by Meg Benjamin
The noise level in the church grew to deafening. Then Mom pushed her fascinator back into place, her lips narrowing to a very thin line, like a general preparing to lead her troops on a suicide charge. She turned to the wedding guests, clapping her hands for attention.
“All right, everybody,” she called. “There’s food at the Promise Harbor Inn. It’s all paid for. Go on and enjoy yourselves. There’s no reason everybody has to have their day ruined. I feel a headache coming on.”
She raised her head, surveying the crowd imperiously, then swiveled on her heel toward the same side door everybody else had used, throwing it open and then slamming it behind her without looking back.
As the noise level in the room rose to deafening again, Greta stared down at the bridal bouquet still clutched in her hands, wondering exactly what she was supposed to do with it. If she threw it to the crowd, would the person who caught it be the next one to have a traumatic breakup? Probably best not to find out.
She knelt and placed the bouquet in front of the altar, sort of like an offering, although she wasn’t sure who it would be an offering to. Maybe the god of chaos.
Then she straightened again, glancing at the door where her mother, brother, prospective sister-in-law and various significant others had just disappeared. She had no intention of following them. Whatever was happening outside wasn’t anything she wanted to be a part of.
And this probably wasn’t the best time to break the news to her mother about her own divorce.
Chapter Two
The room at the Promise Harbor Inn where the wedding reception was supposed to take place struck Greta as sort of downscale. It didn’t face the water, for one thing. The windows had a great view of the parking lot at the inn—nicely landscaped, to be sure, but not exactly scenic. Still, there was a lot of food, including a fantasy wedding cake with lavender spun-sugar flowers. She gave it a quick critical survey. A little overdecorated, but okay. Sort of par for the course. Wedding cakes were definitely not her specialty.
She wondered if they could get a refund on the thing since nobody was going to be cutting it. Maybe the baker could sell it to a bargain-minded couple who didn’t mind a little bad karma.
All around her she could hear the muttering of gossip moving into overdrive.
“Well, you knew about her and Gavin Montgomery, didn’t you? Went on for years, I hear. I’m just surprised he had the nerve to show up at all.”
The woman in the flowered dress looked vaguely familiar, in the same way most of the people in the room did—maybe a librarian, or somebody who worked in the post office. Right now, of course, she looked like the organizer of a lynch mob.
“Worked out for him, though, didn’t it? Must have known she wasn’t going to go through with it.”
That sounded like Mrs. Grossblatt, from the insurance agency. Not that they were alone in saying what they were saying. Phrases floated by right and left.
“…must have been seeing him all along…”
“…always thought there was something wrong…”
“…kidnapped her right from the church…”
“…boy was always a bad seed…”
“…heard the law was after him for abduction—Hayley Stone…”
“…Lily must be rolling in her grave…”
“…poor Josh…”
“…poor Sophie…”
Poor Greta. She made a quick survey of the room, hoping against hope that her mother might have decided to show up after all. No luck, of course. The only family member she saw in the place was Allie’s brother Charlie, propped in a corner with a beer and the kind of expression meant to discourage anyone from talking to him.
Greta had no intention of talking to him herself. In fact, she had every intention of sliding out the door again as soon as possible. She’d started edging in that direction when someone clutched her arm so tightly she worried about her circulation. She turned to see Mrs. Terwilliger from the grocery staring up at her with sharp black eyes, looking a little like a magpie.
“How’s your mother Sophie holding up, dear?” Greta could swear she was salivating.
You mean as opposed to my mother Tatiana? “I haven’t talked to her since the ceremony. I was heading there now.” Greta tried to pull her arm loose from Mrs. Terwilliger’s grip, but the woman hung on like an embedded barnacle.
“I’m sure she’s just devastated. And your poor brother? What an awful thing to have happen on your wedding day. He must be sick.” Mrs. Terwilliger’s fingernails dug a little deeper into Greta’s arm.
