by Patt Marr
She could see the tabloid caption now: The Bunny And Sunny, Together Again.
“Let me go!” she demanded, stomping on his foot.
Pain registered up to Bruce’s eyeballs, and he lost his grip on his prey. Twisting free, Sunny landed an elbow into his bunny belly. The punch didn’t hurt, except for his pride.
What was she so mad about? She wasn’t the one sweating like a pig in this hotter-than-Hades costume.
“Wear the bunny suit,” her dad had said. “Sunny will love it.” Boy, was her dad wrong. That picture better be worth it.
“Hey, boys and girls!” she said in a loud teacher voice, taking charge in an astonishing way. “Look! We have an Easter Bunny Man! Everybody say, ‘Hi, Easter Bunny Man.”’
They did. With his bunny paws, he smoothed his wet, sweaty hair back, put a big smile on his face and answered, “Hi, kids!”
“Bunnies can’t talk,” complained one little smarty.
“That’s right,” Sunny agreed. “Easter Bunny, if you’re not going to wear your head, you’ve got to try harder to look like a bunny. Can you do that?”
Look like a rabbit? Not a chance. He looked at Sam, knowing he’d get him out of this silly scene.
“Do it,” the man mouthed.
Ridiculous. How low did a man have to stoop? It was a good thing he was an incredibly good sport.
Imagining the cartoon bunny, he raised his eyebrows high, opened his eyes real big and did that repetitious, smacking thing with his upper teeth against his bottom lip. The kids laughed, approving his efforts, and he got into the role, wiggling his nose and making quick rabbity head movements.
The crowd seemed to love it, except for Eleanor Keegan. So what? The woman had no sense of humor.
“He’s a funny bunny, isn’t he, boys and girls?” Sunny said.
“Yeeesssss,” they all agreed.
“Poor Bunny looks so hot. I bet he could use a nice, cold drink.” Sunny took a glass of ice water from a table.
He was plenty thirsty, but it looked as if someone had already drunk from that glass.
“Uh-oh, boys and girls, Bunny can’t have this nice water. Do you know why?”
“It’s got somebody’s germs on it,” yelled a tyke.
“That’s right. But Bunny’s so hot,” Sunny crooned.
“Oooh.” The children sighed.
He’d never seen her like this before, so in control, so comfortable with a crowd.
“Bunny, would you like this water anyway?”
Not really, but so what? A few germs wouldn’t kill him. He nodded vigorously to make the kids laugh again.
“His big bunny paws might have trouble holding the glass. Who wants to hold the glass and give Bunny a nice drink?”
Hands shot up, and she chose a tubby boy who had Bully written all over him. The kid whispered in her ear, and Sunny nodded. Her grin looked positively evil as she pushed the kid toward him.
The kid held the glass high and tiptoed menacingly toward him, making the kids scream with anticipation. He knew the little brat was up to no good, but he also knew the kid’s six-figure contributor dad. What was a little ice water compared to the kind of cash Tubbo’s dad turned over to the war chest?
Actually, the ice water felt pretty good as the kid deliberately missed his mouth and let the water dribble down his chin and throat. But that wasn’t enough for the brat, and ice water down a guy’s back was a shock, no matter how hot he was.
Pure reflex made him swat Tubbo. Not hard. Certainly not so hard the kid should have yelled for his money-bags dad. The way the guy acted, stepping forward with clenched fists and a big, bad attitude, no wonder the kid was a bully.
The senator muttered in his ear, “Put that head back on and dance yourself out of here.”
Hey, he wasn’t the villain here, but he jammed the head back on. The band broke into a merry show tune, and he two-stepped in front of the crowd, working his way over to the bully’s dad.
He didn’t know where he got the nerve to shadowbox the guy, but the crowd loved it, especially when he let the guy sucker-punch him. With all the bunny padding, it didn’t hurt. He pretended to reel from the blow, and the guy was all smiles.
