“We’d better get the invitations out tonight.” Max pondered the date and time. “An evening wedding, I think. A ceremony at sunset, in the grove where the new staff put up all the tables.”
“It’s almost time to start picking the grapes. The predictions are for warm weather. It will be a madhouse around here anyway, and you want to add a wedding?” Verona sat down, snapped her napkin and put it in her lap. “Why don’t we ask Annie and Leo to host at Yearning Sands Resort?”
Max followed suit, only without the snap. “Annie almost died last winter. Do you really think that’s a good idea, to put that kind of pressure on her?”
Kellen looked at Rae, shell-shocked and unhappy, and somehow, Max and Verona were too involved in planning a wedding to pay attention.
Verona pounced on another objection. “We have new inexperienced staff.”
“They don’t seem inexperienced to me. Let them prove themselves.”
While Verona and Max squabbled, Kellen pulled Rae’s bowl close. She shredded the beef and cut the carrots, potatoes and parsnips into tiny bites. She cut the burned bottom off the cheese biscuit and slid it back in front of Rae. She knelt beside her. “Doesn’t that look good?”
Rae nodded, her gaze fixed on the food.
Kellen rubbed her back. “Honey, what’s wrong?”
Rae’s eyes filled with tears. “Married? B-but Daddy is mine!”
47
In Rae’s mind, Max was her exclusive parent and Kellen had no right to take over any part of him. In a way, the child was right.
Kellen looked up.
Max and Verona were staring. Rae had their attention now.
But this was between Kellen and Rae, and Kellen tried to think of the right answer. “Your daddy is your daddy. He has no other children but you.”
Rae nodded and wiped her nose on her sleeve.
Kellen felt a little thrill; she’d taught Rae to wipe using the nearest sleeve. “I’ll be your daddy’s wife. And I’m your mother. We’re going to be a family.” Kellen rubbed Rae’s back. “I thought you wanted that.”
Rae nodded and played with her spoon. “I do. But we are!”
“A family.” Kellen relaxed and smiled. “We are, aren’t we? We’re a good family together just like we are.”
“Yeah!”
“Your daddy and I don’t really have to get married, do we?”
Max made a muffled sound of protest.
Verona thumped her head onto her palm.
Rae exploded in indignation. “Yes! Yes, you do!”
Heh. Kellen felt the slightest bit smug. “Honey, if we can be a family without a wedding, and a wedding makes you unhappy, then we won’t get married.”
“I want to wear pink!”
Just like that, Kellen had no idea what Rae was talking about. “What? Pink? You wear it all the time.”
“To the wedding. I want to be your bridesmaid, and I want to wear pink!”
Wait a minute... From some depths of forgotten girlhood, rebellion rose. “You can be my bridesmaid, but you can wear pink at your wedding. That’s your color.”
“What’s your color?” Rae demanded.
What was Kellen’s color? “Purple!”
Rae’s eyes got big and shiny. “Like ThunderFlash and LightningBug!”
“Purple?” Verona muttered. “She wants purple?”
“Can I wear a purple sash and a purple ribbon in my hair?” Rae asked.
“And carry a purple bouquet,” Kellen assured her.
“That’s almost pink,” Rae said and dug into her stew.
Kellen knelt there on the floor, feeling as if she’d been outsmarted by a seven-year-old. She looked up to see Max and Verona smirking at her. “Oh, shut up,” she muttered and sat to eat while they returned to arguing about a wedding that would take place in exactly two weeks’ time.
* * *
The old-fashioned avocado-green kitchen princess wall phone warbled uncertainly like an opera diva whose prime had passed. Verona slid out of her chair and said, “I shouldn’t answer. It’s probably another spam call,” and answered. “Hello? Who? Why? Yes, I remember you. But why? Hmm.” She took the phone away from her ear. “Rae, it’s for you. It’s Mr. Brooks.”
Max and Kellen looked in consternation at each other.
“Yay!” Rae hopped off her chair and sprinted to the phone. “Hello, Mr. Brooks! What did you figure out?”
