The Wedding Setup, page 3
The bus driver closed the door so quickly behind her she was worried her blazer would be caught. She jumped forward, right into the slush, the icy mixture instantly saturating her favorite heels.
“Great,” she said, shaking some of it off her foot. “Just fucking great.”
The driver didn’t seem to notice her obscene gesture at him, so she made her way slowly toward the depot, stumbling on her sodden feet through the ice and snow and almost falling inside after wrestling with the door and wind.
Unlike the other depots she’d explored—mainly to get off the bus and use the toilet—this one had been jauntily decorated. Nearly every inch of the place was covered in either a heart or a cupid cutout, with white and pink heart streamers crisscrossing the room above her head. An enormous red mailbox stood in one corner, above which a sign read “Loveland Remailing Program,” which was also festooned with little silhouettes of cupids and hearts. Someone was kneeling in front of the mailbox, fiddling with the locked door, their back to Ryann.
She stamped her feet a couple of times on the sodden floor mat, splashing more wet water on herself. Disgusted and enraged, she marched directly to the front desk and the only other person in the room besides the postal worker.
The young man behind the counter seemed as disgusted with the situation as she was. Someone had apparently made him wear a jaunty red forage cap and vest, which had metal conversation-hearts buttons in bright pastels pinned to them. “Be Mine” said one, and “UR A QT” said another. His hair, however, was dyed black, and he was wearing heavy black eyeliner. He had been reading—Nietzsche, of course—and did little but look up at her, one hand firmly under his chin.
“Yes?” he said, his tone entirely devoid of interest.
“Do you have a pay phone somewhere? My phone’s dead.”
He pointed with a black-nail-polished finger rather than say anything, and she had to fight the urge to reach out and shake him into some semblance of life.
The phone, she realized, was old school. It was even in a little booth—something she’d seen only in movies. The phone itself was low, attached to the wall on a kind of desk, with a little leather seat cracked with age. There were absolutely no instructions for using a credit card, and she had no change.
“Christ Almighty,” she said, sitting down heavily. She was close to tears or screaming—one of the two. If one more thing went wrong, she was fairly certain she would either explode with rage or have a complete breakdown. It was now days since she’d tried to leave New York the first time. She’d barely eaten or slept since, and she was still wearing the same clothes she’d put on forty-eight hours ago between canceled flights. She couldn’t even imagine what she must look like and didn’t really want to know.
She stood up, straightened her blazer as best as she could, and ran her fingers under her eyes, wiping away what was likely the last of her smeary mascara. She stepped out of the phone booth and started walking back to the disaffected goth, trying to give him her warmest smile.
The postal worker finished with the mailbox and stood up, turning just as she walked by. Ryann couldn’t help a little shock of surprised delight at the sight of a handsome butch woman, here in the middle of practically nowhere. She, like the young man at the desk, was wearing a Valentine-themed uniform, so gaudy and over the top she might have been wearing a costume. The woman smirked at her and winked, then walked past her toward the door, close enough for her to detect a whiff of vanilla. She couldn’t help but turn to watch her leave, and, as if sensing her interest, the woman glanced back at her, her smirk widening. She touched the brim of her silly hat and winked again before leaving, the bells over the door jingling merrily. Ryann watched her walk across the parking lot and then approached the front desk.
Once again, the young goth barely acknowledged her, and she had to bite down another urge to strangle him. She read his nametag.
“Cliff? The phone in the booth won’t take my credit card. Do you think I could ask you to make a call for me? I need a ride.”
“Okay. Who do you want me to call?”
She opened her mouth, ready to recite Stuart’s number, but then closed it. She was a complete mess, and the last thing she wanted to do was to meet his fiancé looking like this. She could ask Stuart to come alone, but she didn’t really want him to see her like this, either.
“I guess I need a cab,” she said.
“You can just go outside. You should find at least one if you follow the building around the side to the left.” Again, he pointed, his book still open, his hand still propping up his head. She had a wild thought then, picturing his head simply rolling off if he moved his hand from his chin, and she had to bite back a braying laugh. Something in her expression must have given this thought away, as he frowned slightly.
“Thanks,” she managed, and marched back outside into the freezing morning air. The wind tried to ruffle her skin-tight skirt and shirt, and she pulled her blazer ineffectively closer around her, now shuddering with cold.
She rounded the building, and a single, late-model cab was sitting next to a TAXI stand sign. The cab, like everything she’d seen so far in this town, was festooned in Valentine’s decorations, whether permanent or temporary—red and white hearts and cupids over a bright-pink body. Sweetheart Rides, the company was called. She waved at the driver, who popped out, opening the back door for her. She dropped inside a blissfully warm, cozy back seat. The space smelled strangely of vanilla and cinnamon, and she inhaled deeply, the last of the spoiled milk from the bus leaving her sinuses. There was a white fleece blanket with red hearts back here, which she gratefully draped over her nylon-clad legs.
The driver climbed in front and slammed the door, then turned to make eye contact with her.
“You must be freezing in those clothes!”
Captain Obvious, she thought. “Luggage was lost.”
“On the bus?” he asked.
She sighed. “It’s a long story.”