Back at the house, he shucked out of the bunny suit and vowed he’d never let anyone talk him into putting on a costume again. That went for Santa Claus suits, Mardi Gras masks and Uncle Sam hats. He was done with ’em all.
But Sam seemed delighted. Slapping him on the shoulder, he said, “You’re a natural, son. They were eating out of your hand.”
If Sam was happy, he was happy. “How about Sunny?” he asked. “I didn’t see her after that kid dumped water on me.”
“I didn’t, either, but one of the boys said she hightailed it up to the house and asked Charles to drive her home.”
“That doesn’t sound good. Do you think we spooked her?”
“No such thing. She just showed a little spunk.”
That had to be a dad talking. The bruise developing on his foot didn’t come from a little spunk. “Could I be wrong, Sam? Maybe Sunny doesn’t love me. What if she doesn’t come around?”
“She will. This was only her first time back in the saddle.”
“But she acted as if I were poison.”
“Well, you hurt her, Bruce. Sunny was never a confident woman, especially about men, and it didn’t help that she found you with that woman.”
“There wasn’t a thing I could do about it, but I’ll always regret that, Sam.” Bruce hung his head, genuinely sorry. That particular indiscretion had cost him dearly. “Nobody knows better than you how it is when one of those women goes after you.”
The senator shook his head knowingly. “You’re nothing to them but a trophy. But try to tell that to the public.”
“Exactly. That bridesmaid practically attacked me. I’d give anything if Sunny hadn’t seen it and gotten the wrong idea.”
Sam patted his back. “I know, son. It was a terrible case of the wrong place and the wrong time. But Sunny will come around. I know my girl.”
“I miss her.” Bruce let his voice crack, a little technique held over from puberty. It came in handy when he needed an extra punch of sincerity. “It’s been lonely without her.”
“Keep your chin up, boy.”
Sam was more of a father to him than his own dad who thought all lawyers and politicians were crooks and had washed his hands of him long ago. Maybe Sam would back him without Sunny bearing his name, but why risk it? The European royalty had it right with their marriages of alliance.
If charm didn’t work on Sunny, he had a few other tricks up his sleeve. He knew about her going on TV and the charade she was trying to pull with that out-of-work carpenter. That Dream Date episode would never see air, not even if he had to resort to some high-risk tactics with some very wrong people.
If all else failed and Sunny wouldn’t cooperate, he had his new little girlfriend ready to step in. She was cute as a button, highly photogenic and eager to be a cookie-bakin’ First Lady. Sam and Eleanor could still live their dream through him.
Chapter Twelve
Sunny brushed her hair back into a ponytail and shoved a sun visor over her brow. The kids might moan about the end of spring break, but she was ready to get on with her everyday life.
Thank goodness she hadn’t taken Pete to her parents’ house for Easter dinner. Yesterday had been a disaster. They hadn’t been ready to accept her, let alone a new man in her life. And did she handle it like the mature Christian she wanted to be? Hardly, though Bruce had seriously crossed the line.
But she’d learned a couple of things from yesterday. One—her family knew her too well. “We want to go to church with you” had been the perfect bait. She’d swallowed the hook, not stopping to think or ask the Lord’s direction, just assuming anything that would bring her parents into God’s Presence had to be His will.
Two—she’d do better to let God coach the game. How could she have forgotten to check with Him before she
acted? If one of her girls didn’t run the designated pattern, she found herself on the bench.
Grabbing her keys, she headed for the garage, but the phone rang. If it were Pete, there was no better way to start the day. Maybe she’d offer him a home-cooked meal. She made a great grilled-cheese sandwich. Or this could be the night they went to Mom’s for pot roast.
The machine clicked on. “Alexandra?
Thank you, Lord, for machines.
“Have you lost your mind?”
Just what she needed to start the day. A psychiatric evaluation, compliments of Mom.
“We went out of our way to make things nice for you, and you ran off before I could tell you about Daddy’s party. It’s this Saturday night at the Crowne, a gala in his honor. Sam is adamant that you be there. It means everything to him.”
