The Bridesmaid Page 2

  He walked by her and deposited the bakery boxes on the wooden pastry table.

  “P.S., your pants are falling down,” Abby said.

  Noah hiked up his khakis and grinned. “Lost a little weight, I think.”

  “How you do that while working in a bakery I will never understand.” Abby crunched her carrot. Noah’s blue shirt made his incredible eyes look even more incredible than usual. She tried not to stare.

  “Can I make up a plate for you and your pa?” Rocco asked Noah.

  “You know it, Rock,” Noah said. “Dad would kill me if I came home empty-handed.”

  Rocco started loading up a plastic platter with food. Noah turned and opened up one of the pink boxes, lifting out an intricately decorated layer of the cake. The yellow icing was covered with a white basket-weave design so detailed she could see the striations in the “wicker.”

  “Wow,” Abby said, leaning her elbows on the table and getting in close. “Your dad does some amazing stuff with icing. This rocks.”

  “Yeah?” Noah smiled proudly. “Well, I guess he’s the number one wedding cake guy for a reason.”

  “What flavor is it?”

  “Nothing you’d like.” He lifted out the second layer. “Chocolate with dark cherry filling.”

  “Dark cherry? Blecch.” Abby stuck out her tongue. “How could they do that to their guests?”

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just insult my bakery,” Noah said. “Besides, I happen to love the dark cherry.”

  “That’s cuz you’re a freak,” Abby replied.

  “Speaking of freaks, how’s Johnny Rockets?” Noah grinned.

  Abby sat down hard on a stool and rolled her eyes. “His name is Christopher,” she said. “God! One little Fourth of July mishap and you’re cursed for life.”

  Last summer her friend Christopher had helped his father—a local sportscaster who was also one of Watertown’s volunteer firemen—set off the Fourth of July fireworks . . . and had stolen a couple to use at his own private party later that night. Christopher had managed to take down one of the oldest ash trees in the village and burn off one of his eyebrows—which had since grown back, but a bit darker than the other. All the kids in town had been calling him Johnny Rockets ever since. No one knew how the nickname had started, but Abby had always suspected that Noah had somehow had a hand in it.

  “Fine! So how’s Christopher?” Noah asked as he began to carefully assemble the cake into tiers.

  “He’s fine! Sheesh! Why do you always ask me how Christopher is and you never ask me about Delila or Carol or—”

  “How is Carol?” Noah interrupted.

  “She’s great. Amazing, actually,” Abby said. “She graduated summa cum laude from Harvard, you know.”

  “You’ve only told me two hundred times,” Noah joked. “You’d think you were her grandmother, not her sister.”

  “Hey, I’m just proud of her. Is that so wrong?” Abby said. Graduation weekend in Cambridge had been amazing—a famous politician spoke at Commencement, and the Beaumonts had had a blast, spending the weekend at a fancy Boston hotel. The only bummer was, Abby hadn’t been able to spend much time with Carol herself. There were too many cousins and friends and roommates swarming around. “Anyway, she’ll finally be home next week. And, instead of moving into Boston like we thought, she’s staying here while she does her internship at the Conservation Commission.”

  Abby shoved herself off the stool again and looked out the back window. The mother of that evening’s bride, Mrs. Wolf, was there, directing her father and the florist as they wrapped white organza along the chairs for the ceremony. The woman actually snapped her fingers at Abby’s dad and ordered him to retie one of his bows.

  “I need out of this nuptial nightmare,” Abby said under her breath.

  “What’s stopping you?” Noah asked, stepping up behind her. He was so close it gave her chills.

  “I kind of live here, genius,” she said, looking at him over her shoulder.

  There was a tiny cut on his jawline left over from his morning shave and his breath smelled sweet and spicy like cinnamon. He was so kissably close and yet completely unkissable. Abby took a couple of steps away, hoping to slow her pulse.

  “But you don’t have to work here,” he pointed out. “My dad needs me at the bakery, but your parents run this place like a well-canola-oiled machine. So . . .”

