A Wedding on Primrose Street (Life In Icicle Falls Book 7) Page 10

  “That’s pretty,” Laney conceded. “But I want a donut cake.”

  Okay, donut cake. That took them to a different set of images. The donut cakes were cute, Anne had to admit, but they weren’t very elegant. She remembered feeding Cam some of the tacky cake their neighbor had made, telling herself how wonderful it was that they had a cake at all, yet wishing for one with a froth of white frosting and pastel-colored flowers from the bakery. She hadn’t had time to budget for a cake, and she hadn’t wanted to ask her mother to pay for one. Her parents had paid for her gown and bouquet, and under the circumstances that had felt like plenty. Looking back now, she realized Mom would happily have sprung for a cake and anything else she wanted if she’d only asked.

  “Hey,” she said, pointing to one image. “You could have a donut bar. What about a donut bar and a traditional cake? Something for everyone.”

  “Including Mom,” Kendra added snidely.

  Anne ignored her.

  “A donut bar isn’t the same as a donut cake,” Laney said stubbornly.

  “Not all of your guests are going to want to eat donuts,” Anne pointed out. “If you do the donut bar and the cake, then everyone’s happy.”

  Everyone except the bride. Laney’s mouth slipped into a half frown.

  “Don’t you think that’s a good compromise?” Anne nudged.

  “Yeah, I guess it is.”

  One more thing settled. They were moving right along.

  Next they chose invitations. This, too, involved much discussion. The save-the-date cards Laney finally picked were cute. They’d be trimmed with Laney’s colors and feature a picture of her and Drake with conversation bubbles over their heads saying “I do” and “Me, too!” Underneath, block printing would say “How about you? Save the date to celebrate.” It was a little unconventional, a perfect fit for her daughter.

  “We’ll need to go up to Icicle Falls to visit the florist next,” Anne said. “When can you get away?”

  “I’m not sure,” Laney hedged. “I’ll let you know.”

  Not sure? Let her know? They needed to get this planned. “Honey, we can’t drag our feet. June’s not that far away. There’s still so much to do.”

  “I get that, Mom.” Laney checked the time on her cell phone. “Oh, wow. I’ve gotta go.”

  “But we still have to talk about napkins and what kind of food you want and...”

  “I know, but I’ve got company coming for dinner tonight and I haven’t even shopped yet.”

  Anne felt deflated. They were just starting to have fun and her daughter had to leave? “Oh. Well, okay.”

  Laney gave her a quick kiss, hugged her aunt Kendra and then was out the door before Anne could suggest another day to get together.

  “That went well,” Kendra said after she left.

  “It did.” Anne ignored both her sister’s sarcasm and the feeling that things could have gone better.

  “Right. That’s why she left at three thirty in the afternoon to get ready for dinner.”

  “She had to shop.”

  “Uh-huh. And you believe that? Hey, I’ve got an oil well in New York City for sale. Wanna buy it?”

  Anne frowned and swiveled her desk chair to face her sister. “Okay, what exactly are you saying?”

  Kendra swiveled her chair, too. “I can put it in one word. Momzilla.”

  “I am not a Momzilla!” Anne protested.

  “True,” her sister agreed. “Not a full-grown one yet, anyway. Right now you’re just a baby one.”

  “Oh, very funny,” Anne snapped.

  “I thought so,” Kendra said and turned back to her computer.

  They worked in silence for twenty minutes before Anne asked, “How was I being a Momzilla?”

  “Well, let’s see. You want to start with the great debate on the invitations or go back to the battle of the colors?”

  “There was no battle over colors. I was simply making suggestions.”

  “Mmm-hmm. Like you did with the balloons. And how about the donut cake?”

  “She’s getting donuts,” Anne said, choosing the most solid ground to stand on.

  “She’s getting a donut bar. And you’re getting the cake.”

  “This isn’t for me!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. I’m trying to make sure Laney has the perfect wedding she deserves.”

  “Everyone has a different definition of perfect,” Kendra said.

