Hysterical Blondeness (19 page)

Honestly, it could be a convention of Control Freaks Anonymous, but her future mother-in-law was far more used to keeping up a public facade up than her mother.

Carolyn Gangmark and Jan Coleman, her two friends from college, had huddled together for safety. She knew perfectly well her sisters couldn’t hunt up any high school chums of hers because no one knew she actually existed in high school. She’d been lost in a sea of blonde and beautiful teenagers.

“I can’t get over your hair, Patricia. It’s so unlike you, but such a great change. You look like a different person,” her sister Carol said.

Thanks, Carol for pointing that out in front of Mrs. Nordquist. The scarf that Pinky had tied strategically around her head kept all the shadow-of-a-doubt roots in check. Patricia didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.

“Where are you and Brett going on your honeymoon?”

Patricia realized she had no idea. She looked at Gloria Nordquist.

“Brett still has a few weeks in his cast, so they’re going to delay the honeymoon a bit. They can stay in their little love nest at the other wing of the house for a while,” Gloria answered.

More awkwardness.

Pinky saved the day by rounding everyone up to open gifts. Patricia wanted to run into her room and lock the door, but instead she sat down on the leather chair and let everyone gush and hand her gifts.

Her sisters gave her tablecloths and napkins, her mother gave her cookbooks, and her two friends, bless their hearts, gave her a big box of books about things they knew she loved—photography, architecture, art, Paris—the start of a great library.

“This is so wonderful, you two, I can’t even tell you.” She gushed until her sisters started to look peeved.

“Here,” Pinky interrupted. She put a creatively wrapped package in her hand. Patricia peeled back the paper carefully and tied the beautiful leaf and bronze ribbon bow on her wrist. Inside was a boxed DVD set of Alfred Hitchcock movies:
Marnie, Vertigo, Rebecca, North
by Northwest, To Catch a Thief, The Lady Vanishes
, all her favorites.

Pinky looked at her and between them passed the secret code of best friends. Patricia knew if Pinky spoke she’d just cry, so she squeezed her hand.

“You and Brett can get started on film festivals,” Pinky said in a choked voice.

Paul made a noise from the kitchen.

“Oh, this one is from Paul.” Pinky handed her a small package in black paper with a gold ribbon. Interesting wrap choice. She smiled a little smirky smile at him.

She pulled off the wrappings and found a black velvet jewelry box. When she opened the lid she saw a truly lovely vintage necklace with amber and gold formed into leaves and flowers. It was so personal and so perfect. She slipped it around her neck and Pinky automatically helped her with the clasp.

A ripple of oohs went through the ladies. “It matches your dress perfectly,” Heather remarked.

“Thank you so much, Paul.” She got up and walked into the kitchen. “Thank you,” she whispered. She kissed his cheek and left an
amber-glaze lip print. A rush of emotion tingled over her.

There was a whole lot of silence from the living room.

Patricia broke the quiet. “Give me a nice hot cider refill, please. Anyone else want a cider refill?”

A little rumble of conversation started back up and Patricia returned to her seat with a cup of hot cider and floating cloves.

Pinky read the tag. “This one is from Lizbeth.”

“Thank you, Lizbeth. You shouldn’t have.” Patricia set her cup down and unwrapped the floral package. It was a black lace bra-and-panties set nestled in white tissue paper. Patricia stared at it for a moment, then lifted it up for the others to see. “How fun.” Patricia smiled a fake smile. What was up with the lingerie anyway? She was drowning in the stuff, and no one knew that better than Lizbeth.

The usual round of comedy occurred as she repackaged the set and put the box at her feet.

“One more and we’ll have lunch.”

“Oh, Patricia, we’ve forgotten to make your shower bouquet. Here, give me a paper plate and
some scissors, Paul, and hand me all the ribbons.” Her mother held out her hands to receive the items she’d asked for.

Snip, snip, snip went the scissors, and each little snip made Patricia’s nerves jump. While her mother stuffed ribbons in the paper plate, she opened the last gift, from Mrs. Nordquist.

