Late to the Wedding Read online

  Late to the Wedding

  By Laura Briggs

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2012 Laura Briggs

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Image: “Bride Begone: Vintage Wedding Art Collage No.3”. Altered art digital image. Used with artist’s permission.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter One

  “It’s clearly gothic,” said the museum curator, gesturing to the display case mounted on the wall. “A symbol of the recurring nightmare that haunts the fevered brain of the emotionally disturbed.”

  “Excuse me,” interrupted the painter known simply as Blaine, “but I created the portrait, and I say it is classic cubism. Edgy, and deeply personal, and representative of mankind’s universal loneliness.”

  The curator released a vicious snort. “Cubism is Picasso or Braque. This is early Pollack at best.”

  “Early Pollack?” screeched the artist. “Where did you learn about painting–kindergarten?”

  Stationed between the arguing men, art critic Evelyn Chase scribbled furiously on a notepad, trying to keep up with the barbs. Pausing only to blow a strand of strawberry hair from her eyes, and glance at the work in dispute. A black and white collage of human faces set at skewed angles, it was set to be unveiled that night in a much-hyped cultural gala.

  “Excuse me,” Evelyn began, seizing a window of silence to address the fuming Blaine, “but could you tell me what inspired the–”

  “Never, has anyone questioned the authority of Blaine,” the artist snapped, his fingers tugging furiously at his red neckerchief. “Never, has my work been insulted in this fashion.”

  She nodded. “I understand that, sir, but I think our readers would like to–”

  “Yes, well,” the curator cut in, “your work has never before been displayed in the Metropolitan Museum of Arts, has it?”

  The artist’s eyes bulged; his cheeks flamed to match the color of the neckerchief. “How dare you. Such lies!”

  “Oh, really?” said the curator. At which point, he turned in Evelyn’s direction, a scowl curling his lips. “What does the art critic say?”

  “Blaine’s latest work defies a single interpretation.” Evelyn’s fingers tapped across her laptop’s keyboard, effortlessly forming thoughts, now that she was safely ensconced in her regular booth at Leopold’s Deli. “For although it incorporates many of the classic elements of Neo-cubism, this is not simply another black and white nightmare…”

  She trailed off, as she reached for another piece of Panini bread. Enjoying the mingled flavors of Ricotta cheese and sweet olives as she sank her teeth into the flaky crust. “Certainly, at first glimpse, the multiple faces suggests a classic psychoanalytic commentary on society’s greatest fears. But there is something deeper, something more oriented to the individual’s crisis, rather than the collective.”

  “My favorite customer! And my one and only favorite critic,” teased the deli’s white-haired proprietor, Alfred Leopold. Leaning over the decorative screen partition, he shook a bony finger in Evelyn’s direction .“But such a pretty girl sitting all alone–it’s not right.”

  “I keep waiting for someone like you, Alfred,” she answered, enjoying the old man’s devilish grin. “Are you sure you haven’t got a grandson available? A nice poet or street painter to share my secret dreams?”

  “Ah, you’re pulling my leg,” he laughed, waving a dishtowel. “Besides, you’re too busy for romance, am I right? Always working, always with your nose stuck in that computer screen.”

  She grinned and offered a helpless shrug. “Feature reviews for New York’s finest publication don’t write themselves.”

  A reference to her job as art critic for Modern Canvas Quarterly, a small but elite journal that was tucked inside the apartment boxes of subscribers and donors, rather than sold off the racks of ordinary corner newsstands.

  “I tell you what,” said Alfred, “there’s a novelist who comes in around two every day, sits in the same booth, the one by the window. Stick around, trade a few smiles–maybe you’ll hit it off.”

  “Not today, Alfred.” She closed the lid to her laptop, slipping it down inside the protective case. “I’m having my apartment thrown into chaos at two-thirty.”

  This was a slight exaggeration. She was having a piece of furniture sent to the restoration shop, as a surprise wedding gift to a friend. An antique console the bride-to-be had coveted in loud, suggestive tones. And that she, Evelyn, had rather personal reasons for wishing to be rid of.

  Reasons that might explain why she kept her nose buried in a computer screen so much of her time and gave up her old table for two at her favorite dining establishments.

  *****

  Evelyn pulled the antique console away from the wall, careful not to scratch the wood floor beneath it. A furniture masterpiece with walnut finish exposed beneath peeling Tuscany cream paint, gold filigree locks, and handles that made it the most elegant piece in her sparsely decorated, one-bedroom apartment.

  The featured paintings above weren’t exactly what most people expected from a professional art critic either. A mix of new age and avant-garde, with perpendicular shapes designed to impart a soothing, harmonious effect.

  A firm believer in the yin and yang rules of furniture placement, Evelyn arranged chairs and floor lamps in a semi-circle; Grecian urns, and tables with sprawling plants and flower displays were angled in corners against stark white walls. A room organized like a group of people avoiding each other at a party.

