The Wedding Party

  It wasn’t Charlene who was going to pay.

  Dennis was not a guy who thought of himself as remarkably intuitive. His instincts were good in the E.R., but everywhere else they were so-so. But there was something about Charlene’s phone call that set off alarms. First of all, he knew, without her saying, that it was Jake’s friend in the hospital. Second, it would have been Jake who called. Third, Charlene couldn’t give him a straight answer as to when she would be finished with this mission because she was making herself available to someone else. Not Dennis. Not the wedding planner.

  She was the lawyer. She didn’t have to sit vigil at anyone’s bedside. There was no lawyering work to do at the hospital. As long as she had her phone she could check the client’s condition, leave her number and get on with her day. Or evening, as the case may be. There were dozens of clients—hundreds—all in various stages of domestic crisis. Sadly, this was not the first one who had been hospitalized in the midst of a court case. Sometimes a client made the initial call to the lawyer from the hospital! Charlene was very busy, often late and frequently interrupted. But she maintained a personal life, however thin her time was stretched.

  She should have said, “Go ahead to the shop. I’ll grab a sandwich and meet you there.” But she hadn’t.

  And when Dennis had asked, “Should I meet you there?” she could have said, “Oh darling, would you?” But she hadn’t.

  Charlene was in another world—Jake’s world.

  In point of fact, Dennis had seen less of Charlene in the three weeks since they’d decided to get married than ever before. She blamed a combination of unusual circumstances ranging from her mother’s confusion and forgetfulness to getting her taxes filed to having an extraordinary number of complicated cases rise up without warning. But the bottom line was, they hadn’t spent a night together in weeks and their frequent phone conversations were businesslike and brisk.

  Dennis, annoyed, didn’t think about the fact that he’d worked several double shifts in the past three weeks, voluntarily, making himself less available to his fiancée. That was not the point. She was too busy for him.

  He arrived at the Bridal Boutique a little early; Agatha was just nibbling on the last of a homemade sandwich. She patted her lips with a linen napkin and said, “I should put you to the task of teaching my clients punctuality, Dennis. You are ever prompt.”

  “I’m early. I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner.”

  “Think nothing of it. I was finished anyway.” She folded the napkin and placed it inside a plastic container.

  “Charlene isn’t going to make it,” he said.

  “Oh dear. You could have just phoned, Dennis. I do understand. People don’t hire wedding consultants if they have time on their hands, but only if they’re incredibly busy.”

  “I don’t know how you make a living. It’s very un-American, you know. To be so polite.”

  “You saw my price list,” she said with a sly smile. “And I’m not American. Did Charlene have another emergency?”

  “Unfortunately. And I did a stupid thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We were supposed to meet for dinner at one of Charlene’s favorite restaurants. One of those grassy places with lean meals and natural foods. Something to keep us from getting fat and going into cardiac arrest.” He shrugged. “But since she couldn’t make it, I…I…”

  “You opted for the meaty, greasy, cardiac-arrest diet,” she finished for him.

  “How did you guess?”

  “You have a terribly guilty look about you. Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”

  “Thank you. You’re not only accommodating, you have the discretion of a priest. You should be rewarded.”

  “Never mind, Dennis. It’s my pleasure.”

  He looked around and noted that they were alone in the shop. “Are you finished here?”

  “Nearly. Why?”

  “I’m going to need ice cream. Or medication.”

  “I shouldn’t leave the shop, Dennis. The store manager, Mrs. Simms, has gone out for something. And there is the matter of my continually going out for meals with you. I’m concerned that it wouldn’t be thought suitable.”

  “Let me ask you something. Do you have a miserable time with me?”

  “I think you already know the answer. Last week we laughed so hard I feared the restaurant manager might ask us to leave.”

  “Then don’t worry so much about impropriety. You know, Americans don’t have nearly the manners and discretion of you Brits. No one will notice.”

  “I’ve noticed. Three dinners in three weeks. That might be excessive.”

  “But tonight is only dessert. And coffee. Or maybe drinks. And Charlene may yet join us. In fact, grab some of your sample books and bring them along. You said you were flexible, Ms. Farnsworth. I think we’ll have to take this meeting at a restaurant.”

  “Well…I suppose. And we’d best study the sample books. As it goes, making even a late-June wedding date is going to prove a challenge. Are you absolutely sure about this, Dennis?”

  He rubbed his stomach. “Acid indigestion. I’ll never learn.”

  “And you think Charlene will be along later?” she asked.

  “Very likely,” he lied. “I have my phone with me.”

  At seven-forty-five Agatha had a vanilla ice with raspberries and Dennis had a lemon ice and wafers. At eight-thirty Agatha had a glass of pinot noir and Dennis had an Irish coffee. At nine-thirty Agatha had a brandy and Dennis had a scotch. But in all that time they only talked about the business of weddings for roughly ten minutes. And the sample books never came out of the car.

  Dennis asked a couple of simple, uncomplicated though personal questions. What was it like growing up in England? What does a young English girl aspire to? And what brought you to the United States?

