A Wedding in Truhart (11 page)

Nick was probably going to order some sort of healthy option that the restaurant chain put on the menu to appease health food advocates. The unmistakable smells of burgers and fries made my stomach grumble. My earlier dreams of greasy food had reincarnated themselves into an all-out monster craving. When we reached the front of the line I didn't hesitate. I ordered two double bacon cheeseburgers, biggie fries, and a chocolate milkshake. Nick's eyebrows climbed as I recited the list to the cashier and, by the way his face took on a lopsided tilt, he was trying hard not comment.

“You said you were paying,” I said as nonchalantly as possible, waving him to place his order.

He ordered a single, teeny-tiny burger and a coffee. The louse!

“I thought you were hungry,” I said.

“I am.”

“That wasn't enough to satisfy an old lady.”

“Are you questioning my manhood?”

“Just your hunger,” I shot back as he pulled out his wallet.

“I figure I'll eat what you can't finish,” he said, handing a twenty to the cashier.

“What?! There is no way I am going to share my fries with you!”

Fifteen minutes later I surrendered my second double bacon burger to Nick, who grinned eagerly as he folded back the wrapper and took a bite. My milkshake rested in the cup holder in front of me, only half finished. He had already claimed several sips. I followed Nick's gaze to the french fries and covered the top of the box with my hand. “Not the fries, I'm only resting.”

He knocked my hand out of the way and his hands plundered the carton. Well, at least he had kept his Midwest appetite, I told myself. It would have been a big turnoff if he had ordered something wimpy with lettuce.

We sat in the McDonald's parking lot overlooking a ridge while we finished our food. It had been crowded in the restaurant and no tables were available. I was actually glad. Nick and I had settled into a peaceful truce and I was feeling more relaxed as I took in the beautiful view in front of us. Who would have known that the front seat of a car in a McDonald's parking lot could feel as good as a window seat at a fancy five-star restaurant?

When Nick finished the last of my burger and fries he grabbed our bags filled with trash. “I'll be right back,” he said, jumping out of the car and heading toward the trash cans near the front of the restaurant.

Impulsively, I reached into the backseat and pulled out my camera. The clouds at the edge of the storm pattern hovered over the ridge in front of me and the contrast between the yellow strands of sunshine that clawed their way out of the low mist and the shadows across the valley were hauntingly beautiful. Farther down the ridge, a church steeple and a scattering of houses gave the picture context. I wanted to capture the moment, but after several shots I couldn't quite get the frame right. I was readjusting a manual setting on my camera when I realized that Nick was standing beside me.

“Oops, sorry. Have you been waiting long?”

“Not at all,” he said. He gestured toward the ridge. “Go ahead. I don't mind waiting . . . but only if you let me see the finished product.”

I snapped one last picture and put the lens back on. “If you really want it, I'll send it to you. But sometimes what I think is going to be perfect ends up looking canned. It's all the pictures I take that I don't really think about that are my best shots.”

He put his hands in his pockets and looked up at a low-flying bird that coasted in the wind. “Really? I've heard that happens. Too much planning and thinking can make a work of art artificial.”

“Yeah. You have to lead from the gut and just hope the art follows. I guess it doesn't happen that way in architecture, does it?”

Nick turned to me and the wind blew an unruly piece of hair straight up on his head, making me want to reach out and tame it. “Actually, you would be surprised. You can spend forever planning and working out a fantastic design only to lose the integrity of the project in the details. The easiest solutions are the simple ones that are no-brainers. I always try to remember that when my design gets too complex.”

For a moment we just stared at each other and then our attention was caught by the bird again. It was circling lower, looking for something to prey upon. But it wasn't having much luck.

“I can drive now,” I said finally.

He handed me the keys with no argument and we walked back to the car.

I adjusted my mirror when we merged back onto I-75. Nick had moved his seat back and looked ready for a nap, which was why I was surprised to see his eyes still open several minutes later.

“Do you want any music?”

“Nope,” he said.

