A Wedding in Truhart (14 page)

“Oh, that.”

“That? Not only are they really wealthy, but they're snobs. Well, actually, Henry is nice. Charlotte wouldn't be marrying him if he weren't. But June and her friends are really stuck-up. Charlotte is practically a nervous wreck when she is around them. Honestly, Ian, I'll bet they think we sleep in one long bed and wear red underwear with flaps on the back.”

“Oh, come on. You're exaggerating.” Ian looked at me with narrowed eyes.

“No. I'm not. During the shower I even overheard June talking to one of her friends in the restroom about how concerned she is that Charlotte and her family don't measure up.”

For a moment, Ian just stared at me. “So, you think we'll prove them right if we have the wedding here? Sure, Mom has bad taste in music, and Aunt Addie is—well, she's Aunt Addie. But are we that bad?”

“No. No, we aren't. But let's face it, Truhart is a little different than Atlanta. They rub elbows with national news anchors and CEOs of big corporations. They don't think anything of wearing thousand-dollar dresses and driving cars that cost as much as a house in Truhart. No, I take that back—three houses in Truhart.”

“Yeah, well, they still pee in the pot.”

“That's crude.”

“Well, I mean it, Bump. Why should we care what they think?”

“Because Charlotte cares. She was practically in tears last weekend. You saw their club; it's gorgeous. Look around at this lobby. The drapes are so old I think they came from a Montgomery Ward catalogue. This couch was popular in the seventies. The carpet is threadbare, the roof in the dining room is leaking, and the inn is practically empty. The bills are adding up, and we have no employees left—except one part-time housekeeper.”

Ian turned back to the fireplace. After a minute, he asked, “Are
you
embarrassed?”

That sounded like something Nick would say. I wished I hadn't brought the subject up. “No. Of course not. But I don't want to hurt Charlotte. And even more, I really don't want Mom to find out how they feel. It would crush her.”

I stared at the fire and tried to imagine a wedding at the inn. Was I overreacting?

“Mom keeps joking that she is going to sell to a developer,” I said.

Ian took a deep breath. “Whoa. I mean . . . really? I knew things weren't great, but is Mom really thinking of selling?” He shifted his weight, letting the prospect sink in.

“No. She says she won't. But we've lost so many summer regulars over the years, and we never really had a big winter crowd. Fall isn't too bad, but springtime is terrible. Remember? No one comes during the muddy season.”

“Well, I can help. I keep bugging Charlotte to do a story about our band on
The Morning Show.
With a few more good gigs we would have enough to—”

“No offense, but your toilet plunging is a hell of a lot better than your guitar playing.” I stood up and hit him on the shoulder like old times. Ian and I showed affection by squabbling, tattling on each other, and fighting.

“All right. I'll keep an eye on things, and if we have the wedding here, I'll do what I can to help.”

Even though Ian irritated me with his laid-back, scruffy-faced, starving-musician routine, I always knew his heart was in the right place. Together we could keep the seams of this celebration from bursting wide open.

“Thanks, Ian . . .”

“First get rid of Barry Manilow. Then you can thank me.”

I was the last to turn out the lights. I passed the plaque that hung near the entrance and straightened it for the thousandth time.
Where There Is Love There Is Life.

My father was never one to quote sweet sayings like “home, sweet home
.
” He preferred Mahatma Gandhi and Henry David Thoreau most of the time. He had carved the plaque years ago and I thought of him every time I straightened it. Not for the first time I wondered how different things would have been if he were still alive.

T
he leaves blew across the road and I skirted the edge of the shoulder just to enjoy kicking them. Someone must have been burning leaves because the smell lingered in the wind. Wisps of my hair caught the breeze and I gave up tucking it behind my ears.

What was Atlanta like in October? Probably as warm and muggy as it had been in August. Did Charlotte and Nick miss days like this? I had spoken to Nick on the phone several times, and he had sent me some funny e-mails. But I was beginning to wonder if I had imagined the episode on the picnic table.

Stopping for a moment, I glanced to my right along a rise that overlooked a large red barn. This was my favorite spot. Even if I hadn't had such a ridiculous childhood crush on Nick, I would have loved it.

Years ago, when Nick's father, Russell Conrad, was alive, a sign had stood in the corner of the barn that read, “Conrad and Sons Construction.” It was gone now. Three generations of Conrads had been builders, and if Russell had ever wanted his son to join him in the family business, he had never admitted it. He had been enormously proud of Nick and his career in architecture.

Farther down the ridge, beyond my sight line, was a butter-colored farmhouse where Nick's mother still lived. It was charming as well, with a porch on three sides and a peaked roof. But this view was special. The barn stood like a lighthouse overlooking the point a mile away where both Echo and Reply Lakes framed Truhart. Like a Norman Rockwell or Andrew Wyeth painting, it was pure Americana. Of course, from here no one could see the imperfections.

I raised my old film camera and snapped several good images. I still had a darkroom tucked away in the basement of the inn. But I had no idea when I would have time to develop these photos. Sighing to myself, I swung my camera back over my shoulder and continued toward town.

