Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4)

by Lauren Gilley

  Then, seeming to remember how busy she was, she consulted the crumpled paper list in her hand. “Oh shit. The bouquets.” Her eyes snapped up to his, now filled with determination. “And you’re supposed to be getting ready.”

  And she thought there was a chance she wouldn’t be a good mother. Unthinkable.

  ~*~

  Maggie lifted the hem of her skirt and left the dusty path, stepping toward the crabapple trees decked out with lanterns. Finished having her hair and makeup done, she’d gone to the arena to find that Emmie had the ceremony space well in hand, things progressing smoothly there. She decided to check in with Holly and the lighting crew.

  Holly, puffy coat over her red bridesmaid dress, watched several hangarounds place the lanterns on branches. “A little to the left, I think. We don’t want them too close together. There.”

  Maggie drew up beside her. “How’s it going?”

  “Good.” Holly sounded a little out of breath with nerves, but that was usual. What was a little out of character, though, was the way she looked over, gaze almost assessing. “How are you?”

  Maggie blinked, surprised. “I’m fine.”

  “I don’t know if anyone ever gets mother-of-the-groom jitters, but I wanted to ask. Make sure, you know.” Sweet smile. “In case you needed anything.”

  “Well…no, I’m fine,” Maggie repeated, not sure what to think. “But thanks for asking.”

  “You’re very proud of Aidan, I know.”

  She smiled, knowing exactly what to think of that. “Very.”

  Seeing that all was well with the lanterns, she excused herself and stepped into the tent where the reception would take place. Lots of tables, lots of liquor, beer and wine ready behind the makeshift bar. Ratchet was going to DJ, and he had a station set up at the far end. She, Mina and Ava had set up this area earlier, the little personal touches the rental company hadn’t provided: centerpieces, potted ferns for ambiance, the photos lined up on the waiting buffet tables. They caught her eye now, the old family pictures in their silver frames, and she moved across the grass floor to get to them.

  She’d set them out herself, so the images were no surprise…but for some reason, it felt like she was seeing them for the first time.

  Aidan at sixteen, with his first bike, smiling like a loon. Aidan at eighteen, a forced Christmas photo in front of the tree with Ava, him looking too cool and sullen for the holiday. Aidan at eight, standing beside an awkward-looking Ghost at the park.

  She remembered that day vividly; it unfolded in her mind, creases still sharp, colors still bright. One of their first outings as a threesome, with little skinny, curly-headed Aidan in tow. Maggie had been the one to suggest the park; they’d stopped on the way and bought a plastic whiffle bat and ball. The grass had been springy underfoot; it had smelled damp and green as Maggie slid across it, rolling over twice, laughing, before Ghost declared her out and now relegated to pitching duty.

  Maggie recalled with perfect clarity the transformation in Aidan that day, from solemn and uncertain to beaming and laughing. She’d loved Ghost already – for all his lack of charm – but that was the day she’d fallen in love with his precious little boy, the bright notes of his laughter, his bubbling excitement over the game. She’d urged father and son to stand together, so she could snap a photo. She remembered Ghost as he appeared now in the eight-by-ten in her hands: uncertain of his effect on the boy, awkward in the way he dropped a hand on Aidan’s shoulder. A man who had no idea how to be a good father. And Aidan, a child without a clue how to teach his old man the ropes of tenderness and patience.

  She didn’t realize there were tears in her eyes until she was forced to dab at them. She set the frame back on the table, pulling in a deep breath. Ava was her baby, her blood, the child she’d carried in her womb and nursed at her breast. But Ava had been strong from the first, always so sure of herself. Aidan had been the one who needed her most.

  “It doesn’t seem real, does it?” a voice said behind her, and she turned, startled, to find Sam’s mother, Helen.

  Helen was dressed in a modest champagne-colored dress with matching jacket, a pea coat over it for warmth. Mina had done her hair in a conservative, tasteful style. Her eyes looked red and watery already.