  Abby blinked. “Driving a van and carrying boxes are not exactly rare talents. Any minimum wage moron could do your job.”

  Abby bit her lip when she realized how mean she’d sounded. This was one of her special talents— picking on Noah when all she wanted to do was tell him how perfect he was.

  “You really know how to make a guy feel special, Beaumont,” Noah said. Cake assembled, he wiped his hands on his pants and grabbed a Jordan almond out of a big bowl on the counter. “But back to you. We all know you’re going to end up with some big soccer scholarship in a couple of years. You might as well ease the ’rents into the idea of an empty Roost while you’ve got the chance. Just go get another job. What’s stopping you?”

  Noah had a point. Her parents really didn’t need her around here, did they? Well, except for right now because her mom’s arm was out of commission. But on a normal day Abby only helped out here and there, making favors, pouring champagne, putting out place cards. And her mom had just promoted waitress, college student and lifelong bride wannabe Becky Taylor to assistant events director. Abby probably wouldn’t even be missed.

  But what would I do? Abby wondered. Where would I work if I could work anywhere I wanted?

  “Thanks, Rocco!” Noah grabbed the covered platter and pulled open the back door. “Catch you guys later! See ya, Ab.”

  “Yeah,” Abby said, her brain and heart still racing. “See ya.”

  That night Abby stood in the corner of the ballroom in her standard black dress waiting for the cake-cutting ceremony to begin. To her right stood Becky, who was, as usual, taken in by the intense meaning of the moment—something that was completely lost on Abby. Sure, the hall was gorgeous, even Abby could admit that. The chandeliers were dimmed and the candles flickering, their light reflected in the sparkling crystal champagne glasses; every surface was covered in rose petals. It was lovely. But it didn’t seem to be about love. Love was supposed to be something that existed between two people, alone. Not between two people, surrounded by two hundred other people they barely knew, with a huge spotlight trained on them while they ate butter-filled chicken.

  How could anyone think this process was special and meaningful after watching almost identical ceremonies take place every Friday, Saturday and Sunday night?

  “Oh, just look at them! Those two are so cute,” Becky gushed. “Aren’t they so cute?” Becky said that every time about every couple. But she always really meant it. Abby rolled her eyes.

  This bride was of the ruffle variety—ruffled skirt, ruffled sleeves, lots and lots of veil. Her groom looked like a string bean standing next to her. Together they cut into the basket-weave cake and everyone applauded and clinked champagne glasses. Then the couple smeared cake all over each other’s faces. Abby grimaced. Dark cherry goop was everywhere.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Adorable.”

  Becky let out a little sniff and wiped a single tear off her flawless brown skin.

  “Becky,” Abby said under her breath. “You don’t even know them.”

  But Becky didn’t hear her; she was too busy being moved.

  “What? Why are you looking at me like that?” Becky asked. “Oh, God! Is my mascara running?” She whipped a compact out of a hidden pocket in her dress to check.

  “No. You’re fine,” Abby said. “I’m gonna go find my parents.”

  She was halfway across the room when she glimpsed them, silhouetted against the light from the hallway, stealing a smooch as the cake was wheeled away to be sliced. That was romance.

  Abby paused and smiled. Her parents were the ones that were
just so cute. And, being a non-hugging, non-smooching, non-emoting type herself, their mushiness was about the only mushiness in the universe that she could tolerate. Because she knew it wasn’t fake, it wasn’t forced, it wasn’t just a pose for some picture. Unlike the rest of what went on at the Roost.

  “All right, everybody!” Romeo Monroe, leader of the band Premonition, shouted into his microphone. “Time to hit the floor for a little Electriiiic . . . Sliiiiiiddde!”

  Half the guests screeched and squealed in glee. Moment over. If Abby witnessed one more sorry display of disco mayhem she was going to lose it. Seriously.

  “You can’t see it! It’s electric!” the band sang as a hundred rhythmless guests took to the dance floor and the chandeliers began to quake. That was Abby’s cue.

  She’d already reached her cheese limit for the evening, thank you very much. She slipped out the back door and headed around the side of the Dove’s Roost to her family’s private entrance to the residence. Abby seriously wished Carol were there to gawk with her.