Why? Didn’t the photographer get a picture of her with Bunny Bruce yesterday?
“I know this is terribly short notice. You weren’t invited earlier because, frankly, we didn’t think you would attend. Then, just recently, the event has taken on special significance.”
Only recently? She supposed her Dream Date escapade would need specially significant explaining.
“Alexandra, I have never begged you to do something for me, but I’m begging you now.”
Good grief. Her mother had added a new weapon to the arsenal. And a powerful one, it was.
“Please, be there for your father. You simply have no idea what this means to him….”
Was that the minisob?
“I’ll help you every way I can. Charles will deliver your dress. Pierre will do your hair and makeup. And Sunny…”
Her mother never called her that.
“Daddy says you told him you’ve forgiven Bruce. I hope, I pray, that he’s right. More than anything, Sam wants the four of us to attend as a family.”
The message ended, and Sunny slumped against the wall. She couldn’t do that, but what could she do? She wasn’t tough enough, or callous enough, to purposefully disappoint them, yet she didn’t want to undo everything she’d proven by going on Dream Date in the first place.
She got in her car, headed for school and thought like Sam and Eleanor Keegan’s daughter, considering one tactic after another, scheme following scheme. There had to be a way to make them see things her way.
And then, as she pulled into the school parking lot, she thought of the Lord. This was how she let him do the coaching?
Lord, once again, I’ve plunged in without checking with You. Thank You for helping me remember You’re my Master. I want to do things Your way.
All of a sudden, it was there. An alternative. A way to show Christ’s love without stepping back. She knew exactly what to do. Walking into her office, she placed a call.
“Leave a message,” said the voice on the answering machine.
“I just called to see if you had the number for the guardian angel hotline. I have an assignment for…”
“Sunny?” Pete answered. “I was outside. What’s up?”
“I’m checking on the availability of a personal angel for this Saturday night.”
“Hey, I’m your man…ly angel,” he said, a smile in his voice.
She’d known she could count on him. “I’m invited to a party honoring my father, but I’m pretty sure it’s another setup like yesterday. My parents weren’t interested in getting together with me as much as they wanted a reunion with Bruce.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“If I don’t go to Daddy’s party, it will seem like I’m holding a grudge, and I do want to love them—if they’ll let me, without putting Bruce into the picture. It would be a lot easier if my personal angel were along to—”
“Say no more. Just tell me when and where. I’ll polish up my wings.”
He might not be so willing if he knew the repercussions that might come his way. So far, she’d gotten off lightly, but her dad had the power to make their lives miserable. “Pete, you don’t know what you could be letting yourself in for.”
“Doesn’t matter. Angels never worry. We’ve got the Boss watching out for us.”
She grimaced. “Thanks for the reminder. In times like this, I seem to forget very quickly.”
“Humans are like that. Angels know better.”
She smiled, loving how his teasing made her feel she wasn’t alone. “After Saturday night, you may wish you had been assigned to Brad,” she said, teasing him back.
“Not a chance. His angel has to help him lug that TV camera around and listen to his nonsense.”
“True, but does his angel have to wear a tux? Daddy’s party is black-tie.”
“Hmm, I’ll have to check to see if we have that disguise.”
The squawk of a seagull, the smell of the seashore, the feel of a new mattress. This wasn’t home, at least not the one he was used to. Pete opened one eye, testing the bright light pouring in the uncurtained windows. A gentle breeze wafted through the room, and he pulled the sheet over his bare shoulders. White, uncluttered walls and the quiet lap of water against the shore pleased him enormously.
Meggy was right. Why stay in the Sylvan City house when he had this? Maybe he had been trying to prove that the little house should have been good enough for Lisa. But that was goofy. Why let his life be manipulated by a person who measured “good enough” with dollar signs?
