think he’s been brushing up on his Morse code.”

  “You laugh, Elizabeth, but that was a useful way to get messages across,” he warned.

  “Guys?” Catherine said, reminding them she was there and present.

  “So what’s going on?” her mom asked plainly, her words punctuated by the steam from the iron sighing, followed by the unmistakable creak of the ironing board as her mother shifted the position of the clothing she had in her capable hands. Catherine couldn’t even remember the last time she’d ironed… or if she had an iron.

  “I just wanted to call because—”

  “Elizabeth, this phone is just as bad,” her father yelled, his voice coming to her not directly through the phone but first through the house on the other end and finally through her mom’s connection.

  “Come here, William, we can put her on speaker phone,” her mom yelled back.

  Great—Catherine hated speaker phone. It was like trying to have a private conversation in a crowded terminal.

  “We’re both here, dear,” her mother prodded, finally, sounding distinctly canned.

  Feeling significantly less wind in her sails but also significantly less nervous, she blurted, “I have news.”

  “Cough it up,” her dad said, probably intent on getting this over with so he could get back to watching golf on TV. He should be playing golf in his retirement, but as of this point—three years in—watching was about as close as he’d gotten to doing it. He watched old tournament reruns, current tournaments, golf tutorial shows, infomercials for golf products—but he didn’t actually ever golf.

  “Well, I—I mean Fynn and I….” She knew all the hemming and hawing was driving her mother crazy and she got a perverse pleasure imagining her trying to suck up her prim pride and deal with the illegitimate child she was most certainly sure was coming—a battle between good and evil in Elizabeth Hemmings’ head as she most certainly wanted more grandchildren—but a bastard?

  Catherine Marie,” her mother prodded with all manner of judgment in the syllables.

  “We’re getting married.”

  “You’re engaged?” her mother asked carefully, seeming nonplussed or maybe in shock considering hell must have frozen over.

  “Yup.”

  “It’s about time,” William Hemmings guffawed, making her smile. “Glad you straightened that mess out.”

  The same thing out of her mother’s mouth would piss her off—a double standard for sure, but unfair? In Catherine’s estimation, no.

  “Mom?” she asked tentatively.

  “That’s wonderful, dear,” her mother said, her tone constrained and more suited to news that her daughter had found a dollar-off coupon for shampoo.

  And there it is, she thought, self-satisfied and disheartened all at once. She’d known judgment would come, but in spite of that she still hoped for something better. Maybe even genuine interest and excitement. Her mother truly liked Fynn; yet Catherine was quite certain she had been happier when Connor announced his marriage…. And back then Elizabeth couldn’t even stand Lacey.

  Best Laid Plans…

  Wednesday, January 5th

  -20-

  “Look who ate the canary. You must have gotten it really good if you’re still wearing that grin.”

  “Tara?” Catherine asked, bewildered. The clothes were Tara’s—short, tight, and entirely manmade from the first fiber. Everything was questionably office-ready, definitely club-ready, and depending on the clientele, more than halfway to street-ready. But gone was the dark shade of black hair with an occasional aura of purple or blue or pink; in its place a headful of deep and vibrant red.

  “New look for a new year. You like?”

  She was in awe. When Tara committed to change, she really committed, unlike herself who agonized over shades of medium brown like it was war and peace and always ended up choosing the same color, the one that most closely matched her naturally boring shade.

  “So really, what gives? You’re usually a total dud by now.” She looked at her watch to exaggerate her point, like Catherine was completely predictable. “I’m guessing there was no unexpected visitor to dampen your sexploits?”

  “That was months ago…” she said, trying to wave Tara off like she didn’t even care. “A fluke—”

  “Period,” Tara finished for her.

  “How was I supposed to know it was going to arrive right when I did?” she said defensively. “It’s always been like clockwork, and then I—”

  “Didn’t even have a liner.” Tara bowed her head down, shaking it gently back and forth in pity.

  “It’s not like I—”

  “Utterly grossed out Fynn and Minnesotans everywhere?” she offered.

  “No one even knew.” Catherine’s face was beet red, though. Now she definitely didn’t feel sorry about withholding the engagement news—not one bit.

  “I know and I wasn’t even there.”

  “Shut up! I don’t need to relive it. It was horrible. Awful. My worst nightmare come true, alright? Is that what you want to hear?”

  “Pretty much,” Tara said, shrugging.

  “Happy New Year to you then. Now leave it in the past where it belongs,” she warned.