  Just one more week, Abby reminded herself. In one week Carol would be home from Harvard. And unlike last year when she’d taken right off again to go on a Habitat for Humanity mission, this year Carol was all hers. Thanks to that coveted internship, Carol was going to be around all summer. Abby couldn’t wait.

  Abby raced upstairs to her room and hit her phone’s speed-dial button for Carol. She knew there wasn’t much chance of finding Carol in on a Saturday night, but it was worth a shot. At least once a month Abby called to share the latest episode of Brides Gone Wild. The answering machine picked up on the third ring.

  “You’ve reached Carol and Tessa. Leave a message!”

  “Hey, Carol. Just stuck in the depths of wedding hell and needed a hand out. You know the drill. Call me tomorrow and I’ll describe the most hideous gown in the history of bridal couture. Love ya.”

  Abby hung up, dropped back on her bed and sighed. One week, she reminded herself. One more week and she’s back! The Beaumont sisters are going to have the best summer ever.

  • 2 •

  Speak Now or Forever Hold Your Peace

  “Beaumont! Heads up!”

  Abby turned around just in time to see a soccer ball hurtling toward her head. She reached up and grabbed it out of the air before it had a chance to smash her nose.

  Christopher Marshall pushed through the bustling hallway. “You were supposed to head it back to me,” he said. He took the ball and dropped it on the floor. Christopher was about a foot taller and a foot broader than everyone else in the hall, the only guy in the sophomore class who filled out his burgundy Lockport jacket the way it was supposed to be filled. He had a chiseled face, blond hair and blue eyes that had every girl in the place lusting after him.

  Everyone except Abby, of course. To Abby he was just the kid from down the street who had wet his bed till he was ten and once broke his leg dock-jumping on his dirt bike. Totally unlustworthy. But fun to have around.

  “It’s too early in the morning for headers,” Abby said with a smile. She crossed to the other side of the hall. “Pass it.”

  Christopher tapped the ball toward her with his foot. A couple of freshmen jumped out of the way. Christopher jogged a few steps ahead and Abby passed it back, expertly avoiding a pack of gossiping seniors. She grinned and ran up. If only school could be all soccer, all the time.

  “You missed an awesome scrimmage on Saturday, yo,” Christopher said, passing the ball back.

  Abby stopped it with her foot. “You think I like missing scrimmages so that I can sit home and help the mother of the bride reapply her mascara? Not likely.”

  She turned into their communication technology classroom. Her best friend, Delila, was already waiting for them at the table in the back. Christopher popped the ball up and followed Abby inside.

  “Do you really have to do their makeup, yo?”

  “Yo, Soccerboy, yo, you’re not a rapper, yo, and you have to stop saying yo, yo,” Delila said.

  “Freakazoid,” Christopher muttered with a sneer as Abby sat down between them.

  Delila reached to turn on her computer. Her jacket opened slightly and Abby got a peek at the T-shirt underneath. “What is that?” Abby asked, pulling Delila’s lapel aside. She was wearing a black concert T-shirt with a bright yellow-and-blue swirl design across the front. “Very non-reg.” The uniform at Lockport was a burgundy jacket or sweater over a white shirt, black pants or a black skirt and black shoes, but Delila was always bucking the system. The Lockport faculty had long since given up commenting on Delila’s red Converse sneakers or the fact that Delila almost never wore a white shirt. Somehow Delila Barber managed to be the constant exception to the rules. “I haven’t taken it off since Saturday night,” Delila said, her brown eyes bright. “You should’ve come, Ab. The concert was hot.”

  “Like I would really give up an evening of quintessential eighties rock and seventies dance tunes at the Roost to have an actual musical experience.”

  “Who’d you see, man?” Christopher asked.

  “We’re talking here, man,” Delila shot back.

  “Did you forget your Midol again?” Christopher asked.

  “Okay, kids! Separate corners!” Abby said, lifting her hands.

  For as long as she could remember, Abby had been mediating between her two best friends, but things had gotten even more dicey lately. Maybe it was a spring fever thing.

