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No matter how hard she tried, it was impossible not to be hurt and a little resentful.
Already she felt more like a guest than the mother of the bride.
No! She wasn’t going to turn into that sort of mother. This was Rosie’s special day, not hers. Her feelings didn’t matter.
“What can I do to help?”
“Nothing. Get yourselves here. Catherine can’t wait to meet you. I know you’ll love her.”
Maggie wondered what Rosie had said about her. My mother works in academic publishing. She loves baking and gardening. To a high-flying celebrity wedding planner, she probably sounded as exciting as yesterday’s laundry.
“I’m looking forward to meeting her.”
“Can I speak to Dad? I want to hear his voice.”
Maggie gripped the phone. She hadn’t anticipated this. “I—um—he’s not here right now.”
“It’s the middle of the night. How can he not be there?”
Maggie searched frantically for a plausible explanation. She could hear Nick’s voice, for goodness’ sake, Mags, this is absurd. It’s time to tell the truth.
But the truth was the last thing Rosie needed to hear on the day of her engagement.
She would not spoil her daughter’s big moment.
“He’s gone for a walk.”
“A walk? At three in the morning? Have you guys finally bought a dog or something?”
“No. Your dad was working on a paper until late and couldn’t sleep. But he should be back any minute.” She was slightly shocked by her own creativity under pressure. She’d always raised the girls to tell the truth, and here she was lying like a pro.
“Get him to call me the moment he walks through the door.”
“Won’t you be asleep by then?”
There was a sound of glasses clinking together and Rosie giggled. “It’s only eight o’clock in the evening here. Will you get him to call me back?”
Unable to think of an excuse, Maggie promised that Nick would call as soon as he came in, and after a few more excited words she ended the call.
She sat for a moment, then walked to the window. It was dark outside, but the moon sent a ghostly glow across the village green.
In the summer it was the venue for cricket, and in the winter the trees were decked with tiny fairy lights paid for by the village council. There had been an outcry at proposals to divert traffic through the center of the village.
Maggie guessed they didn’t have those problems in Aspen. Nobody was likely to have to fight the demise of the local bus service, or the plan to only open the library two days a week.
Unable to see an alternative, she picked up the phone and dialed Nick’s number.
It rang and rang, but Maggie persevered. Nick’s ability to sleep through anything was something that she’d both resented and envied when the children were young. It had been Maggie who had dragged herself from the bed every half an hour when Rosie was tiny, and Maggie who had borne the brunt of the asthma attacks even when Nick was home between trips.
Eventually he picked up the phone wit
h a grunt. “’Lo.”
“Nick?”
“Maggie?” His voice was rough with sleep and she could imagine him shaking himself awake like a bear waking from hibernation.
“You need to call Rosie.”