The silence continued. Every unspoken moment built into an uncomfortable stillness. I couldn't figure out why. We had been so easy around each other during lunch. But now, fingernails on a chalkboard would have sounded more pleasant than the quiet that had settled in the car.

I finally said what I should have said first thing that morning. “Look, Nick, I don't know what got into me last night. I was tired, and Charlotte mentioned some things about the wedding and our family that got me all worked up . . .”

He grunted and shifted his dark gaze toward the side of the road.

“I took everything out on you last night at the shower, and I know you didn't deserve it. It's just that all this wedding stuff is so, so . . . kind of over the top, if you know what I mean.”

“Hmm,” was all he said. Damn! He wasn't going to make it easier on me.

“So what I mean to say is . . . I'm sorry.”

There. I said it. As soon as the words left my mouth I felt an enormous relief.

But Nick still sat there, his stony expression fixed on the side window as if he hadn't heard me. Why was he so quiet? I had shared my milkshake with him, for God's sake!

“So . . . are we good now?” I asked.

A long pause stretched out between us. The tires ate up the road while the silence continued.

It was several miles before he spoke. “You said a lot of things, Bump.”

“I know. I'm really sorry.”

“Are you sorry you called my apartment a mausoleum? Or the comment about me being an unfeeling jerk? What about the part about being a snob who doesn't visit his mother? I want to make sure I know where we stand.”

I swallowed. I deserved this. “I'm sorry about all of it, actually. I was way out of line.” He had turned his head now and I could feel the heat of his stare. “OK, I'm not just sorry I said it. I was wrong to even imagine all those things. I don't think you live in a tomb or that you're a jerk or a bad son. I blew everything out of proportion. And there are no good excuses for my behavior.”

“And the part about letting Travis Hartwick cheat at golf? I don't grovel to anyone on the golf course, even my boss. If you can't figure out yesterday afternoon, I'm not going to explain it.”

“I know, I know. You're right.” I didn't quite know what he meant, but at this point I was willing to agree to anything he said. Something in the back of my mind felt like I was missing an important detail. But I ignored it.

We were both silent while I passed an eighteen-wheeler that was having trouble going uphill. My phone rang and I reached into the backseat for my purse, but Nick was there already and handed it to me.

It was Aunt Addie. For once I was grateful for her call.

She and mom were delayed at the airport and she wanted to talk about how wonderful the weekend had been. I agreed, ignoring Nick's grunt. When she wondered if I had a dog in the car, I explained that I was driving to Detroit with Nick. She immediately asked to talk to him. I tried to keep a straight face as Aunt Addie told Nick how much she loved Atlanta. I was impressed at how patient he was with her, explaining that he would love for her to return anytime. This of course led to the next conversation, which was near and dear to my heart.

When was Nick going to come home?

But he wasn't committing. “I don't have any plans to visit Truhart right now, Aunt Addie.”

It was the equivalent of a cold shower for me. I reached out and grabbed the phone before my bubble burst.

“Hey, Aunt Addie, here I am. What's up?”

For the next few minutes I listened to Aunt Addie ramble on about a last-minute event at the inn. Then my mother got on the phone and gave me the full scoop. The Preservation Society, which usually held their annual dinner at the Rose Terrace Hall in Harrisburg, was in a panic. The hall was unexpectedly foreclosed on, and they wanted to hold the dinner at the inn Thursday. My mind calculated the options. A hundred and fifty people. We hadn't hosted a banquet in a while.

When I hung up, I paused with the phone still in my hand. For some reason I kept thinking about Nick and our conversation earlier. I glanced down at the numbers on my recent call list while I tossed things around in my mind. As I looked back and forth between the road and my phone I noticed two unfamiliar outgoing calls from yesterday. They were made in the afternoon, less than a minute apart, to the same Atlanta area code.

A prickly feeling rose up the back of my neck. I glanced at Nick, who was watching me with hooded eyes.

“Problems?” he said.

