Chapter Text
“I’m sorry. Could you repeat that name, sir?”
Phillip took in a slow, deep breath and counted to three in his head before releasing. The modified relaxation technique served to cool his temper, but only by a degree or two. He spoke English well, having come from the country that originated the bloody language. Two names he’d spoken and would now have to repeat; surely they weren’t so complicated in the mind of this young clerk.
“Phillip Charles,” he said, keeping his voice even. Phillip was tired, and frazzled, and juggling a million thoughts in his head as his wedding day loomed closer. He’d arrived at Grenadier Vineyards & Resort days ahead of the blessed event to see all the arrangements…well, arranged, and executed without glitches. He faced the work of several people, and his fiancé’s presence would have helped. Alan, however, had appointed himself the role of “other groom,” the one with two tasks. Show up and smile.
The wanker.
Yet, Phillip loved that wanker enough to risk popping a blood vessel in his brain.
“Phillip Charles,” echoed the desk clerk, her gaze fixed on the recessed monitor out of Phillip’s view. “Phillip Charles…and your last name?”
“Charles.” Four, five, six, breathe, Phillip.
The young woman arched an eyebrow and turned down her lips into a frown. “Your name is Phillip Charles Charles?”
Phillip darted his eyes from side to side. He’d stepped into one of those hidden-camera joke shows, he was certain. Any minute now some D-list comedian was going to pop out from behind one of the potted plants and yell gotcha. “First name Phillip, last name Charles,” he said. “Those are the only two names I have.” No middle name. His mother couldn’t be arsed to think of one at his birth, for some reason. Exhaustion, most likely.
“It’s just that you sound British, sir…”
“I am British,” Phillip said. Give me my bloody key card.
“...and they all have four first names, like Prince Charles,” she said, and tapped her chin. “Actually isn’t his name Phillip Charles Something Something?”
“His name is Charles Philip Arthur George.” Phillip looked down at the counter, shocked by the sudden whiteness of his knuckles. He lifted his hand and shook off the tingling sensation of blood returning to that part of the body. “I know because in my home country it’s compulsory to memorize the full names of the first ten people in line for the Crown.”
The girl widened her eyes. “Really?”
“Of course not, you silly goose. Please find my reservation,” Phillip said, peeved. “I need a nap.”
To Phillip’s relief, the clerk assumed ‘silly goose’ was a British term of affection. After a minute of keyboard clicking she found the reservation under Phillip’s name, transposed as ‘Charles Phillips.’ Good news that the hotel had maintained the original room request, but the mix-up left Phillip with a whole new set of concerns. If the hotel had committed this faux pas with the room stay, was anything else connected to the wedding at risk?
Did they still have the outdoor space near the Chardonnay vines, with chairs to accommodate a hundred guests, reserved? Would there be enough food? What about the cake and flower deliveries? It was enough that Phillip had to worry about Alan getting the date right and showing up on time.
He found the suite, once he finally gained access to it, lovely and comfortable and clean. Despite Phillip’s declaration of a nap, and his desire to faceplant on the lilac-scented comforter of the king-sized bed, he had listed items to tick. He stowed his luggage and hung his tuxedo, splashed a handful of cold water on his face, and braced himself for the final lap in the wedding prep.
But, oh… what a lovely view of the winery and vines from their room, their luxurious room.
Phillip stepped out of his Gucci loafers and touched his stockinged feet to the soft rug, surveying floral wallpaper and cherry wood furnishings. He found a mounted flatscreen hidden in a cabinet, with complimentary access to the top streaming channels. Stocked mini fridge with small bottles of the resort’s vintages. Atop that, a single-cup brewer with pods. Blackout curtains, opened to reveal the lush Shenandoah Valley, revealed to Phillip the reason why he’d chosen this particular venue.