  She double and triple-checked the console’s three felt-lined drawers for any forgotten or treasured possessions. After all, it had been a gift from her ex-fiancé, who presented it to her as romantic gesture on their first “anniversary”. Though it didn’t really count, since they had been broken up for nearly two weeks that year, in a tiff over couple-oriented hobbies.

  The console was a remnant of one of those occasions when Jared planned an impulsive and sentimental stunt designed to sweep her off her feet the moment she least expected it. Some had worked, like the unforgettable moonlit rooftop dinner he arranged for their second date. And the magical butterfly hunt and picnic lunch at Twin Streams Park.

  Others had bombed in a serious way. The birthday party sushi bar; the sky diving lessons he thought she would “love” for a weekend activity. And then there was the time he playfully tossed her in a friend’s swimming pool at a summer cocktail party, diving in himself moments afterwards, dressed in a stylish Italian suit.

  That incident had led to break-up number two.

  ‘Fire and Ice,’ their friends nicknamed them, an affectionate reference to their tempestuous relationship. A crazy merry-go-round of fighting and infatuation that lasted through two years and five break-ups. Until four months ago, when Jared took an editorial position at a newspaper in Montgomery, Alabama.

  “We’re not exactly long-distance material,” he said, the last time the
y spoke, seated across from each other in a corner booth in their favorite bistro. His voice broke, his green eyes meeting her own with a mixture of guilt and misery. “And given our history, I’m not sure either of us is quite ready for the big commitment.”

  “That’s what you always say,” she answered, arms crossed as she surveyed him with anger. “Do you really think we’re not mature enough to make a final decision about us?”

  His words were painful; more so than any of their last breakups, explaining why her fingers were twisting her napkin into knots beneath the table.

  He leaned forward. “This time it’s different, Evie,” he said. “I need to start fresh with this job; start making some decisions for me for a change. Can you understand that?”

  She hadn’t answered him. Instead, she grabbed her handbag and walked out of the restaurant. She spent the rest of the afternoon with her cell turned off as she toured an art gallery, deleting his messages without listening to them later that night.

  Her fingers softly stroked the console’s scratched surface as she replayed those memories. Her eyes dimmed as she remembered the occasion when Jared presented this gift to her. His excitement as he led her blindfolded into the dining room, where it stood displayed in the center with a big cream-colored bow tied around it like a sash.

  “It’ll be in our combined apartment someday,” he’d whispered in her ear, his arms wrapped across her chest in a way that made her dizzy with love.

  Now it depressed her, thinking of how it became a place for her to drop the weekly piles of mail.

  The buzzer sounded from the lobby, signaling the arrival of Brizio, the delivery man for Ciampa & Son’s Fine Furniture Restoration . “Gorgeous,” he proclaimed, running a hand over the antique’s battered exterior. “Nice Old World charm, no? I can see why you want its full beauty restored, though.”

  She watched as he carefully strapped it in place on the dolly. “How long do you think it’ll take?” she asked, calculating the days to Jenna’s July 30th wedding. A high society affair scheduled to take place at a historic chapel, with a reception afterwards at the Grovsner Gardens.

  “Judging from the condition–which is actually pretty fair–I’d say we’ll have it back inside your hall within a couple weeks.”

  “Perfect.” She smiled and held open the door as he wheeled it out. Not bothering to add it wouldn’t be residing in this particular foyer any longer, but rather in a posh three story residence in New York’s East Side.

  Goodbye, ex-fiancé’s console. With a sigh, she clicked the door shut. In a way, this experience had been cathartic, she told herself. An emotional cleansing, like those women who tossed the photos taken with their ex into the river. Or–in the case of one of her critic friends–engaged in the pointless vengeance of dumping his ring down the garbage disposal.

  The empty space where the console once stood stared back at her as she turned from the door. Except it wasn’t empty–not completely. A crumpled envelope peeked from beneath the wall’s wrap-around border.

  Great. Dropping to her hands and knees, she reached for it, envisioning a forgotten bill, or maybe a business item from a colleague who preferred snail mail to electronic communication. Instead, she flipped it over and read an address for Alabama. The name Jared Bidlow printed across the custom made label.

  When had this come? Her heart turned over; a familiar flutter stealing through her frame. Jared had written to her after he left; after that disastrous farewell scene in the bistro. But why?

  Tearing it open, she pulled out a single sheet of stationary, dated just two weeks after they officially broke up. Her eyes moved past the professional letterhead to scan her ex-fiancé’s perfect print:

  Dear Evie,

  I know you have every right to tear this up after what I said that miserable day at the bistro, but I hope you’ll read on, if nothing else, for old time’s sake. Because ever since I stepped off the plane in Montgomery, I’ve been regretting that stupid moment when I finally called it quits between us.

  It‘s like you said–we always get back together. Some might call our relationship pattern a pointless cycle, but I’d like to think it’s something more. Like a sign that we’re meant to be together.

  I don’t want to settle for someone else, for someone who’s safe, or maybe just good for my image. I want us to grow old together–and I’ll do whatever it takes to make it work.