“Seems like you’ve had a rough time of it. Sorry if this is your first time in Loveland. Hopefully things start turning around for ya.”
“Thanks. They couldn’t get worse, I suppose.”
“Where we headed?”
Her mind was completely blank. Stuart had made the reservation for her and had given her all the information in her phone, but that was days ago now, and she hadn’t really been paying attention. Still, she remembered that the place had a funny, kitschy name in keeping with all the other Valentine’s-themed things she’d already seen here.
“Love Lodge? Lover’s Hideaway? Something like that? I’m sorry. I can’t quite remember the name. I know it’s downtown, anyway.”
“You probably mean the Love Inn.”
She snapped her fingers. “That’s it—yes, the Love Inn. You guys really go all in for this Valentine’s stuff, huh?”
He laughed. “Heck yes, we do. It’s our busiest time of year.” He winked and turned forward, slowly easing the cab onto the icy, snowy road that led out of the depot.
All of the light and telephone poles were festooned in twinkle lights and red garland, and every pole they passed had at least one enormously large wooden heart attached to it with names and messages from people, conversation-heart style. They were soon driving a little too fast to read most of them, but she saw messages of love and friendship, clearly personalized. “Ken Loves Jo.” “Alice Loves Her Kitty.” “Carl + Rhonda 4EVR.”
“Looking at the hearts?” the driver said, pointing. “Anyone can have one of those commissioned in December or January, and they’re different every year. It used to just be a local thing, but now we get people from all over the world asking for them. Then they can show pictures of their heart to their sweetie, or they can bring their loved one here and show it to them on Valentine’s Day. Lots of engagements begin in front of those hearts, I can tell ya.”
“It’s a really cute idea,” she said, smiling with something like genuine warmth for the first time in days. “Someone must make a fortune.”
“It’s a charity that does it, actually, but yeah, they really sweep up this time of year.”
The drive wasn’t long—some ten minutes, give or take. Once they passed the usual stretch of strip malls and car dealerships near the highway, the town was revealed, cute and unassuming, a charming mix of small, local businesses and early twentieth-century Craftsman homes with an occasional Victorian here and there for flavor. The entire town was done up for the upcoming holiday in varying levels of success—tacky here, cute there. Still, with the snow, the red-and-white decorations stood out in pretty contrast.
Downtown was clearly a relic of nineteenth-century railroad buildup, with the flat, two-story wood and brick facades she recognized from various Westerns she’d seen. Here the lights and hearts simply exploded, covering every surface she could see. Today was the first day of February. Was all this year-round or temporary? Still, the town officials, or whoever ran all this, could easily make a year-round thing of it for the tourists. It was a little overdone, but that was almost always the case with places that banked on tourist money around a holiday. She’d been to Salem, Massachusetts a week or so before Halloween once, and it was similar there most of October. The whole thing was a smart marketing move by whoever had drummed it up. It was unique and specific, and something she hadn’t seen before. Valentine’s Day was almost two weeks out, but they probably made money on it even now.
The Love Inn was a tacky monstrosity, even from the outside. From the name, she’d expected a kind of late-’60s throwback, with psychedelic tie dye and flower power, but she realized she should have adjusted her expectations once she saw the rest of the town. It was a small, two-story mid-century painted a hideous Pepto-Bismol pink with white, lacy trim, doors, and shutters. It was a nightmare directly from the Barbie Dream House style of architecture.
“Here we are,” the driver said, pulling into the loading area.
“I can’t stay here,” Ryann said, shaking her head.
“What? Why not?”
Ryann shook her head. “I’m not going in there.”
The driver’s eyes turned from her out the front window and back several times, clearly trying to understand her aversion. Finally, he met her eyes.
“I don’t know what to tell ya, except that you’ll have a hell of a time getting another room anywhere this time of year. I mean, there’s probably something in the bigger chains out by the highway, but nothing downtown—not if you don’t have a reservation. Stay out there, and you’ll need a car, and a lot of the car places are all booked up, and—”
She held up a hand, shutting her eyes. The migraine she’d managed to suppress with gallons of coffee the last few days was trying to take over, and she rubbed her temples with her fingertips. Stuart had mentioned something like this, she now remembered. There were only a few places to stay downtown, and with all the wedding activities located here, it wouldn’t make any sense to stay farther away. He’d told her the place she was staying was a charming piece of Americana.
“You’re right,” she said, opening her eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long trip. How much do I owe you?”
As she paid, she reflected on her earlier feelings about Stuart. When he’d called, she’d eventually been willing to let bygones be bygones. He was, or had been, her oldest and dearest friend. Now, as she climbed out of the cab and into the frigid morning air, she wondered if she shouldn’t have simply turned him down. She would have shown up for the wedding, of course. She didn’t hate him, after all, but she didn’t need to be here, of all places, for two weeks. It was asking too much of her. The fact that he didn’t realize that this was the last place she would ever stay spoke volumes about how distant they’d become.
The cabbie gave her a little toot of his horn, and she jumped, her nerves frayed nearly to breaking. She waved at him, squared her shoulders once more, and marched into the Love Inn.
