The Wedding Beat Read Online Free PDF Page A

older,” said her husband.
    “My brother’s getting married in two weeks,” she said, “and he would be perfect for your column.” The trouble with receiving adulation was the inevitable request to give something in return.
    “It’s a great story,” she said, which was what people always said before proceeding to tell me a really bad story. “You see, my brother goes to the Laundromat every Monday night. Like clockwork. But one week, and only one week, mind you, he went on a
Tuesday
night and—”
    I cut her off. “I’m sorry. I already have my assignments for the rest of the month, but I hope your brother has a great wedding.”
    “She took your friggin’ picture,” said her husband. “The least you can do is listen to her stupid story.”
    Did James Franco have this problem?
    I was spared further interaction with the couple when a husky man backed into the small pocket of space between us. There were bodies smashed against me from all sides, and I was conscious of the increasing moistness under my arms and across my brow. There was still no sign of Hope, so I pulled open the sliding door and escaped into the crisp winter air.
    Seven floors were not enough to have an unobstructed city view, but a pink and purple, Disney-colored sunset was visible between the buildings. It felt good to have some breathing room. I stepped over to the railing and looked down.
    “Did you bring a bungee cord?” a female voice asked.
    I turned around. And there she was. The girl with the brown curls.
    “It would be a much faster exit than fighting a way back tothe front door,” she said with a dimpled smile. She had a heart-shaped face and tiny laugh lines in the corners of her chocolate brown eyes, suggesting both merriment and age appropriateness. She looked to be around thirty and much more petite than she had seemed from a distance, only about five foot three in her suede boots. She was wearing snug-fitting jeans and a cream-colored cashmere sweater with a V-neck that provided a modest glimpse of her surprisingly robust cleavage.
    “Left my bungee at home,” I said, wondering if I could have come up with something lamer to say. It turned out I could. “Are you into bungee jumping?” I asked.
    “Never done it,” she said. “I’m afraid of heights.” I noticed she was pressed against the glass wall, holding the banister of a white spiral staircase beside her.
    “Good thing you’re not standing on an open terrace.”
    “I like to challenge myself.” She took a swallow from a bottle of Corona she was now nursing. “Just don’t ask me to stand next to the ledge.” She smiled again, and I wanted to live inside her smile.
    “I’m Gavin,” I remembered to say.
    “Melinda.”
    “I’ve never met a Melinda before.” Yet something about her seemed familiar. “So what kind of medicine do you practice?”
    She laughed. “The closest I got to medical school was walking by the campus once at Harvard.” The word “Harvard” bounced around my head like a loose pinball. “I’m a journalist. Well, travel writer. If that’s a real job. I travel to exotic places and pretend it’s work. Or I used to. Until last year. Now I’m working on a book.” Her words tumbled out at an impetuous velocity. “What I really want to be is a photojournalist. But I’m too short. Or too shy. Not that I’m shy. But photojournalists need pretty sharp elbows.”
    “Ithink you have excellent elbows,” I said.
    Her dimples made a reappearance. I noticed they were slightly asymmetrical, which somehow made her even more appealing.
    “Is that your professional medical opinion?” she teased.
    “I’m not a doctor.”
    “I’m so sorry,” she quickly said. “I think it’s great that more men are going into nursing.”
    I had gone from pigeonholer to pigeonholee. But before I could correct the situation, a certain blond freak of nature poked his tree trunk–like neck out of the bedroom door.
    “There you are,” the McConinator