A Wedding on Primrose Street (Life In Icicle Falls Book 7) Page 6

  It wasn’t the most enthusiastic okay Anne had ever heard, but she’d take it. “I’ll make reservations. It’ll be fun. And this will give you another option to explore. Remember, your wedding’s a big deal and you don’t want to do something you’ll regret later.”

  Laney gave her a you-might-be-right kind of nod, and since more customers were waiting for their drinks, that was the end of the lecture. Anne left the shop, feeling that they were getting somewhere.

  “I don’t know why you’re trying so hard,” her husband said over dinner that night.

  Of course he didn’t. She’d rarely complained about their wedding. But even though she’d been a sport about it, she’d always wished she’d been able to have the wedding of her dreams, something that reflected the beauty of their love and the seriousness of their commitment. Not that what they’d opted for was bad; it was just...less. Could it have played out differently at the time?

  No, she reminded herself as she relived that pivotal conversation and what followed.

  1990

  Anne and Cam sat in his souped-up truck outside her house in the late summer night with Michael Bolton on the radio asking, “How Am I Supposed to Live Without You?” Good question.

  “I wish you’d never joined the army,” Anne said, her voice as bitter as her tears.

  “Come on, babe. You know we had a plan. This will pay for my college.”

  “If you live to go to college. If you come back.” How was she supposed to tell him her news in light of this?

  He reached out a hand and played with her hair. “Of course I’ll come back, and then we’ll get married just like we planned.”

  And by then... “I’m pregnant,” she blurted.

  His hand froze. “You’re...pregnant? How could that be? We used protection.”

  “Well, I guess it wasn’t very good protection,” she snapped. “And now you’re leaving for the Middle East.”

  “That wasn’t exactly my idea,” he said. “But...hey, a kid. This is cool.”

  “This is not cool,” she informed him. He was going away. She’d be left on her own to deal with everything. They’d planned to have a big church wedding when he got out of the army. She’d work while he went back to school, and after he got his degree, she’d finish up hers. Then they’d have their two kids and a dog and a little house somewhere in the burbs and life would be perfect. Now nothing was perfect. “We should’ve waited.”

  “Are you serious? Babe, I’ve been taking cold showers since I was seventeen.”

  If she’d known this was going to happen, she would’ve kept sending him to the shower. Now look at the mess they were in. What would her youth pastor say? Never mind him. What would her mother say?

  “We’d better get married.”

  “I don’t have time to plan a wedding before you get shipped off to the Gulf.” Everyone knew it took months to plan a wedding. She didn’t even have a ring yet. Why did he have to go away? Why did this stupid war have to break out?

  He stared out the window. There was nothing much to see on Tenth Avenue except tree-lined street and modest Queen Anne houses with their porch lights on. Then he began to tap his fingers on the steering wheel.

  “We can go to the courthouse,” he finally said.

  “The courthouse?” Get married at the courthouse? That would be her big wedding?

  He turned to look at her again, his face earnest. “I love you, Annie, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Let’s make it official before I ship out. It doesn’t matter where we get married just as long as we do. Right?”

  Well, of course, that was the most important thing. But ever since she was seventeen, writing Mrs. Cameron Richardson in her high school notebooks, she’d dreamed of a traditional wedding with all the trimmings: the gown, the flowers, the church, the big reception afterward. Now reality was closing the door on that vision. She was pregnant; he was going off to the deserts of the Middle East, where who knew what would happen to him. They had to be practical.

  She nodded but she couldn’t talk. There was suddenly a boulder stuck in her throat.

  Cam pulled her close and touched his forehead to hers. “Hey, I know this isn’t what you wanted,” he said softly.

  She swallowed hard, forcing the boulder down. “I want to be with you,” she told him. “That’s what I want.” If he didn’t come back—horrible thought!—the only time they’d have together was right now. Was she really willing to give that up for a flower-filled church and a bunch of bridesmaids? Anyway, she wanted to start motherhood with a husband in the picture, even if that picture was of Daddy somewhere in a desert.