  Anne couldn’t argue with that. So she decided not to. Instead, she got busy researching party favors for a client who was getting married at West Seattle’s Golden Gardens, a favorite beach of many Seattleites. Can coolers would be just the thing for a beach wedding. And baseball caps. Yes, her bride-to-be would love those. Darn, but she was good.

  And since she was good and had been doing this for years, there was nothing wrong with guiding her daughter. So there.

  Still, the thought that maybe she was taking too much control moved into her brain and set up a broadcast tower. So that night over dinner with Cam, she recapped her session with Laney, hoping for a different verdict. “Do you think I was being a Momzilla?”

  He took a last bite of ice cream and pushed aside his bowl. “Nah. You were giving her advice. That’s what you do, right?”

  “It is. And I just want her to have a lovely wedding, something memorable.”

  “Understandable,” he said with a nod. “Don’t worry about it. She gets the final say.”

  “True.” Laney did want a donut bar, didn’t she? And there was nothing wrong with having cake, as well. She could have her cake and eat it, too. Ha-ha. Anyway, Anne and Cam were paying for the wedding, so if they wanted to throw in a cake as a bonus, why should Laney care?

  Except Anne had talked her into having a donut bar instead of a donut cake. She’d talked her into a lot of things. She flashed on a sudden image of Laurel Browne insisting, “We are not having daisies at the wedding.”

  No, no. She wasn’t anything like Laurel Browne. Laney was the one who’d settled on green and brown for her colors, and Anne wasn’t about to rock that boat. And the balloons, well, they simply weren’t the right color. That was hardly Anne’s fault.

  But the cake? Okay, they’d go with the donut cake. She grabbed her cell phone from the kitchen counter.

  “Who are you calling?” Cam asked.

  “Laney. I’m going to tell her we’ll do a donut cake and a regular cake.”

  Cam made a face that plainly said “I’m a long-suffering husband” and got up to take their bowls into the kitchen.

  Dinner was their time and they didn’t take calls then. But they were done with dinner now. Anyway, this was important. Her call went to voice mail, and she remembered that Laney was having company tonight. Still, that never stopped her from answering her phone. She was one with her phone. Was she mad about the cake thing?

  “Hi, honey,” Anne said as soon as voice mail gave her the all clear to speak. “So, I’m thinking if you really want a donut cake, there’s no reason you can’t have one. Pick the one you like and email it to me and then I’ll send it on to the baker. Hope you’re having fun at your dinner party. I love you,” she added.

  There. No one could accuse her of being a Momzilla now, not even a baby one.

  “Feel better?” her husband asked.

  She nodded. “The donut cake will be cute. It’s going to be a lovely wedding.”

  “They all are,” he said. “Hey, and speaking of special events, we should talk about what we want to do for our anniversary.”

  An excellent idea. But after her busy workday and sorting out the issue of the cake, Anne was suddenly out of steam. “Could we do that tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  He sounded the s
lightest bit disappointed.

  “I’m too tired to think,” she said. Anyway, they had plenty of time to plan their anniversary.

  He came back to the table, bent over and wrapped his arms around her. She could still smell a hint of the woodsy cologne he favored. He put his face next to hers and she felt the brush of five o’clock shadow. “What do you want to do instead?”

  Bury the baby Momzilla and cuddle on the couch. “Let’s see what we’ve got in our Netflix queue.”

  “Okay,” he said, and they moved to the living room.

  Cam preferred action flicks, but he found a romantic comedy for her. “We don’t have to watch this,” she told him as they settled on the couch.

  “Sure we do,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “Tonight it’s all about you.”

  It’s all about you. Had that been the case this afternoon?

  Of course not, she assured herself. Laney got to make the final decisions. Anne was there only to help her make the right ones.

  She smiled and snuggled up against her husband. No Momzillas here.

