Something Old, Something Dead Read online

  I huffed out a breath. “Are you alone, at least?”

  There was an ominous pause.

  “Um, no.”

  I heard murmuring outside the door but did not want to face whoever was out there standing around yapping about me and my behavior, which I knew was very childish. I was severely overwhelmed. Between this party and helping with the wedding, I’d yet to find any time to spend with the man who loves me to distraction. No time to even breathe in his direction, much less actually touch any good body parts.

  At this point Ben and I hadn’t even managed to neck in three weeks, and sex hadn’t happened in long enough for me to feel my hymen growing back.

  I decided to go with petulant, which could be a great voice for me. “Then I’m not coming out. All the food is already on the tables, the presents are open, the ice cream and cookies and cake are gone. The only thing that still needs doing is the clean up, which I can do when everyone is gone. Thank you very much, now go away.”

  “You’re acting like a bratty twelve-year-old.” Oh, God, that was Daisy’s voice, which meant I’d just had my snit in front of at least one of my sisters. Not good, not good at all.

  “Come out. Now,” Maggie said in her “don’t mess with me” teacher’s voice. It had worked when I was the bratty twelve-year-old, and it worked now. I watched in horror while my hand crept toward the lock on the bathroom door. I tried to grab it with my other hand, but it was like the thing had a life of its own. My bad hand grasped the little turnkey thing and twisted. The other hand was doing close shadowing and tried to turn it back to locked. But someone was faster than me. The door was practically shoved off its hinges before I could blink.

  And then four women, plus yours truly, were crammed into my tiny bathroom, laughingly called the master bath. The thing had about five square feet of room not covered with the toilet, the vanity, and the shower. No way was there room for all of us, and yet here we all were.

  I pushed someone’s breast out of my eye and tried to stand from the toilet. “Okay,” I yelled over the chattering. “If I promise to come out, can we please not all crowd in here? Can we take this into my bedroom? I feel like I’m going to faint from all the perfume.”

  “You have to promise not to lock the door and leave us outside.” Rose knew me too well.

  I got pushed and tugged until I was the first one out. For a split second I thought about turning, slamming the door closed, and putting a chair under the knob, effectively locking them in and leaving me out to run away. But I didn’t do that, either. I may have acquired a backbone over the last few months, living on my own, but I hadn’t completely gone over to the dark side. Yet.

  Martha, the Bouquet, and I all stood in my room. I was on one side with my arms crossed over my ample chest, waiting for the girls to drop the verdict on how stupid and childish I was being. I also waited for Martha to say something about the other Martha’s Pointers—us all living in Martha’s Point, Virginia (thought you’d like that)—being right about me.

  Neither of those things happened. Instead, I was enfolded in a cloud of perfume. It smelled the same as it had in the bathroom, but this time I appreciated it rather than wanting to choke.

  “Are you okay, sweetie?” Martha asked as she sat me down on the edge of the bed. Maggie sat on the other side, and Rose and Daisy knelt on the floor at my feet.

  “I think I am,” I said, not entirely sure. What was up with me anyway? The local folks not accepting me was nothing new. I’d been dealing with it for months now, since the day I stepped into town with the letter from Great-Aunt Gertie’s attorney saying I was now the proud owner of my own house and a costume shop on the same street in the little town of three thousand.

  “So, what’s up, then?” Martha asked, patting my hand. “The party is wonderful, by the way, but then you were just gone.”

  I looked into those kind eyes and cried again. Why couldn’t everyone be as nice as Martha? Then again, Martha wasn’t always as nice as she was now, either. God! “I don’t know.” I patted back. “Maybe it’s PMS, who knows?”

  “PMS, ick! Remember when we all lived under the same roof?” Rose said. “It was like world wars seven through ten every month. And Dad was always so afraid to go get us any tampons because it would mean we were actually growing up.”

  Hold the phone. The Bouquet had trouble growing up with my dad, too? I thought I was the only one he had wanted to keep a little girl. Unfortunately, that would have to be a conversation for another time, because someone else was banging on my bedroom door. I didn’t think I could handle any more guests. Please, don’t let it be someone else who wanted to see the place where I supposedly did wicked things with Ben. I hadn’t done anything remotely wicked in weeks. It was killing me and my mood at the same time.