One of three towns in the county, Truhart was the most developed, which wasn't saying much. In the core of the town, a handful of buildings with false clapboard fronts were a combination of “vintage Midwest” and “cheap 1970s.”

Walking at a brisk pace, I was soon in town. I dodged a cluster of painted trash barrels and skipped across the street, making my way to Cookees Diner. The heart of town was what most of us half jokingly called the business district. Everyone passed through here at least once a week and almost everyone stopped by Cookees for coffee and gossip. I pushed open the door of the diner and looked around. Except for a few customers, things were quiet.

In the back of the diner a counter was flanked by swivel chairs and a built-in foot rail. Metal shelves lined the wall next to a large commercial griddle, and an old-fashioned Hamilton Beach milkshake mixer with large metal cups sat near the cash register. It had been used for decades, and I admit that growing up I had consumed more than my share of chocolate milkshakes after school and on weekends.

Mac, the cook, leaned against the counter with his head buried in the newspaper, frowning. I looked around for Corinne, the owner. She huddled by the wall near the restrooms with George Bloodworth, the mayor of Truhart. Her head was bowed as she listened to him with as foul a look as I had ever seen on her face. When he finished, Corinne shook her head and said something, flicking her wrists downward as if to indicate she was through listening. He tried to keep the conversation going, but Corinne saw me and started toward me, with George still talking behind her.

“—not doing any good,” he said.

Corinne kept walking as if she hadn't heard a thing. Then she looked over my head at someone in the blue booth by the window. I swiveled to see who it was. Grady Fitzpatrick sat with his back to us, slouching over a cup of coffee and staring out the window. Corinne lifted her chin, seemingly satisfied with what she saw, and shifted behind the counter.

“Hi, Bump, honey.” Placing a mug in front of me, she poured me a cup of coffee and then pushed the cream my way. I sat on a stool and prepped my coffee.

George walked over to us. “Hi, Bump. Your mama around?”

“No, she's at home.”

“Say hi to her for me. Oh, and make sure you tell your sister that I sure liked her story last week. I really was interested to hear about ways to make a person sleep better. I'm gonna try some of her suggestions.”

“A clear conscience makes a person sleep like a baby, George,” said Corinne. He ignored her.

“You'll say hi to her for me, won't you, Bump?”

“I sure will, George,” I said, forcing a smile.

As he left, Corinne rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. “He'd make a great feature story himself: the Grinch—alive and well in the heart of the North!”

“What's got you in such a foul mood?”

Corinne lowered her voice and nodded her head toward Grady. “Seems that some people are complaining about him . . .”

I peeked back to Grady, who hadn't moved a wink as he stared out the window. Five years ago he had lost everything. He had taken a big gamble on an irrigation and sprinkler business and overextended his credit. Unfortunately, the bank reclaimed not only his business but his home. At that point his wife took their kids and moved back to her parents' home in Indianapolis. Since then he had wandered the town doing odd jobs and drinking far too much. He hit rock bottom last winter when he drunkenly entered Ruth Zimmerman's home by mistake in the middle of the night. He crawled right into bed with her and fell asleep. The funny part was she didn't even wake up until the morning. Word was, her curlers practically shot off her head when she screamed and ran to her neighbor's house for help. The police charged Grady with breaking and entering and now no one would hire him.

“He's been going to AA meetings at St. Mike's for the past two months and I'll be damned if I deny him a cup of coffee and a warm breakfast each morning. I swear it's the only meal he gets,” Corinne hissed.

“Let me guess. Our esteemed mayor wants him off the streets . . .”

“Can you imagine? This is my diner and I can do what I want.”

I reached out my hand and squeezed her arm. With her overpainted eyebrows and her bleached hair, Corinne could easily have played a role in an old sitcom. She was the waitress everyone confided in, and if fairy godmothers existed I wanted her to be mine. Her wisdom was part of the glue that kept Truhart's soul together.

“I'm sorry, Annie. You take on enough burdens these days. You don't need mine.”

“Me? Oh, I don't have a care in the world.”

“About yourself, that is,” she said, looking me in the eye. “Oh well, let's talk about more important things, like the fact that Charlotte has finally agreed to have the wedding in Truhart. It took them long enough to make a decision.” And it had. Charlotte had kept holding out hope that they would find something that would work in Atlanta.

Corinne topped off my cup. “I am planning on being at the meeting at the inn next week so we can all help your mama plan this winter wedding in less than three months. Lord knows she'll need a little help,” she said, looking thoughtfully at Grady.

 

An hour later I heard a car coming up behind me as I was walking back home. An older model SUV paused beside me. I heard dogs barking and recognized Mary Conrad's voice.

“Hi, Annie!” she yelled, and shushed three black Labs in the back of her vehicle. Nick's mother was one of the few people who did not call me Bump. “Looks like you could use a ride.” She leaned across the front seat and opened the passenger door. “Hop in.”

I couldn't say no. Nick's mother was a lonely woman these days. With her children—Melissa, Jenny, and of course Nick—gone, the only companions she had left were her dogs.