  Chapter Ten

  Daphne, Starting Over

  Daphne changed the locks on her house, but not before making sure Mitchell got the last of his clothes. She piled them all on the front lawn. “Feel free to come by and get them whenever you want,” she said to his voice mail. Maybe, if he was lucky, there’d still be some left by the time he got to the house. Hee hee.

  She merged onto I-90 eastbound and watched as Seattle got increasingly smaller in her rearview mirror. “Goodbye and good riddance,” she muttered.

  Not the city, just the last two men she’d found in it. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t seem to get this love thing figured out? She was nice. And attractive—men had been telling her that all her life. She was responsible, didn’t nag too much, and she never ate crackers in bed or complained when her man wanted to watch football, although she detested the sport. Surely that deserved better than she’d gotten so far. Why did she attract so many losers?

  Oh, who cared? She was going to start a new life in Icicle Falls, help her mother run weddings and laugh behind the backs of all those delusional brides who paraded through Primrose Haus in their overpriced gowns on their way to happily-ever-after. Ha! There was no such thing. Sooner or later that Cinderella castle always crumbled. Disney should be sued.

  On and on the bitter thoughts went as she drove up the mountain highway to Icicle Falls. It took seeing the Willkommen in Icicle Falls sign to pull her out of her funk. The town looked like something out of a movie back lot with its charming Bavarian shops, its town center with the gazebo and skating rink, which during summer would get used for everything from outdoor art fairs to folk dance festivals. Church spires pointed heavenward, reminding the faithful that there was a God who cared about their troubles. And above it all, the mountains in their snowy majesty stood guard over the residents of the little burg. Here was a welcoming place where she could start over with people she’d known all her life, people who’d be genuinely interested in her, who wouldn’t just pretend. So she’d be celibate forever. By the time a woman was in her fifties did she really need sex?

  Except fifty was the new forty. And that put her at forty-three. A forty-three-year-old woman still needed sex. She frowned. She wasn’t sure she wanted to go the rest of her life without physical intimacy.

  You can do it, she told herself. Her mother had managed fine on her own.

  She wasn’t her mother.

  Okay, she’d be like Mitchell and have sex whenever she wanted with whomever she wanted. There were probably plenty of single men her age in Icicle Falls. Plenty of men, anyway, but her age? Hmm.

  Well, then she’d find a boy toy. Or a lonely old geezer. Her frown deepened. She didn’t want to be like Mitchell and break hearts. That wasn’t kind, and she wouldn’t wish a romantic heart attack on anyone. With a sigh she concluded that she’d have to rise above her circumstances, look for the silver lining, cast her fortunes to the wind...know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em. Whatever. In short, she’d build a new and better life. She still had a lot of years left to carve out some happiness for herself and find fulfillment.

  Without a man. She’d do it all without a man. And she’d never watch another romantic comedy again. Pandora selected a new song for her car radio and Barry Manilow began to croon, “When will I see you again?” She shut off the radio and shut Barry up. The next time she saw Mitchell it would be in divorce court.

  Oh, how she wanted someone to love.

  She had someone to love, she reminded herself when she walked into the Victorian on Primrose Street, carrying the surprise she’d picked up on her way home. She’d stopped at the local art gallery that also did framing. There was her mother, asleep in an armchair, one of her romance novels open on her lap. She looked...old. When had that happened?

  Daphne had always thought of her mother as invincible, tireless. When she wasn’t working she’d been at church, tending to the flower beds, at a committee meeting or seated at the portable sewing machine she’d bought when Daphne was in first grade, putting together an elaborate Halloween costume for Daphne or making her a dress. Saturdays had been cleaning day and Mother had worked herself into a fever sweeping, dusting and scrubbing. She’d made sure Daphne did the same. Long after Daphne had had enough, her mother would still be going at it. Even on Sundays there was little rest. Starting in spring, Sunday afternoons were for weeding. Once the yard was in shape, it was time for Sunday dinner, which often meant company. And more work, because after the company left the dishes had to be done. Finally, when it was only the two of them and Bonanza on TV, the embroidery would come out.

  Once, when Daphne was in high school, she’d asked her mother, “Don’t you ever want to just sit back and do nothing?”