Verona sat back down.
Max and Kellen leaned forward to eavesdrop.
“Why does that bastard Nils Brooks want to talk to my daughter?” Max whispered.
“Our daughter,” Kellen corrected.
Into the phone, Rae said, “That’s pretty close. How soon?”
Verona looked between her son and his fiancée. “He said they were negotiating.”
“Negotiating what?” Max’s voice got louder.
Verona lifted her hands and her shoulders in a massive shrug.
“It sounds pretty. She would like it there.” Rae frowned deeply. “How long can she stay?”
Pause.
“When can she come back?”
Pause.
“Why can’t she stay there forever?”
Pause.
“That’s bullshit!”
Verona turned in her chair. “Rae!” She turned back and glared at Kellen. “And you!”
Kellen wanted to protest she hadn’t taught her that. But she had taught Rae to wipe her nose on her sleeve, so she kept quiet.
“No.” Rae spoke into the phone, and her childish indignation was emphatic and massive. “She needs to be someplace high and pretty where she can see and at night when everybody’s gone she can wander around!”
Kellen looked at Max, who looked at Verona, and they all shrugged, without a clue about what was being discussed.
“You can do that,” Rae said into the phone, her voice a stern imitation of her grandmother’s. “You should do that. Let me know—but I expect you to do your best. Bye-bye.” She came back, sat down in her chair and, without a word to them, started eating again.
When Rae looked up, Kellen said, “So...what did Mr. Brooks want?”
“When we were in the helicopter, I wanted him to give me the Triple Goddess. He said he couldn’t, she’s too important and someone mean would take her from me.” Rae stuck out her lip, not pouting, but thoughtful. “So I told him about how the goddess is our talisman—” she pointed at Kellen and at herself “—and he said he would fix it so we could see her sometimes. But I want her to be able to see us, too. You know?” She went back to eating.
Kellen reflected that most of the time she didn’t know what Rae was talking about; half that time was because Rae was being a seven-year-old, and the other half was because Rae was being a genius.
“The Triple Goddess can’t see you because she’s stone. You know that, right, Rae?” Max sounded honestly anxious, like he was worried Rae was confused.
“Really, Max? That’s what’s bothering you about all this?” Kellen rolled her eyes at him, then turned back to Rae. “I understand why we want to see the Triple Goddess. And Nils Brooks is arranging to put her into a museum somewhere close?”
Rae nodded and kept eating.
“Where’s he going to put her that she can see us?”
Rae pointed up. “He says there’s a big house in Portland on top of a hill and he’ll arrange for guards and stuff. But he says she can’t stay there forever. I said that was bull—” She pulled herself to a stop and looked up guiltily.
Three pairs of adult eyes scrutinized her.
Rae shrank down in her chair and bent back to her plate. In a tiny voice, she said, “Pucky.”
“Rae!” Verona said.
“Sorry, Nonna.” Rae slid a sideways conspiratorial glance at Kellen.
Kellen p
retended not to see it.
In between bites, Rae said, “He said she has to be researched more. Then she goes to live in a museum with locks and alarms. She won’t like that. She does get to go on tour. She’ll like the tours. She likes people admiring her. I told him she wanted to stay close to Mommy and me, and she likes Mr. Zone, too. Mr. Brooks said probably the closest she’d be is in a museum in San Francisco. I told Mr. Brooks she’ll arrange something else.”
“She’ll arrange...” Max was obviously confused. “Who will?”
“The goddess.”
Max turned to Kellen. “I’m not happy that Nils Brooks is calling my daughter.”
“If I had a cell phone, you wouldn’t have to know about it.” Obviously, Rae believed she’d hit a home run.
“The best reason I ever heard not to get you a cell phone,” Max said roundly.
Rae’s smirk disappeared. “But—”
Kellen shook her head ever so slightly.
“I don’t never get to win.” Rae flounced off her chair. “Can I be excused?”
“May I?” Verona said.
“May I be excused?
“Of course,” Kellen said.
Rae ran out of the kitchen.