  She took a deep breath, her smile trembling, narrow shoulders lifting. “She’s been this grown up, responsible, contributing adult for so long now, but, for some reason, I woke up this morning and it didn’t seem like my little girl could possibly be old enough to get married.”

  Maggie nodded. “I know the feeling. Well – I felt it with Ava. With Aidan? He hasn’t been all that grown up, responsible, or capable of contributing for very long.” She chuckled. “Not to freak you out or anything.”

  Helen shook her head. “I’m not worried about that. Aidan loves Sam, and a man can do great things when he’s motivated by love.”

  Maggie grinned. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  ~*~

  He could smoke them, and he always made a manly show of it, but Aidan didn’t like cigars. He took a hard puff on the one in his mouth and was grateful to exhale.

  Beside him at the deck rail, Mercy seemed to be enjoying each drag, holding it for long moments. “You nervous?”

  “Nah.” Which wasn’t a total lie. “At least, not about today.”

  Mercy made a knowing sound in his throat. “The wedding’s just a party. It’s being a husband every day that’s the hard part.”

  “Yeah. Were you nervous?”

  “No.”

  Aidan rolled his eyes. “That makes me feel better.”

  “You want me to lie?” Mercy’s black brows jumped, grin teasing at one corner of his mouth. Growing more serious: “There wasn’t anything I wanted more in the world than Ava. Lots of shit makes me nervous, but not being married.”

  “You enjoy it, don’t you?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Making the rest of us look like unromantic assholes.”

  Mercy chuckled. “Yeah. I kinda do.” But he added, “I think it’s probably normal. Maybe if you’re nervous, you’re less likely to fuck everything up.” He gave Aidan a companionable bump with his shoulder – which was a bit like being bumped by a truck.

  Aidan took another drag on his cigar, grimacing. “Yeah.”

  “Speaking of fucking things up…” Mercy put his back to the rail and surveyed the sprawling deck and back of the stone house. “Where’s your best man?”

  He grimaced again. “Last I saw, he was in the kitchen.” Probably looking for Walsh’s vodka stash.

  “We’re gonna have to do something about him,” Mercy said, almost to himself.

  “I know.” Aidan ground his cigar out in the glass ashtray on the rail and headed for the door that led inside. “I’ll go see if he’s about ready.”

  “No,” Mercy said, pulling him up short. “I don’t just mean about now.” He gave Aidan a meaningful look. “He’s in bad danger of slipping away.” From the club, from his friends, his makeshift family. And slipping into nothing good, Aidan knew.

  The word suicide drifted on the air between them, but neither of them would dare speak it.

  “I know,” Aidan repeated.

  He found Tango in the industrial-sized kitchen, half-full bottle of Smirnoff in one hand, bloodshot eyes lazily tracking the movements of the caterers. Aidan waited until the two aproned women had left the room – back to the van to drag in more of something, probably – before he drew up alongside his best friend and extended a hand for the bottle.

  “Can I have some?”

  Tango regarded him a beat too long before finally passing over the vodka.

  “Thanks.” Aidan turned around and poured all of it down the sink.

  “What the fuck?!” Tango lunged for him, clawing toward the bottle, movements clumsy.

  It was no effort to hold him back. “It’s for your own good.”

  His laugh was dark and ugly. “You really wanna go there? You o
f all people?”

  Months before, that would have cut deep, and Aidan would have lashed out in response. Now it glanced off him. “Kev,” he said firmly, “we’re not talking about me.” When his friend glared at him, he gave him an even stare back. “You’re done for today.”

  “Afraid I’ll fall down in the middle of your wedding?”

  “Give a shit if you do. It’ll give us something to talk about. No.” He set the empty bottle on the counter and closed the distance between them, noting the way Tango shrank back. “I’m worried about you.”

  Emotion flashed through Tango’s eyes, further paled his face. He turned away, but Aidan caught him by the shoulder.

  “No. Come sit down.” He urged his friend to one of the stools around the island. Tango dragged his toes, but complied. “I’m gonna make you some coffee.”

  “I don’t–”

  “Shut up. I’m making coffee.”