  “So what was with the goofy-ass grin I chased away?” Tara prodded, satisfied that she’d done her job of knocking her friend back down to earth. She took a sip of her blacker-than-black coffee that seemed to go against everything she stood for. Coffee was the only unadulterated thing she was into. She liked her food injected with fake colors and preferably sugar, salt, or fat-filled. She like her men pierced and tattooed. She like herself fully studded and accessorized. Bu
t coffee? That was only good straight out of the pot.

  “Nothing much. Nice long weekend. Getting married. Good nights’ sleep. The usual,” Catherine mumbled around a muffin she’d snagged from the conference room table even though she wasn’t exactly attending the meeting where they were serving breakfast munchies. They should lock them up if they don’t want the natives to eat cake.

  “Stop. Back up. Pull over. What did you just say?”

  “I’m getting married.” She faced her friend, waggling the ring in her face, self-satisfied smile broadening. She’d wanted to make her suffer for the news after the crap she’d just taken, but it was just too good not to share.

  “Holy shit,” Tara breathed, satisfyingly caught off-guard for a half second. And then came the jab. “I didn’t think you had the guts to settle down.”

  She should have ducked. “Now what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what I said.” There were no flies on Tara. Calling a spade a spade was her specialty.

  “It’s not a question of guts,” she said darkly, her stomach churning as if to defy her. “I just never found the right guy before.”

  “And you’re sure Fynn’s the one?”

  “Of course,” she choked out, hoping it seemed more like her voice was being assaulted by muffin crumbs rather than misgivings, which she most certainly wasn’t having, except maybe regarding her friendship with Tara.

  Friends weren’t supposed to question their friends’ choices. They were supposed to support them. They were supposed to speak only when spoken to… or is that children? … Well, at least she knew friends were the ones in your life who were supposed to help you figure out what to do—when asked. And Tara most certainly wasn’t asked. When you made an announcement, true friends were supposed to wholly back it no matter how crazy. And marrying Fynn wasn’t crazy. It was the least crazy thing she had agreed to do all year. It was only five days in, but it was still a good solid start. Tara should be her cheerleader not her personal devil’s advocate. This is exactly why you aren’t my maid of honor, bitch. She shoved another hunk of chocolate chip muffin into her mouth to stop herself from saying as much.

  “So, when do you leave?” Tara asked, perfectly blandly.

  “Leave?”

  “Yeah.” Tara gestured at the cubicle they had shared for the past five years. Their tiny little work home. Catherine’s side generally cluttered and vanilla-bland; Tara’s side visually overwhelming, plastered with bumper stickers for obscure punk bands. And on one upright pin-board wall they shared, there was the chalk outline of a body from last Halloween—complete with stains where the blood wouldn’t come off, although the police tape had long since been removed. Tara also had a riotous collection of accessories like she was running a Spencer’s franchise out of her half, although Lillian, the head of their department, had drawn the line at anything sexual, which is why Tara got such a kick out of having a penis pen in her drawer that she used for conferences and meetings. Without the cap (or head, as it was) it had gone unnoticed for months right in front of Lillian’s pinched face.

  “After… I guess,” Catherine said hesitantly. She hadn’t thought about her job at all. Of course she had to quit if she married Fynn and moved to Nekoyah to live happily ever after. That kind of commute would be murder; she appropriately looked to John Doe on the wall. They hadn’t really discussed the logistics of the situation; the engagement kind of crowded out any of the heavy-lifting stuff like when or how she would transfer her life to central time.

  “Just forget I asked.” Tara put her hands up in surrender. “I know that look.”

  “What look?”

  “The one that starts you rethinking everything from what shoes you wore today, to where you were planning to have lunch, to the whole concept of marriage.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Catherine snapped, reaching into her tote bag and pulling out a brown bag, dangling it in front of Tara’s face to prove that she was one up on her—she didn’t even plan to go out for lunch today.

  “Exactly,” Tara said in grim triumph. “Let’s see how happy you are with that when I bring back a sloppy-ass burger and fries for lunch.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Catherine gasped, grasping the bag that held the tiny microwavable bowl of low calorie, low fat, low flavor soup to her chest. Today was the beginning, a new leaf turned, and it would be hard enough without battling the smell of fast food.

  “What did you bring? A lemon?” she asked, referencing the sour expression that Catherine could feel on her face at the mere thought of eating what she’d packed. Tara snatched the lunch bag and dumped the contents on Catherine’s desk. “Good luck with that,” she said with a smirk. “If you’re real good and finish everything, I’ll take you to ice cream for dessert.”