It was from Nordquist’s, of course. She sprung the ribbon and handed it to her mother. The box was wrapped the way some people do to let you remove the lid all at once. Patricia gasped. Inside the box was a cup and saucer in the Flora Danica pattern. Her eyes met Mrs. Nordquist’s and for a split second there passed between them not the secret language of best friends, but the secret language of women who marry into money. Sort of like…sympathy.

Patricia choked up. She put the box carefully on the coffee table and rose to give Gloria Nordquist a small embrace. “How did you know?” she asked softly.

“Believe it or not, Brett mentioned it.” Gloria seemed genuinely moved.

Lizbeth glared at Patricia. Oh God, now Lizbeth was going to make this into a daughter-in-law competition.

“Thank you, everyone. These are the most lovely, thoughtful gifts I’ve ever gotten. She stared at Pinky while she said that. “Now let’s do eat. Paul has made us a delicious lunch and if we’re good, he’ll let us have the chocolate cake I saw earlier.” Patricia did hostess with the mostess just to show Gloria Nordquist she had it in her.

The ladies adjourned to the dining nook and seated themselves. Patricia followed Pinky into the kitchen to help Paul.

As they worked together, Patricia notice the seamless team effort the three of them made moving around the kitchen.
This
was her family now.

She loved her sisters and most likely her mother as well, but there was so much baggage there. Carol took up putting Patricia down where her mother left off. Heather was in her own little world, although her baby sister would always be dear to her heart, cute as she was. She seemed to be a wiser girl these days, watching the interactions of Patricia and Mom with a keen eye.

But these two, Pinky and Paul, were the two most important people in her life.

Patricia put her hand over the necklace Paul had given her and felt the intricacy of the beads and gold leaves.

She was in a state of extreme confusion. Maybe she should skip the soup and head straight for chocolate cake.

The three of them sat on the couch of many colors after everyone had left. Paul sat in the center, Patricia was tucked up on one side of him still in her party dress, and Pinky, who had shed her brown and pink dress for flannel pajamas, was curled on the other.

Paul handed Patricia yet another pile of tissues from the box Pinky held. The girls had put
Now Voyager
on the DVD player. It always made the two of them cry, but this time was way worse. Patricia’s hysterics slowed to a hiccupping air-gulping stage. She blew her nose again and threw the used Kleenex into the paper bag Pinky had made her breath into earlier. The bridal shower had sent her over the edge.

He’d been feeding them prosciutto and melon with chocolate cake on the side for dinner in between cries.

Paul let the warmth of Patricia soak into him.
This might be the last time he ever got to hold her like this.

Now Voyager
was one of their favorites, but the whole part about the main character standing up to her mother at last, well, that hit Patricia’s buttons all over again and made stage-two hysterics commence. The whole theme of the movie was how the Bette Davis character transformed from an ugly ducking to a beauty and found true love but the man could never be hers completely.

Kind of like Patricia, because in her heart she must know that Brett would never be her soul mate. He would never give his whole being to her because he was a self-centered spoiled man, even if he did fall off a balcony.

But Paul damn sure as hell didn’t want to spend
his
life in a state of noble unrequited love waiting for Patricia to leave her rich husband like Bette Davis did in this movie. If she wanted to marry Brett, he’d have to let go. But letting go was not what he wanted to do.

Why these two always found the movie that hurt the most was really a mystery. Patricia’s crying picked up again as Charlotte Vale delivered her final line:

“Oh, Jerry, don’t let’s ask for the moon. We have the stars.”

Pinky on his left began to blubber, too, taking her glasses off to wipe her eyes.

Patricia bawled into a pile of Kleenexes. Between jags she kept staring at the damn teacup Mrs. Nordquist had given her.

She leaned her head on his shoulder and he could feel her wet tears soak into his shirt. Time was running out for them. An intense frustration coursed through him. He gently shifted away from her and got up, leaving the two of them to fend for themselves. He couldn’t take it anymore.

Patricia sure as hell had something to cry about. She was marrying the wrong man. He had to stop this wedding.

Affliction is enamoured of thy parts, and thou art wedded to calamity.