The scent that greeted her upon opening the door sent a wave of nostalgic longing crashing through her. She couldn’t immediately identify the scent, but she was suddenly reminded of getaways to New Hampshire when she was a kid, skiing and sledding and spending more family time together than they did the rest of the year. Between her parents’ busy schedules and her brother’s boarding school, those annual trips had been their only extended moments together as a family.
Some sleigh bells had jangled as she entered, and a small, graying woman appeared from the back, waving her inside.
“Come in, come in! You must be absolutely frozen to death!”
The woman was wearing a long-sleeved white cotton shirt decorated with pink and red hearts; an apron made of two felt hearts lined with frilly, white lace; and bright-red penny loafers. Her hair had been set, blue-rinsed a little too brightly to a near-platinum, and her blush and lipstick were almost garish. Still, her smile was wide and warm, and she looked invitingly friendly.
Ryann, still shaken by her childhood memories, didn’t immediately respond. She stood, still motionless, frozen in fact, in the doorway, the cold wind blowing her from behind.
The woman blanched and rushed over, grabbing her hand and pulling her inside.
“Oh, you poor thing,” the woman said. “It’s going to be okay. Let me get you something warm to drink.”
The woman led her into a small dining room and directed her into a heart-backed chair festooned with white lace. The seat was also heart-shaped, and this, alone, was enough to finally break through Ryann’s strange fugue. As she came back to herself, tears were coursing down her cheeks, and she wiped them away hurriedly, shocked and embarrassed.
The woman returned a moment later, a steaming red mug in her hands, and handed it to her. The scent that had struck her immobile was coming from the mug—hot chocolate with vanilla. Her mother made it this way.
The woman sat down in a similar chair next to her and patted her knee. “There, there, honey. You drink that up. You must be absolutely frozen to the bone.”
“I-I’m sorry,” she managed, suddenly fighting tears again. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”
“We all have days like that,” the woman said, still smiling, eyes kind and warm. “Is there someone I can call for you? Someone that can come get you?”
She frowned, not following. She realized that this woman must think she’d simply wandered in off the street. “Oh, no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mention it, did I? I need to check in. I’m staying here.”
“Oh, you are! You must be Ryann. Stuart told me to watch out for you. Let me go get your paperwork and the key. You just sit there, honey, and drink up. A nice warm bath should help you feel better.”
She was angry with herself. She couldn’t understand these feelings. Why was she reacting this way to a mug of hot chocolate? She took a long, deep whiff of it and set it down, tears rising to her eyes again.
“Get ahold of yourself, lady,” she whispered, wiping her eyes. “You’re just tired.”
The woman was back again, her expression still warm and friendly, and Ryann began to thaw in response. Normally this kind of person came across to her as phony, at best, or outright manipulative at worst. Instead, she was struck with the deepest conviction that this woman was genuinely nice—all within a few minutes of meeting her.
“The bill has already been covered for you,” the woman said, handing her the key.
“It has?”
“Yes. By Stuart. What a lovely young man he is! And so talented!”
“Mmm,” she said, taking the key. It was an actual key, not a card, something she hadn’t seen in years. The keychain was, of course, a red plastic heart.
“That’s our best room,” the woman said, smiling even wider. “I’d ask one of the boys to carry your luggage up for you, but I didn’t see any outside.”
“It’s coming later,” she said, standing up. Her legs felt weak, nearly loose beneath her, and a wave of fatigue made her almost swoon. The woman grabbed her elbow and started walking her toward the main entry room. This space was, like the rest of the town, absolutely plastered in Valentine’s decorations, with another enormous red mailbox, that same sign above it: “Loveland Remailing Program.”
She was too baffled to ask about this now and let the woman lead her up the flight of stairs. Even the carpet was decorated in stylized golden hearts stitched into the fabric. They reached the next floor, and she let herself be led to the door at the end of the hallway.
“Here we are,” the woman said, “the Honeymoon Suite!”
“The what?” Some of her fatigue retreated at the words.
“It’s the best room, really,” the woman said. “Stuart even paid for the Honeymoon Package, so you’ll find some goodies in there waiting for you—all on the house. My name is Ethel, so if you need something, you call the front desk, day or night, and me or one of the boys will bring it to you. Breakfast is from seven to nine. Tomorrow and Friday you’ll have your pick of several options, but things will change to family style on Saturday. You’re the only guest right now, but we’re booked solid through Valentine’s starting this weekend, so you’re going to see a lot of friendly faces in the hall here pretty soon.” She paused, smiling again. “Can I get you anything now? More hot cocoa?”
“No,” she said, almost snapping.
Ethel’s expression faltered for the first time.
Ryann adjusted her tone, trying to give her a real smile. “Sorry. I mean I’m fine for now. I just need to lie down for a while. Take a long bath, like you said.”
Ethel patted her arm. “Of course, honey. And if you need someone to run and get you some clothes, you call me. I have a friend with a little boutique here in town that would be happy to send some things over for you at a discount.”
She had to suppress a shudder of revulsion, but she managed to keep her expression neutral. “Thank you. I’m going to try to get my things delivered, but I might have to take you up on that. I’ll call down later.”