This part of Virginia reminded him so much of Dorset, a favorite vacation spot in his youth. Well before he realized his inclination toward men, he vowed to marry in a similar setting if he couldn’t secure the original locale. Back then, he hadn’t anticipated leaving England altogether for a job in the United States, or meeting Alan, or falling in love with this countryside. This resort provided an excellent Plan B.
Phillip stood at the open window overlooking acres of uniform grapevines, with tight bunches of green grapes hanging from twisted branches. These were the Chardonnay rows; he and Alan had toured them with the resort’s event coordinator prior to booking the Grenadier. In two days they would stand outside, with their friends and the vines as witnesses, as they exchanged vows.
Well, maybe not their friends. More Alan’s than his, or theirs. Phillip no longer had immediate family upon which to lean, and none of his mates were able to schedule and/or afford the trip. Some had sent gifts, though, which were still in the car. Phillip intended to display them at the reception and prove the point that this was not entirely Alan’s show.
Alan. “Hell,” Phillip muttered, reaching into his pocket for his phone. They hadn’t spoken since parting this morning. Alan’s morning was booked with meetings, but he was due in Charlottesville from Washington right about now. In keeping with tradition, no bad luck before the wedding, Alan had accommodations at another hotel until the big day.
Phillip dropped backward onto the bed, reveling in the comfort. Calling up his messaging app, he sent Alan a text announcing his arrival. Room is lovely, with an amazing view. “Like we’ll see much of it after the reception,” he added to himself with a short chuckle. He nearly included those thoughts with the message but held back. Alan, while not above racy humor, was often careless with his phone. The manner in which he held it while sorting through business invited many onlookers to spy on personal messages. Alan’s sexuality and upcoming wedding weren’t secrets, but Phillip knew his fiancé avoided embarrassment whenever possible.
He let Alan know instead that he planned to confirm all the details with the hotel’s events coordinator before settling down to dinner. Alan’s response began with a snapshot Phillip guessed was the view from his hotel.
Wherever Alan was sleeping tonight, he was inches away from a golf course. The far horizon, devoid of trees and lush hills prevalent in Central Virginia, concerned Phillip.
Where exactly are you? he asked.
Alan’s reply arrived after a full minute. Eagle’s Nest. I’ve taken you there.
Indeed, Alan had. Eagle’s Nest was a modest, semi-private country club with rental cottages bordering their eighteen-hole course. Alan met clients there several times a year for friendly walks with golf clubs, in which they’d discuss business between putts as an excuse to write off the excursions. Alan had brought Phillip there once for a holiday party. He sat mostly with the wives while they gossiped.
Eagle’s Nest was located on the Currituck Sound, in North Carolina. Not Virginia.
“Are you mad?” Phillip cried to his phone screen. Seven, eight, nine…breathe, Phillip.
He flexed his fingers to rid them of the shakes. Why there? Why stay three hours away and risk tardiness? Virginia had golf courses.
Charity game sponsored by the county chamber of commerce. Lots of contacts to be made here. 💰 👍
Phillip typed out his response, You’re aware that you are off for ten days soon? Then he erased it. The plan was to spend a few days of the honeymoon at the Grenadier before moving on to New York City to see a few shows and museum hop. Phillip had even conceded to Alan playing one round at a course near the resort; he acknowledged Alan’s love of the game, but the man had also promised to focus on their togetherness during the break.
He sighed. One could remove the businessman from the office, et cetera et cetera. Rather than poke the bear, Phillip told him, Good luck on both counts then. There’s plenty of room here to keep your belongings if you want to express them directly. Heaven forbid Alan arrive from Eagle’s Nest with only a pair of plaid slacks and spiked golf shoes to wear in the vineyard.
Five minutes passed while Phillip scrolled the weather reports and his socials. No answer from Alan. Just as well. The idea of a nap appealed to him. Phillip set his phone to DND and rested back in bed, eyes closed and hands twined on his chest. Sleep hit hard, quicker than Phillip anticipated so he embraced it. Vivid dreams filled his unconscious with scenes of a wedding and reception happening without a hiccup.