  “Anybody want to answer that?” I asked, hoping someone else would take on the responsibility of dealing with the other partygoers.

  “Let’s go out and take whoever it is with us.” Martha rose from the bed. Her beautiful lavender dress complimented her slate-gray hair, and I thought again about how lucky my dad was to find her so late in life. My mom had died almost fifteen years ago, and he’d been alone this whole time. It was nice for him to have someone, even if it did mean I had to be completely tied up in the wedding planning, going through another sexual dry spell, and enduring a house filled with people who barely even nodded at me when we passed on the street.

  Knocking sounded again, and it matched the throbbing in my temples. To top it all off, when I tried to get up off the bed, I found that my pantyhose had taken their normal trip south and the waistband was currently hovering far below my navel, like right at my crotch, which put the crotch at my knees. I tripped and nearly fell. Fortunately, Rose was there to catch me. She might be small, but she’s strong.

  “Thanks.”

  “No prob, babe. We’ll get through this, and then we’ll order some pizza from the place we found last time, whip out the jelly jars for some much-needed wine, and yak until we all fall asleep in mid sentence.”

  Sounded like a plan to me. We went out the door in pairs, with me trailing behind, pulling and tugging at my recalcitrant nylons. Martha snagged Thelma Boden, who was trying hard to get a peek into my room. Looking for the silk scarves and the trapeze, I guess.

  Chapter Three

  Finally, everyone but the Bouquet and Martha had gone home. I had my jelly glass full of wine and a slice of piping hot pizza in hand. The rehearsal was tomorrow night for the wedding on Saturday, so this was one of Martha’s last free nights as a single woman. We’d talked her into staying with us while my dad hosted the men and children at Martha’s house down past the shoppe.

  “So where are you and Dad going on your honeymoon?” Maggie asked, cheese hanging out of her mouth. It was a not-so-good look for her, one of the few I’d ever seen. She usually looked good in anything.

  “Your father is taking me on a trip up and down the East Coast. I think we may be going in a car and staying at bed and breakfasts along the way. He’s being very secretive about the whole thing, but I’m not nervous. I know whatever he does will be fine.”

  Okay, maybe she didn’t know my dad as well as she thought she did. Whenever—and I did mean every single time—he had a surprise, it was always best to be on your guard. His surprises had a way of turning into circuses of freaky happenings.

  The Bouquet and I exchanged looks. I wondered if they were also thinking about the time he took us all horseback riding and tried to put Daisy on a stallion because it looked like Black Beauty. I think she still had the crescent-shaped bite mark on her butt from when the horse turned around and took a chunk out of her.

  “Well, Martha,” I said brightly before anyone else could jump in and ruin things. “I hope you will be happy, though I do wish you the best of luck.”

  She laughed and patted my hand again. I liked it in a weird way but ignored the feeling as she started talking. “Oh, Ivy, I can almost see your brain working. Stan told me
all about his past ‘surprises.’ I warned him this had better not be a repeat of the time he took you girls camping and brought a sheet for a tent and nothing else, making you cover up with leaves for blankets since he wanted you to have the true experience of roughing it.”

  There was a burst of laughter all around me. Really, is there anything better than a room full of joyous women? Other than quality bed time with Ben, I mean.

  I basked for a while longer, sure things were finally going my way. I’d get Dad and Martha married, off on their honeymoon, then get Ben back in my bed where he belonged. I did appreciate the fact he never missed an opportunity to call me on the phone and whisper naughty, sweet everythings in my ear. But it wasn’t the same.

  Fortunately, the family was only here through the weekend. Monday everyone would go on their way, leaving me free to reacquaint myself with every dimple and mark on Ben’s yummy, delicious, scrumptious body.

  If you can’t tell, um…I couldn’t wait.

