A Wedding Invitation Read online

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  © 2011 by Alice J. Wisler

  Cover design by Jennifer Parker

  Cover photography by Getty Images, Dimitri Vervitsotis

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-3384-4

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  For all who passed through those dusty classrooms

  of that memorable place we called PRPC

  contents

  cover

  title page

  copyright page

  dedication

  epigraph

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  twenty-seven

  twenty-eight

  twenty-nine

  thirty

  thirty-one

  thirty-two

  thirty-three

  thirty-four

  thirty-five

  thirty-six

  thirty-seven

  thirty-eight

  thirty-nine

  forty

  forty-one

  forty-two

  forty-three

  forty-four

  forty-five

  forty-six

  forty-seven

  forty-eight

  recipes

  questions for conversation

  acknowledgments

  about the author

  other books by author

  back ads

  back cover

  What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson

  one

  February 1993

  When a pet goes missing, it’s hard to concentrate on anything but where he might be. Missing a cat can cause his owner to lose focus, forget, and do silly things—even hang clothing in wrong places. Today this is happening to my mother.

  As though she’s walking through a fog, Mom stares into the distance and hangs the newest order of black dresses all together in a clump. The metal hangers clink against each other, and I wince, realizing what she’s done. The size twos are next to the size fourteens, yet the entire point of Mom’s store is that the small and large sizes are displayed conveniently on different racks, not all meshed together, tangled in a confused web.

  Following behind her, I sort the designer dresses into their proper sections, wondering if I should remind Mom that she can’t compromise her organizational skills—they are her strength in running her boutique, Have a Fit.

  With two dresses dangling from hangers in her hands, my mother mutters, “Where could he be?”

  Her cat, Butterchurn, has never left Mom’s home before. Well, once, to chase a squirrel, but after realizing the fluffy creature could scamper up a tree trunk and escape onto the branches at a rapid pace, Butterchurn walked his rotund body back inside to rest by the fireplace, waiting for my mother to serve him catnip.

  “Why would he leave? Where would he go?” Mom has a habit of muttering to herself, and this morning the habit has peaked. Since the boutique opened at ten, she’s mumbled continuously about Butterchurn’s possible whereabouts. I hear the distress in her voice as she says, “Three days, three days.” She lowers her head as though she’s praying. “Mrs. Low says I need to leave tuna outside. She said when her cat was gone, a can of tuna brought it back.”

  I’ve met Mrs. Low once but don’t see her as the type to leave a can of fish around her property. Both her spacious lawn and the exterior of her house are carefully maintained.

  “And I think she poured some blue cheese dressing on top because her cat has a fondness for blue cheese. I don’t think I’ve ever given Butterchurn blue cheese.”

  Pausing from hanging size-three dresses with other size threes, I volunteer, “I could make a flyer.”

  “A flyer?” Placing a finger along the side of her nose, Mom contemplates. Her gray head, at last, bobs in agreement. “We could put it by the Scones-and-Shop poster.” She’s referring to the large green poster about our event coming up later this month—shopping while enjoying free scones. I created that poster with a mixture of colored markers and tenacity.

  “I see missing-pet flyers when I’m out on walks,” I tell her as I head behind the counter and open the drawer that holds tape, scissors, Sharpies, pens, Post-It notes, and other objects we need throughout our days in the boutique. I don’t tell her that seeing those flyers always makes me feel sad that someone is missing his or her pet. When I come across flyers that offer large rewards, they inspire me to look under bushes and in other obscure places. Although I’d love to be a hero, I have yet to find a missing animal.

  “What color paper do you want me to use?” I ask as I note the various colors in the drawer.

  “Yellow. Yellow catches attention.”

  Luckily, there are two sheets of yellow construction paper, so I pull one out. “Do you have a picture?”

  “Of Butterchurn?”

  “Lots of flyers have pictures of the missing dog or cat.”

  “At home I have the one you took last Christmas. I can bring it tomorrow.”

  At the top of the paper I use a black Sharpie to form bold letters: MISSING CAT. I place a square in the middle of the page for the picture of Butterchurn I’ll insert tomorrow.

  With the feather duster in her hand, Mom walks toward me to peek at my work. “Make the words large. Some of our customers can’t read small print.” Then with a swift flick of her wrist she lets the duster’s thick gray feathers fly across the phone. Moving toward the shelves that hold scarves, she begins to dust those.

  When the flyer is complete, except for the picture of Butterchurn, I hang it behind the counter with a sufficient amount of tape. “Do you like it?” I ask as she reads aloud.

  “Lovely. You have such good handwriting.”