  He learned quite a bit more than he had expected, but not more than he desired. Agatha, it seemed, came from a simple, healthy, almost idyllic childhood in the English countryside. She was educated in public school, and spoiled a bit as the only child of an older couple. She had great fun in school and university, and married before finishing her program. Again, idyll. Her husband, Martin, a young barrister, adored her. They traveled a bit before settling into a flat just outside London. He went to work in a small but promising firm and she took a job at Harrod’s. First Jason, then Sylvia were born. It seemed she lived a charmed life.

  Then the unimaginable happened. While Agatha was away on a week-long buying mission for the store, a faulty furnace killed her husband and children in their sleep with carbon monoxide gas. All of them were gone in the blink of an eye. Agatha was only twenty-eight, just a girl.

  In the two years that followed she watched her parents age and deteriorate. They didn’t have the energy to assist Agatha through her grief; the tragedy sapped their strength and they opted for a retirement home in the south of France, where they could be cared for and enjoy less hostile weather. Even though there was still plenty of family in England—aunts, uncles, cousins by the score—Agatha just couldn’t stay in the familiar English countryside. She couldn’t enjoy the sights in London. Life for her would never be the same and she had to reach hard, very, very hard, to find something that would change the darkness that wanted to swallow her up. She desperately needed a change so complete it would lift her out of her old life.

  And so, with her family’s reluctant blessing, she decided she’d try California.

  She wiped a tear from her eye. “I can’t believe what I’ve done,” she said. “Dennis, I’m thoroughly embarrassed. And dreadfully, dreadfully sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  He reached for her hand. “Please don’t apologize, Agatha. You can’t know how perfectly I understand.”

  “I didn’t mean to take advantage of you because you work in the healing profession. I suppose people tell you their troubles all day long.”

  “I’ve been known to have those kind of days, but—”

&n
bsp; “But I’ve never divulged so much personal information to a client. Good Lord, you’re not even a client, but a prospective client. I’ve deuced this job for certain!”

  “Agatha, take it easy. You’ve only—”

  “I’ve never bared my soul, dished out my heartache like that. How awful! When people ask me if I’m married, I say no. When they ask why I came to the States, I say, ‘For a change of scenery.’ But this!”

  He actually laughed softly.

  “Forgive me, please. I promise you, I will never—”

  “Agatha, stop!”

  “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Maybe you found yourself a friend?” he suggested.

  “More than likely I found myself a glass of strong wine and drank it too fast.”

  “No.” He laughed. “It’s only a sympathetic ear, that’s all. You must have sensed that I wouldn’t mind if you talked about your husband and children. When I was a much younger man, I was widowed. It’s been many years, eighteen to be exact. I would say I’ve recovered as much as can be expected, but I’m no stranger to the pain of loss. And loneliness.”

  “Oh, Dennis,” she said, now gripping the hand that had reached for hers in comfort.

  “So you see? Somehow I just asked the right questions. You knew you could talk about your personal life with me because I would understand. And you know what’s happened?”

  “I’m a little afraid to ask,” she said, sniffing.

  “You have a new friend. You don’t have to feel so lonely here anymore.”

  Patrick Jersynski lived in an upscale town house in the cul de sac of a moderately rich neighborhood. In front of his town house Jake’s Chrysler was parked, blocking the driveway, and in the cul de sac Jake paced. He looked as if he’d slept in his clothes. His shoes were scuffed, his pants wrinkled and the collar of his white knit shirt stuck crookedly out of a striped crew-neck sweater. The stripes were gold, brown, beige and black—circa 1990. His hands were plunged deeply into his pant pockets, his head was down, and he didn’t even look up as Charlene drove around the corner.

  “Oh, Jesus,” she said to herself. “He’s over the top.”

  She parked behind his car and killed the lights. She opened the door and stood, calling to him over the top of her car. “Jake?”

  He stopped walking and looked up. He recognized her and jogged over. “Charlie, he hasn’t fired a gun. Two uniforms came with me. We told him there’d been a shooting and we were waiting for a warrant to search his premises for a weapon. He invited us in and let us search. He asked us to be careful not to break anything because he hasn’t done anything wrong. He has an alibi. He has a sick kid and, except for a stop off at the pharmacy for a prescription, he’s been at work or at home. And his hand hasn’t fired a gun.”

  “This could all be an ugly coincidence, Jake,” she said. “Meredith’s car might’ve gotten in the way of some random shot. Or, maybe this guy hired a shooter, but I honestly can’t imagine why he’d need to. If he can make himself right with Meredith and the courts, he’s going to at least get visitation…there’s just the matter of back support and amends. All he has to do is be a little patient. Why would he need to shoot her?”

  Jake rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “He asked about Merrie. Asked if the kids were all right and was there anything he could do.”

  “Jake, is it possible the person we should take a closer look at is Meredith?”

  Jake pointed at the town house. “Look at his place, Charlie. He’s got a little money. He could fix Merrie up with back support and she’d live better than she ever has. Her kid could have a father, to boot. Why would she run away from that with a lie? There’s something rotten here and I can’t figure it out.”