  “Let’s do it, then,” he said. “Let’s go downtown first thing Monday and get the license. Then we can get married next Friday.”

  She’d be with Cam. She’d be Mrs. Cameron Richardson. They wouldn’t have much time before he left but it would be better than nothing.

  “What do you say, Annie?” he prompted.

  “I say yes!” She’d be crazy to say anything else.

  “All right!” he crowed. And then he gave her a kiss that made her toes curl in her jelly shoes. Who needed a fancy wedding, anyway?

  Not me, Anne told herself.

  Not me, she reminded herself on Friday afternoon at four thirty as she entered the big, impersonal Seattle municipal courthouse wearing a white satin sheath and a small diamond ring, carrying a bouquet of red roses. She was flanked by her parents, her father smiling gamely, her mother smiling, too, although her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. Kendra trailed behind, the clueless younger sister, excited by the whole adventure.

  And there, waiting for her, was Cam with his parents. His eyes lit up at the sight of her and he hurried over and kissed her. “You look incredible.”

  “You look beautiful, dear,” his mother added and kissed her on the cheek before greeting Anne’s mother. If she wasn’t happy about the rush-job wedding, she didn’t betray it.

  “Well,” said Dad, “let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”

  “Good idea,” Cam said, smiling at Anne. He offered her his arm. She took it and they started down the hallway.

  They made their way to the room reserved for weddings, passing lawyers busy conferring with their clients—sketchy guys in dirty jeans or angry women with naked ring fingers, probably in the process of getting divorced. This was her wedding march. No church filled with well-wishers, no big wedding reception after the ceremony, just a dinner at her parents’ house with the two families and the small cake her neighbor Mrs. Hornsby had insisted on making for them. It was the world’s ugliest cake, slightly lopsided (“I had a little trouble assembling it,” Mrs. H. had confessed) with neon pink rosebuds that you needed sunglasses to look at and bride and groom toppers that must’ve been around since the fifties. But hey, it was a wedding cake.

  An angry guy gave a man in a suit the finger and slouched away, knocking into Anne as he passed and telling her to watch where the hell she was going. It was all so different from what she’d dreamed of. You’re marrying Cam. That’s what matters. So why were tears springing to her eyes?

  He looked at her with concern. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. “I’m just so happy.”

  * * *

  And she had been all these years. Still, she’d always regretted the fact that she and Cam had taken their vows in such a sterile environment.

  Laney could afford to wait and do things right, and somehow, Anne had to get through to her. When it came to her wedding, a woman shouldn’t settle, even if her groom wanted to be a pirate.

  Laney was going to have no regrets. Anne would see to it.

  Chapter Six

  Roberta, Woman of Mystery

  “Nice write-up in the paper,” Dot Morrison said when she stopped by Roberta and Daphn
e’s table at Pancake Haus to say hi.

  “Thank you,” Roberta said, lining up the salt and pepper shakers. It had been a nice write-up, and sweet of Muriel to think of her.

  “When are they going to do one on you?” Daphne asked.

  “Next week,” Dot said. “Looks like they’re writing up all us old-timers first.”

  Old-timer. Sometimes it seemed like only yesterday that Roberta had arrived in town. Back then, Icicle Falls had been transforming itself from a struggling town on the verge of extinction to an Alpine village. The place was so full of hope you could almost taste it. Roberta had, and that was why she’d decided to settle here. She’d needed a good dose of hope. And a job.

  She’d gone into this very restaurant when she hit town. Back then, before Dot had come to Icicle Falls and taken over the place, it had been nothing more than a greasy spoon catering to truckers and travelers crossing the pass, but to her it had felt like an oasis.

