Page 33 of Axe Backwards
“Can’t help it. I’ve got a hot date and we gotta make it look like I’m head over heels for you.”
“I know.” She huffed a laugh. “I’m sure it’s a great hardship.”
I took her hand and spun her around, making her swishy skirt flare out and giving me a glimpse of her thighs. “Not at all. This weekend will be a piece of cake.”
Vic was kind and funny. She was also very, very pretty. I’d been keeping her firmly in the friend zone in my head. But I was a red-blooded man, so it was impossible to ignore her shiny hair, her chocolate brown eyes, and her very round ass.
So I compartmentalized. Vic was a friend; I couldn’t look at her like that.
I was good at keeping all my thoughts where they belonged. When I went into fire mode, I was all business. If someone asked for my birthday while I was directing a disaster response, I doubt I could recall it.
“Are you ready?” I asked, offering her my arm.
The long, boring rehearsal was on the beach. Within minutes, it was clear the bride was a bit of a diva, but I smiled, chatted, and held Vic’s hand. Playing the supportive boyfriend was not difficult. The gratitude shining in my date’s eyes every time she looked at me only made it easier.
After the rehearsal, we were ushered to an oceanfront patio area where a string quartet was playing and waiters were at the ready, bearing silver trays of champagne and small, complicated foods.
I still couldn’t square it with my childhood memories. The Randolphs hadn’t always been rich. Mr. Randolph was a plumber and Mrs. Randolph ran a dance studio in town. Ourpaths didn’t cross much, but everyone in town knew their success story. It was practically part of the town folklore by now.
“Hard to believe plumbing supplies paid for all this,” Vic mused, sipping her champagne and watching her parents double air-kiss guests.
“What was it again?” I asked, marveling at our surroundings.
“It’s a tool to clear vent stacks,” she explained. “When I was in high school, Dad came up with an idea for how to make it easier. It had come to him while he was on a roof. He came home, built a prototype,tested it a few times, and then called his cousin, who's a patent lawyer.”
She shrugged and blew out a breath, making her cheeks puff out.
“The rest is history. With it, plumbers don’t have to get on roofs as much, which makes the job safer, faster, and easier. Once Dad found investors, Randolph Plumbing Supply was born. Plumbers use Dad’s tools every day, and my parents get a portion of the sales.”
“Impressive,” I said. “I’ve seen the trucks all over the US.”
“It was bizarre. One day we were a normal family, and the next we were rich. And not likelet’s go to Disney Worldand buy new cars instead of usedrich, but live in a mansion and vacation on the French Riviera rich.”
I hadn’t known Vic for long. Not really. We’d run in different circles as kids. But one of the things that struck me about her was how down-to-earth she was. How she loved hiking and good coffee and greeted everyone in town with a smile. It was hard to square this person I knew to the people surrounding us.
“I don’t belong here,” she said as if reading my mind. “My parents and sisters changed after we left Maine. While I went to college, they moved to an expensive Boston suburb and bought a big house. My sisters went to private school, and my parents joined the country club.”
“And that’s not you.”
She gave me a glare. “Of course not. I’m the last person who belongs at a country club. Trust me, my ex-husband reminded me of that frequently.”
I looked over to where the happy couple was greeting guests. Graham was exactly as Vic had described. A tanned, Botoxed, capped-teeth Ken doll. His suit probably cost more than my car and he had a shiny watch on his wrist, but his pompous attitude was doing most of the work.
“Let’s go find more of those scallop things,” I said, pulling Vic away from where she was staring at them.
For the first hour, we made pleasant chit-chat with out-of-town guests and checked in with Aunt Lou often to make sure was comfortable.
Vic was finally loosening up, and for a while, I hoped that things would not be as tense as she feared.
But then her mother descended.
I’d only heard tidbits of information about Miranda Randolph from gossip in town and from Vic herself. None of it did her justice. She had a harsh dark bob and she wore a lot of jewelry and a sneer. She cornered us by the bar, forcing introductions and interrogating her eldest daughter about her job, her friends, and how she’d met me.
“You’re looking a bit hippy,” she said through gritted teeth. “I suppose there are no Pilates classes up there in the sticks.”
Deflating beside me, Vic smoothed down the skirt of her dress.
It wasn’t my place, but I was having trouble keeping my mouth shut while Miranda listed all the things she believed to be wrong with her daughter.