Verona said, “Ever since she got back from your trip, she has been cleaning her plate.”
The other two nodded.
“Tell me again,” Verona asked, “what’s a Triple Goddess?”
48
A week later, Kellen found herself crawling through the shrubbery—again. She didn’t mean to be here, among the three-foot-tall azalea bushes that had been trimmed to provide a lush leafy display on top with bare branches beneath. Last time she had crawled through the bushes outside the wine cellar, she’d almost been killed by a falling roof tile. Some might call this childish behavior, but right now, being childish seemed more sensible than dealing with table settings and groom’s cake and gown fittings.
The Di Luca family was everywhere, talking loudly about the grape harvest and giving Max unwanted wine-producing advice. He was unfailingly pleasant, but they weren’t all here yet. In fact, according to Max, the influx had barely begun.
They were arriving from Italy, from the eastern United States, from California’s wine country. They were old, young, laughing, melancholy, but all were nosy and all loud. They kissed and hugged her, spoke in Italian and English, cooked flagrantly and with extensive arguments. They overwhelmed with their exuberance.
Kellen settled, cross-legged, near the far end of the hedge. Occasionally, a pair of feet would wander past on the lawn; someone using a shortcut from the winery to the house, to the bocce ball court, to the tables that had been placed under the cherry trees.
Kellen pressed her back against the winery wall, breathed in the warm scents of bark mulch and vegetation and tried to meditate. But inner peace was elusive. She thought longingly about the door that led into the cool wine cellars, but she didn’t dare make the dash because even if she didn’t get caught before she reached the door, she was sure some of the Di Luca family would be touring. She would be expected to join the tour or, God forbid, lead the tour. That was so not Captain Kellen Adams.
Sometimes it seemed as if she was losing herself, the self she had created out of the remnants of Cecilia and memories of Cousin Kellen, in this wedding onslaught.
She heard the patter of running feet coming across the lawn and tensed.
Rae dived under the shrubs and slid close to Kellen. “Mommy, that man pinched my cheek!”
Kellen found herself instantly ready to kill. “Where?”
“In the yard!”
“No, I mean—where on your cheek?”
“Here!” Rae showed her a red mark on her face.
Kellen relaxed. “Which relative?”
“I don’t know. He had a funny accent.”
“Not Italian then.” Kellen wasn’t joking; they’d both heard so many Italian accents they thought nothing of it.
“No, a funny accent! He said he was from fah away and asked when and where I was bawn.”
“Sounds like he’s from Boston. What did he look like?”
“Like a man. Hair.” Rae ruffled her fingers over her head.
“Brown? Blond?”
“Brown. Dark brown. Brown eyes. He wanted to know my name and all about you and I told him some stuff, but he kept asking and finally I ran away.” Rae cuddled close to Kellen’s side. “Grandma said I can’t punch any of these people in the sternum. Because they’re relations.”
“No, you can’t.” Kellen hugged her. “But we can think about it with great relish.”
Bushes rustled at the far end of the row of shrubs, and to Kellen’s left, along the winery wall, Arthur Waldberg appeared, crawling toward them. He wore a white shirt, a blue tie, black linen pants and his handkerchief had been folded with precision and placed in the pocket of his gray sports coat. Sweat beaded on his shiny forehead. “Miss Adams, Miss Di Luca, I need some answers from the bride and the young maid of honor.”
Kellen moaned and thumped the back of her head against the wall—and tensed. Nothing happened, reality remained within reach, and she mentally cursed the stupid bullet for making the most innocent gesture a trial.
Arthur settled next to Rae, looked around at the well-trimmed branches around them and the dense foliage of leaves above and said, “This is quite pleasant. Rather like the tent I played in as a child. No wonder you hide here.” He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead, then carefully folded the linen into an origami fan and arranged it back in his pocket.
“Yes. To be alone,” Kellen said with emphasis.
“I know, Miss Adams, I sympathize with your desires, but we’re on a truncated wedding schedule and I must know what the bride wants.” He sounded sympathetic but ruthless.