“Nothing that can't be worked out. It looks like we're going to have a hundred and fifty for dinner Thursday night.”

“Sounds like the old days . . .”

“Yeah,” I said, not really interested in talking about the Preservation Society dinner. Instead I held up the phone and selected the unfamiliar number.

Nick watched me closely. Then he said, “Uh, you might not want to—”

“Travis Hartwick, here,” said a loud and memorable voice.

Speechless, I just stared at the phone. Nick reached out to steady the wheel. Then he grabbed the phone from me with his other hand and turned it off.

“You!” I barely recognized my high-pitched exclamation. The phone call that Travis Hartwick had received just as he was getting ready to putt was from my phone.
That
was the phone call that had sent Travis Hartwick over the edge. A picture of Nick handing me my phone long after I took my winning shot on the golf course rose in my memory.

I looked over at Nick, who still held the wheel. He focused on the road, waiting for me to calm down before letting go. Then he sat back in his seat and cleared his throat. “I take my golf seriously. I don't grovel to anyone, even my boss.”

I concentrated on the road again and let the new knowledge sink in. Closing my gaping mouth, I tried to find words. But Nick wasn't finished shocking me.

“And just for the record, Bump, I am not dating Brittany.” He leaned back as if punctuating the sentence.

I almost slammed on the brakes. “What?”

“We aren't dating. Although I know it may have seemed that way to you, it isn't the case. We have been together at the same social functions and shared lunch a few times. But we aren't dating.”

Well . . . I had no idea. I wanted to do the happy dance but managed to control my enthusiasm.

“Do you think I should still apologize for comparing her IQ to her bra size, then?” I asked, trying to keep the glee out of my voice.

He laughed. “Only if it makes you feel better.”

“Well, actually, I don't think it would. So I might not apologize for that one if you don't mind.”

For the first time all day I broke out into a true smile. The heavy weight in my chest lifted and I felt as buoyant as the drifting clouds overhead. Now that I knew Brittany's claim on Nick was bogus, this wedding might be a little more bearable. I hadn't wanted to think about it, but the picture of Brittany and Nick making goo-goo eyes at each other during the ceremony—or even worse, making out on the dance floor—had bothered me. Still, the backup warning system in my mind cautioned me to temper my excitement. Nick hadn't exactly claimed that he never intended to date Brittany. Just that they weren't dating now.

My hands flexed on the wheel and I exhaled as relief washed over me. I didn't even complain a few minutes later when Nick turned the dial to a sports radio station.

 

The Cincinnati skyline was way behind us when Nick and I fought over control of the volume as a Taylor Swift song played on the radio. For the past few hours the sports talk show commentators had debated which teams in the NFL were Super Bowl contenders, and Nick and I had argued over the possibility of the Lions ever making the grade. College football talk followed. We listened in acute agitation as a local commentator speculated on an early victory for Ohio in this year's Michigan-Ohio football game. I wanted to call the guy and tell him what an ass he was, but Nick swore that I would get arrested for that behavior in Ohio. When the possibility of the Red Wings losing our favorite Russian to the L.A. Kings because of player problems came up, Nick thought it would be better for my driving to turn to the pop radio station.

There was a reason I didn't listen to sports radio, and it wasn't because I didn't like sports. Sports talk made me crazy! I could handle football and baseball talk . . . even golf. But I didn't like anyone trash-talking my hockey team.

Unfortunately, pop radio turned out to be a bad move for Nick. He leaned forward in excruciating pain as girl-power vibes emanated from my speakers.

“I need Led Zeppelin,” he moaned.

“Don't you touch that dial, Nick.”

I was having a great time.

With his messy hair and stubbly chin, there was no denying it, Nick was downright sexy. As he adjusted the radio dial I wanted to run my hand along the back of his neck and feel the coarse hair between my fingers. The outline of his broad shoulders along the back of his cotton shirt sparked a desire in me that was more worthy of Be-yoncé than Taylor Swift, and I took a deep breath to cool the heat rising inside of me.