Greta managed a thin-lipped smile. “No doubt. I’m just on my way…”
“So did anyone see it coming? I mean, Josh must have known about Allie and that Gavin Montgomery, didn’t he? Did he know they were still seeing each other? They must have been, don’t you think?” Mrs. Terwilliger’s eyes snapped even brighter. She was moving from magpie to vulture.
Greta picked up her pace slightly as she headed for the door, dragging Mrs. Terwilliger along with her. “I really don’t know anything about it.”
“So did she tell him it was all over between her and Gavin? Looks like that wasn’t exactly true, was it? Unless you think he kidnapped her?”
Greta could see the open door in front of her. She turned quickly, letting the full force of the Crinoline from Hell hit Mrs. Terwilliger in the knees. Mrs. Terwilliger jumped back with a squawk, dropping her arm.
“Sorry.” Greta smiled at her sweetly. “Happy hunting. Or whatever it is you’re doing.” She turned and marched through the door, Mrs. Terwilliger’s outraged “Well, I never” echoing in her ears.
Greta figured she probably wasn’t doing much to shore up her reputation as a responsible person, but at that point her reputation was the least of her worries. She gathered up her skirt and trotted down the hall, doing her best to avoid all the people trying to get her attention. Bernice Cabot was stationed outside the door to the suite where Allie had gotten dressed, her arms folded across her more-than-ample bosom. The flounce around her shoulders could have served as a handy snack tray.
“Is Allie in there?” Greta nodded toward the suite.
Bernice shook her head. “I don’t know where they went. I just thought somebody ought to keep the vultures from getting in there.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Greta sighed. “Have you seen my mother?”
Bernice shrugged. “Maybe she went home.”
“Maybe so.”
Greta reversed course and headed for the parking lot, pausing only at the bridesmaids’ room to grab the small purse that had her cell phone, her wallet, and her car keys. Going home made a certain amount of sense, although it meant she and her mother would be fending off all the Mrs. Terwilligers in Promise Harbor who managed to drop by and share whatever juicy details they’d been able to manufacture during the last half hour. She really should go home to help. Her mother shouldn’t have to fight off the town gossips all by herself.
She climbed into her car, stuffing her skirt and crinolines around her like packing noodles. Her first order of business once she got back to her room at home would be to strip this monstrosity off and drop it in the largest trash can her mother owned. And after that, she would never, ever agree to be someone’s bridesmaid again.
Which should be easy enough, given that she would never, ever be around another wedding. If pressed, she could always claim that chiffon gave her hives. Not that the most ghastly bridesmaid’s dress in the history of mankind was made of actual chiffon. More like some fabric manufactured in the bowels of a cut-rate chemical company.
She turned the corner and pulled her car to the curb, studying the house where she’d grown up. The house that probably held a major complement of nosy neighbors at the moment. White clapboard, complete with gables and a wide front porch. It looked like her mother had gotten the shutters painted. The black lacquer shone in the sun. Probably trying to get the house fixed up for the wedding.
Greta closed her eyes, leaning forw
ard to rest her forehead against the steering wheel. The Wedding That Wasn’t. Her mother had spent so much time and energy on planning this wedding, and now it looked like she’d spent at least a fair amount of money too. All for nothing.
Her mother had sounded depressed for the year or so after Greta’s father died, and she’d been worse when her best friend, Lily, Allie’s mother, had died too. The wedding had definitely perked her up. Greta only hoped the unplanned elopement didn’t send her back down again.
She turned her head and glanced at the driveway. Her mother’s Volvo was parked next to the house, with two other cars behind it. One she didn’t recognize, but the other was Owen Ralston’s car. Allie’s dad. Great. Well, at least they’d have something to talk about. And maybe Owen could help fend off the more aggressive gossips before they made her mother say something she might actually regret. Owen would be a lot better at doing that than Greta would be. He was, after all, a very nice man, while Greta had a long history of saying the regrettable.