  1961

  Roberta got off the bus in front of the café and went inside. Summer was coming early to the mountain town of Icicle Falls and it was a relief to get inside and escape the heat. She ordered a cup of coffee that tasted like battery acid and a fried egg that upset her stomach, still delicate so early in her pregnancy. The toast that came with it, once she’d scraped off the burned part, helped with the queasiness.

  “Honey, you look done in,” said her waitress. The woman appeared to be the same age as Roberta’s mother. Her hair was what Mother would have labeled “bottle blond,” and the wrinkles around her mouth, along with the faint whiff of smoke coming off her, proclaimed her a smoker.

  “I’m a little tired,” Roberta admitted.

  “We got a motel on the other side of town,” said the waitress. “Nothing to write home about but it’s clean.”

  Roberta couldn’t afford a motel. She nodded and thanked the woman anyway.

  “Course, pretty soon we’ll have more going up, fancy ones like you’d see in Switzerland or Germany. This town is making some big changes. This time next year, it’ll really look like something.” She proceeded to tell Roberta all the plans in the works for putting Icicle Falls on the map. “My husband, Fred, and me, we’re saving up to build ourselves a hamburger place. To pass on to the kids, you know?”

  Roberta had nothing to pass on to her child.

  No, she corrected herself. She had love. This baby would be well loved and well cared for.

  If she could find a job.

  And a place to stay. But her money supply was dwindling and she couldn’t spend it on motel rooms. “Is there anyone in town who takes in boarders?” she asked.

  Before the waitress could answer, someone new walked in, a pretty woman with brown hair wearing a white blouse and pedal pushers. She had an equally pretty little daughter with chestnut curls. The daughter stared at Roberta curiously as they approached the table.

  She supposed she’d stare at herself, too, and wonder what someone her age was doing, traveling all alone. Soon she’d be showing, and with no wedding ring people would really stare. They’d do more than stare if they knew she was only seventeen. Well, she’d be eighteen in two months. Then she’d be an adult and no one could force her to do anything. She tried not to think about what a lonely birthday it would be.

  “Hi, Flo,” said the woman.

  “Hi, Betty,” the waitress said. “How’s the cleanup going?”

  “Great. The men have hauled those dead cars and car parts off for old Billy. And that’s the last eyesore gone.”

  The waitress nodded approvingly. Then, remembering Roberta, said, “This young lady’s looking for a place to stay. Do you know of anything?”

  “Sarah Shepherd’s taking in boarders,” the newcomer named Betty replied. She turned to Roberta and introduced herself. “And this is my daughter, Muriel.”

  “Hi, Muriel.” Roberta smiled and Muriel said a polite hello in return.

  “So you’re new in town?” Betty asked.

  Roberta nodded.

  “Where you from, dear?” asked Flo the waitress.

  “California,” Roberta lied.

  Flo let out a low whistle. “You’re a ways from home.”

  “I needed to make a new start,” Roberta said. That was no lie. “I’m a widow.”

  “A widow,” echoed Flo. “And you so young!”

  “My husband was killed in a car accident.”

  “Oh, how sad,” Betty said. “I’m very sorry.”

  Roberta murmured her thanks. “This seems to be a nice town,” she ventured.

  “You could do a lot worse than settle here,” Flo told her.

  “Hey, Flo,” called a husky man seated a couple of tables down. “Are you gonna take my order or leave me here to starve?”

  “You could live off that fat belly of yours for days, Hal,” Flo retorted. She rolled her eyes. “Guess I’d better go take his order,” she said and left.

  “Mind if I join you?” Betty asked. Before Roberta could answer, she slid into the bench on the other side of the booth, her daughter following suit. “When did you lose your husband?”

  “It’s been...a while.” Roberta could feel her cheeks warming. How many questions was this woman going to ask?

  “I can’t imagine losing a husband at such a young age,” Betty said, shaking her head. “I hope he left you well provided for?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Roberta said. “We hadn’t been married very long,” she improvised. They hadn’t been married at all, but that wasn’t something she was going to share with a stranger. It wasn’t something she was going to share with anyone. Ever.