  Mother had been disgusted by the very suggestion. “I have too much to do. I’ll rest when I’m old.”

  Today she looked like a woman who was losing the race against Father Time, the wrinkles carving deeper into her face, her hands small and heavily veined. She looked vulnerable and the sight pulled at Daphne’s heartstrings.

  Daphne leaned the present against the wall, then tiptoed over to where her mother slept. She was in the process of replacing the book with an afghan when Mother woke with a start.

  “Daphne, you’re home.”

  “Sorry I woke you.”

  “I wasn’t sleeping. I was just resting my eyes.”

  Of course, a woman always snored when she was resting her eyes. “You look tired,” Daphne said. And old. When did you grow old on me?

  “I’m not,” Mother insisted. “What time is it?” She squinted in the direction of the cuckoo clock in the kitchen.

  “A little after one.” Daphne walked toward the kitchen. “Have you had lunch?”

  “Not yet.” Her mother began to get up.

  “Stay put. I’ll make it.”

  Of course Mother didn’t stay put. She joined Daphne in the kitchen and started taking bowls out of the cupboard. “We have chicken soup left over from the other night. Why don’t you heat that up?”

  Sounded good to Daphne. Soup was perfect for a blustery day and she’d loved her mother’s homemade soup. Once Daphne became a teenager, Mother taught her to make it. Cut the carrots smaller, darling. Big carrots in soup are the sign of a lazy cook. You don’t need a lot of salt. A pinch of garlic. Basil. Well, let’s try it. Hmm. Very nice. I think you might have a flair for cooking. Who knows? Maybe you’ll have your own restaurant someday.

  Daphne had not gone on to have her own restaurant. She’d preferred working in an office where she could have regular hours and get evenings and weekends off. Cooking was a hobby she’d enjoyed. She hadn’t wanted to take the fun out of it by doing it for a living.

  Mother had been disappointed tha
t she’d opted for such an ordinary life, but the life she’d chosen had suited her. She liked being an employee, liked being part of a team. She wasn’t sure where she got that—certainly not from her mother—but she was wired to be a helper.

  Seeing her mother asleep in her chair had driven home to Daphne how much she wanted to help out here. Roberta Gilbert would never admit she was slowing down, even a little, and yet obviously she was. She needed her daughter.

  “How did things go in Seattle?” Mother asked.

  No way was Daphne telling anyone about this latest Mitchell escapade. Ever. Especially not Mother. She’d go into I-told-you-so mode, and Daphne wanted that about as much as she wanted adult acne. (Although adult acne might be preferable to hot flashes.) “I got what I needed out of the house and changed the locks.” Everything else she’d sell or give away. Or burn, she mentally added, thinking of the living room couch.

  Mother nodded approvingly. “Good.” She leaned against the kitchen counter and studied Daphne. “You didn’t see him, did you?”

  Define “see.” Daphne decided her mother meant in the sense of doing something dumb like going out with Mitchell. “No.” At least she hadn’t succumbed to that stupidity. She supposed she should be grateful for the episode in the bedroom.

  The studying grew more intense. Daphne could feel her mother’s gaze on her as she heated the soup. “Are you all right?” Mother asked.

  “I am now.” Daphne dug out a package of crackers and stuffed one in her mouth. Ah, carbs, a girl’s best friend.

  “Daphne. What happened in Seattle?”

  “Nothing,” Daphne lied even as her cheeks burned. Why was it that every time she and her mother discussed her love life, she felt fourteen? She loaded another cracker into her mouth and turned up the heat under the soup.

  “What kind of nothing?”

  Daphne’s tender feelings began to toughen up. Mother would’ve made a successful attorney. I’m not letting you off the stand until you crack. “No kind of nothing. Honestly, Mother. I’m a grown woman.” Who was back where she’d started, once again living at home. She set aside that humiliating fact. “Do we really need the third degree?” she demanded, infusing her words with as much wounded dignity as possible.