She rubbed a hand across the back of her neck, staring at the front door. She should go in. She really should. Even though she couldn’t think of anything she could do or say that would make her mother feel better. Even though her track record in terms of comfort or problem solving was spotty at best. Even though she would, at some point, have to drop yet another massive helping of crap in her mother’s lap when she finally got around to explaining her own marriage, meaning, of course, her own divorce.
Damn you, Ryan. This is all your fault. Greta knew saying that was illogical, but it still made her feel better. At this point she was willing to blame Ryan for just about anything short of the Great Train Robbery.
And Dorothy too, she threw in. Oh yes, most especially Dorothy too.
She leaned back in her seat again, turning the key in the ignition. Really, she wasn’t ready to go into that house with her mom and Owen and the neighbors and then give her mother another set of problems to deal with. Maybe later, like say tomorrow. She’d get around to it. She really would.
She turned the car toward the outskirts of the harbor, heading for Highway 1. Maybe an hour spent walking along the cliffs would help clear her head. And maybe when she went back, she’d have found a way to explain it all rationally to her mom.
Yeah, right, Greta. Just like you always do.
Hank Mitchell looked down at his foot, still wedged tight, still unmovable. The rocks in that part of the wall had looked sturdy enough when he’d stepped on them. By the time he’d realized how unsturdy they really were, and how ready they were to crumble under his weight, it was too late to jump back. He’d already tried pulling his foot out of his shoe, but the rocks on either side were squeezed too tightly to get it loose.
Okay, how many times over the years did you tell the interns never to go to a dig alone? Not enough times to drill it into his own thick skull, apparently. Now he stood at the base of a three-foot wall, the possible remains of a Wampanoag settlement, his foot jammed tightly in the midst of some Wampanoag rocks that had crumbled when he’d stepped in the wrong place. He didn’t have the right angle to pry the rocks apart, and he didn’t have any tools that might make it easier.
If he were a superstitious man, he’d say the Wampanoags were having their revenge on him. If so, they were doing a damned good job of it.
He checked around the dig one more time, hoping against hope that something might have changed in the three minutes since he’d last looked and that he’d find some kind of tool he could use to pry himself loose. His notebook and cell phone still sat where he’d left them next to the ladder, thoroughly out of reach, along with his trowel and his pick. He might try lying down full length to see if he could touch them, but he was guessing his knees wouldn’t exactly bend in that direction.
Surely the sisters would miss him at some point. Even if Alice didn’t, surely it would occur to Nadia that he hadn’t been around when he should have been. Surely they’d call the cops to at least check on him. Of course, he didn’t exactly have a regular schedule at Casa Dubrovnik. They might not even notice he hadn’t come home until he’d been missing for a couple of days.
He’d get very hungry in two days, not to mention thirsty. At least the five-foot depth of the excavation would keep him from getting chilled by the wind.
Unless it rained. As it had regularly for the past month.
Hank sighed. He was possibly going to die here. At the very least he was going to get hungry, thirsty and probably wet. And it was all the result of his own idiocy, which made the whole thing that much worse. Alice would probably say she’d told him so, although he was fairly certain even her wide-ranging complaints had never covered this particular situation.
He tensed. For a moment, he could have sworn he’d heard something rustling. Probably a rabbit or something in the underbrush. And he couldn’t think of any way to use a rabbit to rescue himself.
He paused, listening again. The rustling seemed more persistent than a rabbit, and it was coming closer. He ran through a quick list of large animals found in the Massachusetts woods. Bears and moose were possible, but unlikely. Coyotes were more likely but not particularly worrisome unless they decided he was easy pickings. Chances were it was some other kind of animal, though. Maybe a fox or a wild turkey.
By now he was curious enough about the source of the noise to try craning his neck so he could see above the edge of the excavation. Besides, a passing wild turkey would provide a little momentary distraction from his numb foot still wedged in the rocks.
