I studied him, tried to think of other specific requests, came up empty. At length I shook my head. “I can’t think of any more, but if I do I’ll email them to you.”
He stuck his hand out for me to take, saying, “I can agree to those terms.”
I smiled at his hand then at him and shook it. Those were the same words I’d used the last time we’d discussed marriage related issues.
But the last time the issues were much larger, big deal kinds of things. This time, I reflected, the issues were much smaller, everyday kinds of things; but taken all together, maybe no less important.
Quinn’s mouth hooked to the side and he released my hand; his eyes moved over my features—forehead, nose, cheeks, lips, chin, neck, then back to my eyes via my hair.
Then he blinked, frowned. “We got the results back from the chocolate and Ashley’s hooch.”
I quirked my eyebrow, because I never thought I’d hear Quinn say the words Ashley’s hooch.
“Really? What’s the damage? Was it LSD?” I’d done some research after the fact. LSD seemed like the scariest of the options so, of course, I assumed it was LSD. No one likes being drugged or losing their memory. The only thing that kept me from a full-on freak-out was the fact that either Stan or Quinn had been with us the whole time.
“No, it was hashish—in the chocolate—and moonshine in the hooch. But the moonshine was laced with methanol. It looks like the methanol paired with the moonshine and hashish made bad things happen.”
“Moonshine and hashish?”
He nodded.
“That sounds like a nineteen seventies sitcom involving a stern but loveable police detective and his sloppy but loveable sidekick.”
“It would also make a good name for a band.” He gave me a barely-there smile, which I returned with a larger one.
“I’ll tell the girls. They’ll be relieved to know it was only moonshine and hashish. I may never get tired of saying moonshine and hashish. If we have dogs we should name them Moonshine and Hashish.”
“No. We’re not naming our dogs Moonshine or Hashish. My father is a police detective.”
I considered this then nodded my agreement. “You’re right. I’ll come up with a list that doesn’t involve drug paraphernalia.”
“Speaking of dogs and the people who own them, how was Shelly?” Quinn asked this as he studied his glass of scotch, and my heart broke a little.
I decided right then that I would never tell him what his sister had done. It was her place, her sin to confess. Or it was something that might come up eventually with his parents. But I wouldn’t tell him.
“She was being stubborn, so I told her that the ball was in her court—which is an idiom that comes from tennis, although some crazy people think it comes from badminton. Of course, this assertion is completely false, because it would be the shuttlecock is in your court, not the ball is in your court.”
Quinn’s eyes held mine, but his face seemed meticulously expressionless when he said, “Why is it called a shuttlecock?”
“Excellent question—I’m glad you asked. The word refers to the forward and backward movement it makes during the game: it was named after the shuttle of a loom.”
“And the c**k part?”
My eyes narrowed on him and—by the power of Thor!—I could feel my neck heat. This was entrapment.
I cleared my throat and looked away, picking a piece of lint from my jeans before responding. “It has feathers on it.”
“Oh. So it wasn’t named after the forward and backward movement of….”
“No! No it was not.” I rolled my eyes then closed them.
I couldn’t be too mad at him, though, because it was impossible for me to hold a grudge when faced with the sound of Quinn’s laughter.
CHAPTER 25
I probably should have been more careful.
That stated, Quinn should have knocked.
Really, we were both to blame.
If we’d flown in together then it could have been avoided. What happened was that I took an early flight to Boston on Monday morning so I could have one final wedding dress fitting. Assuming it fit, I would be able to take it with me and try it on with the shoes, veil, lingerie, jewelry—everything.
I was illogically and exceedingly excited by the prospect. I’d never been a fan of fairy tales and related princess costumes—unless they were tales of caution where the beautiful maiden is punished for her vanity and selfishness, as these usually had tragic endings, which I found extremely satisfying—but I couldn’t wait to try on the entire getup.
