my various layers, I could barely see as I made my way to the car, bumping elbows with a passer-by.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, searching for my keys deep in my jacket pocket.
“Clio!”
Oh, God. “Timothy! Hi!” I tried to make out his face through the fur of my hood.
He grabbed my arm and led me to a cove out of the inclement weather. “Freezing, huh?”
I flicked my hood back and stared into the deep brown of his eyes. He sure wasn’t ugly. A girl could get lost in that gaze. Not me, though. We were past tense, weren’t we? I darted a glance behind him for his children, and let out a small sigh of relief to find them missing. It wasn’t that they intimidated me… OK, who was I kidding, they scared the bejesus out of me. It was the way they sent laser beams into my soul, like they were trying to vanquish me.
“No kids today?” State the obvious, Clio!
A tiny line appeared between his eyes. “They’re at school.”
“Learning ABCs? Or, umm, one, two, threes…?” Kill me.
He cocked his head, probably mentally planning an escape route. “Ah… yeah. So, I got your text. You can’t swing a dinner out before New Year? Surely I could tempt you for a feast at Shakin’ Shack?”
When I was around Timothy it was much harder to remember why I was keeping him at arm’s length. A fear of rewriting ancient history? The fact his life was vastly different to mine? His responsibilities? The flutter in my belly when I thought of Kai? It was just dinner, after all, not a marriage proposal. Dinner for two old friends. Dinner for two adults who had to eat. Why did I feel a little pang of guilt at the thought?
I realized my internal monologue had left us with an awkward silence so I grappled with something to say. “Gotta love a greasy burger, am I right?” Just stop talking.
“So that’s a yes?”
Idiot. “Sure, sure. Maybe we can invite the gang?”
He grinned. “Maybe, maybe not.”
I let out a creepy half-laugh, half-groan and said, “Well, I’d better be on my way. Got a lot of plans that need wedding, I mean weddings that need planning.” Mentally I slapped my forehead hard – really, really hard. Why did I regress to a bumbling fool in front of him? I didn’t truly feel anything, did I?
“You do that,” he said and leaned in to kiss my cheek. I held my breath, waiting for my body to respond, but found it curiously quiet. No erratic heartbeat, no flushing cheeks, instead just a small fluttering in my belly, knowing him well, and knowing he was a great guy. But did that make it enough?
Inside the car, I turned up the radio as Michael Bublé crooned ‘It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas’. I sang along as I wound through the snowy streets and remembered my time with Timothy, and how much I’d adored him when I was a teenager – that first flush of love when you were young, and how you felt the whole world would end if you lost it. Puppy love, I reminded myself. A million years ago.
Back at Mom’s I unpacked the shopping, my mind reeling with the events of the morning.
“These herbs smell delicious,” Mom said, giving me a ghost of a smile. She gave my arm a reassuring pat. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d done something as simple as that, a brief touch, a measure of comfort, and I felt foolish as tears stung my eyes. I turned away so she wouldn’t see.
Another day of no answers loomed, because there was no way I was saying anything that might halt this next step of our relationship. She was actually opening up to me, and it felt markedly different to when she just tolerated me.
“Want to chop the carrots?” Even I couldn’t mess up vegetable soup, unless I burned it.
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll do the onions too. I know you hate chopping them. The trick to it is running the peeled onion under the tap first.”
“I hate peeling onions.” I managed a half-laugh, surprised she knew this about me. Afternoon light filtered through the curtains, and I settled in next to my mom, working in silence. But this silence was more companionable than ever before, and I indulged in the fantasy that we might one day be close.
Questions buzzed around my mind on the drive home, but the answers were missing or murky and it was headache-inducing. Really, I didn’t have time to get tangled up in the mystery of Cedarwood – what with a group of brides arriving in two days’ time. For my own sanity, I needed to push the swirl of thoughts away and focus on what had to be done. With a rueful shake of my head, I tried one of Kai’s crazy breathing techniques, feeling calmer by the minute. Damn him and his mumbo jumbo.
Back at the lodge, I went into autopilot, returning calls: the florist wanted to know if we had room in our fridges for the bouquets (yes); the liquor store had over-ordered and wanted to know if we’d take an extra crate of French champagne (always); and the linen company who provided our tablecloths and napkins wanted confirmation on color (white, the wedding centerpieces would be the stars of the show). That done, I ushered various delivery men through, showing them into the kitchen to drop off our new plate sets, or into the ballroom for boxes of special lighting, and waving them off again, but not before handing them a shiny, full-color pamphlet advertising Cedarwood in its best light. Any chance to promote!
Once they’d gone I double-checked the ballroom, making sure it was spick and span – despite boxes of supplies in one corner – and ready for us to finish up decorating. We were going for a winter wonderland wedding theme, to display what the ballroom would look like if they chose to celebrate their nuptials over the festive season.
From the ceiling to the top of the oak walls, Micah had draped white gossamer fabric embedded with Swarovski crystals, which twinkled even in the pale light of afternoon. Between the layers we’d hung glittery snowflakes and love hearts. In keeping with the color palette, everything was white, silver, and blingy, the stuff of every girl’s dreams, and magical at any time of day, but more so on a wedding day.
Satisfied the ceiling had been finished, I reminded myself to check we had enough silverware and champagne flutes. It wouldn’t hurt to order more, just in case. I made a mental note to do just that.
It was all coming together… when suddenly the clanging of pots and pans rattled in the kitchen, reminded me that Georges was here, sorting the catering and waiting for me to taste and approve the canapés. I called out: “I’ll be in soon to chat, Georges!”
“I’m OK. I’m pottering about. The menu tastings will be ready in an hour or so, OK?” he bellowed back through the kitchen doorway, and I couldn’t help but smile.
We were damn lucky to have Georges as our chef. It would have been near on impossible to employ someone of his caliber in these parts on an ad-hoc basis.
“Sure, just holler and we’ll come running.” My stomach growled at the thought of the tiny canapés, veritable taste explosions.
But there was still so much to do and I’d left Amory alone for most of the day, what with going to Mom’s and the admin I’d just finished off. Heading upstairs
