Best Man Page 6

  "A band?" Kate repeated. "You found a band already?" There was a note of surprise in her voice, something Michael hadn't expected with so few days between now and the wedding.

  "That's not all," said Sean. "Come and see." He slid his arm through hers and guided her towards the stairs, motioning for Michael to follow.

  Downstairs, Louisa was talking to a woman in a work skirt and blouse which Michael assumed was the typical wardrobe of the estate's housekeeper. Another woman stood a few feet away in a multicolored plaid coat, a pair of skinny jeans and snow boots below. Something about her was vaguely familiar to Michael as she turned around.

  "Hi," she squealed, her face illuminated with the kind of pleasure usually reserved for scratch-off lottery tickets or door prize winners. "You must be Katie!" Her arms wrapped themselves around Kate in a tight hug that swayed the bride from side to side. "I'm so excited to meet you! It's Vicki–or Valerie, depending upon which story Sean told you." She nudged Michael in the ribs with a wink.

  On Kate's face, Michael read a look of perfect calm, despite the tense, stiff posture which did not relax even when Vicki released her grip.

  Chapter Six

  "Vicki?" Michael whispered. "Really, Sean? What were you thinking–"

  "That she was fun." Sean spread his hands in half-hearted defense. "What else would I be thinking? She was available–"

  "You dated her before!" Michael's voice rose above a whisper for a moment before he drew it low again. "What about Kate? Didn't you think she should have some say in this?"

  Ahead of them on the garden pathway, Vicki was clinging to Kate's arm as if they were former college roommates instead of two people who met fifteen minutes before in the manor's entrance. Kate's heels teetered slightly as Vicki steered her on, oblivious to the groom and best man falling further behind.

  Sean plucked a few leaves from a rosebush. "Kate doesn't have anybody," he said. "I just wanted someone to be in her corner for this thing. She's not that close with her family, she doesn't have a lot of friends between two countries–"

  Michael watched as Vicki fished her cell phone out of her pocket, fingers flying over the keypad as Kate stood by politely. The look on her face was inscrutable; in Vicki's expression, Michael read a snarling concentration, the natural light glinting off her manicured nails.

  He was tempted to ask Sean if he considered the difference in personality between his bride to be and his casual former relationship. Vicki's tendency to be crude and loud, for instance–every other line a double entendre –in comparison to Kate's relative grace.

  Instead, he admired the fountain as he stood alongside the rest of the party, hands stuffed in his coat pockets. A pool of goldfish at the bottom, pale clusters of lilies along the edges. Behind them, Kate focused her camera lens and snapped a photograph.

  Her camera was an old-fashioned film model: heavy and oversized, a short-range telescope lens jutting out from the front. The leather strap around her neck reminded him of the straps of the rucksack, only this one was marked with a leather punch design of vines and scrolls.

  "Get a picture of me, Katie," Vicki called. She wound her arms around a statue resembling a Greek maiden bearing a basket on her head. Her blond hair flipped forwards against its shoulder as she cuddled up to it. Kate snapped the photo obediently, then stayed behind for a moment as the rest of the party moved ahead.

  The path diverged towards a white gazebo and a duck pond beyond it, trees in a semi-circle that bordered the garden like a green wall. Sean and Vicki wandered towards it in aimless fashion as Michael followed along, listening to them debate the nature of bachelor's parties and bridal showers. He could hear the sound of Kate's shutter snapping behind them, the crunch of her boots on the gravel.

  "Hey, how about this?" Sean squatted by one of the rose bushes, assuming a serious expression as he parted the leaves and peered through the bramble in Kate's direction. She turned from her view of Heathshedge, camera still angled close to her face from framing the image of the estate. With a smile, she snapped his photograph.

  "Very nice," she answered. Her smile shifted to something more formal and polite as she took a photograph of Vicki and Sean moving up the path towards the flock of ducks waddling along its banks.