I went directly to the Beau Boutique from the airport and tried on my dress. It fit perfectly. I carefully loaded the gown in the car and drove to the hotel. Or, more precisely, Stan drove me to the hotel.
As soon as we were in the room, I told Stan to make himself comfortable, and I bolted into the bedroom, shutting the door behind me.
Then, I put everything on.
The underwear, bustier with built-in garter belt, and stockings from London; the lovely ivory Vera Wang silk stilettos with beautiful silk embroidered flowers at the heel, the organza silk veil with antique lace around the edge.
I turned to look in the closet mirror, my eyes wide, and I inspected my reflection.
It was a very nice dress, a simple ivory sheath with practical three quarter sleeves and a square neckline, and I looked nice in it. I’d chosen it because it was simple and inexpensive. I didn’t want or need anything more. In fact, as I surveyed my reflection, I considered that I might be able to dye it a different color then reuse it, maybe bring the hem up to my calf.
And that’s when the unthinkable happened.
Quinn was just suddenly there. He was an abrupt apparition, an unexpected face in the mirror, looking at me with a quizzical non-expression.
I turned, my hands moving futilely to block the dress from his view, and I yelled, “Quinn! What…what are you doing here?”
Then I realized that I was trying to hide the dress from him. I had instinctively bought into the silly tradition of not allowing Quinn—the groom—to see me—the bride—in my wedding dress before the wedding day. I’d ascribed to it without even realizing it.
This made me flustered and confused and embarrassed.
Therefore, I let my arms fall away—even though it felt completely counterintuitive, like using milliliters to measure distance—and let him look at me, in my wedding dress, five days before the wedding.
He was still studying me, his expression temperate and unaffected. “My morning meetings ended early. So, that’s the dress?”
I glared at him then threw my hands in the air. “Yes. Yes, this is the dress.”
“Hmm….” His eyes lifted to mine and he said, “I really like the veil.”
“The veil?”
“Yeah. When are you going to be done? Do you want to grab some lunch?”
I stared at him for a beat and felt…inexplicably disappointed. I glanced down at myself then back to him. I felt the need to defend my dress.
“Did you know that people used to wear wedding dresses in different colors? It was only at the time of Queen Victoria, during her marriage to Prince Albert, that women’s wedding dresses became predominately white.”
He lifted his suitcase to a luggage rack and asked, “When did marriage become a real thing? Was it with the advent of religion? Polytheistic societies had marriage. Zeus and Hera and their hijinks come to mind.”
I frowned at his question. He thought I was discussing marriage in general, and I wanted to discuss wedding dresses in specific, because—I had no idea why. Yes I did—I wanted him to really, really like my choice in wedding dress, and he seemed a tad bit too unimpressed with it for my liking.
Reluctantly, I answered his question, but then I tried to steer the conversation back to wedding dress history. “Egyptians are credited with the earliest marriages as an institution, similar to the construct we think of today. And, of interest, the wedding dress has always been a major, symbolic part of all marriage ceremonies. Don’t you think it’s interesting that every society where marriage is an accepted paradigm shares the tradition of a wedding dress?”
He shrugged. “Not really. It makes sense if you think about it. The bride is often considered the prize, the focus of the ceremony. It would follow that—regardless of culture, religion, or era in history—everyone would want the bride to stand out, to look her best.”
I glowered. For some reason, and I couldn’t have predicted it, his response made me feel worse.
I glanced again at my reflection in the mirror.
Did I look my best?
No. I didn’t.
It was a practical dress. I could dye it and wear it again, and feel a measure of peace that I hadn’t spent thousands of dollars on a gown that would be worn once.
Then why didn’t I feel peace? Why did I feel disgruntled?
Quinn walked up behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders. He met my eyes in the mirror and kissed my temple. “Kitten, I couldn’t care less about what your wedding dress looks like. I know what’s underneath it. No wedding dress can compete with that.”
I gave him a small smile, because I knew he was trying to make me feel better.
But I didn’t feel better.
I felt discombobulated and miserable.