Shakespeare

The harpist was drunk. The
groom was on painkillers and champagne. Her beautiful beaded wedding gown had vanished somehow in the alteration stages and been replaced by a rather tight-fitting substitute gown courtesy of Gloria Nordquist, who patted her and said tsk-tsk, she’d put on a few pounds, and, my, my wasn’t her hair interesting now?

Her perfect beaded shoes had also vanished and the pumps Pinky foraged up were too tight.

On top of all that, she was a brunette again.
She’d braided pearl strands through her wavy brown hair, she’d tried to maintain her “elegance,” but there was no doubt about it, brown was brown.

Last night at the rehearsal Patricia had stepped into the big shiny impressive Episcopal cathedral and Brett had looked her over like a prize filly that had changed colors midrace on him.

“Wat append to eore air?” He’d said through his new no-wire jaw apparatus.

Patricia had made a joke of it and passed it off as a woman’s whim. “I decided to go chestnut bronze like the season.”

“Av ou gaind eight?” He cocked his cocky head at her.

“A little,” she answered. Yes, she had gained a little weight, and thanks for pointing that out.

“Eird,” he said, which she took for
weird
.

They’d lived through the mock-ceremony, although she sensed a real change in Brett. He’d held her arm like she was a possession and joked about her with Eric and Lizbeth in garbled phrases that they all thought were so very funny but she didn’t really understand anyway.

When she thanked him for the teacup his mother had given her, he said he’d told his
mother about what expensive taste Patricia had as a joke, and how well she’d fit into the family, and that she’d better marry into the Nordquist family or all of her measly paycheck would go toward fine china.

And now, in the bride’s room, thirty minutes before the wedding, standing here getting trussed up by her best friend, she was nervous as a feral cat. Her tiny little veil kept tipping sideways because it wouldn’t hold in her hair. What a stupid veil.

Pinky was worse. Her hands fumbled as she fastened the little buttons on Patricia’s fingerless gloves.

“Hold still while I get this last button.” She stood back and looked at Patricia. “At least they could have found something that suited you better. Although I do like the sheath look, and the silk is very nice. It’s very simple and elegant, don’t you think?”

“Honey,
elegant
has become a dirty word in my world. What happened to
your
dress, Pinky, I mean you’re wearing peach. Peach is not cocoa.” Patricia’s hands shook as she held her bouquet of camellias.

“They must have delivered both dresses to
the wrong church.” Pinky avoided eye contact with her, but Patricia was too emotionally strung out to wonder why.

“Well, for crying out loud, Pinky, they have to be in this mausoleum somewhere. Let’s hunt through these offices!” Patricia felt herself go into a strange angry mode. “Come on.” She grabbed Pinky by the hand, her camellia bouquet losing bits of baby’s breath as she charged forward. “Come
on
, Pinky.” She stamped her foot to Pinky’s protesting non-movement.

Pinky didn’t say much, but went along with her. They walked down the dark wood-paneled corridors and opened door after door. Her sisters were in one, all happy in peach silk. Patricia briefly nodded to them and shut the heavy door in their faces.

She had to keep up her search. For some reason she just had to know that her perfect dress was not in this building before she’d walk down the aisle in tight silk with a yellow undertone. Yellow. Her dress had a slight pink undertone. Taupe. Beigey pink.
Not yellow
, for Christ’s sake. She heard herself muttering, “Taupe,” as she walked.

And what had happened to her vintage blue and brown color scheme? Her head jerked back
as she passed the sanctuary and saw huge bouquets of peach and white everywhere.

Her father looked more nervous than she did. He waved a scary wave as she passed, and she ignored him. If she stopped, he’d probably criticize her choice of music or something. Not that she’d actually made any choices.

Paul had been staring out the entry hall window watching the rain drizzle down outside for an hour. His insides were raw and his heart actually ached. All he could think about was Patricia pulling him into bed one dark October night not long ago. He moved from image to image of her in his mind.

Paul thought about his grandparents and what they went through and how they stayed together. He thought about how much he loved this woman. He loved her enough to let her follow her crazy dream. But it was killing him to watch.

