Amazon
**Kindle Scout Winning Book**
Being jilted
almost-at-the-altar by text message is not at all how prim and proper
Roxy Rose thought her wedding day would go. Getting dragged on her
Hawaiian honeymoon by her excessively self-centered sister and
outlandishly irreverent grandma is the icing on the horrible wedding day
cake.
Can Kai, the resort's hunky and talented chauffeur / bartender / flame-thrower, turn this disaster of a trip into a romantic adventure to last a lifetime? Or will his mysterious secrets keep their love from blossoming? Escape with Roxy into the enchanting Hawaiian Islands as she finally discovers the joys of hanging loose and "Getting Lei'd."
Can Kai, the resort's hunky and talented chauffeur / bartender / flame-thrower, turn this disaster of a trip into a romantic adventure to last a lifetime? Or will his mysterious secrets keep their love from blossoming? Escape with Roxy into the enchanting Hawaiian Islands as she finally discovers the joys of hanging loose and "Getting Lei'd."
Chapter 1
Jilted
at the altar.
These are words that I never in ten trillion years would have thought
would apply to me. Okay, technically, I’m not at the altar yet, but
I’m already in the white dress. Besides, getting jilted by text
message should count for double or triple points, right?
I
keep looking from my cell phone to the full-length mirror in the
coatroom-turned-bridal-party-prep-area in the quaint, white-steepled
church, which my fiancé and I had recently started attending because
I envisioned it as the perfect place to exchange marital vows. The
reflection staring back at me from the mirror with big brown eyes is
beautiful, and I’m not one to say that (or even think that) about
myself. Well, my likeness would be beautiful, if it weren’t for the
mouth hanging wide open in shock.
The
ladies in the room with me are bustling around excitedly. My eyes
blink quickly as I work to process the sterile text message and
attempt to devise a way to share the bombshell news.
Time
seems to slog slowly past. I stare at the mirror and a bride gazes
back at me. I tilt my head to the side wanting one last glimpse of
her in all her Swarovski-crystaled glory. What I am about to say will
ruin her big day.
When
I finally speak, my voice sounds croaky and muffled, almost like I am
underwater. “The wedding is off.”
The
room goes silent. Everyone is completely still for a moment. I guess
they were able to hear my life-altering, shocking mumble.
My
practical, ever-rational mother is the first to speak. “Don’t be
silly, Dear. Everyone gets wedding day jitters. Just smile and say
your vows. It will all be over in a jiffy.”
I
cringe slightly at her attempt to comfort me. The fact that she views
a wedding day as something to get over with quickly, rather than a
blessing to cherish as one of the most wonderful gifts that life has
to offer speaks volumes about her relationship with my dad. I can’t
focus on that right now, though.
Mother
begins moving about the room as if her dismissive words negated my
previous statement. I guess she thinks telling me to ‘get over it’
will make everything fine. In my mind, I picture her checking ‘calm
high-strung daughter’ off her list of things to do today.
The
other women in the room remain motionless. Their eyes roam around
uncertainly while their bodies remain frozen in whatever position
they were in when I made the announcement. I feel hysterical laughter
beginning to bubble up inside me. They look like they are playing a
grown-up version of the game ‘freeze dance’ and the music has
just stopped.
Mother
just doesn’t get it. I watch her fluff the deep purple ribbons on
my bouquet of daisies as she shuffles about, business as usual. She’s
going to lose the game,
I think, and I’m horrified to hear the impending giggles burst out
of me.
Since
we aren’t playing the musical game, my maniacal chortling serves as
the catalyst for resumed activity. Suddenly, I am surrounded by five
of the ladies I love most on this Earth. There are only five because
my best friend, Lizzie, is conspicuously absent, and now I know why.
I
turn my phone so the group can see the text from my now-former
husband-to-be, Gary. I watch as each of them read the words, some of
them moving their lips as they do so. The shock, pity, and outrage
move in waves throughout the group.
“What
in tarnation?” This outraged question comes from my wildly
irreverent grandma, Baggy. Although she looks like a sweet (although
slightly shriveled) little old lady with her freshly set silver
curls, bright pink lipstick, and lemon yellow sweater, she is
anything but. “He can’t do this. I’m going to give that
snot-nosed little wiener a piece of my mind.” With that, she whirls
around, shaking her white leather Aigner handbag in the air like a
battle weapon.
If
I weren’t hysterical, I would be amused by her typical show of
spunk. Baggy has never been the typical grandmother who sits quietly
in her rocking chair knitting red mittens. Even as a child, I had
known my grandma was different. In fact, her nickname, Baggy, was my
toddler version of ‘Bad Grandma.’ The moniker is so appropriate
that it has stuck to the point that everyone now calls her Baggy,
even non-relatives.
“Mother,
no.” My mother grabs Baggy’s arm as she smoothly slides into her
usual role of
‘voice
of reason.’ A role she relishes, even with her own parent. She
glares down at Baggy through her half-glasses, which are perpetually
precariously perched on the end of her nose. I decide that one of my
mother's odd talents is having glasses that always look like they
might fall off at any moment, yet somehow managing to keep them on.
It is a trick that works great for intimidation – that and her 5'
9" height, which she uses to full advantage.
Looking
at the two of them, I wonder – not for the first time – how Baggy
survived my mother's birth. Baggy has shriveled slightly with age,
but she was always diminutive, and my mother is not what anyone would
describe as a small woman. She can't possibly have been a tiny baby.
Baggy
tries to yank her arm free as she lets out a rallying cry for the
group. “We won’t let that good-for-nothing, low-life bag of worms
get away with this.” She continues to hold her purse with her free
fist in the air.
Realizing
she can’t break away from her daughter’s firm grip, Baggy tries
to start a chant. “Get Gary. Get Gary.” The women in the room
look around seeming uncertain of what to do. A few of them join in on
the chant before it peters out.
Once
the chant fizzles, Mother decides Baggy is not as much of a flight
risk and loosens her hold on her forearm. Baggy seizes the
opportunity and tries to make a break for it. As Mother realizes what
is happening, she whirls around to try to stop Baggy.
In
her haste, Baggy trips over my sister’s heels that she has left in
the middle of the room (in typical Ruthie fashion). Baggy agilely
tucks and rolls her tiny body – just like she always claims she’ll
do when falling – in order to avoid breaking a hip.
My
formidable mother fails to let go of Baggy and falls much less
gracefully than her elderly, spry mother.
The
rest of us stand there looking at Mother and Baggy for a moment,
uncertain if either has been injured. When Baggy shakes her head, her
pin curls don’t budge. She proceeds to spring up like the Energizer
bunny before saying to her daughter, “Get up, you big weenie. I
have almost twenty-five years on you, and I’m fine.”
I
hold my hand out to help Mother stand. She is much larger and less
agile than Baggy, and it takes both of my hands to help heft her up.
She groans once she is upright and puts a hand on her back, wincing a
little.
“You
just need to learn how to fall,” Baggy tells her, putting her hand
on Mother’s shoulder. “You’ve never been a good faller,” she
adds seriously.
Suddenly,
the ridiculousness of the entire situation sinks in with me and I
begin to giggle again. The whole group turns their attention back to
me as the laughter turns to tears.
“Well,
let’s go then.” Baggy pulls me out of the room. This time no one
tries to stop her, and I silently pray that she isn’t dragging me
off to ‘Get Gary.’
With
Baggy, it’s hard telling what ‘get’ means. He might not survive
it. Although I’m completely humiliated and furious, I don’t wish
the man dead, but with my wild grandma, you just never
know.
No comments:
Post a Comment