  Tango heaved a breath and folded his arms on the counter, slumping forward, gaze unfocused. He looked even worse when he gave up fighting. Shit.

  Walsh and Emmie had one of those fancy-ass coffee makers that required NASA training to operate. After a full minute of staring at the thing, Aidan ventured into the pantry and found tea bags. Boiling water he could manage. He filled a sauce pot and put it on the stove, turned and faced Tango, who looked like he might have fallen asleep.

  He hadn’t, though. Aidan could see his eyelashes flickering.

  “You can talk about it, you know.”

  Tango’s head lifted, gaze narrowed and cautious. “Talk about what?” But he knew; his face revealed that he did.

  “You probably don’t want to unpack it all, but if it would make it easier to take if you walked through it all–”

  “No. I can’t.”

  Aidan nodded. “I get that. I do. But how are you gonna move past it?”

  Tango shrugged. “I don’t guess I’m going to.”

  The water was ready. Aidan poured some into a mug – slopping a good bit onto the counter – and added the tea bags to steep.

  “No peppermint,” he said as he set it in front of Tango. “But it’s still tea.” He offered a quick smile. “Maybe it’ll help.”

  Tango wrapped both hands around the mug and stared at its contents for a long time, as the water began to darken. Finally, he lifted his head. “You’re different, brother.” A raw voice, quaking and vulnerable.

  “I…” Aidan groped for what to say.

  “In a good way,” Tango assured. “Much better.” He twitched a small smile.

  It wasn’t an insult or even a compliment, but an observation. A deep one, coming from a place of long-held friendship.

  It filled him with a great sadness, to see Tango in this shape. Mercy was right; they were going to have to do something, and fast, or they’d lose their fragile hold on him.

  “You could be different too,” Aidan said, and meant it to be encouraging.

  Tango raised his mug to his lips. “I don’t think I have it in me.”

  ~*~

  The dress was simple, fluted, and cream, with sheer lace sleeves down to the wrist. Tasteful and elegant, and a steal too, since she’d bought it off the rack. It came with a headband adorned with seed pearls and small white roses. Sam wore it standing in front of Emmie’s floor-length mirror and didn’t recognize herself.

  In the reflection, she saw Helen move in close to stand beside her. Her mother was teary-eyed, but beaming, face radiating nothing less than maternal joy. “You look absolutely beautiful, sweetheart.”

  “I wish Dad was here,” Sam murmured, because suddenly, there was a lump in her throat and it hurt to swallow.

  “I do too.”

  Sam watched herself smile in the mirror, a sad smile. “Although, Dad would probably hate that I’m marrying a biker.”

  Helen breathed a laugh. “I don’t know if he would or not.”

  “That’s comforting,” Sam said with a snort.

  “Your father would want you to be loved, and happy, and to make your own decisions.” Her brows plucked with worry. “This is a big decision, Sam. Aidan. His child.”

  God, was it ever.

  “But I know you,” Helen said, voice firm. “And I know you love Aidan, and so I’ve never had any doubts about the kind of man he is. Because of you.”

  Because of me, Sam echoed in her thoughts. No pressure, right?

  But it didn’t feel like a burden had been laid across her. It had never been that way with Aidan.

  “I didn’t change him, Mom,” she said, quietly. “He just didn’t know what he was capable of.”

  “Oh, jeez,” Erin said, rolling her eyes as she came up on Sam’s other side. “You guys are so cheesy. Barf.”

  Sam checked her smile and glanced over at her sister. “You don’t like weddings?”

  “I don’t like cheese.” She made a comical face.

  “Well, you look really pretty in your dress.”

  She might not have appreciated the finer points of sap, but Erin couldn’t resist preening when the chance presented itself. Her expression changed to one of satisfaction as she smoothed a hand down the bodice of her red dress. “I do like it,” she admitted. “You actually picked out something that looks good.”

  “Erin,” Helen scolded.

  But when Erin’s head lifted, there were tears standing in her bright, makeup-free eyes. “I kinda can’t believe you’re really getting married.”

  “Me either,” Sam admitted.