Earlier he’d noticed Brett pace up and down the front of the sanctuary, which was hard to do in a walking cast. He did look uncomfortable in his gray pinstripe morning suit. Then Brett had walked past Paul about a half hour
ago muttering something about getting a drink, and vanished down one of the dark hallways.

Currently, he noticed Patricia was behaving like a deranged bride going in and out of doors one after the other down the opposite hallway. Was she looking for Brett?

She got to his spot in the hallway. “You know it’s bad luck to see the groom before the wedding,” Paul joked.

Patricia glared at him and passed right by, dragging Pinky in a ghastly peach-colored dress. Pinky looked at him desperately. She obviously needed help.

As he followed them, he noticed Patricia was wearing the necklace he’d bought her in New York. Her hair was now a beautiful rich auburn brown and he wondered why he’d never noticed how lovely it was. He walked a few paces behind and stayed out of the way as Patricia opened and closed doors. They came to a flight of stairs and she headed up.

“I bet they’re up here. They always put stuff upstairs,” Patricia charged forward.

Pinky lagged behind slightly and caught Paul’s arm.

“She’s looking for her wedding gown. It didn’t arrive at the church and she thinks it’s in another room, but she’ll never find it because it’s not here.”

“How do you know?” Paul asked, climbing stairs.

“I’ll tell you later.”

A crack of lightning was followed instantly by the rumble of thunder.

“Spooky,” Pinky hissed.

“Close,” Paul said.

Paul took some huge steps and caught up with his best friend and love of his life that he might never see again, Patricia. She’d opened two doors so far and only found brooms and a Sunday school room, as far as she could see.

“Patricia, what can I do to help you?” he asked.

“Just help me look for my gown. I’m in the wrong gown,” she answered, breathless.

No kidding she was in the wrong gown. Her hair was tangled in pearls and tousled, her veil was crooked; she was one crazy bride. He stood back and let the spark of hope that she might call this off fan into a full-fledged fire.

Patricia flung open a door and yet another dark room greeted them. Pinky stood behind Paul and sighed loudly.

As Patricia stood in the doorway, a blinding flash of lightning illuminated the entire room through its multicolored stained-glass gothic window. She saw sofas, a desk…

And on that desk sat Lizbeth. She twisted around at the sound of the door and screamed when the lightning flashed. Her blonde hair lit up like gold.

And so did Brett’s.

At first Paul had trouble making out the actual scene, but then it all became clear. Brett had Lizbeth on the desk and Lizbeth’s dress was temporarily pushed up to her waist. Brett was engaged in Lizbeth.

Brett was so engaged he didn’t actually hear the door open, and he continued his engaging behavior, letting out the distinctive sounds of a man engaged in having sex. Brett had his hands on Lizbeth’s bare behind and had just given her a quick pull his direction, with the appropriate groan of male pleasure muffled through a mouth brace.

Patricia slowly closed the dark wooden door and turned to face her two friends. She could actually
feel
the color drain out of her face. This must be what people who get hanged feel like. All of a sudden the trap drops, whoosh, and you’re in midair with nothing to hold you up, then, snap, your neck is sideways.

She sucked in a breath.

Pinky rushed to her, but Patricia pushed her away.

“You
can’t
go through with this,” Pinky yelled.

“Leave me alone. Get out of here, both of you. Go downstairs.”

Paul took Pinky by the hand. “Let her go. I’ll take care of this,” he said. They turned away from her and started back down the stairs.

All along he’d known one thing. Patricia had to come to him on her own. She had to wake up from her dream world and realize deep in her heart that
he
, her best friend, was what she’d been searching for.

He couldn’t pick her up and throw her over his shoulder and drag her out of here, she had to
wake up and see the light. Well, the light was cracking through the sky in shocking bolts at this point!

Now was the moment. There was no way he’d let her marry Brett Nordquist, even if he had to stop the wedding himself.

“She can’t do this, she wouldn’t. Would she?” Pinky tried to catch her breath and talk at the same time.

“We’re going to have to see just how far she will go, Pinky. But I promise you something. There is no way this wedding is going to take place today or any other day.

“I like the sound of that. Shall I lock her in the bridal room? Got duct tape?”

