More Than Water (30 page)

As he turns over the ignition, I ask, “Don’t you need to wear your glasses to drive?”

“No. They’re more for reading.” He offers me a sidelong glance. “You look so different with your hair like that,” he remarks, pulling away from the curb and into the street.

“Is that a good or a bad thing?”

“You know, I’m not sure yet.”

Over approximately the next three hours, Foster and I enjoy the peaceful scenic drive to Hillary’s hometown. Once we’re outside the city limits and beyond the suburbs, there’s not much to note since it’s all the same—farms and fields with cows and horses. I wonder if the bride grew up doing hoedowns and wrestling cattle.

When we take the designated exit off the highway, I’m relieved to see some semblance of population the farther we travel into a small town center. Passing through the main business area and about a mile farther along the road, Foster banks a right down a long drive where a large stately white historic building comes into view. He pulls up and stops the car under the portico of the local resort and spa. The valets open our doors, and we exit the vehicle to check in to the hotel.

At the desk, we’re told that our room isn’t ready yet, but we can leave our bags with the bellman, and they will be delivered by the time we return after the wedding reception. Since the ceremony is set to start in less than half an hour, I head to the ladies’ room to freshen up, change my shoes, and then meet Foster where he’s lingering in the lobby.

Clicking my heels along the marble floor, I adjust the coat over my shoulders and then take Foster’s waiting arm, looping mine through his.

We are already playing the part so easily.

Through the doors, he steers us past the parking area and down a sidewalk lining the driveway.

“Where are we going?” I ask, confused.

“The church is only two blocks from here. The concierge said we could easily walk there using…” He slows his steps and then turns us down a small paved path. “This walkway. It should take us straight there.”

“Clever.”

About five minutes later, we come to a clearing that opens to a simple Christian church constructed of brick. Pairings of people are filing in for the ceremony, and we follow their lead toward the open large wooden doors.

When we reach the base of the concrete steps, Foster pauses.

“What is it?” I ask, smoothing my fingers over the lapel of his jacket.

He captures my hand at his chest. “My parents are here. I just saw them go in.”

“You mentioned they were coming.”

“I’ll introduce you to them at the reception.”

“Sounds good. Is there anything I need to know?”

His brow crinkles. “No. They’re easy people, but I didn’t tell them anything about you.”

“That’s okay.” I smile. “Parents aren’t a problem for me. I find, the less they know, the better. They often make assumptions based on what they hope rather than what they are told anyhow.”

“That’s an interesting theory.”

“Trust me. But when you introduce me, be sure to call me Evelyn. It will go over better than EJ.”

“But that’s not what you like to be called.”

“By you, I do—well, I tolerate it,” I add sarcastically. “Plus, it’s just for one night, and it’s just a name.”

He tightens his grip around my digits and breathes, “Evelyn.”

“You got it.”

Lowering our joined hands, he says, “Let’s do this,” and he leads me into the church.

Inside, we’re ushered into a pew on the groom’s side toward the rear of the sanctuary. Muted violins play in the background as more guests take their seats for the upcoming ceremony. Not long after we’ve settled in, the groom, Parker, and his groomsmen appear near the altar. The music changes as the bridesmaids begin to make their way up the aisle. All of the guests turn to watch the procession, one by one, of women in gowns of slate and silver, their hair sparkling with gemstones.

Foster, like everyone else, follows the path of each one until they reach a point out of view. However, he pauses after the third girl passes, instead fixated on the pews near the front. I lean into his shoulder, trying to decipher what has caught his attention. There, in a dress of celery and adorned in pearls, is a woman with dark hair and eyes that mirror Parker’s. Staring back at the man at my side, she releases an impish smile and then raises her hand, a gesture in greeting.

Foster returns her hello with a small wave.

“Is that Sasha?” I whisper, my words brushing against his ear.

He nods once in reply.

I lace my fingers with his and then press my lips to the corner of his mouth without any thought.

Slowly and with noted control, Foster tilts his head, connecting his soft orbs with my own, as I try to backpedal in my mind what made me kiss him just now.

The tune changes once again, and the audience begins to stand in preparation for the bride to make her way down the aisle. Foster plants his mouth on my forehead and then rises at my side. I do the same, lifting myself from the pew and holding myself high, hoping to catch my fluttering heart that is thumping steadily toward the sky.

The wedding was beautiful, romantic, and heartfelt. It was everything one would hope for in a ceremony where two people committed themselves to one another for the rest of their lives. The couple glowed with pride and an overwhelming amount of emotions.

Along with the other guests, Foster and I make our way to the reception hall located within the hotel where we will be staying at tonight. We’re ushered into a large room for a social cocktail hour while the wedding party partakes in the picture-taking formalities.

We have a drink and nibble on some hors d’oeuvres as people mingle around the room in conversation, and I’m casually introduced to two of Foster’s friends from childhood and their dates.

When our drinks are finished and his acquaintances have left us to socialize with others, Foster takes my empty glass and places it on the high table to our right.

“C’mon,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me across the room of chatty people.

“Are we making an escape?”

“Hardly. I want to introduce you to my parents before they start muttering vile things about me for not saying hello yet.”

“Would they really do that?”

“No. They’re easygoing people. You’ll see. I just don’t want to be rude.”

Hand in hand, Foster and I weave through the smattering of circular tables and meandering guests toward the center of the room while a gentleman begins to play a classic melody on the nearby piano. We come to a stop where two older couples are immersed in a lively conversation. The light-haired brunette and a man with hair of honeyed amber are unmistakably Foster’s parents.