  ****

  The day of the wedding rehearsal, we had to get the final fitting done for the Bouquet. Of course they all looked fabulous in the spring colors Martha had chosen for us, to resemble a garden. Rose was in a delicate shade of rose, Daisy in a pale purple, and Maggie in a pale yellow. The dresses shimmered and fit them to perfection. The empire waists fell just right so the dresses hit the tops of their shoes at exactly the right angle. And all this wonder was created by the three of them talking to me from their individual bathrooms, measuring the length from their waist to their feet, around their arms (disgustingly small), their waists (ditto), hips, and the distance between their nipples (don’t ask).

  I, on the other hand, had stood for three different fittings since my dad and Martha had come back from California trailing his belongings. And my spring green dress, which wasn’t a half bad color, fit like I’d picked it up at the irregular rack at the Salvation Army. Argh! Why me?

  “Why me?” I wailed, and immediately had everyone running up to me and nearly dropping Martha on her ass. I felt so selfish but couldn’t help it. I looked terrible, like the lone weed in a pot of fabulous flowers.

  “I...I’m sorry,” I sobbed into a tissue that had magically appeared in my hand. “I just don’t want to be the only ugly one out of the whole party, especially since I have to walk down the aisle right in front of you, Martha.”

  She patted my hand, and I found I was really starting to like the gesture. “Honey, don’t worry. We’ll get it fixed and you’ll be beautiful, I promise.” She turned in her fabulously flattering cream-colored concoction and whistled for the seamstress.

  “Yes, Martha honey, what can I do for you?” She said Marthahoney, like it was one word.

  “Sarah, can you help me out here, please? Ivy’s dress doesn’t seem to fit right.”

  They both circled me, and I worked hard not to picture them as a pair of vultures coming in for the kill.

  “Are we sure this is the right dress? It’s pulling around the stomach and gaping at the chest.” She tapped her perfectly made up lips, and I wished desperately for Bella. But she was out with Jared, and I wouldn’t see them until I got to the rehearsal tonight. I needed a boost of Bella. Actually I needed a shot of vodka, but I didn’t think that would be a good thing to ask for right now.

  “Here, follow me into the dressing room back here, and I’ll see what I can do.” Sarah walked away and I quickly followed, almost snagging my hem on a chair.

  We went into the back room, and she made me stand on the stool so she could get a good look at the way the dress bunched around my chest, strained on my hips, and rose too many inches above the seat of the stool. The dress was supposed to hit the stool to make it perfect for me to wear with heels, but this was not going to fly. I refused to be the only one with my chunky calves showing. Why couldn’t it have happened to one of my sisters with their smooth, shapely legs? Argh!

  Sarah gave the dress a couple of tugs and I sucked in a breath. The last thing I wanted was for the material to rip. Then I wouldn’t be in the wedding at all.

  “Can you turn around real quick, baby girl?”

  “Um, okay. Sure.” Baby girl? I started a slow turn and concentrated on not falling off the small stool.

  “I think I...hmm... Hold on, I think I may have found the problem.” She tugged one more time, slid a finger down the breast of the dress—nearly giving me a very inappropriate and unasked for thrill—before she whipped the dress over my head.

  I knew I should have worn the nice panties and bra. I squawked. Never a good sound, but then I was standing in the dressing room confronted with full frontal ugly underwear. Damn.

  “Oh, sweetie, you need to get yourself some new panties. Don’t you own that Masked Shoppe down the street? If I didn’t know what you actually have in that back room I might be tempted never to step foot in there after seeing your underwear. No offense.” She peered at me over the top of her half-moon glasses and tsked.

  I could feel the blush working itself up from my chest to my neck to my face. Why hadn’t I thought of that before I came here today? I knew I would be trying on clothes. Duh. I looked around for something to cover myself with, but the only other thing in the room was a set of sheer curtains. Yeah, that wouldn’t do much for this biggy-sized body.

  “Sorry. I really do have nicer underwear.” Why was I defending my panties? It wasn’t like I had to dress to impress all the time.