A sunny day, a cool breeze, every chair filled. Handsome Alan in his dark gray suit, not a strand of his sandy blond hair out of place, eyes only for Phillip.
He clung to the images in his sleep, manifesting every moment.
****
“I’m sorry,” Phillip said, pushing back the second drink placed before him. “I didn’t order this.”
The bartender pressed two fingers on the base of the rocks glass and edged it closer. “No, you didn’t.” He crooked his head to Phillip’s left. “They did. Enjoy.”
Phillip stared at the cocktail, a Tom Collins identical to the one served him earlier. His heart lifted in his chest and he smiled, warmed by the gesture. The last time somebody had bought him a drink, he ended up in a relationship that led him to this very spot in the Grenadier’s main bar. He slid his gaze left to discern his benefactors and raised the fresh glass in thanks.
To his relief, they weren’t swingers but a pleasant elderly couple who happened to eavesdrop on his rambling release to the bartender. The wife, after introducing herself as Betty, squeezed Phillip’s hand and congratulated him. “We couldn’t help but overhear that you’re getting married this weekend. How lovely for you.”
“It is, thank you.” How much of his prattling Betty had heard, Phillip wasn’t certain. Not that he was uncomfortable with being out, but conservatism had a firm hold on this region. He accepted the drink from Betty and her husband Richard and eased into conversation when they moved up a few stools.
He listened to their meet-cute story (classmates in a senior-level English course), and their wedding horror tales (bridal gown eaten by a closet moth plus the cake bakery burned down before the ceremony, for two), and looked at pictures of their grandchildren–all in college. “Just goes to show that mishaps before the wedding don’t have to set the tone for the marriage,” Betty told him, patting Phillip’s hand. She looked concerned, leaving Phillip to think his facial expression must have radiated panic of the runaway co-groom variety.
“When Richard and I were married, neither of us had jobs,” Betty continued. “Well, that’s not entirely true. We trained to become schoolteachers, and we both interviewed with Henrico County schools in the summer. Met with principals who adored us and wanted to hire us on the spot. We started looking for apartments in the Carytown district.”
Pause for sip. Richard, in the role of content background spouse, nodded and smiled.
Betty waved her non-cocktail hand, flaunting her chunky blue bracelet and multiple rings. “Two weeks before the first day of school, the numbers come in and all the administrators are either reassigned to different schools or laid off!” She let out an exhausted sigh. “Richard makes a phone call to inquire about orientation only to find out they had to do away with the vacancy for which they wanted him, and then I lose my position to a teacher with seniority who got first dibs on a placement.” Phillip was starting to feel like a quiet spouse himself, unable to interject as Betty prattled.
“I heard that woman ended up leaving during the winter holiday break and she didn’t come back. Thirty years later, I still can’t decide if I dodged a bullet.” Betty leaned back in her seat, filling the beat with her light laughter. “The universe guided us where we needed to go, however. After a year of substituting, we found permanent classrooms here in Albemarle County and decades later we are happily retired,” she said, clinking her glass to Richard’s pint. “We certainly showed all the pessimists at our wedding who said we wouldn’t last six months. Didn’t we, dear?”
If Richard had voiced his assent, Phillip didn’t catch it for his own question. “Really?” he asked. “People said that at your wedding? To your faces?”
Betty peered at him over the rim of her drink, humming. “His mother, his grandmother, his ex-girlfriend. They invited her, too. The sheer nerve, knowing we had a set headcount for the sit-down dinner.”
Ex-girlfriend… Phillip glanced at Richard, who now turned away with presumed embarrassment. Apparently the decades-long distance from that awkward moment had yet to become an amusing talking point for the man. Phillip considered the possibility of a surprise guest crashing his wedding and just as quickly dismissed it. Of his two exes, both lived overseas and were happily ensconced in relationships; both had become holiday card friends with nary an ax to grind.