  Michael wrapped one hand around the rail of the gazebo and climbed onto its platform. From the open sides, he viewed the water rippling beneath a gust of wind. The white shape of a duck bobbed beneath the surface for a moment like a wooden toy pulled beneath by a string.

  Kate's shutter sounded closer. When he turned his head, he saw her standing a few feet away on the path. She was watching as Sean searched for a stone in the green lawn, Vicki flinging pebbles into the green-grey water.

  "They were more than friends once. Weren't they?" Her voice was calm, he noticed, without a trace of jealousy or disgust.

  "A little," he answered. "That is to say–he dated her once or twice. Nothing serious. More like a drinking buddy than a date, you might say." Cringing as he realized a moment later how these words must sound to her.

  "I thought so." There was no change in tone with this answer. Snapping the lens cover on her camera, she strolled further down the path in their direction.

  *****

  Her reserve was on Michael's mind more than he was willing to admit, as if he gazed through the surface of a frozen pond and glimpsed the faint outline of emotions trapped beneath in the murky depths. It was none of his business, of course; it was not essential to his life to figure out a way to reach what lay beneath, only to Sean's.

  Minus the wedding party stroll, the first two days at the Granger Manor were spent pouring over chapter five of his novel. Macleod's Stance seemed stalled once Sean arrived with a list of errands which required help. In three days, he still hadn't glimpsed the elusive Sir Andrew; even Louisa was nothing more than a flutter in the background, no doubt preparing for other relatives to arrive.

  Saturday afternoon, he tackled the first item on the list, collecting wedding gifts in the form of packages at the local post office. Sean's less-than-sensible idea, to have gifts mailed to the wedding to be opened at the reception–a custom Michael was fairly certain was confined to American ceremonies.

  He stood in line behind several other customers awaiting their weekend mail, with no sign of hurry at the village outpost. The person ahead of him had their ears plugged with electronic buds, a long tangle of white wires descending into a music player. He watched their head bob in time to the music, a motion which received a glance of disapproval from an elderly woman one place ahead.

  He turned to gaze behind him through the post office door as a young man entered. A view of the street was visible outside, a car passing through on the village road. A woman in a white coat crossed behind it, a slender figure moving towards the shops.

  It was Kate; he was certain of this, even without stepping out of line to confirm it, but his feet moved accordingly. Almost with reluctance, he edged himself out of line, until the young man behind him claimed his spot with a sidling movement as Michael's hand touched the door knob.

  He could see the figure moving swiftly ahead, far from where he stood. A long curtain of brown hair tucked beneath a knitted cap, a rucksack dangling from one shoulder. She was moving in the direction of the bus shelter; a moment later, she was seated on its bench.

  He could approach her, join her if he wished; he could duck into a nearby shop and watch unobserved to see if she climbed aboard. It struck him in a moment's time how strange his behavior was at this moment. Spying on his friend's fiancé as if she were engaged in covert activities. With a sense of shame, he edged towards the post office again.

  It was none of his business what she was doing, so why did he think about the subject so intently? His mind explored it as if it were one of many pieces belonging to Kate's character, which could somehow be assembled into a complete, coherent picture if he only knew the secret. The dignified outward appearance, the polite smiles–were they merely a show for the
sake of public graces? The way she and her family seemed to view their relationship to each other so casually, with Sean's vague explanation that they were 'not close'. Her words always seemed to mean something else, he noticed; as if she were trying to tell others something indirectly, afraid to broach the subject with barefaced statements.

  His fingers crunched a piece of paper into a wad, tossing it onto the floor with several abandoned pages of notes. The distraction of his thoughts tended his behavior towards messiness as he wrote, the haphazardness of his mind manifesting itself in the form of random actions.

  On the screen, a fragmented sentence drew his attention, requiring a few short alterations. His glasses slid lower on the bridge of his nose as he resumed typing, ignoring a page sliding onto the floor from the stack at his elbow. When morning dawned, Marjorie was among those waiting to walk the fields of the dead. Some would be pinned with great spears, driven into the earth by the rage of their opponents; some would be drawing flies in a heap of torn bodies and carved limbs. In the chilling breath of first light, her body trembled with revulsion at the thought of finding her husband among them...

