The Wedding Party

“Charlie, this is stupid!” he yelled.

God, he was following her. In the car.

A car going in the opposite direction whizzed by. The splash off the tires provided a fine spray of mud to add to the rain, which had lessened to a heavy drizzle, but was not quite enough to wash the streaks of mud off her face and coat.

All the stuff she thought she had handled began to come back one at a time. The Samuelsons, Stephanie, Dennis and Dr. Malone, Peaches—and Jake, his timing as bad as ever.

“Charlie!” he yelled. “Hold up, will you? I need to ask you something. I need a favor.”

“In your dreams,” she muttered to herself. If I am afraid of commitment, she thought, Jake Dugan would be a good enough reason.

A flashing red light throbbed over her head and she turned to see that her ex-husband had attached his portable police beacon to the top of his car. He followed her at a safe distance, slowly, so that if a car approached from behind, she wouldn’t be mowed down. But then again, she wouldn’t need this service if he hadn’t shown up in the first place, which was the cause of her walking home in the mud and rain when she had a perfectly good cell phone in her purse.

She made the right turn into her neighborhood in ten minutes. She could have been faster if the weather had been decent. The flashing red light disappeared and Jake’s headlights strafed the houses as he made a U-turn and departed. It was then that she realized she wore his blanket around her shoulders. She shrugged it off on the front walk and hung it over the wrought-iron entry gate.

She stepped into her house and stepped into sanity. The lights were dimmed, the table set, candles lit, fire in the hearth and two cups of something steaming sat on the coffee table in front of the fireplace. Dennis, having heard her come in, appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a dish towel. The sight of all this peaceful domesticity warmed the heart of the drowned rat and without stopping to consider the ramifications Charlene heard herself say, “Dennis, do you still want to get married?”

Stephanie moved a cherry around in her Coke with the straw, staring into the mix, daydreaming. She sat at the far end of the bar near the cash register, and when Grant was between customers, he spent a few minutes leaning across the bar talking to her.

This was how they’d met. She’d been at the bar with a couple of girlfriends and had flirted with the cute bartender. That was two and a half, almost three years ago. It was a lot more romantic then than it was now.

A guy, carrying his drink, sauntered over and sat down beside her. “Tell me you’re not waiting for someone,” he said to her.

“Okay. I’m not waiting for someone.”

He smiled. He wasn’t bad-looking, with a nice shape to his face, curly hair and friendly brown eyes. A sharp dresser. He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Thank you, God.” He refocused on her face. “So, tell me your heart’s desire and I’ll bring it to your feet.”

I must be getting old, Stephanie thought. Bar talk used to be fun…and now it only sounds stupid.

“Hey, Freddy,” Grant said, slapping a cocktail napkin down in front of him. “You meet my girl?”

“Your girl? Shit.”

“Freddy, meet Stephanie. Stephanie, meet Fast Freddy.”

“Fred,” he corrected with a casual sneer directed at Grant. “Darlin’, if you’re mixed up with this guy, you’re making a huge mistake. Let me take care of you.”

“What can I get for you, Freddy?” Grant asked. Grant had that look—narrowed eyes, forced smile, sunken cheeks. He was working on being polite. This was not a good sign for Stephanie. If Grant had appeared to actually like Fred, Stephanie might have shunned the man. But Grant’s dislike provoked her into overt friendliness. It was all about the way things had been going lately. The squabbling. The complete failure of compromise. The need to do something to perk things up, to get Grant’s attention.

“I’m good,” Fred said, lifting his half-full glass. “Fix up the lady, here. My treat.”

“You think she buys drinks at my bar?” Grant asked with a mean laugh.

“You mean she’s really your girl?” he asked, incredulous.

“Really. As in, we live together. Another Diet Coke, Steph?”

“No, thanks. So,” she said, turning her full attention and sweetest smile on Freddy. “How long have you two known each other?”

“From the Stone Age, man.” He sipped. “Like, high school.”

“Jeez, I thought I’d met all Grant’s high-school pals,” she said.

“That should tell you something,” Grant said, turning away to serve other patrons.

“He’s always been the jealous type. I get all the girls. But until this moment it meant nothing.”

She laughed at his absurdity. “These come-ons, Freddy. Stale. Old. Completely transparent.”

“I know. I’m thinking of getting a writer.”

“Ah, the Cyrano de Bergerac syndrome.”

“Spoken like a movie buff….”

“English teacher.”

“No kidding?” He seemed to relax into himself. “I’m a history major. I taught for two years. I really liked the kids, but the pay sucked.”

“So I’ve noticed.” She glanced at Grant and saw him glowering. Her eyes went back to Fred. “What do you do now?”

“I’m a day trader. Stocks. Commodities.”

Her eyes actually lit up at the word day, but Freddy might have thought she was responding to trader. “Really? Sounds interesting. Tell me all about it.”

On the night Charlene and Dennis decided to get married, they changed a flat tire in the rain, traded their wet clothes for warm terry robes and then spent a quiet evening talking about the day’s events over a light dinner of hot soup and cold salad. “You go first,” she said to him. He, somewhat reluctantly, told her about an auto accident that had taken two lives—a grandfather who might’ve had a coronary at the wheel and a nine-year-old boy who wasn’t buckled in and upon whom the emergency team had exercised every gift modern medicine had to offer before they let him go. It was Dr. Malone’s first fatality as a pediatric resident.

“Now you,” he said, and she skipped the Samuelsons and Stephanie’s remarks and went straight to her mother’s crisis. Tears threatened again. Charlene honestly didn’t know if she was going to get through this without endless crying.

When she was finished, Dennis said, “You know, it could be a number of things—from the predictable old-age dementia to Alzheimer’s. It could even be small strokes…or maybe she was just very tired or had other worries on her mind. Then again, maybe it only appeared she was confused and lost when she was daydreaming.”

“Do you think it’s possible?” she asked hopefully.

“I think she’d better see a doctor, a specialist. There’s a good geriatrics doctor at St. Rose’s. People like him. If you can get Lois to go, I can get her a quick appointment. He owes me.”

Dennis always made everything all right. No matter what the crisis, he could be counted on. “I would be so lost without you,” she said.

“So that was what had you crying? Worrying about your mother?”

“Yes. Silly, isn’t it? I usually check things out before I overreact.”

“And were you so overwrought that you walked home from your car in the rain?”

She grimaced. Ah yes, there was something else she hadn’t mentioned. “Jake was on his way here to ask me a favor,” she said. “He pulled up right behind me, moments after the tire went flat. It started to pour so I got in his car to sit it out. Then he asked me if I’d put on a little weight.”

Dennis couldn’t help himself. He started to laugh.

“I wasn’t amused,” she said.