  “Do you know if anyone in town is hiring?” she hurried on. If no one was, there was no point in staying. She’d have to keep moving on. Where, she wasn’t sure. When she’d first hit the road, all she’d wanted to do was put as much distance between herself and Seattle as she could. Now she realized she should have planned more carefully.

  Except there hadn’t been time to plan.

  Across the table from her Betty was looking sympathetic. “I hear they need a teller over at the bank. My husband and the manager are friends. I’d be happy to put in a word for you.”

  “But you don’t know me.” For all this woman knew, Roberta could be a con artist. In a way she was.

  “I’m pretty good at sizing people up. You seem like an honest young woman.”

  She was anything but.

  “What do you think, Muriel?” Betty asked, smiling at the girl.

  “I think she’s pretty,” Muriel said, then blushed.

  “Thank you,” Roberta murmured. Being pretty wasn’t always an advantage. Sometimes it got a girl in trouble. “I’m a hard worker,” she said to Betty. Not that she’d ever had any job besides babysitting. But she’d work hard for whoever hired her.

  “I’m sure you are,” Betty said kindly. “I tell you what. How about after breakfast I take you down to the bank and introduce you to Howard Mangle, the manager? Then I can show you where the Shepherds live.”

  The woman’s generosity was almost too much. Roberta felt tears flooding her eyes. “You’re very kind.”

  Betty cocked her head and studied Roberta in a way that had her cheeks heating again. “I suspect you’re a woman in need of a little kindness right now.”

  * * *

  If Betty had guessed Roberta’s real story, she never let on. Instead, she’d taken Roberta under her wing and helped her get settled in town. Roberta had spent many a Sunday at Betty’s house, enjoying dinner with her family. Betty and her husband, Joe, had helped Roberta move when, a few years later, she’d found her Victorian. Roberta had watched Muriel grow up and had been a regular customer of Sweet Dreams Chocolates ever since the day she got her job at the bank and splurged on a box of chocolate-covered cherries. She’d
met new friends and made something of herself. Staying in Icicle Falls had turned out to be a good decision.

  Maybe it would be for Daphne, too. Maybe here Daphne would finally get inspired to do more with her life. Open a shop, live up to her name and become a writer like Daphne du Maurier. Or Muriel. Something. Anything. So far all she’d been inspired to do was mope around the house.

  “I hear you’re back to stay,” Dot said to Daphne.

  “I’ve sure had enough of Seattle,” Daphne replied.

  “Well, I’m sorry your marriage didn’t work out, kiddo,” Dot said. “But sometimes a woman is better off on her own. Look how well your mom and I have done.”

  Daphne heaved a huge sigh. “You’re probably right. I don’t seem to do very well at picking men.”

  “It’s hard to pick a good one when so many of the ones hanging on the branch are rotten,” Dot said.

  Daphne pushed back a lock of blond hair. “I suppose there are still some good men out there. I’ve just never been able to find one.”

  My poor daughter, Roberta thought. Where did I go wrong? Daphne should have been happily married. And successful. But here she was, rejected, dejected and living with her mother.

  “Muriel sure knows how to find the good ones,” Dot said. “In fact, you should talk to her daughter. Cecily used to be a matchmaker. Maybe she’ll have some ideas for you.”

  “Like how to murder my husband?”

  Roberta frowned at her, but Dot chuckled. “Things’ll work out. They always do.”

  “Daphne!” Roberta scolded as Dot moved on to greet her other customers.

  “Sorry,” Daphne said in an unrepentant voice, “but I really could murder him. Stake him out in the sun covered with honey and let the ants have at him.”

  “There’s an appetizing image,” Roberta said in disgust. “Although I must admit, even that’s better than he deserves.” She’d never say it publicly, but she wouldn’t mind getting a chance to put her hands around Mitchell’s throat.

  “Every time I think of him and that woman I want to...” Daphne crumpled her paper napkin.