  You may wonder why I didn’t call instead of writing, but this isn’t something you can discuss on a telephone. It requires a lot of thought, a lot of soul searching. I’ve done my thinking–now it’s your turn.

  Will you take a chance Evie? I’ll be looking for your answer every day.

  As always,

  Jared

  Evelyn gasped, her fingers clapping over her mouth in shock. As the other hand released the letter, the white page fluttering softly back to the floor.

  Chapter Two

  The phone rang four times on the other end before Evelyn’s brother answered. A syndicated sports columnist in Brooklyn, Andy had been friends with Jared long before she ever was, the two of them meeting as rookies trying to break into the newspaper business. As far as she knew, they still kept in touch by occasional phone calls and emails.

  “I’m right in the middle of a column, so this better be good,” Andy warned, skipping the courtesy hello. “You know these are my office hours, right?” Which really meant he was lounging in his living room in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, typing with one hand and drinking coffee with the other.

  “I just need a quick favor,” said Evelyn. She was seated on the bean bag chair she usually reserved for meditation exercises, her feet tucked beneath her legs. The bombshell letter was spread across her lap, its surface crinkled from the multiple re-readings she’d given it that afternoon . “Could you give me Jared’s phone number?” she continued, keeping her tone casual. “I need to talk to him, but all I’ve got is his old one.”

  “Yeah, okay.” His tone switched from brusque to curious, with just a tinge of suspicion. “What’s up?”

  “Oh, um…” She hesitated, creasing and un-creasing the page’s bottom corner. “I found something that belongs to him. Something I should really return.”

  In person, and if possible, in a spontaneous and romantic gesture that Jared himself could have brainstormed. Her way of bridging the personality gap that always lay between them; her final chance to show him that she could seize the magic of a moment and make it last a lifetime.

  “Well, sure, I can give you his number. But I don’t know if he’ll be in cell phone range. He’s driving down early for the wedding preparations, and all that.”

  Rats. She mentally cursed whichever friend or family member decided to stage their nuptials at this critical moment. “Has Casey found another husband already?” she asked, remembering Jared’s flighty younger sister. A singer/songwriter with a taste for barroom strangers and professional bull riders that left the rest of the family somewhat speechless with embarrassment.

  There was a pause that lasted so long she wondered if maybe they’d been disconnected. Then her brother gave an awkward cough. “Didn’t you know? Jared’s getting married on Monday.”

  Evelyn leaned back, momentarily forgetting there was nothing behind her but air. Landing on her elbows, she nearly dropped the phone, all while groping for some sort of reply.

  “But…but that’s so fast,” she stammered. Her mind rushed to calculate the passage of time since he mailed the letter. And came up with an astonishing fourteen weeks for him to meet, romance, and marry a total stranger.

  “Talk about classic rebound, huh?” Andy joked. “Especially since he was still mooning over you when he moved. Asking about your dating life, spying on your art blog. Typical lamo stalker stuff.”

  Evelyn sank all the way to the floor, cradling the receiver against her neck. Her gaze wandering to the ceiling, as the image of a desperate, heartbroken Jared flooded her mind. “I don’t want to settle for someone else,
for someone who’s safe…”

  Was he doing that even as they spoke? Rushing into the wrong lifelong commitment, thinking she’d thrown away his heartfelt plea without a second thought?

  She regained her focus in time to hear the rest of Andy’s explanation. “I got the invitation a couple weeks ago,” he said, “but I can’t go, of course. The golf tournament starts Monday afternoon, and the boss expects me to be front and center for the action.”

  “Where is it? The wedding, not the tournament,” she added, knowing how her brother’s mind worked. “Is it somewhere in New York?” She sat up and crossed her fingers, hoping Jared had planned a location with his extended family and old colleagues in mind, rather than his newer connections.

  “No, no it’s somewhere in Alabama. Wait a sec, I’ll find the invitation.” Rustling sounds echoed across the line, followed by the clink of a coffee mug tipping over, and Andy muttering an oath. “Oh, here we go–it’s a historic plantation called Dove’s Hollow outside some town called Kingsley. Apparently, the grounds are a big tourist draw. Looks like something out of Gone With the Wind.”

  Her fingers were already typing the location into the internet search engine. Images of a majestic one-and-a-half-storied, 1840s mansion flooded her laptop screen. Antebellum style, with white paint and pillars, it boasted of an interior with cathedral ceilings and a spiral staircase; a breathtaking ballroom with marble walls. An ornamental garden with a gazebo in the center was the landscaping highlight–“perfect for wedding receptions and other special occasions,” the website promised in swirling font.

  “I’ve gotta go, Andy,” she said, a plan already beginning to formulate in her mind. “Thanks for everything okay?”

  She hung up and stared at the screen, the image of a laughing bride and groom superimposed in front of the plantation’s doorway. In four days, Jared would come down those steps, his fingers intertwined with those of his new wife, the romance he dived into out of impulse or maybe a sense of hopelessness.