  A light tap on the door drew his attention. Raising his face from the screen, he observed two figures peering into his room hesitantly. Louisa and a woman whom he had never seen before, her face wrinkled like a dried apple decorated with raisins for eyes.

  "You're quite busy, I see," whispered Louisa. "Sir Andrew wishes us to invite you to tea."

  "That's very kind," said Michael. He intended this as an acceptance, despite his dread of facing Kate's relatives in a setting bound to encourage shyness. The two ladies in the doorway did not disappear as a result, remaining fixed in place.

  "We merely–that is to say ... we only wished to inquire how your work was coming along. You've been concentrating for so long–" began Louisa. He saw her eyes wandering towards his screen, then up at the map pinned to the wall. The woman with the carved apple face produced a beaming grin, eyes crinkled at the corners.

  Although she had not spoken, Michael could predict what she would say; it was implied by the fixed stare, the glassy eagerness of her expression. He felt the first flush of embarrassment rising beneath his skin.

  "We're very much fans," she whispered.

  Chapter Seven

  The brochure on the table in Michael's room featured Heathshedge Manor in a soft light, a series of elegant vines twining around the photo. A description inside was elegant and eloquent: "A perfect location for weddings, receptions, and reunions" and a "delightful piece of English history and countryside."

  Its gardens wrapped around the house in an orderly manner, no sprawling or tumbling landscape of trees and overgrown "weedy" English gardens which burst with color and blossoms. Lawns manicured to a sheer surface of green stretched forth from the massive entrance, its wooden door framed in heavy stonework carved by a hand no doubt long departed from earth. Michael had only seen it in the cheer of sunshine, yet he imagined it in the gloom of night. A gothic manor which he might explore was he not tied to his work, the weight of chapter six upon his mind.

  The weight of a Claymore blade could strike a man's head from his shoulders, sever limbs beneath the forward strength of a man. Macleod did not care what bodies fell by his hand; nor did he care what might be the nature of their background, be it the service of Longshanks or the mercenaries of Ireland.

  He swung the blade wide, with all its strength, hewing the painted face rushing towards his own from the blue torso and stained tartan. The wild figure stumbled, the head rolling to one side in a trail of blood...

  He had agreed to take tea with the same inner reluctance which made him avoid invitations to lunch or to dine with the family. Enough time had passed since his arrival, allowing the family's curiosity to take hold and force him to face his host and a handful of curious relatives at a table. Wedged between Louisa and Charlotte, as he discovered the elderly woman was named, he did his best to balance a teacup whose china seemed thin and transparent in the sunlight streaming through the windows.

  Sir Andrew's sitting room–which Michael thought of as some type of parlor–was a glass square filled with sunlight and plants, an arboretum jutting off a formal reception area like a greenhouse added to its foundations as an afterthought. The knight himself seemed a man of the earth; stained gardening apron, a pair of trousers marked from kneeling in the dirt.

  "Welcome," he said. "Good to meet the best man of the chap taking young Katherine off our hands." As he spoke, he settled himself more comfortably into his wicker chair, legs crossed as he balanced a teacup.

  Young Katherine. His pronunciation of her named seemed as formal as her aunt. There was no sign of the bride-to-be at tea, only the beaming figure of Mrs. Hammond bearing a platter of tarts.

  "Yes, well..." Michael answered, a bright sentence trailing off as he found no other words to add. "It's nice to have a chance to see your lovely country. I've never made it across the shores before. Close, though." This last part he intended as a joke, although it received only a polite smile from the knight, a titter of laughter from Louisa. Charlotte, whose relationship to the family was still undefined, seemed absorbed in sampling her turnover.

  "Mr. Herriman is the writer of all those lovely novels," said Charlotte, after a moment. "You remember, Andrew? Ride to the Highlands, the one you enjoyed so much." Michael anticipated that Charlotte might ask for his autograph, a request which always embarrassed him.