As for Alan…Phillip knew little about his fiancé’s romantic past. He never asked, and Alan never volunteered, and Phillip was fine to leave it there. If anyone RSVP’ing on the American groom’s side had history, Phillip hoped they kept it quiet for propriety’s sake.
In the far corner of the bar, a jaunty melody picked up in volume. Tonight’s entertainment, a local pianist, had arrived and launched into a familiar jazz standard. Betty cooed and tugged at her husband to turn her stool so she could, quite literally, face the music. Phillip assumed this marked the end, or at least a lengthy pause, in his acquaintanceship with his bar neighbors. That suited him fine, as he needed a moment to process new anxieties.
Everything was set for his wedding to Alan. It hadn’t occurred to Phillip, though, that somebody might crash the ceremony or reception and cause drama worthy of a viral social video. Not necessarily a disgruntled ex-lover, but somebody in search of clout.
He tossed back the rest of his drink and politely declined when Betty offered to buy a refill. “This has been a lovely evening,” he said, “but I must be off the bed. Still so much to check before the big day, and the out-of-town guests will be arriving.” He wanted to make himself available to them and make sure they were comfortable.
“Would you like a bit of advice, dear?” Betty asked, reaching for Phillip’s hand. For an older woman, slight of build and rattling around in her skin, she possessed the grip of a champion rower. Her bright, bold eyes suggested she was dispensing said advice regardless of Phillip’s willingness to hear it, so he nodded to hurry along their farewell.
“Never go to bed angry, and always kiss him goodnight. Even if you come home late and he’s long in bed, let him know you care with a peck on the cheek or forehead.” She smiled wide. “You just may find he’s faking sleep. I’ve had some luck in that department,” she added with a crook of her neck in Richard’s direction.
Richard said nothing but winked.
“That is wonderful advice. Thank you,” Phillip said. He was sincere about it, though knackered. Thanking the couple once again for their company, he signed the room charge handed to him by the bartender. More guests filled the lounge, coming to relax with a drink or to listen to the music. All around Phillip, excited chatter recounted winery trips and visits to the university and various historical landmarks. Couples everywhere, shoulder to shoulder as they walked and held hands at tables. Phillip felt a slight twinge of jealousy to see it. It would pass, he knew, once he and Alan were reunited and standing together at the altar.
Still, would it have hurt for his fiancé to miss a few days of golf?
Phillip’s subconscious never got the chance to answer that question. He was steps from the threshold leading into the lobby when a blood-curdling scream shattered the convivial atmosphere. He turned behind him, locking gazes with Betty, her eyes saucer-wide and white.
“That scream came right out of a Hitchcock film,” she said, pressing her hand to her heart. A good assessment, unfortunately. It was definitely not the sound Phillip wanted to associate with the venue hosting his wedding.
He didn’t feel his feet touching the floor as he stepped forward into the lobby. Others followed, forming a heated and rumbling crowd as the scene unfolded before them. Phillip wasn’t able to see the commotion for a second throng of people, this one situated at the elevators. A man consoled an agitated brown-haired woman in a green dress, the presumed screamer. The desk clerk was kneeling on the floor, giving orders to everyone within earshot. Call 911. Get the first aid kit. No, the big one with the crash cart.
Crash. Cart. Phillip’s stomach roiled. Stop it, he chided himself. A guest was sick and required prayers and assistance. He had no right to be angry or accuse a total stranger of bringing him further anxiety. Not everything is about you, you silly git.
He caught the first person stumbling away from the scene at the elevator. “Is there anything we can do to help?” he asked.
The man–blond, youngish, more so than Phillip–blinked his reddening eyes. “Are you a doctor?”
Phillip shook his head. “I’m sure the ambulance is on its way. Was it a heart attack, do you know?”
“I dunno, could be,” the man said. “Maybe he had one after he got stabbed.”