“Excuse me,” Foster says, interrupting their conversation. “I just wanted to stop by and say hello.”

His parents smile, gleaming with happiness, as they observe the sight of Foster…and then me standing close at his side.

“Foster,” his father greets, approaching us, “we were wondering when you would come over and say hello.”

“Does that mean I missed my nomination for Son of the Year?” he kids.

“Hush now,” his mother says, closing the gap between us. She embraces Foster and then kisses him on the cheek—twice. “It’s just good to see you.”

“We were all together not too long ago. You’re acting like it’s been years.”

“We weren’t sure if you would come.”

“Of course I came. It’s Parker.”

The couple his parents were speaking to excuse themselves, stating that they need to freshen up their beverages. I smile politely and then turn my attention back to the reason we walked across the room—his parents.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?” Foster’s father questions.

Foster places his hand at my lower back and says, “Evelyn, this is my parents, Susan and Clayton. Mom, Dad, this is Evelyn. She’s—”

“Delighted to meet you,” I interject, offering my hand to his father and then his mother. “It was a beautiful ceremony, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh, yes,” Foster’s mother states, flowing easily with my conversation direction. “They make a lovely couple.”

“I’ve only met Hillary and Parker once, but I can tell, it was meant to be.”

“We’ve known Parker for years,” his father tells me. “He’s fortunate to have found a girl who will put up with his shenanigans. He’s had many. Foster can attest to that.”

Releasing the charming smile I stow away for these occasions, I say, “That might be true, but something tells me that Hillary feels like she’s the lucky one.”

“I’m sure she does,” his mother agrees, her smile widening in approval. “So, how do you and Foster know one another?”

“We go to school together.”

“Oh? So, you’re in the engineering program, too?”

“No, Mother,” Fosters corrects her. “E—Evelyn and I work together at the library. She and I are just—”

“Getting to know one another,” I finish for him. “He’s been helping me with a project as well. I don’t know how I would be doing it without him.”

“That’s…really nice to hear.”

To seal the deal for any questions his parents might have, I thread Foster’s fingers with my own. It’s an innocent gesture but one people easily read into. His mother notices and smiles wider.

“If I can have your attention,” an attendant announces over the microphone, “the bride and groom will be joining us shortly. At this time, we would like to move all guests into the dining hall.”

The people around us begin to migrate to the area at my back where a set of doors opens to a large room draped in ethereal tones of cornflower and candlelight.

“Sounds like we are being beckoned into the next room,” Foster’s father says, taking his wife’s arm in his own. “Shall we?”

At Foster’s side, I walk with him and his parents to the room where the majority of festivities will be taking place for the rest of the evening. Near the entrance on one of four small tables, we find our names and table number, which is different than the one his mother and father have been assigned.

“Evelyn and I are going to take our seats,” Foster says to them as we are about to part ways. “I’m sure we’ll see you later.”

“Of course,” his mother says, filled with easiness just like her son described.

“Enjoy yourselves,” his father says. “It was nice to meet you, Evelyn.”

“You, too.”

With our place cards in hand, Foster and I traverse through the crowd and tables, looking for our seating. He pauses momentarily at the sight of Sasha taking a chair at a table that is thankfully many over from our own.

Her presence in general makes my skin crawl.

Is it wrong to want to strangle her with the pearls around her neck?

Likely.

When we finally find our numbered table, Foster pulls out my linen-covered seat, allowing me to sit first, and then he takes the one next to me.

“Did you read some guidebook on dealing with parents?” he asks, a noticeable glow plastered across his face. “Or about going to weddings in general? Because that shit back there was textbook, all of it.”

“I might have some experience on the subject.”

“Ah, now, it all makes sense.” He presses his tie against his chest. “Was this part of your training to become the daughter your mother always hoped you would be?”

“It could be. Let’s just say, I did pay attention to some of the things I was taught—or maybe it’s survival instincts.”

“It shows.”

Other guests begin to take their seats at our table, two of whom I recognize from the cocktail portion of the evening. We say our hellos briefly as the MC comes over the speakers, announcing the arrival of the bride and groom.

Over the course of the next hour or so, toasts are made, food is served, and the cake is cut. Now, all that remains is an evening of dancing and mingling.

At our table filled with two of Parker’s cousins, a childhood friend, and their dates, conversation has been easy, kept to superficial topics about Parker’s misgivings, school, and the bridesmaids’ dresses. I play my part, offering polite comments at the appropriate pauses and bringing up new subjects when necessary to keep a steady flow of chatting while engaging everyone when possible.

My mother would be so proud that her chirping tidbits on manners are actually serving a purpose. I hate to admit it, but her lessons do have merit in certain situations, such as this one.

A couple from our table excuses themselves and takes to the dance floor as the bride and groom make their rounds, greeting each and every one of their guests. We’re at the far end of the room from the start of their rounds.

“C’mon,” Foster says, resting his napkin on the linen surface and rising from his seat.

“Are you asking me to dance?” I ask, taking his hand.

“Not yet. I could use a drink though. How about you?”

“Definitely.”

Foster guides us around the table and across the dance floor toward the corner of the room where the bar is set up. Halfway there, the smiling and happy newlyweds stop us in our path.

“Congratulations,” Foster and I say in unison.

“Thanks,” Hillary says to me, gleaming.

The men start a small side conversation.