As she shifted the car into gear she nodded her head at my camera and said, “You know, one of these days you're gonna have to show me all these pictures you take. How are the wedding plans going? I am so excited they finally decided that the wedding will be right here in our little town.”

We passed the creek that meandered toward the swimming pond behind our golf course. It was breathtaking. The trees, burnished in yellows and reds, formed a tunnel over the water.

“Annie, are they disappointed it isn't in Atlanta?”

I looked back at Mary, guilty of daydreaming. “They really didn't want to wait for—”

“I know it is hard to plan things around everyone, but if you talk to Charlotte can you let her know that we are really looking forward to it?”

“I can—”

“It must be so crazy for them to put together a wedding with half the guests in Atlanta. How are they going to get people here?”

“Already taken care of. They are going to charter a plane for the guests.”

“I was talking to your Aunt Addie the other day and she said Charlotte said some people don't think they can make it to Michigan for the wedding.”

“No. It seems like we are going to have only half the number they were planning,” I said. Half the number was still more than we could handle.

“That's what Nick thought too.”

I perked up at the mention of Nick's name. “How is Nick?”

“Oh, you know Nick, the same as ever. Burning the candle at both ends. Working too many hours, staying up too late.”

Acid ripped through my stomach at the thought of Nick so many miles away. Was Brittany keeping him up these days? What if they were burning lots of candles? As if reading my thoughts, Finn, the oldest of Mary's labs, leaned over the head rest and gave me a slobbery kiss.

“Finn! Get back!” Mary reached into the back seat and pushed him away and the car swerved on the empty road. “It's so hard to handle planning long-distance weddings, I'm sure. It sounds like it is going to be so fancy. All those people from the GATE Network we love to watch. Do you think Scarlett Francis will come? I just love that woman.”

I cringed. A vision of Satan with red hair cropped up in my mind. “One can only hope,” I murmured.

 

The next morning was slightly different than our usual Saturdays. There was purpose and excitement in the air. It seemed like every woman in town was gathered in the dining room of the inn.

I pushed open the swinging door from the kitchen, where I had grabbed a cup of coffee, and entered the dining room. I was taking advantage of the fact that the only guests we were expecting this weekend weren't checking in until after 3:00 p.m. I wore no makeup, my favorite old jeans, and an oversized flannel shirt. Finding an empty seat by the window, I watched the chatter volley from one end of the room to the next. Dozens of ladies sat at a large cluster of tables, debating local politics, complaining about the newest under-sheriff, the retirement of the old minister at St. Francis Methodist Church, and, of course, the wedding of the century.

My mother carried a decanter to the table. “Coffee?” she asked Marva O'Shea.

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Virginia. Put that blasted thing down and come and sit. We can all pour our own coffee, and if we need to make more we know where it's stored. That's why we're all here, after all. To make your life a little easier during this time.” Marva pushed her pink-rimmed glasses a little farther up her nose and looked around the room. “Anybody got any trouble serving themselves this morning?”

Everyone shook their heads and my mother sat down abruptly. Why Marva was Corinne's best friend was beyond me. Marva was the loudest mouth at any gathering. She prided herself on hearing gossip first, repeating gossip first, and keeping a secret. Despite this, we all put up with her because her heart was in the right place.

“Everybody shut up, now! We've got a wedding to plan and not much time to do it,” said Marva. Her glasses sank to the end of her nose on her puffy face and I found myself mesmerized that they could stay balanced as she moved her mouth.

Corinne, who was taking a break from the diner, rolled her eyes. The two friends fought together as much as they laughed together. “For the love of Pete, Marva, would you put a lid on it and let Virginia do this? It's not your wedding to plan.”

Marva straightened her shoulders and angled her eyes at Corinne. “I am only helping, Corinne. No need to get testy, here. I—”

“No worries, ladies,” interrupted my mother. “I'm grateful to get this meeting started. When I called a
few
people, I had no idea I would get such a large turnout.” She fixed her eyes on Marva, who seemed pleased with herself. “I have a list of items I need to figure out here, and since so many of you have already planned a wedding, I was hoping you might give me pointers.” She took out a sheet of paper and started to tackle the first item. “Flowers,” she began.

“I can get you a real good deal from the Family Fare, honey. We get a truck in every week with fresh flowers and arrangements,” said Marva smugly, sitting up straighter and pulling her peach-colored tunic down over her large frame.

“Oh, those are too everyday-like,” said a woman whose name I couldn't remember.

“Yeah,” piped up Corinne. “She's got a point, Marva. How 'bout the flowers from the wholesale warehouse just across I-75? We can get everything from purple roses to pink orchids there. And the prices are good.”

My mother wrote down the recommendation. “Well, that just might work. Charlotte is going with pale pinks and deep blues.”

“Oh, that will look so good with her coloring,” sighed Mary Conrad. I wondered when Nick's mom had turned into Charlotte's biggest fan. Oddly, it bothered me.

“We can get some vases from the craft store and put together really nice table arrangements, Virginia,” said Bridgette Farley in the back of the room. Several ladies from the Garden Club volunteered to work with her on table arrangements and bridal bouquets.