  And then, to her shock, her little sister stepped in close and hugged her. “I’m glad,” Erin whispered. “You deserve it.”

  ~*~

  The best man was bleary-eyed, but in position, and Mercy was standing beside him in case he decided to pass out. Emmie and Holly assured him that every last detail was taken care of, and they were all set to go. The guests were being seated; Stella spotted him where he stood by the arena rail and waved at him with the fringed end of her red scarf. He waved back.

  “Sweatin’ bullets yet?” Ghost asked, materializing beside him. These days, he marched through life with a typical president’s blustering, but sometimes, the man slipped back into his original skin, that of the specter who could sneak up on anyone.

  Aidan turned to his father. They were both dressed in black button-ups with thermal underlayers, their cuts buffed with oil. Maggie had declared them “mirror images” earlier. So Aidan guessed he was staring at his future self – however exact a replica that might turn out to be.

  “Nah,” he said. “Why does everybody keep asking me that?” RJ had gone so far as to say, “I don’t pray, but I’m gonna pray for you, man.”

  “It’s just the shit people say. We gotta give you a hard time, you know that.” Ghost’s eyes tracked over him, assessing. “You are calm, aren’t you?”

  “This is the smartest thing I’ve ever done,” Aidan said. He tried to smile, but it was thin.

  Ghost studied him a long moment, then glanced up the hill toward the house, where the women had gone for one last gathering before the bride came down. “Your Sam,” he said, voice edged with faraway emotions of memory, a little nostalgic. “She’s nothing like your mother.” His gaze came to Aidan, and gave him the strong sense that his father was trying to convey something to him, non-verbally. Something urgent; something he needed Aidan to understand.

  “You know,” Aidan said, “I don’t have any actual memories of Mom.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I remember the day she left,” he said, recalling the slant of late winter sun through the windows, turning the dust motes into swarms of fireflies. “I remember she wasn’t crying.” He’d thought that strange, for some reason, her with the American Tourister luggage set all stacked up by the door as the cabbie came to fetch them. She’d been in high heels and her mother’s diamonds and she’d looked down at him with the driest, coldest eyes. “She said, ‘You’re better off with him. You’re his kind.’ That was the last thing she said to me, and we d
idn’t speak again until ten years later.” She’d shown up on the day he should have graduated high school, appalled to learn he’d dropped out.

  “But I don’t remember anything else about growing up with her,” he continued. “I almost think my mind just wiped her out.”

  “Self-preservation,” Ghost said wryly. “You’re not missing much. She was a shit mom. Always at the salon. She woulda turned you into a total pussy if she’d stuck around.”

  They shared a chuckle and matching grins.

  “Thank God for Mags,” Aidan said.

  “Thank God,” Ghost agreed.

  “Dad?” Aidan said, struck with a sudden, intense curiosity.

  “Yeah?”

  “Were you scared when you found out Ava was gonna be a girl?”

  “Shitless,” Ghost assured, nodding. “Having a girl’s different; all you see is every dangerous thing, and all you expect is pink tutus and tea parties.” He smiled. “But then you realize they’re people too, and then you realize they’re damn tougher than you are. Mama died when I was little,” he said, voice going soft, “and then Olivia was everything I’d been told to expect – shallow, vain, vicious. Mags showed me what a strong woman looks like. And then so did your sister.” He put a hand on Aidan’s shoulder and squeezed. “Sam’s strong, and smart. She’ll handle all the shit you can’t. And don’t make the mistake I did,” he added, “and treat your little girl like she doesn’t know her own mind. Save yourself five years of grief, yeah?”

  Aidan nodded. “Yeah.”

  ~*~

  There would be many moments in Aidan’s life that awed and humbled him, left him feeling small and reverent. Joyous moments, tragic ones. But as an old man, he would tell his children that the moment of total and complete sea change – the moment that laid the groundwork for all the others, for all gorgeous sights – was the moment their mother walked down the aisle toward him. In a converted riding arena, watched by the only family that mattered to him, under a cold and brilliant January sky, Samantha Walton walked arm-in-arm with her mother toward him.