For a moment, he thought he saw someone moving along the trail at the edge of the trees, a flash of color in the darkening underbrush. Hank blinked. The dig was clearly marked with Danger and No Trespassing signs. He’d wanted to put up a fence, but the state authorities had overruled him. Still, nobody was supposed to be back here. Unfortunately.
But if somebody was, they could at least pull him out of this hole. “Hello?” he called. “Anybody there?”
The rustling stopped for a moment, and then began again, coming closer this time. Hank strained to see beyond the top edge of the excavation. “Be careful,” he called. “There’s an excavation back here.”
What he saw next almost convinced him he was hallucinating. The woman was dressed like something out of a movie: a huge bell-shaped skirt covered with ruffles, a wide sash at the waist, a low-cut neckline that stretched across her shoulders and revealed what looked to be more-than-respectable breasts. After a moment, she knelt at the edge, peering down at him, and he saw short, brownish hair and dark eyes. “Hi,” she said.
“Hi.” He took a quick breath, hoping to god she was real and not a particularly bizarre dream. “Could you possibly come down here and give me a hand? I’m stuck.”
Her forehead furrowed slightly. “Possibly. What do you need exactly?”
“My foot’s wedged in here.” He pointed to his foot, still jammed between the two large rocks. “Maybe you could help me pull the rocks apart so I could get loose.”
She frowned, considering. “How about just taking your shoe off?”
He shook his head. “I tried that. It’s too tight. I can’t get my foot out of the shoe.”
“Oh.” She was still frowning. “Okay, just a minute.” She disappeared from the edge, and for a moment he was unreasonably afraid she’d gone. Then he saw the bell-shaped skirt at the top of the ladder. “Hang on. This may take a while,” she said cheerfully. “This skirt isn’t exactly made for climbing up and down ladders.”
“That’s okay. Take your time. Don’t hurt yourself.” He leaned back slightly against the side of the excavation. He still wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t hallucinating, but at least it was more entertaining than standing there wondering if he could amputate his own foot with his pocketknife.
He watched the huge green skirt floating slowly down the ladder. Given the half of the girl he could see from the waist up, he assumed there were legs and a rear end under there somewhere, but there was no telling from what h
e could see currently. She looked a little like one of those dolls that had only a cone underneath the costume. He’d given one of those to his niece for Christmas a couple of years ago.
Focus, Mitchell. Not the time to let your mind go wandering. Maybe he really was hallucinating after all.
The girl in the green dress reached the bottom of the ladder, lifting up her skirt to step free. She was wearing white running shoes, he noted. Good thing, too. She probably couldn’t have gotten down that ladder if she’d had to worry about her shoes along with her skirt.
She gave him a bright smile, pushing her bangs out of her eyes. “Now what?”
“My foot’s sort of wedged in here at the base of the wall. Maybe you could push the rocks on one side and I could lean over to push on the other. I don’t have enough leverage to do it all myself.” In point of fact, he didn’t have any leverage at all since he could barely reach the rocks as it was.
The girl frowned again. “Let me give it a try.” She bent down at his feet, giving him a great view of her cleavage.
Jesus, Mitchell, she’s trying to help you. Do not ogle her.
He tried to bend down too, dodging to avoid her when she raised her head suddenly.
“Look, just stay standing up, okay? There’s not really room for you to bend down here too.” She gave him a quick smile, then ducked her head again. “Am I right that you’d rather not have me do anything that would pull the wall down as we get your foot out?”
Hank closed his eyes for a moment. Two years of work gone in a jumble of stone. “That would be a big yes.”
“Okay then, just relax. I should have this done in…” She leaned over further, doing something mysterious with the rocks that involved a lot of pushing. The neckline of her dress dipped dangerously. Hank forced himself to study the clouds.
“What is this place anyway?” she asked in a muffled voice.
“It’s an ancient village. Fourteenth or fifteenth century.”
