“No.”
“Just Chrissie?”
“She’s mostly mad at Matilda.”
“Matilda? Why the fuck…?” I look over at my mom. “Sorry, Mom.” Eyes back on Anthony, I growl, “Why would she be mad at the only person in Vicky’s party that tried to help her? As far as I could see, everyone else was standing around clapping.”
“She, uh, doesn’t want Matilda in the wedding.”
I’m about to argue when the bride-to-be walks up to the table looking like nothing happened last night. She looks perfect. Anthony stands and pulls out the chair next to him for her. “Morning, baby.”
“Morning.” She smiles at my mom and dad. “Good morning, Mr. And Mrs. Marchesani.”
“Good morning, honey. Sleep well?”
“Like a rock.” She giggles, and it pisses me off all over again because something tells me Matilda had a hard time with her bruised ribs and swollen ankle. I say nothing. I’m not about to start something between me and my brothers today.
Maybe tomorrow.
* * *
Dressedin my tuxedo or penguin suit, as Adrian kept calling it this morning, I knock on Matilda’s front door. I’m about fifteen minutes early. The army taught me, if you’re not early, you’re late.
Her dad opens the door, looking like he just woke up. “Son.” He steps back from the door and starts to walk toward the small living room. I can’t help noticing the furniture reminds of the stuff we had growing up. It’s sort of an 80s time capsule. I hear his voice from deep within the house. "Coffee?"
I follow the sound into a small galley-style kitchen. “No, thank you, sir.” I had my one and only cup during breakfast. If I have too many, I get grouchy.
“She’s getting ready.” Mr. Conklin is wearing a robe as old as the furniture in the living room as he watches the coffee brew. “What time’s this wedding again?”
“Five.”
When his coffee machine chimes, he pulls a cup out of the cupboard and fills it to the brim. I watch him take his first sip, eyes closed, a ritual he repeats several more times. Then he looks at me. “Nectar of the gods, my boy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Call me Buck.” I don’t have a chance to respond because he side-eyes me and asks, “What are your intentions with my baby girl?”
Oh shit. Huh? “Um….”
Then he laughs. “Just screwin’ with you.”
Thank fuck. For a second there, I thought I was in some sort of alternate universe. Or maybe in the 50s like Matilda talked about.
Turns out, Buck may just be a bit of a smart-ass. I can appreciate that.
He turns away from me and moves to a door that leads to the backyard. There’s a large window that gives me a view of a small, grassy area. Mr. Conklin points, to what, I’m not sure. “She’s got a new pup.”
“A pup?” I move closer to him and lean in a little. There’s a large dog kennel at the back of the property. “She’s got a dog?”
His head turns just enough to look at me. “She didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
He’s thinking. I can see it on his face. Not even the gray beard can shield his expression. “Nothing.”
“I’m ready.” We both turn in time to see a freshly showered Matilda. Her hair is still damp, but her big curls are starting to spring to life. It’s a nice color, her hair. It’s between red and brown, mostly red. I like it. It’s pretty on her. Matilda’s wearing her usual attire of jeans and a T-shirt, this one has a logo of a popular band from the 80s. On her feet are a pair of red Converse tennis shoes.
“That’s what you’re wearing?” It’s not wedding attire in the least.
