Carol Clark - Hitched

“A reporter just stuck a microphone in my face at the front desk and started asking obnoxious questions.”

Jeffrey inhaled nervously. “My phone has been ringing off the hook. People I barely know, who saw that Tracy is one of the brides whose dress was stolen. I have to tell them I’m not getting married. They’re asking a million questions.”

“Jeffrey, I think we should get away for a couple of days. We should leave town.”

“Call me when you get home. We’ll figure it out.”

“Okay. But I want to get away. In case Frederick decides to pay an unexpected visit.”

“I thought you said he wouldn’t bother us.”

“I don’t think he will. But all this publicity might stir him up.”

“Call me when you get home, darling. Be careful. I’ll get you out of there today. I don’t want Frederick to come near you.”

Victoria smiled. “I’ll go home and pack my bags.”

Up in Connecticut, Ellen and Montgomery Timber were relieved that Tracy was not awake for the Patrick and Jeannie show. And they’d hidden their copy of the New York Post under the kitchen sink.

Tracy and her friends had been out until four in the morning, playing darts until Jeffrey’s face was full of holes. Then they’d all come back to the house and crashed. The four of them had pulled the mattress from the guest room and dragged it down the hall and onto the floor at the foot of Tracy ’s double bed. Tracy and Catherine slept in Tracy ’s bed, Claire and Linda slumbered on the mattress. They all wanted to sleep in the same room, like the nights in college when they had stayed up late discussing their lives and attempting to solve each others’ problems. Most of the chatfests involved their love lives.

Not much had changed in twelve years.

When they awoke, Catherine volunteered to rustle up a pot of coffee. She knew that it was going to be a tough day for Tracy no matter how many holes they’d pierced in Jeffrey’s face.

Down in the kitchen, Tracy ’s parents were having breakfast. Ellen was perfectly dressed and made-up. She wouldn’t be caught dead lounging around in an old bathrobe. As usual, she greeted Catherine with a big smile. “Did you girls have fun last night?”

“We tried. I’m on a caffeine patrol,” Catherine answered. “We’ll help Tracy ease into the day with a cup of coffee.”

“Catherine Heaney, Tracy couldn’t have a better friend than you,” Montgomery proclaimed. He loved to call people by their first and last names.

“She’s my best friend and doesn’t deserve to be treated like this by that creep.”

“She doesn’t,” Ellen agreed. “But I’m afraid we have a new problem.”

“What?” Catherine asked with alarm.

Ellen opened the cabinet under the kitchen sink, pulled out the New York Post, and held it up. “They printed Tracy ’s name. And it’s been announced on television. Several reporters have already called the house asking for a comment. We’ve told them the truth- Tracy ’s asleep.”

Catherine’s mouth nearly hit the floor. “This is exactly what Tracy was afraid of.”

“We know,” Tracy ’s parents said in unison.

Catherine took a deep breath. Then another. Finally she said, “Mr. and Mrs. Timber, the four of us upstairs have been together for twelve years. During that time we’ve been through thick and thin. I’ll break it to Tracy for you. Between us, we’ll come up with a graceful way for Tracy to handle this. She’ll be fine.”

Ellen hugged Catherine. They assembled a tray with a coffeepot filled to the brim with steaming fresh java, four mugs, milk, sugar, and Tracy ’s favorite croissants, which her father had run out and bought early in the morning.

Catherine put both hands around the tray. The copy of the New York Post was under her arm. “ Tracy ’s a big girl,” she said as she headed out of the room. “She’ll be just fine.”

“She’s a Timber,” Montgomery agreed.

About a minute and a half later, Tracy ’s bloodcurdling scream echoed through the house. “I’ll sue him!” she cried.

Tracy ’s parents looked at each other.

“That’s our daughter,” Montgomery said matter-of-factly.

Ellen nodded. “Would you like another cup of coffee, dear?”

The Reillys’ family room in Summit, New Jersey, was an extension of their large open kitchen. Nora and Luke were relaxing on one of the overstuffed couches, the Sunday newspapers in front of them. They’d watched Regan on the morning show and then turned on a classical music station.

They knew that they’d hear from Regan when she had a chance to call.

“I somehow didn’t think this was the way we’d be spending the Sunday morning before Regan’s wedding,” Nora said. “Watching our daughter on television talking about her stolen wedding dress.”

Luke smiled. “Shouldn’t you have learned by now to expect the unexpected?” He leaned over and broke off a piece of a crumb bun sitting on a plate on the coffee table.

“I suppose.”

The phone rang. When Nora answered, the caller hung up. “I don’t know what that was about,” she said with a shrug.

“I got a strange call yesterday,” Luke said. “Someone asking exactly when Regan was getting married. Something about sending a gift. It didn’t sound legit.”

The phone rang again. Nora looked at the caller ID. “Unavailable,” she said.

Luke grabbed it. “Hello.”

“Mr. Reilly?”

“Who’s calling?”

“I’m Georgie, the leader of the band that’s supposed to sing at your daughter’s wedding this Saturday.”

“Supposed to sing?” Luke repeated.

“I’m really sorry. But it doesn’t look good.”

“Doesn’t look good?” Luke asked, astonished. “What do you mean?”

“We were playing at a wedding last night when a brawl broke out. The crowd knocked over a lot of our equipment. Most of it has to be replaced. You should see my guitar. It’s toast. One of my guys has a broken wrist and another is in jail for throwing punches. I’ve told him a hundred times he needs to go to anger management classes.”

Luke was silent for a moment. Finally he said, “You have a contract.”

“What do you want me to do, get out there with a harmonica?”

“Certainly not.”

Georgie sighed. “It looks like our band is going to break up for good.”

“I’m sure the public won’t be as heartbroken as when the Beatles called it a day.”

“You don’t have to be sarcastic, Mr. Reilly. I’m trying to give you plenty of notice.”

“You call six days plenty of notice? Who do you suggest I get to play at my daughter’s wedding? A bunch of high school kids?”

“They’re probably already booked. Some of the kids’ bands out there are not bad.”

Luke’s voice was icy. “We gave you a deposit.”

“I’m sending it right back.”

“You’d better.”

“I know, I know. I’m returning your check and I’m getting out of the wedding business. Too many problems with emotional people who complain if you don’t sing their first song at the exact pace they rehearsed it in the one dance class they took in their lives. It’s not my fault if they’ve got two left feet. Or the bride’s mother complains the music is too loud. The young generation wants one kind of music, Uncle Harry wants another. I’ve had it. I need a rest.”

“I hope you get a nice long one,” Luke said and hung up the phone. He turned to Nora who looked as dismayed as he did. “As you have gathered, the band canceled. There was a brawl last night.”

Nora sighed with frustration. “I tried to convince Regan to hire one of those lovely twelve-piece orchestras, but she and Jack had heard this group at a wedding. She said they really got the crowd going.”