It was time to get this place looking like a home. First off, he’d haul the gym equipment to one of the bedrooms. Second, he’d hire a decorator or, if she were willing, let Sunny choose things. He’d be too busy to do it, but he didn’t want to ask too much of Sunny too soon.
For the first time since his accident, he had an idea that couldn’t wait. It made perfect sense, investing his insurance settlement money into a building project, and building starter homes for young families appealed to him. Putting cheaper homes on expensive land wasn’t necessarily good business, and he might have to build condos rather than houses, but he’d do what he could.
The project would need a name. “Sunny Valley” came to mind. The homes would change the lives of the families who lived in them as much as she’d changed his.
Man, he felt good, waking up rested and…happy. That’s what it was. Good, old-fashioned happy.
He tried to imagine himself at a fancy party wearing a tux. No mental picture there. But if Sunny wanted him, he’d be there and try not to disgrace her. He’d keep his napkin in his lap and his elbows off the table. There was something about the way you dipped the soup, and you were supposed to cut or not cut the dinner roll—he couldn’t remember which. He’d call Meggy. She’d know.
Pete threw the sheet aside and got out of the bed, filled with purpose. His strong, sweet Sunny had a situation she couldn’t handle on her own, and she’d called him. Hoo-ah! It made him feel so good, he could have tap-danced all the way to the shower.
Sunny expected to hear “Alexandra” every time she picked up the phone, but the week passed without her mother responding to Sunny’s own message, accepting the invitation, though not the dress or help from Pierre. She’d added that her escort would be the new man in her life, Pete Maguire. Bruce, she’d promised to love like a brother.
That was faith speaking.
Dear God, make it reality. If she were to have a relationship with her parents, she had to have one with Bruce.
Though she hadn’t found her dress for tonight, she was shopping again today. She had a basic black that would do, but she’d love to find something spectacular and completely unlike the dresses she’d left in her closet when she left home, most of them mother approved and purchased for her role as the congressman’s wife.
The perfect dress, according to her mother, had class and style but was understated so the focus of attention stayed where it belonged—on the man the people came to see. Her mother’s idea of perfection, delivered by Charles in spite of her wishes, had been a mauve chiffon creation that she’d already dropped off at a secondhand store. Some lucky mother of the bride
would wear a real bargain.
Her own new dress was on a mannequin at the first store she browsed in. It was no bargain, but exactly what she wanted. If it wasn’t the brightest, most conspicuous gown at the party, she’d wear mauve for a month. It might not be part of God’s plan to brazenly announce her independence with this dress, but at least she would ask Him about it.
And she did. When no bolts of thunder resounded, she pulled out her credit card.
Pete had suggested she dress at his house to avoid Pierre and his assistants in case they arrived as the dress had. If her parents and Bruce stopped by for her, she wouldn’t be there. It was a nonconfrontational way of asserting herself—rather wimpy actually, but it was past time she did something.
On the basketball court, she’d always been considered an aggressive player. She could handle taller, stronger opponents and didn’t let anyone mess with her mind, but at home she’d taken what her family dished out and come back for more. Of course, on the court, being loved hadn’t mattered.
Pete’s directions were excellent and she made it to his house without one false turn. It was an impressive abode for a self-proclaimed beach bum, not quite as elaborate as some of his neighbors’ homes, but all of the residents of Malibu Colony lived very well.
He must have been watching, for he came out as soon as she arrived and helped her gather her shopping bags, plastic-covered dress and tote bag. Checking her out, he seemed to notice everything from the way the strap of her cinnamon top slipped off one shoulder to the way the matching skirt swished above her knees.
“Wow!” he said, grinning from ear to ear, sending her confidence soaring.
The entry decor was nautical navy and white with a polished oak captain’s wheel mounted on the wall and a big brass bell set into a plastered alcove. She wouldn’t have been surprised to hear herself piped aboard.
“My dad and I built this place for a retired navy admiral,” Pete explained.
“You built it?” she repeated, noticing the fine workmanship.
Pride shone in his face, the kind that came from hard work fulfilled.