  Smiling, I busy myself with the task of ordering summer clothes for our store. This is a job Mom has recently entrusted to me, and I’ve grown to enjoy it. A colorful catalog from one of our suppliers lies open on the countertop. I see a much-too-thin model in a bright pink skirt and satin blouse and wonder if these skirts are items worth offering to our customers. I’m about to ask Mom her opinion when I hear her mumblings turn into, “I don’t know why Butterchurn doesn’t come home. I hope no one has . . .” She pauses; I look up to see that she’s taken off her glasses and her eyes are red around the rims.

  “He’ll turn up,” I assure her. I hate to think of my mother’s world without her pet that curls against her wh
enever she reads Dickens or Hemingway. She and Butterchurn are like the historical landmarks a few miles away on the National Mall—you can’t imagine one without the other. I slip behind the counter to embrace her, but she brushes past me and goes to the shelf of hats and starts to dust them. My mother is not big on affection. Apparently her father was the stoic type and Mom inherited his genes, while Mom’s sister Dovie in Winston-Salem got enough affection for three people.

  Flipping the pages in the catalog, I see a short sleeveless party dress. Reading the details, I note that it’s made of rayon and silk with a scoop neck and a zipper in the back. The model looks great in the dress, and as I imagine myself in it, I wish I had a party to attend. Something with jazz music and silver trays of those tiny hors d’oeuvres where you wonder just what you’re getting and then end up pleasantly surprised.

  Feeling guilty about my self-centered thoughts, I turn to Mom. “Cats are able to live a long time on their own. Dovie told me she saw a show where a cat lived by herself for sixty-two days, just feeding off the land.”

  “We’re in a metropolitan region,” Mom says as though she needs to remind me. “D.C. has no place for a cat to feed off the land.”

  Again I see distress in her eyes, but I have no idea what to do. I want to hug her and tell her I love her. But she never accepts that kind of affection from me.

  With her glasses once more on her face, she asks, “Could you make a few more?”

  “Few more?”

  “Flyers. I’ll tape some up to telephone poles in my neighborhood.”

  As I pull more sheets of paper from the drawer, Mom nods with approval, her dismal mood seeming to brighten a little. By the time two customers enter the shop, Mom’s face shows its usual liveliness. Guiding them toward the newest slacks and turtlenecks, she speaks of the way polyester and wool are blended in the pants. “A must-have,” she coos. Holding up a cream-colored turtleneck, she fingers the fabric. “This is the most comfortable shirt you will ever wear.”

  The shop closes at seven tonight, with Mom heading home to a dinner of crock-pot beef stew—simmering on low since morning and one of her cherished classics—at her ranch house in the suburbs, and me to my apartment complex just five miles down the road. I think there’s a pack of hot dogs in the freezer that will serve as dinner.

  “Why aren’t you putting on your coat?” my mother asks as we walk to where our cars are parked. “You will catch cold, Samantha. You are not in the Philippines anymore.”

  I smile, walk a little faster, and wave good-bye. The temperature has dropped since this morning when a light rain washed over the region; I’m anxious to get home before the roads grow shiny with ice. With the heater warming my car, I drive cautiously.

  At the stone entrance to my apartment building sit rows of metal mailboxes lit by a pair of towering florescent lights. After parking my car, I unlock box number 214 with a tiny key I keep on the key ring with the one for my apartment.

  The wind whips through my cotton blouse, making me wish I didn’t toss my coat in the back seat of the car instead of putting it on. The mailbox creaks open, and I pull out a handful of colorful flyers, a power bill, and a large powder-blue envelope.

  Clutching the mail with numb fingers, I tackle the envelope. After tearing it open, I pull out another smaller envelope and from its glossy interior retrieve a soft aqua piece of card stock. Silver lettering is imprinted on its face. Shivering, I read. Avery Jones and John Mason request the honor of my presence at their wedding. My mind does a few cartwheels, happy that Avery has found a man to spend the rest of her life with.

  As though in a deliberate attempt to snatch the outer envelope, the wind seizes it from my hand and flings it against the frigid pavement. I reach for it. Like a heavy breath, a current of air blows it north, toward a set of rusty garbage dumpsters.

  After a long day at the shop, I have no energy left to chase this item around, especially in this weather. I clasp the pieces of mail to my chest and climb the flight of stairs to my second-floor apartment. Inside, coolness greets me, causing panic to set in. Last year the heating unit broke and the maintenance man repaired it at two in the morning as I sat waiting at the kitchen table in my heavy coat and two pairs of socks. I crank up the thermostat to seventy and am relieved when I hear air blowing through the vents. On the back of a chair I find my trusty wool sweater—as shapeless as a lump of yarn. Even though it has two holes and will never be a fashion statement, it feels comfy and keeps me warm.

  In front of the living room window I stuff my hands in my sweater pockets and watch the first snowflakes begin their dance across the lawn. Mom always says that when snowflakes dance, it’s because they’re happy to be birthed from pregnant clouds.