“No, we’re going to let Patricia have a little rope, but we won’t let her hang herself, okay?”

“Okay, Paulie, just let me know if you need anything.” Pinky touched his hand.

“I might need a few hours alone at home tonight. Watch for the sign.”

Pinky elbowed him in the ribs. “I’ll watch. Now I have somewhere to go when you need privacy. Dr. Jimmy Bender will save me from the storm.”

The thunder and lightning continued to punctuate her spinning thoughts. Patricia held her hand against her temple and tried to stop the pounding.

In the shadows of the dark hallway she found a corner to shield her. Minutes ticked by and finally Brett emerged from the room she’d barged into. He turned to Lizbeth and patted her hip. She straightened his tie. Then he left her there, grabbed the rails of the stairway, and swung down the stairs jolly as you please.

Lizbeth stood in the hall and powdered her nose with a pretty gold compact full of pressed powder—expensive powder, no doubt. She smoothed her smooth blonde hair and calmly walked down the stairs.

Patricia emerged from the shadows. This was her life now. This was what rich, spoiled husbands did. They kept a mistress and a wife. The wife got the Flora Danica china and the mistress got diamond bracelets.

Lizbeth was a perfect mistress. Even if she
was
going to be his brother’s wife. She’d fixed it so she’d gotten
both
brothers. But that made it so handy. So
in the family
. Every holiday, brother Brett and Lizbeth could sneak off and find a
quiet spot in the attic to screw their brains out while Patricia and brother Eric drank eggnog with the folks downstairs.

Brett didn’t even care that Lizbeth might be carrying his
baby
. Or maybe that turned him on even more. Maybe he figured that was the perfect way to stick it to his brother Eric for stealing Lizbeth out from under his nose.

It was perfectly clear to Patricia that Brett Nordquist needed to be removed from the planet. He was an amoral, evil man. She considered her options.

She could marry him and kill him later, which would make her his widow and entitled to his money. She started walking down the stairs slowly. At each step her dark side grew darker. She was a dark-haired woman. Darkness filled her like an inky blackness.

She could just stab him right at the altar. She’d put Pinky’s sharp-as-death scissors in her bouquet and stick it to him in one swift movement instead of saying,
I do
. That was it, she’d bend forward just slightly, lean in, and slice his innards open. Or maybe she should go for his black, evil heart.

Oh, wait, he didn’t have one.

Patricia staggered down the stairs carrying her bridal bouquet. As she approached the opening to the sanctuary, she saw Lizbeth take her place next to Eric on the groom’s side. Oh,
that
was completely sickening. Maybe after she stabbed Brett she’d stab Lizbeth, too. Just to do a favor for Eric.

No, Lizbeth deserved to live because she was pregnant and karma would get her in the end anyway.

Far away in her mind she heard organ music. It was the old classic “Here Comes the Bride.” Like she’d have that played at her wedding.

Her father took her arm and pulled her toward the red-carpeted aisle. Patricia had a flashback of
Father of the Bride
and the aisle turning to rubber as Spencer Tracy walked toward the altar. That made her laugh. Here she was, walking to her doom, with old movie scenes flashing in her head.

She could see Pinky on her left with her sisters. She could see Brett to the right, smiling like the gigantic
fesso
he was, fresh from sex with Lizbeth. My, he’d limped down here quickly.

No, she was the
fesso
. She had been a complete
idiot for so long it had actually become second nature to her.

Damn, she forgot to put the scissors in her bouquet. Why was she here? She didn’t want to marry Brett. She didn’t want to raise his little towheaded children and have them running all over the lawn of the estate while he screwed his sister-in-law in the pool house.

Patricia noticed everyone had stood up.

Lightning flashed like the crack of a whip.

Thunder rumbled outside.

Patricia kept walking. She walked all the way up to the front of the sanctuary and let her father give her to Brett.

Pinky stood beside her, tears streaming down her face. Her makeup smeared down her cheeks. Poor Pinky. Have some faith, girl!

“Sorry, babe, wild oats,” Brett whispered in her ear. It came out pretty clearly for once.