The Wedding Dress(19)

T, where are you? I’m eating pizza. Don’t promise to save you a piece. She hit Send. Tim loved pizza. The boy lit up at the very word. He’d say the word over and over, teasing and buzzing Charlotte’s ear with a snaky “z” hiss.

She took the pizza from the oven, listening for Tim’s instant, protesting reply.

But two hours later Charlotte had eaten her pizza, put the leftovers in the fridge, cleaned the kitchen, stacked the wedding invitations on the dining table, scribbled her own guest list on a magnet pad—forty names—put the invitations back in the box, and slipped it under the table.

Where was he and what was he doing? She considered getting angry, but if he was hurt then she’d feel guilty. So she’d just wait and see what he said when he called.

But being delinquent wasn’t Tim. He planned and calculated just like Katherine had said. He scheduled his day in fifteen-minute increments. Even the spontaneous meetings that filled his schedule were organized.

At five ’til ten Charlotte surfed her contact list to David and Katherine’s number. She took a deep breath before hitting Call and rehearsed what to say. Hey, I was wondering if Tim was—

“Charlotte?” The front door eased open.

Thank goodness. Charlotte exhaled and tossed her phone to the table. “Where have you been? I was just about to call David and Katherine. I made pizza—”

From the kitchen, she gazed down the short hall toward the door. Standing just inside the loft, Tim looked sheepish in his mud-covered racing gear. Giving Charlotte a conciliatory glance, he bent to remove his boots.

“Paul and Artie came over last night after my meeting and—”

“Last night? When I called you said you were tired, wanted to go to bed.”

“I was in bed when they showed up with Chase and Rudy.” Tim’s youngest two brothers were bigger daredevils and fun-lovers than Tim. “Next thing I knew we’d talked Dave into playing hooky and planned a racing road trip.”

“Why didn’t you call?” Something about his tone, his demeanor, formed a cold rock in her belly.

“I meant to, Char. But it was midnight by the time they left my house. I went into the office at six to get some work done. We left around eleven to drive over to Albertville.” He pulled off his racing jersey. Dried mud rained on Charlotte’s clean floor. His white t-shirt strained across his chest and his cut, sculpted arms stretched the hem of his sleeves. He motioned to his dirt. “I’ll clean it up.”

“Shop Vac is in the closet.” She motioned to the door beside the fridge. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t call or text.”

Tim motored the hand-vacuum over his mess. “I kept thinking I’d call you, but I never did. You said you had appointments all afternoon so I figured you’d be busy.” He shut off the vacuum and returned it to the closet, then stood against the wall, peering mostly at his stocking feet. “I thought we’d be back before dinner.”

“It’s ten o’clock, Tim. And you do know if I’m busy you can still text me or leave a message.”

“Yeah, I know.” He angled to see the stove through the dim kitchen light. “Any pizza left?” Tim smiled—slow, shy. Handsome. Winning.

“In the fridge. There’s salad in the blue bowl.” Charlotte backed away, letting him fend for himself, her own pizza dinner churning in her stomach. It was his way. To win her over so simply. So easily. But not tonight. He had yet to explain himself. “Did you bring the guest list? Maybe we can address some of the invitations. We have an hour or so. Unless you’re too tired and need to go to bed.” There, got in one barb. Did he know how he hurt her with his silence? Charlotte retreated to her seat at the dining table and stared absently at her iPad.

“No, I’m not too tired.” Tim dropped the leftover cold pizza on the plate he took from the cupboard. He took a bite without heating the slices first. “I don’t have the list. I’m sorry, Char. I didn’t get by Mom’s this week.”

“Okay, but we have five hundred invitations to address in the next few weeks.”

“Can I ask why we’re not paying someone to do it?” Tim opened the fridge for a Diet Coke.

“I can’t afford it.”

“You spent a thousand on a beat-up old trunk, but you can’t afford someone to do our invitations? Ever think maybe I can afford it? Or we can afford it?”

“I’d rather use the money to upgrade the reception food or buy those platinum chains I wanted for the bridesmaids.” Since their engagement, Tim spoke in the plural. Us. We. They could afford whatever kind of wedding they wanted.

But Charlotte struggled, fighting the idea that Tim and the Roses would pay for all of the wedding. Her family must pay what they could. Right? Even if her family was . . . Charlotte alone.

Now the conversation stalled. Tim walked to the dining table, sitting with a glance at the invitations, then toward the living room.

“Is that it? Your thousand-dollar trunk?”

“That’s it.” Charlotte reached for his Diet Coke and took a sip. “Think you can do something with it?”

“Maybe.” Tim stared at his uneaten pizza. Sitting back with a sigh, he ran his hands through his matted but thick hair. “Charlotte, I forgot about tonight.”