She entered the room just in time to see Peter hurl his bottle across the room and take out one of her African violets that had been sitting on a windowsill, minding its own business. Dirt flew everywhere, but as luck would have it, most of it landed on the seat of her favorite chair.
“Dadgummit, Peter!” Vidalia shouted from her position on the sofa, where she was stretched out, a tabloid magazine in one hand, a giant glass of sweet tea in the other. “If you keep throwing that bottle around like that, I’m gonna take it away from you!”
Marietta tore her eyes away from the R-rated movie on TV long enough to weigh in on the matter. “I always said, ‘When they’re old enough to run around with the nipple clenched between their teeth, the bottle swingin’ back and forth, they’re too big for it.’”
Savannah walked over to her chair to survey the damage. The violet was a goner. No doubt about that.
Fortunately, she’d been too busy to water it for several days, so the dirt on the chair wasn’t too soggy.
For a moment she considered telling her sister to get up off her lazy hind end and clean up her kid’s mess. But then she considered how little talent Vidalia had for housework. Vi’s idea of cleaning would be wetting a handful of paper towels and grinding the dirt so deeply into the fabric that it would never come out.
As she walked into the kitchen to get a whisk broom and dustpan, Vidalia said, “Sorry about your plant, but it’s sorta your own fault that Peter’s upset.”
Savannah stopped and turned back toward her sister, who had her nose back in her paper. “Oh? Do tell.”
“He’s bummed out ’cause he didn’t get to see Mickey Mouse today.”
“Mickey ... what?”
“We’d promised the kids we’d take them to Disneyland today, once your wedding was over and done with. That’s what he’s bawlin’ about.”
As though to prove his mother’s point, Peter toddled over to Savannah and gave her shin a hearty kick with his miniature sneaker. Not being that surefooted yet, he wobbled, then fell over, and started to cry again when he hit the carpet.
Savannah reached down and picked him up. When he tried to kick at her again, babbling something like, “Mick ... ouse ... wanna go,” she gave him a kiss on the forehead.
“I’m sorry, puddin’ cat, but you’ll still get to see Mickey Mouse. Aunt Savannah promises. She also promises that if you kick her again, she’ll swat your bee-hind for you. You don’t get to kick people every time you want to.
“Obviously,” she muttered under her breath as she set him on the floor, “or your momma’d have my footprint on her backside right now.”
Savannah left the still-squalling, mouse-deprived youngster and walked into the kitchen, where she found her brother Waycross sitting at her table. He was staring, goo-goo eyed, at the pretty blonde across the table from him.
“Tammy!” she said as she crossed the room to greet her friend. “I’m so glad to see you, sugar.”
The young woman rose from the table and met her halfway. They hugged each other tightly for a long time. When they finally broke the embrace, Tammy kissed Savannah’s cheek.
“I’m glad to see you, too, Savannah,” she told her with downcast eyes and a look of sadness tinged with guilt on her lovely face.
Savannah’s heart ached to see this same expression, day after day, week after week ... for three months now. When was it going to end? When would they be like they were before? Ever?
Surely their friendship wouldn’t turn out to be something else that bastard had taken from her ... along with peaceful, nightmare-free nights.
“Can I get you something?” Tammy asked, far too eager to please. “Do you want me to make you a sandwich or get you a drink or—”
“No, honey, I just came in here to get a broom. We had a little accident in the living room. My African violet.”
“Oh, no.”
“Yep, he’s toes up, I’m afraid. In my comfy chair.”
Tammy ran to the pantry and snagged the whisk broom and dustpan before Savannah. “Let me do it. I’ve got it covered. You just sit down and rest.”
With that, she hurried from the room.
Savannah sighed as she walked to the refrigerator and poured herself a glass of lemonade.
It seemed that since the shooting, everybody scurried around, doing things to please or help her. People were always rushing here and there to do things they thought she could no longer do for herself. And while it was endearing that they cared so much for her, it made her most uncomfortable.
She firmly believed that scrambling to do everything as quickly as possible was a waste of energy most of the time. And it was a downright sin when it was done to pacify impatient, controlling people.
She didn’t want anyone to ever lump her into the category of someone who needed others to scurry around on their behalf. And certainly not someone as precious to her as her longtime friend and assistant, Tammy Hart.
Taking her lemonade to the table, she sat across from Waycross. He had a bowl of pretzels in front of him and was sipping from an ice-frosted bottle of beer.
“Don’t let Granny catch you with that,” she said. “You’ll wind up wearing it instead of drinking it.”
He chuckled. “Believe you me, I checked to make sure she was taking her nap before I popped the top. I wouldn’t put it past her to take a switch to me.”
“Demon rum.”
“The only thing worse than rolling dice, playing cards—”
“Or chewin’ tobaccy.”
“Yep. Gran’s death in drinking, gambling, and tobacco products. And fornication. Don’t forget that one.”
“Like I could forget it? She’s been putting the evil eye on me every time I step out the door to go see Dirk now. She’s just sure that he and I are already dancing the Grizzly Bear Hump.”
Waycross’s pale blue eyes probed hers with Reid intensity. “Well,” he said, “are you?”