  "Katherine would be luckier if her Sean was the author," laughed Sir Andrew. "What does he do again–filmmaker, isn't it?"

  "Something independent, I think," said Louisa, vaguely. "More tea, Mr. Herriman?" She raised the pot.

  Kate never appeared at tea; nor did Sean, for that matter. He had half-hoped someone more familiar with the family would prompt him into the proper subjects, more Kate's department than her fiancé’s. The thought of taking tea across from her was slightly embarrassing, given his recent temptation to spy on her.

  And why? Because he was curious about her? Because he didn't understand the arm's length persona which made her different from what he expected from the love of Sean's life? Deep inside, he felt the stirrings of suspicion that it was something altogether different, a desire to reconcile the girl from the San Francisco adventure with the cool figure at the engagement party.

  Sean was seated in a leather chair, feet propped on an antique desk as he balanced a laptop in front of him. On the screen, a video image of a woman gazing seductively at the ocean as she walked backwards along its shores.

  The image drew Michael's eye the moment he entered the room, largely because the rest of the bedchamber was shrouded in darkness. Sean had drawn the drapes closed and turned out the lamps, as if savoring a reel of film on a projector instead of a digital camera's image.

  "There's something about Serena in this take," he frowned. "It wasn't entirely what I was going for." The image paused as he clicked the space bar, Serena's figure frozen in a sultry pose.

  Tequilas for Two Nights was intended as a gripping tale of a love affair, murder, and a Mexican bounty hunter, a "piece of gripping human experience and gritty imagery" according to its own posters in the works. Sean tended to assemble his films swiftly with the help of a long-time editor named Steve who apparently despaired of his director's comments on his every cut. Sean's fingers were already flickering towards his notes as the frozen image resumed its movement on the screen.

  "Why weren't you and Kate at tea?" asked Michael, as he leaned against the doorway. The sound of his voice startled Sean out of his one-sided conversation with the screen. He clicked the pause button again and swiveled towards Michael.

  "Mick! I didn't hear you come in, pal." He motioned for Michael to sit down as he swung his feet off the desk. "Say, has Vicki spoken to you about the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night? I think she was thinking maybe you two could work up something, maybe a couple of toasts or a skit–"

  "Sean, have you–thought about what I said a
bout Vicki? At all?" Michael's tone was gentle, as if tossing this remark off-hand into the conversation. He expected at least a defensive reaction, but the words appeared to slide off of Sean's good humor.

  "Then she hasn't talked to you? Good. I wanted to tell you to forget about it–that kind of thing isn't really Kate's style. And the big day should be about her, as you pointed out." He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees in a serious position. "She's really ... she's really something. I haven't tried hard enough to make her see that." His voice was soft; in response, Michael's stiffened posture grew slack as he moved closer.

  "I've been thinking about all the things I have to do," said Sean. "Like, find a place for us to live, help split the expenses for the wedding, give up some of the late nights out," he ticked them off his fingers as he spoke. "And get rid of the collection of course," he added, with a slight grimace. "I want her to know I care about her and I'm committed all the way, you know?"

  The "collection" was a wall in Sean's apartment devoted to photos of him and his girlfriends, with poems scribbled around them about breakups and hookups as if a mural devoted to a lifestyle of loose relationships. Since it was tucked in a closet where Sean stowed film equipment almost nobody had seen it except for his friends–even some of the girlfriends depicted in blurry bar room shots and photo booth images had viewed the relationships billboard in person.

  Michael was fairly certain Kate hadn't seen it, however. Given the expression on Sean's face as proof, the closest she would come to encountering the collage would be as an urban legend mentioned among his ex-girlfriends.

  "I'll burn the photos, get rid of the gifts," Sean continued ticking off the list on his fingers. "Except maybe ... do you think it would be wrong to hang onto to Jeanette's stereo system? At least for a while?" At the look on Michael's face in response, he grinned.