  “But I brought my dessert,” she whined, pointing at the tiny cup of yogurt—plain yogurt that she had bought by accident and pushed way back in the fridge just in case Armageddon hit before February 23rd and she was at risk of starving. Turns out it had arrived, in the form of a wedding to plan and pay for. She needed to slim down and tighten the purse strings.

  “That’s not dessert. Nobody actually eats plain yogurt.”

  “Then what is it sold for?”

  “I think it’s used as glue in some circles.”

  “Well, I’m eating it,” she said, trying not to gag. “So I will thank you not to tempt me with all your throw-caution-to-the-wind diet habits that are only good for people with freakish metabolisms. I can’t afford to eat—”

  “That muffin?” Tara chuckled, pointing at her first downfall.

  Catherine looked to her hand and dropped the offensive breakfast food that she hadn’t thought twice about before stealing. How can I reform when I don’t even recognize when I’m falling off the wagon?

  “Nice try, though,” Tara offered charitably. You made it to 9 o’clock.”

  “Dammit, I need to fit in a wedding dress…. I have to find a wedding dress.”

  “Just buy a dress that fits you right now and keep eating the way you have been.”

  The girl had a point. But if that were really true, then why were brides always battling to fit in their dresses? … Maybe Tara’s seemingly logical reasoning went against the laws of physics or something. And then there was Catherine Marie poking at her from the other side, reminding her that a proper bride should not be a careless slob. She should look her best and feel her best. Damn you, Catherine Marie, for being so full of sense—for packing that damn yogurt—for being you! Years under Elizabeth Hemmings had made Catherine Marie a minion to all that was practical and right and proper and disgusting. The ninny.

  -21-

  “I came as soon as I could,” Georgia said breathlessly, fumbling through the door with her arms overloaded. Nell’s infant seat was hooked over one arm and provisions—Bride, Modern Bride, Over the Hill Bride, and Phew! Finally Getting Hitched—were nestled in the other along with pads and journals and a fistful of pens. “We have a lot to do.” She plopped herself down, rocking Nell’s seat gently to put her back to sleep after all the jostling from the stairs. “You really need an elevator. Having kids in a walk-up—”

  Before Catherine could respond to the topic of living here or having kids or any of the assumptions that Georgia was bringing to the table in a rush, the sound of breaking plates erupted from the kitchen, and Nell woke with a shriek.

  “What was that?” Georgia hissed, her eyes flashing with anger. “I almost had her out again.”

  But Tara answered that question, considering she was actually the one in the know. “I hope you weren’t planning to use that platter for anything,” she hollered.

  “Not tonight,” Catherine grumbled, taking a sip of her wine and rolling her eyes. She hadn’t used that platter even once yet; she’d bought it on a whim when she first moved into the apartment, imagining that maybe someday she would throw a dinner party or other grown-up event.

  “You got a dustpan around here?�
� she yelled again.

  “Under the sink,” Catherine snapped, watching Georgia fight to extricate Nell from the straps of the infant seat. It still hadn’t ceased to amaze her that Georgia was a mother now. She had a daughter who needed her on a minute-by-minute basis for everything. She was selfless, while Catherine was still childlessly, and sometimes even childishly, selfish. Then out came her friend’s breast for the umpteenth time over the last month and Catherine hugged her own chest closer to her. She happened to like her breasts as they were—less utilitarian and more naughty.

  “What is she doing here?” Georgia whispered once Nell was firmly latched on; obviously irritated by the addition of a noisy third wheel.

  She shrugged like it was out of her hands, even though she’d invited Tara over, trying to keep her nose from getting too far out of joint since she could only have one right-hand woman and Tara wasn’t her. It sucked having two close friends jockeying for position.

  “So what did you bring me?” Catherine asked, feigning total excitement when she really felt a certain amount of dread. She loved Georgia, but she also knew that her friend was coming from an otherworldly realm—a Cinderella state of wedded bliss. When it came to Thomas Love, money was no object; which meant the planning process was unhindered by such paltry things as food and shelter. The Loves’ wedding had it all—personal ice sculpture, doves, cathedral, penthouse reception. Theirs was a wedding fit for royalty and heads of state. Catherine’s wedding was going to be a significant downer, possibly subfloor, more of a basement-level event. But, on the other hand, if she had put Tara in charge—certified-single Tara—then nothing would get done and she would be flying by the seat of her pants up to and through the wedding, possibly on a trapeze for that matter, as part of a circus theme.

  “I have been saving these for a special occasion,” Georgia squealed with girlish delight.

  “You planning to dump old Mr. Love and remarry someday?” Tara asked, coming in from the kitchen with a plate of nachos, cheese dripping off the edges.