“How very ungentlemanly of you to ask.”
“Sorry.”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“Not that it’s any of your business. But, no, we aren’t. We haven’t. Figured if we’ve waited this long, might as well hold out and make the honeymoon night special.”
He snickered into his beer. “I’d be afraid to roll the dice like that. Aren’t you worried that maybe you’ll wait and find out you don’t like him? You know ... what he does ... and stuff.”
Unbidden, Savannah’s mind replayed some of Dirk’s kisses, a few stolen caresses. No, she wasn’t worried at all.
“What I’m worried about is having this conversation with my little brother. Change the subject and get that beer drunk before Granny comes downstairs.”
Tammy reentered, carrying the broom and the dustpan filled with dirt. “Change what subject?” she asked. “Whatever you don’t want Gran to hear ... that’s what I want to hear.”
“We’re talking about Savannah’s and Dirk’s sex life,” Waycross said.
“Savannah and Dirko have a sex life? E wwww !”
“We do not!” Savannah reached across the table and slapped his arm so hard that he nearly dropped his beer. “And you better stop spreading those nasty rumors, boy, or I’ll be the one taking a switch to you.”
Tammy emptied the dustpan in the garbage can, then put it and the broom away.
She hurried to the sink and began searching in the cupboard beneath it.
“What are you looking for?” Savannah asked her.
“That fabric stain removal spray you have. I got most of the dirt off your chair, but there’s one little spot that I couldn’t ...”
She’d found the can and was already rushing back into the living room.
Savannah watched her sadly, then realized that Waycross was watching her watch Tammy.
“She feels guilty,” he said softly. “She’s trying to make it up to you. And she never will.”
“She has nothing to feel guilty about,” Savannah said, trying to con
trol the sadness that felt like a squeezing tightness in her chest and her throat. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But you’ll never convince her of that.”
“I know. Believe me, I know. And it breaks my heart.”
Waycross finished his beer and set it on the table. His fingers were tight around the bottle. “Sometimes I wish I could kill that guy all over again.”
Savannah closed her eyes, trying to blot out the image of her attacker’s face. “Yes,” she said. “I hear you. It’s a good thing for all of us that we can’t.”
Chapter 5
Most brides don’t hang out in their garages on their wedding days. Savannah was pretty sure of that. But then, most brides didn’t have a house bursting with Georgia relatives to contend with either on that glorious, most important day of their lives.
“No, really,” Dirk was saying as she cradled the cell phone between her ear and shoulder and applied mascara at the same time, “where are you?”
“I told you,” she replied, “I’m sitting in my Mustang, putting on my makeup.”
She squinted into the mirror clamped to her sun visor as she tried to de-clump her lashes.
The bright red, ’65 Mustang was her baby, her home away from home, considering the many hours she had spent inside it while on stakeouts. And today, it was her refuge.
“You want me to come over there and throw them all out of the bathroom, so that you can get ready like a proper bride?”
“Naw. One of the first things you learn as a youngun with eight siblings is, ‘Don’t hog the toilet.’”
“How’s about I come get you and bring you over here to my place? You can have the bathroom and bedroom all to yourself.”
“Believe me, that’s tempting. But there’s the ‘bad luck to see the bride on the wedding day’ business. I figure, with the luck we’ve had, we’d better not tempt fate.”
“True. So true.”
She tried to screw the mascara wand back onto the tube with one hand and dropped it into her lap.
Looking down at the Midnight Black smear on the front of her tan linen skirt, she fought back the urge to cry. “Don’t bawl, gal,” she whispered to herself. “You’ll have to redo your eyeliner, and you don’t have time for that.”
“What?” he asked. “Why are you about to cry? Are you having second thoughts about marrying an old coot like me?”
She laughed. “You aren’t old.”
There was a long pause on the other end. Then he said, “Well ... I’m waiting for you to tell me I’m not a coot either.”
“I prefer to think of you as a curmudgeon.”
“Is that better?”
“In my mind, coots and curmudgeons are both cantankerous, but curmudgeons are better-looking.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks, I guess.”
She pulled out her blush and began to add some “peaches” to her peaches and cream complexion. Lately, she hadn’t gotten enough sleep to manage natural peaches on her own.
“How does your tux fit?” she asked.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
She stopped in mid-blush. “Does that mean you haven’t tried it on yet?”
Silence on the other end.
“Did you even open the bag to make sure they didn’t give you the wrong one? For all you know, you could have a red and green checkered jacket with purple pants in there. And I have to tell you, I have my standards. I’m not marrying a guy in a plaid coat.”
She could hear him frantically rushing around, then a rustling of plastic and zipper noise.
Then a sigh of relief.
“It’s the one you told me to get. Black with a white shirt.”
She smiled, gave the phone a smack. “You’re so good.”
“Just wait till tonight.”
Savannah nearly ran headfirst into Madeline in the Hill Haven Country Club’s lobby as she barreled through, her arms filled with a mountain of wedding gown that blocked her vision.
“I see you ignored my advice,” Madeline said, eyeing the mass of satin and lace that was only half covered by the undersized plastic garment bag provided by the discount wedding apparel store.