  “We’re not going to figure it out here in the street. I’ll call his lawyer tomorrow. I’ve been avoiding that, hoping for more information on this guy first, but nothing is forthcoming.”

  “Let’s go get a drink,” Jake said. “It’s been a long damn day.”

  Stephanie had made a terrible mistake. She should never have led Freddy on. He was calling her several times a day, at the junior high where she taught and at home. She’d received a bouquet of flowers in seventh period from “your new best friend” and there were ten hang-ups on the answering machine when she got home.

  Now Grant was at work and Freddy was calling and calling and calling. Finally, in frustration, she picked up the phone. “Stop! You have to stop calling me!”

  “Hey, what’s the trouble?” Freddy said.

  “Listen, you have to hear me—I am not available! I can’t date anyone! I live with my fiancé! If you don’t go away and leave me alone I’ll have to tell Grant!”

  “Why would you do that? You wouldn’t want to be responsible for me getting pounded, now, would you? Because the boyfriend…he works every night and you get so lonely.”

  “Freddy, you are twisted,” she accused.

  “But you invited me to see Grease next weekend…right?”

  “I’m uninviting you! Leave me alone!” And she slammed down the phone.

  It rang but she didn’t pick up. This time, because he knew she was there, he left a message. “Stephanie,” he called in a singsongy voice. “Stephanie? Guess who made a killing in the market today? You’re making a big mistake brushing me off. You really don’t know what you’re giving up…. We could have some fun. Maybe you should take some time to think about this. I’ll give you—” The answering machine cut him off. Before he could call back and talk into the machine all night, she disconnected it and unplugged the phone. She ran into the bedroom and unplugged the extension.

  The apartment was finally quiet.

  Seven

  Dennis insisted on following Agatha home. She didn’t live far from work and wasn’t a bit concerned about driving alone late in the evening, but after three hours of talking, a couple of drinks and a good cry, Dennis said he’d feel better seeing her home. If she didn’t mind.

  Mind? She thought it very chivalrous indeed. She had quite forgotten how nice it was to be in the company of a gentleman.

  It was just after eleven when they both pulled up in front of Agatha’s little house. It was in old Sacramento, in a section only a couple of miles from Dennis’s own house. Young moderns had revisited the neighborhoods, rebuilding and improving. She’d been renting the place for that past year and it looked something like a gingerbread house. It was sweet, tiny, and surrounded by shrubs, trees, vines and flower beds. There was a winding walk up to the porch; a light shone warmly from inside.

  Dennis got out of his car. “Agatha, this is priceless. Did I tell you that I live in an older home not far from here?” he asked her, staring appreciatively at the house. “I renovated it myself.”

  “You think of this as an older home?” she asked, laughing. “I would consider it a newer model. I find it quite hard to live in anything under four hundred years old,” she said. “I suppose the polite thing to do would be to offer you coffee or tea to make the remainder of your drive less taxing. After all you’ve put up with tonight.”

  “And I think I’ll accept,” he said, and walked up on the porch.

  Once inside, there was even more for Dennis to appreciate, particularly the homey touches she had provided—old English mixed in with American. It immediately struck him how much more comfortable he was in a house like this than in a new, starkly white, modern construction. Charlene liked the bright, clean look of newer styles; he thought of them as cold. “This reminds me so much of my mother’s house,” he said. “I’m drawn to these classic neighborhoods. They have so much more character.”

  “The neighborhood might be old but my neighbors are mostly young. Career couples, small children and singles. My parents’ cottage was similar to this house. It too had a porch, fenced garden, outbuilding and attic with dormer. Well, I’ll set the kettle to boil. Do look around as much as you like.”

  The furniture was old but sturdy, decorated with hand-
tatted doilies and antique antimacassars. The Oriental carpet was threadbare around the edges, but that didn’t detract from its rich color and texture; in its day it must have been beautiful. The wood was dark, stressed and highly polished, and a faint smell of lemon oil hung in the air. There was a dry sink in the small dining room upon which she had placed a crystal decanter set and glasses. Dennis lifted one of the decanters, uncorked it and whiffed a very fine brandy. Agatha had such excellent taste.

  “I rented the house, furnished, from a gentleman whose elderly mother had to be moved into an assisted-living facility,” she called to him from the kitchen. He could hear the water running behind her voice. “The decanters are mine, the crystal from Ireland, the linen and lace also. I didn’t bring much, but there were some things I couldn’t leave behind.”

  “Will you buy the house eventually?” he asked her.

  The water stopped. She stood in the kitchen doorway, drying her hands on a towel. “I’ll go home to England…eventually.”

  This hit him with sudden, unmistakable sadness. When he looked at her, he knew he couldn’t hide that emotion from showing in his eyes. She was lit from behind by the kitchen light and seemed almost ethereal. Mystical. There was a glow behind her hair, almost like a halo. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He was in a trance.

  She cleared her throat and broke his spell. “There have been so many times I’ve wondered if I’d ever find someone special again, after all I’ve been through. It was hard for me to believe people get two chances.” She smiled wistfully. “Just knowing your story, Dennis, knowing about you and Charlene gives me so much hope. Thank you for sharing it with me.”