“Why don’t you ask Mrs. Verona Di Luca what I want?” Kellen snapped. She wasn’t bitter, not really. Having Verona be so sure of each decision had made the planning onslaught easier to bear. The only matter in which they had clashed, and Kellen held firm, was—
“Mr. Federico Di Luca says he must have a decision on which wedding gown you will wear,” Arthur said.
Rae whimpered.
He transferred his attention to Rae. “He also wishes to know the real color of the little maid of honor’s gown.”
“I am not wearing any of the frothy frilly lace-ridden gowns he brought on Verona’s command.” Kellen took a deep breath and finished her pronouncement. “Rae is wearing purple. Not lavender. Not blue with a hint of lavender. Purple. Purple, purple, purple!”
“Yeah!” Rae said. “Can my dress be lace-ridden, Mommy?”
“Of course it can.” Kellen kissed her head and turned back to Arthur. “If Zio Federico can’t manage that, Rae and I will run away from home, go to Portland, find a couple of dresses at Goodwill and wear those.”
“Yeah!” Rae said again.
“As I thought.” Arthur pulled out a small leather notebook held together with a single tiny silver ballpoint pen. He opened it and scribbled a note. “Two days ago, while out of Verona’s hearing, I spoke with Mr. Federico Di Luca, explained the situation and asked that he acquire gowns more fitting to two females of, shall we say, superhero powers.” He shared a smile with Rae. “His rush order has arrived from Milan. He’s ready to do your fittings. Having viewed the gowns, I believe you’ll both find these more to your satisfaction.”
Kellen felt a marvelously warm thrill across her nerves, a thrill contrary to her declared lack of interest in this wedding. “Thank you, Arthur. I appreciate your assistance. But what will Verona say?”
“I spoke to her, Miss Adams. I believe you’ll find no further opposition to your desires in this matter.” Arthur’s phone chirped. He looked at the text, typed a few words.
Kellen heard a rustle of bushes coming fro
m beyond Arthur’s shoulder.
Arthur scooted forward. “Dan Matyasovitch has submitted a list of suggested music for the ceremony and the reception afterward.” He gestured to the right, and the musician was crawling toward her.
With his jeans and collarless button-up shirt and jacket, he looked more at home down here beneath the bushes than Arthur. But really? He was crawling and perspiring so much his sunglasses were sliding down his nose, and sweat dropped off his mustache, his goatee, and circled around his upswept eyebrows. All he needed was a cigar to look like Freud stuck in a sauna.
Kellen slapped at a beetle that crawled up her arm. “Do I have to care?”
Dan worked his way around the trunks of the azaleas to sit next to Kellen’s left knee. “You’ll find leaving the matter in the hands of your mother-in-law will result in an arcane selection of late seventies and early eighties pop rock.”
“I like pop rocks,” Rae said.
Arthur, Dan and Kellen looked at each other over the top of Rae’s head. “Do they still have those?” Arthur asked.
“Apparently.” Kellen made some decisions she didn’t know she’d even considered. She quickly listed her choices, closing with “‘At Last,’ Etta James.”
“Good. I can springboard off those for the rest of the playlist. I’ve hired a talented bass player and a guitarist and am negotiating with a trumpet player. If I can’t get him, I may try for a clarinet. The instrument gives the music a ’40s vibe, but in this case, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.” Dan Matyasovitch turned and crawled back the way he came.
“Dan is a talented actor and musician. You can trust him with this list. When he’s done, you’ll have a reception to remember.” Arthur checked his phone, pushed buttons, made his next pronouncement. “Now, about the food for the reception—”
Kellen began to feel as if she’d been ambushed. “On that, Verona can have her way.” From across the lawn, she heard the thump of footsteps running.
Pearly Perry slid under the shrubbery like a baseball player going in to third base. She was slender to a fault, short and dressed in chef’s clothes so loose they hung on her. She beamed at Rae, glanced nervously at Kellen, looked to Arthur for guidance.
What Doesn't Kill Her Page 26