  “No need to apologize, hon, but you might want to think about it for next time. You are what you sell, you know. I wouldn’t be caught dead outside my bedroom without looking one hundred percent. I make most of my own clothes, since I don’t know what people would think if I ended up at Martha’s diner in something from the discount outlet.” She snickered, and I joined her even though the underwear I was currently sporting did indeed come from the big store forty miles away.

  She pulled and pushed, knelt at my feet, and whipped out her tape measure. After all that, she went back to the dress, turned it inside out, and looked at the seams. She made some noises and began pulling loose threads. The dress seemed to balloon and then float down on the padded hanger. “Huh.”

  “What?” I shivered, up on my pedestal, wondering when I would get to put some clothes back on. The bra and panties covered me more than what I would have worn from the boudoir, but it still felt like the air conditioning was a little low.

  “Well, it looks like some kind of mistake was made here, and the material got bunched at one of the seams. Let’s see if this fits any better.” She brought the dress back to me and slipped it over my head. It slithered down my body, coasting over my ample hips and stomach, and caressing my knees.

  The full-length mirror showed no more drooping at the top and no more straining at the belly, either. Fantastic. In fact, I looked fantastic. Wow! I was so going to make Ben’s eyes bug out when he got a load of me.

  The only thing? I was so not wearing four-inch heels to make up for the length. Sarah put a couple of pins into the bottom and made approving noises.

  Thank God, because I didn’t want to be the dead person at this major event. Me and heels? Definitely a possibility.

  Sarah came in for the kill, er, came in and tugged on the hem again and seemed satisfied. “Looks good, sugar. Let’s go back out and get the ladies’ opinions. I’ll have to talk to Melanie about what happened here.”

  Sounded portentous (good word), but I followed her out thinking about how I appreciated Martha including all of us in the wedding. I had wondered why she only had us to stand up as her attendants and no females from her side of the family in the wedding party. But at the reception later, I got to meet the family, and the mystery was no longer a mystery.

  Chapter Four

  I thought the rehearsal would go on for ever. It wasn’t the bridesmaids or the groomsmen—all Martha’s relatives, plus Ben looking decidedly delicious in old jeans and a pullover sweatshirt—or even the little flower girl, who was my niece.

  No, everyone wa
lked calmly and coolly down the aisle, no tripping, no fumbling our fake bouquets in preparation for the wedding. The men stood tall and waited patiently for each of us to do our leisurely strolls down the aisle. On my own walk, it occurred to me that everyone in here but Ben, my niece, and I had done this walk-and-wait at least once.

  And didn’t Ben look nice at the front of the chapel? No, no, wouldn’t think about that. We barely had time to be together anymore, I certainly wasn’t in a rush to get married. Especially when I’d just had to go through the madness and chaos entailed in such an occasion.

  The holdup? It was the wedding singer. He was balding, with a bad rug fixed atop his dark head. The rug itself looked like it might have been ordered out of a catalog for the pelts of small dogs, and then he went and got it in this fake yellow color, possibly going for sunbleached. Since his remaining real hair was the color of mud, you can see how that did not make for a good picture. He was paunchy and dressed in the most hideous Hawaiian shirt I had ever had the misfortune to see. My grandfather had worn the floral print shirts, but his had been cool, with those old woody station wagons, surfboards, or hibiscus flowers in muted shades. This shirt nearly glowed. I had spotted the man before I’d barely made it through the door an hour ago. I hadn’t been able to keep him out of my line of sight since.

  “Martha, my peach.” His voice was nasally, too, and that put the whole thing over the top for me, especially since he was wearing white Bermuda shorts at the end of December in Virginia. His legs were like sticks, in direct contrast to the top half of him. Thick blood or not, I didn’t know anyone who wore shorts when it was this cold outside. He looked like Richard Simmons in another, worse life. Thank God he hadn’t chosen a tank top to complete his outfit. But he did have a bandage around his neck, which didn’t exactly enhance his look.

  “What do you need this time, Horace?” Even Martha seemed to be at the end of her rope with this guy. And don’t get me started on the wedding photographer, who was supposedly there to record these great moments for posterity. Instead he was swilling from a flask, with his camera dangling around his scrawny neck.