Page 3 of The Wedding Party

“Twelve, Oliver,” I say. “And the mother . . . as you can imagine, she was devastated. You couldn’t help but feel her emotions.” I ball my fist between my breasts. “Her pain just bled right from her heart and soul to ours, all of us there when it happened, and twisted around us like, like a rope choking the life out of us.”

“Holy hell, I can only imagine.” Oliver contemplates, sipping his wine. “Just hearing you talk about it gets to me, too. And, babe, I know this was bad timing.”

He means the anniversary of my brother’s death.

“I was worried about you taking that job in the ER department,” he adds, taking this topic one step further, as he always does.

“It’s a supervisory role,” I remind him. “And a big promotion for me.”

“That your parents pressured you to take,” he reminds me. “I mean, I get it. Your father runs three hospitals in Houston, and your mother heads the nursing staff for the largest hospital in Texas. You’re following in her footsteps, but at what mental health cost?”

“Someone has to do it and do it well.”

“And you do. I know you do, and I’m proud of you. You’re a hero. And I’m just some guy in a suit you helped save on a rainy night in Houston.”

He’d been in town on business when his rental car had caught a rough spot on a narrow, wet road and flipped. He’d broken a rib and an arm. He could have punctured a lung. He was lucky. And so was I that night. I helped save his life, I think, but since then, he’s saved me in all kinds of indiscernible ways.

“But you know,” he continues, and because I know him, and I know he’s about to launch into a protective bear lecture, I head for a detour.

“What I know,” I say, “is that my mental health is just fine. Made possible by the fact that my parents are in Houston and we’re in Denver, thank you, Lord. They micromanage me to the point of causing insanity.” The doorbell rings, a blessed relief from the deeper conversation about my history of personal tragedy that had been sure to follow. “That will be the lasagna,” I say. “And lasagna makes everything better.”

“And the pinot,” he says, pushing to his feet and kissing me.

He rushes away to grab the food, and I stand up and hurry about the kitchen, grabbing plates, napkins, and silverware that I set up on the island. The oversize black-and-white granite island is one of the things that sold us on this house. The house itself was Oliver’s way of inviting me to live with him, and his gift to me for waiting on the wedding date.

My fingers thrum on the island, and time ticks by a bit too heavily. Curious about what might be taking so long, I head for the front door. I find Oliver resealing what looks like a big white box, a red ribbon hanging from its side.

“Oh. Did we get an early wedding gift?”

Oliver’s spine stiffens slightly, and he slides the box under his arm before facing me. “A gag gift, and a bad one.”

“I see. Well, I’m sure I’ll laugh about it. What is it?”

“Not a chance. I’m not letting you see this.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Not at all.”

“Who sent it?”

“It’s from one of the groomsmen, Carrie. You’d hate him if I told you who, and I’m not doing that to us right before the wedding. Grab the food if it shows up, babe. I’m going to call and ream out a certain someone.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply. He walks to his right and into his office, and to my shock, he shuts the door. He never shuts the door. The card for the gift is lying on the hall table, and I pick it up and glance at the front of the envelope. It reads “Oliver Phoenix,” not “Oliver and Carrie.” That gift was for Oliver, and the writing is distinctively female.

My hands begin to shake and my stomach twists in knots. I walk to the office door and tentatively turn the handle. The door is locked.

Chapter Two

I wake the next morning to cool sheets and a comfortable mattress, sighing in contentment and reaching for Oliver. And reaching yet again, stretching my hands and feet to find him with no success. I sit straight up, the sheet falling away from my naked body, my gaze scanning the dimly lit room to find I’m alone. Even the bathroom is dark. I glance at the clock—it reads 6:00 a.m., which is before our normal wake-up time. I snag my robe from the end of the bed, my body heavy from last night’s bedtime activities, because what better way to get me to stop talking about that box with the red ribbon than sex, right?

My feet find my pink, fluffy slippers, and I rush forward and travel a fast path to the kitchen, which is dark, but the aroma of freshly brewed coffee teases my nostrils. I flip on the light to find the pot full and a note sitting in front of it. I snatch it up and read: I didn’t want to wake you. I have to close up this deal I’m working on. Work now, play together soon. I can’t wait to call you my wife.—Love, Oliver.

I read the note three times. Nothing about it feels right, and my mind goes back to dinner last night. I’d just pulled the food from the take-out bag when he reappeared. “Smells good,” he said. “Did I tell you me and my sister had a disagreement today?”

I wanted to ignore the question and push him about the box, but Oliver and Natalie rarely fight, despite the fact that he’s CEO and president of the company while she, as the oldest, is in the lesser role of VP. I couldn’t just dismiss something I knew impacted Oliver negatively. So I set the box aside, with the intent of coming back to it. Instead, we ate, talked about Natalie, and then ended up in bed. The topic of the box had been firmly shoved under the sheets, so to speak.

I set the note on the counter, walk toward the front of the house, and end up at the door of Oliver’s office. It’s open. Of course it’s open. With the exception of last night, the door is never shut, most certainly never locked. I enter the room, which is really more a den than an office. A heavy oak desk is the centerpiece, with a sitting area complete with cozy chairs and bookshelves, lined with a variety of books, to the left. I scan for the box and see nothing. I round the desk and open the credenza against the wall, with no luck in my hunt for the gag gift. Settling into the leather chair, I begin opening and shutting drawers, looking for I don’t know what. Obviously, a box isn’t going to be in a drawer full of hanging files. I’m just looking. For something, anything, that tells me what is going on with Oliver right now.