“Don’t you even start with me, gal,” Savannah told her, shifting the weight of the gown to her other arm and nearly dropping it.
“Give me that.” Deftly, Madeline took the massive garment out of her hands and held it expertly, the hanger in one hand, supporting the train with the other. “I’m going to go hang this in your bridal suite,” she said with an authoritative tone that wasn’t to be denied. “Now, where are your other things?”
Savannah turned and looked over her shoulder at the mob that was just entering the lobby. It was a riotous mass of humanity, laughing, shouting, stumbling all over themselves and each other, struggling to be first through the door.
Her family. Ah ... you had to love ’em.
The women were all in blue dresses. Different styles, different shades—the discount store hadn’t stocked that many plus sizes of any one dress—but all blue.
Waycross and Macon wore simple, but elegant, black tuxes, as did little Jack. Even the tiny toddler, Peter, was outfitted in one.
The only calm spot in the ocean of chaos was Granny. Dressed in a simple lavender suit, her best white Sunday-go-to-meetin’ hat on her silver hair, she looked the picture of serenity and joy.
Alma was walking beside her, gently holding her arm while carrying an enormous white trash bag in the other.
“These are all yours?” Madeline asked, nodding toward the crowd with a strange combination of sarcasm and awe.
“All. Every last one of them.”
Savannah hurried over to Alma and relieved her of the trash bag. She looked inside and did a mental check. Shoe box, makeup kit, stockings, lingerie bag, and a change of clothes for tomorrow.
She was set.
“Thank you, sugar,” she said. “I wouldn’t have trusted anybody in this crew but you with this bag.”
Alma beamed, looking sweet and beautiful in her dress that was the same sapphire blue as her eyes. Unlike the other sisters, she was wearing her hair in her normal, simple to-the-shoulders bob. Everyone else had worked hard all morning, applying a cloud of spray to defy gravity and create the ultimate big-hair do.
“Granny, you’re pretty as a patch of pansies and twice as cheerful,” Savannah told her, kissing her cheek that, for once, displayed a faint smudge of rouge.
Gran smiled. “Why shouldn’t I be? My Savannah girl’s getting married today. Finally!”
“Finally is right.”
“Excuse me,” Madeline Aberson said, interjecting herself into the conversation, “but the guests are going to start arriving pretty soon, and the bride has to come with me now ... unless you want her walking down the aisle in a skirt with a big, black smear on the front of it.”
Savannah glanced down at the forgotten mascara smudge. Then at Madeline, who was wearing a smug look that made Savannah want to laugh and smack her at the same time.
She kissed Gran and Alma quickly. Waved to the rest of the invading hoard. And followed the wedding planner down a hallway. . . toward the rest of her life.
Half an hour later, Savannah was standing in a reception room at the back of the club, before a pair of French doors that led to a lush, sweeping lawn. And on that stretch of verdure were rows of white chairs filled with the people she loved most.
Tammy sat in the front row with Granny. Behind them was Dr. Jennifer Liu, the county coroner, along with other members of the police department. Sprinklings of neighbors and other friends filled out the rest of the guest list.
Up front, Savannah’s baby sister, Atlanta, was playing her guitar and singing. Savannah could hear her clear, strong voice even from so far away, and the sound touched her, filling her with pride and happiness.
But the one Savannah was watching, the only one in her heart and her mind at that moment, was the man who was standing in front of the minister, shifting nervously from one
foot to the other, fidgeting in typical Dirk fashion.
Even on his wedding day, good ol’ Dirk was still Dirk. And she wouldn’t have wanted him any other way.
Next to him stood his best man, Ryan. Lined up beside Ryan were the rest of the groomsmen—John, Waycross, and Macon.
How strange, she thought. That this man would be her best friend for so many years and then, just a subtle shift in their relationship would change everything forever.
“Oh, the power of five little bullets,” she whispered.
“What?”
Savannah turned around to see Madeline Aberson standing behind her. “Just talking to myself,” she said. “Thinking about the events that led to this day.”
“Yes, Ryan and John told me a little about your ... incident. I’m sorry.”
Savannah cleared her throat and lifted her chin. “I’m just fine now.”
“Of course you are.”
The constant pain below her breast where the bullet had torn through her body reminded Savannah that she was a liar. But she couldn’t help thinking that if she kept telling the world how fine she was, eventually she would be.
“This is your day,” Madeline said. “Don’t let that son of a bitch take this from you, too. Don’t invite him to your wedding. Don’t let him hitch a ride, even in your own head.”
Savannah allowed the woman’s words to flow through her, all the way to her heart. Even to the painful spot in her chest. She smiled and said, “You’re right. And thank you, for everything you’ve done.”
Madeline shrugged. “Nothing special.”
“Hey, I owe you ... especially for pinning Marietta’s gown in the back so that her pink paisley bra straps wouldn’t show.”
“Eh, no biggie. I always have spare safety pins. I’ve never been to a wedding yet where they didn’t come in handy.”
“And giving Macon the right socks.”
“I always carry a pair of black dress socks in my bag, too. You’d be surprised how many guys show up in a tux, wearing white crew socks.”
“I just want you to know that I appreciate it.”
Buried In Buttercream Page 6