  Hungry, I heat two hot dogs, squeeze mustard onto my plate, and wonder if there’s a good movie on the Lifetime channel. Halfway through When Harry Met Sally I’m thinking of days past, when Avery and I were roommates at James Madison University and used to dip Twizzlers into cream cheese frosting for midnight snacks.

  She was dating Perry Lesterfield then, and thought she was in love. With a mouthful of Twizzlers she confessed one night that she wanted to marry Perry even though her mother thought his ego was larger than Australia.

  I finger the invitation and wonder how Mrs. Jones feels about her daughter marrying John. I liked Perry because he always had a good story to tell, even though I think some of them were embellished. I’ve never met John Mason.

  Dialing the only friend I’ve kept up with since my days at James Madison, I reach Dexter.

  “Did you get invited?” I ask as I run my fingertips against the raised script on the invitation.

  “To what?” His first name is Howard, but he prefers to be called by his surname of Dexter.

  “Avery’s getting married in May.”

  “Twizzler Girl? I hadn’t heard.”

  Because he’s a good friend, I say, “Wanna go to it with me?”

  “To Avery’s wedding? Who is she marrying? Perry?”

  “No, the invitation says John Mason.”

  “Where’s the wedding?”

  “Winston-Salem.”

  “North Carolina? Why’s she getting married there?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s where my aunt Dovie lives. I’d love to see Avery again. Want to meet me there?”

  two

  May 1993

  As long as I have Paul Simon CDs and my own concoction of sweetened lemon iced tea, I can drive anywhere. Leaving Falls Church, I pop the 1971-to-1986 collection of Paul’s hits into my Honda’s CD player. Soon the nostalgic words to “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover” entertain me as my southbound trip expands down the highway.

  The day is warm with a gentle breeze, and just to feel air sift across me, I open the window. Clouds spiral over the sky, looking like mounds of whipped cream on a slice of blueberry pie.

  “Hop on the bus, Gus,” I let my voice bellow, glad that I still remember all the lines. I hope that singing will distract me from my guilt over not being at the boutique today. May is an active month for the store as women look for spring clothes and Mother’s Day gifts. I owe my friend Natasha dinner at Native Thai Restaurant—my gift of gratitude for her willingness to help Mom at the shop today.

  When the WELCOME TO NORTH CAROLINA sign flashes in front of me, anticipation nips at my pulse. At a gas station, I put twenty-six dollars of regular into my car, then find the restroom nestled behind a stack of wooden crates and cardboard boxes crammed with rolls of toilet paper. As I wash my hands, my reflection in the glass above the sink shows the apprehension I can’t hide. It’s been years since I’ve seen my friends from JMU. What will it be like? I recall a tale Dovie told me about a woman who went to a college friend’s wedding twenty years after graduating and no one remembered her. Perhaps I should turn back.

  Just hop on the bus, Gus. Set yourself free.

  “You can do this!” I say. Adding scarlet lipstick to my mouth, I tell myself I have to carry through
with this. I sent back the RSVP card saying Dexter and I would be there. With a surge of confidence, I cry, “You are going to have fun!” Then I straighten my teal chiffon dress at the waist as uncertainty lines the walls of my stomach.

  Embarrassment replaces the fear when I open the restroom door to find a middle-aged woman waiting to enter. By the woman’s smile, I know she heard my pep talk to myself.

  I must be my mother’s daughter. I often talk to myself, just as she has for so long—especially on those winter mornings after Dad died. “Now, Cecelia,” she’d say in a tone a general might use on his platoon, “we are not going to cry today. We are going to act as though life is merely but a dream.” Then she’d hum a few bars of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” put on her L.L.Bean slippers, and walk downstairs to make her morning coffee.

  I pay for my gas, thank the cashier who wishes me a nice day in her creamy Southern accent, and then head out of the station. I wonder if Avery will serve Twizzlers at her reception. It would be like Avery to do that. She is not at all conventional.

  As I sail down the interstate with Paul singing “Still Crazy After All These Years,” I imagine what it will be like to see old friends from college. I think of the four of us who hung around together our junior year when we all got roles in JMU’s production of Our Town. Dexter was Mr. Charles Webb, and my role was Mrs. Julia Gibbs, although secretly I’d hoped to be cast as the star, Emily.

  I lost contact with my college friends when I was in the Philippines. Between caring for Mom and all the hours I put in at her shop, my days are full. Natasha and I manage to go on walks so I can justify the pair of Nikes I didn’t buy on sale, but most evenings after work, I only have enough energy to watch a movie on TV and then the news as I drink coffee. Often during those hours, Aunt Dovie phones to talk about Mom.

  “Come down to the wedding,” my aunt said as I studied the invitation shortly after receiving it. Dovie’s Southern accent was like Christmas carols in my ear. “It will be spring and my butterflies will be at their best. You’ll get some good photos, and of course you will stay with me.”