  “So, did you ask your parents about Italy yet?” Delila asked.

  The bell rang and Mr. Cox entered the classroom. As always, he immediately went to the board to write down that day’s assignment, shattering chalk all over the place. Mr. Cox was a violent writer and a heavy typist, and he stomped through the halls like Frankenstein’s monster.

  “No, and I’m not going to ask them,” Abby whispered. “When are you going to accept that I am not coming to Italy with you next year?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Delila said with a smile. “Never?”

  Abby sighed. Delila had been accepted into Lockport’s junior year abroad program and was going to be spending months bopping around Italy from Venice to Florence to Rome—all without Abby. The very thought of spending an entire year at Lockport without Delila was horrifying. Abby would have loved nothing more than to go right along with her, but it just wasn’t possible. Abby was already on partial scholarship at this savings-account-sucking school.

  She just wished Delila would stop mentioning it all the time. Abby knew her friend meant well, but it was starting to upset her more than having to hear “The Bride Cuts the Cake” every weekend. (And that song could get stuck in a person’s head for hours.) Thanks to the Italy trip, Abby was going to be on her own for junior year. Didn’t Delila realize she was abandoning her best friend?

  “Come on, Ab—”

  “Look, there’s no way my parents can afford to send me to Italy for an entire year.” Abby kept her eyes straight ahead on the board, feigning attention. “You know I would kill to go with you, but it’s just not gonna happen.”

  “Don’t worry,” Christopher said to Delila. “I’ll be there to keep you company.”

  Abby’s jaw dropped slightly. “You’re going?” The only way she’d been able to comfort herself about Delila’s upcoming disappearance had been the promise of a year of nonstop soccer with Christopher. It was the one thing keeping her from totally freaking out. Abby’s heart started pounding in her ears.

  “Got my acceptance letter Saturday,” Christopher said. “ Buon giorno, baby!”

  “Oh no.” Delila grasped both of Abby’s wrists. “Ab, now you have to come. You have to be my testosterone buffer.”

  Abby let out a strained laugh and logged on to her computer. “Sorry, guys,” she said, trying to force herself to sound normal. “Just try not to kill each other over there.”

  She clicked open the Internet browser, swallowing the lump in her throat. Christopher was deserting her too?

  “You know, Beaumont,
I wouldn’t say no so fast,” Christopher said. “Not until you have all the information.”

  Christopher reached into his backpack and pulled out a glossy book. He folded back the cover and placed it on top of her keyboard. Abby blinked. In front of her was the smiling face of Roberto Viola, the most famous soccer player in the entire world. Well, the most famous retired soccer player in the entire world. Below his headshot was a picture of him playing with two guys and a girl about her age, sweat flying everywhere.

  “What’s this?” Abby asked, picking up the book.

  “That’s the brochure for the Academy.” Christopher was grinning widely. “Roberto Viola is the soccer coach.”

  “Shut up!” Abby whacked Christopher in the arm.

  “Miss Beaumont? Would you mind keeping it down back there?” Mr. Cox was sitting at the front of the classroom behind the current issue of Wired. He didn’t even look up.

  Abby leaned in toward Christopher. “You’re telling me that you are going to get to play soccer with Roberto Viola. Mr. Three Gold Medals, Mr. Four World Cups?” she whispered.

  “Yep. I plan to come back for senior year a soccer God, yo.” Christopher smiled proudly and leaned back in his chair.

  “Wait a minute. You mean all I had to do all this time was show you that?” Delila pointed one orange-nailed finger at the page. “I’ve had that catalog for months.”

  “I guess you just don’t know her as well as I do, yo,” Christopher said.

  “How about you get to know my foot, yo?” Delila shook her Converse in the air.

  “Bring it on,” Christopher shot back.

  “I don’t believe this,” Abby said under her breath.

  Suddenly it was all too clear. She’d worshiped Robert Viola since she was in third grade, when he scored the only two goals in the World Cup championship match. And now she might have the chance to not only meet him, but train with him?