by Nora Roberts
Nothing she’d imagined had come close to those moments, and here alone in the quiet she could revel in them. She could remember each one and savor it.
What happened next was anyone’s guess, but now, right this minute, she had what she’d always wanted.
She almost floated up the stairs and into her room. Full day ahead of her, she thought, but God, she wanted to chuck it all and just flop down on the bed, kick her heels at the ceiling, and wallow.
Couldn’t be done, but she could wallow in a long, long hot shower. She stripped off her damp clothes, hung them over a towel bar, pulled out the hair clip she’d dug out of her purse to handle the mess of it. Still grinning, she stepped under the hot spray.
She was basking in the steam and the scent when she caught a movement outside the glass door. It amazed her the scream she ripped out didn’t crack the glass.
“Jesus, Laurel, it’s just me.” Mac opened the door a crack. “I knocked, then I shouted, but you were too busy singing to hear me.”
“A lot of people sing in the shower. What the hell do you want?”
“Not a lot of people who are us sing ‘I’ve Got Rhythm’ in the shower.”
“I wasn’t singing that.” Was she? And now it would be stuck in her head all day. “You’re letting out the heat. Go away.”
“What’s taking you so long?” Emma demanded as she came in.
“Parker?”
“Gym,” Emma answered Mac. “But I told her what’s up.”
“For God’s sake, has it escaped the notice of you morons that I’m taking a shower?”
“Smells good,” Mac commented. “You’re clean. Get out. We’re having pancakes in honor of the anticipated sexy breakfast story.”
“I don’t have time for pancakes.”
“Mrs. G will make them.”
“We just had waffles.”
“Oh, you’re right. Omelettes. We’ll have sexy breakfast story omelettes. Ten minutes,” Emma ordered. “The men are banned from breakfast.”
“I don’t want to—”
But Mac shut the shower door. Laurel pushed dripping hair out of her eyes. She could sneak down to her own kitchen, but they’d just come in and nag her. Resigned, she got out and grabbed a towel.
When she walked into the kitchen twenty minutes later, she found Mac and Emma already there, the table set, and Mrs. Grady at the stove.
“Listen, I have a really full day, so—”
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Mac said piously.
“So speaks the Pop-Tart Princess. I really need to get started.”
“You can’t hold back.” Emma wagged a finger. “We shared ours, and Mrs. G’s already making sexy breakfast story omelettes. Right, Mrs. G?”
“I am. Might as well sit down,” she told Laurel. “They’ll nag your ears off otherwise. And since I’m told you didn’t get home until about thirty minutes ago, I’ve a mind to hear about it myself.”
As she gulped down juice, Laurel tracked her gaze from one face to another. “Do you all have some sort of radar?”
“Yes,” Parker said as she came in. “And if I’m getting called down before I’ve had my shower, this better be good.” In sweat shorts and a loose T-shirt, she went over to pour herself coffee. “I take it Del didn’t bolt the door and turn you away.”
“This is just bizarre.” Laurel took Parker’s coffee. “You know this is bizarre.”
“Traditions are traditions, even when they’re bizarre.” Cheerfully, Parker got another cup. “So, what happened?”
Laurel sat, shrugged. “I lost the bet.”
“Yay!” Emma scooted in beside her. “I lost it, too, but some things are more important than money.”
“Who won, Parker?” Mac wanted to know.
Parker sat, frowned into her coffee. “Malcolm Kavanaugh.”
“Kavanaugh?” Since it was there, Laurel took a piece of toast out of the rack. “How did he get in on it?”
“Somebody told him, and he cornered me at the ball game. I said no, bets were closed, but he’s pushy and persistent. Plus he said he’d put two hundred in as a late fee, and he’d pick July fifth.”
“You mean he nailed it on the button?” Mac demanded. “Lucky guy.”
“Yeah, lucky guy. I figured he didn’t have a chance anyway, as we were all going out, all going together. I didn’t expect Laurel to jump out of the van and make a run for it.”
“It was romantic.” Emma smiled. “All rushed and flushed and urgent. What happened when you got there?”
“He opened the door.”
“Spill,” Mac insisted and pointed a finger.
“You can’t be uncomfortable because he’s my brother. You and I have been friends nearly as long as Del’s been my brother. So it’s a wash.”
“Eat,” Mrs. Grady ordered and served the omelettes.
Laurel obediently took a bite. “I’d worked out the math.”
“What math?” Emma asked.
“About what days didn’t count in the given thirty. It’s complicated. It’s a formula, but I’d worked it out. Once he caught up with me, logistically, he agreed it made sense, but thought we should just forfeit the bet. So we did.”
“Weekends, right?” Mac shoveled in some eggs. “I thought about that. Weekends don’t count.”
“Exactly. And the first and last days don’t count. It gets more complicated, but that’s the gist. But in all fairness, since we didn’t set those terms, we went with the forfeit. Then we ...”
Bizarre or not, these four women were her women. “It was wonderful. I had this place in my head that worried I’d be nervous, that we’d be awkward. But I wasn’t, and we weren’t. He wouldn’t rush, and wouldn’t let me rush, so it was slow and sweet. He was ...”
When she trailed off, Parker sighed. “If you think I’d squirm because you’d say my brother is a good lover, a considerate one, you’re wrong. It’s not just skill, you know. It’s also a sign of respect and affection for his partner.”
“He made me feel that there was nothing else that mattered but the two of us, then and there. That’s all there was. And after, I could sleep with him, feeling absolutely safe, absolutely natural. That’s always the hardest part for me. Trusting enough, I guess, to sleep.”
Emma rubbed Laurel’s thigh under the table. “That’s a really good sexy breakfast story.”
“We had a little tangle this morning.”
“A sexy tangle?”
“That, too, One-Track Mind,” she said to Mac. “I needed to find my clothes in the dark so I could call a cab and get back. Full day. But he woke up, which led to a sexy tangle even though I had bed hair.”
“I hate that,” Emma muttered. “There should be an instant cure for bed hair.”
“Then he insisted on driving me home.”
“Of course.”
Laurel rolled her eyes at Parker. “The two of you have this unshakable code of conduct. Why should he have to get up, dressed, drive me when I can get myself home?”
“Because you were in his home, that’s number one. Second, you were in his bed. Good manners are just that, and don’t threaten your independence.”
“Brown Rule of Thumb?”
Parker smiled a little. “I guess you could call it that.”
“He did. Well, that’s going to have to hold you, because I have to get to work.”
“Don’t we all? I have half a million lilies coming in this morning to be processed. And the crew’s starting today.”
“Here, too?” Laurel asked.
“Here, too, according to Jack.” Emma glanced at her watch. “Any minute.”
“You will now live in interesting times,” Mac told her. “And noisy ones.”
“It’ll be worth it. I’m going to keep telling myself it’ll be worth it. Thanks for breakfast, Mrs. G.”
“It was a good story, so paid in full.”
“If things get too crazy in my space, can I shift some of the work in here?�
�
“You can. Emmaline and Mackensie, you called for the story. You’re on dishes. I’m going to take a walk around the garden before the hammering starts.”
Parker walked out with Laurel. “Happy’s what counts. Remember I like seeing you and Del happy when you feel weird about it again.”
“I’m working on it. Tell me if I start screwing this up, okay?”
“Absolutely.” Her phone rang. “And there we have the opening bell. I’ll see you later. Good morning, Sarah. How’s the bride today?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EMMA’S LILIES SCENTED THE AIR AND BLOOMED IN SUMMER COLORS of brilliant scarlet and buttery yellow, bright, hard-candy pink and blinding white. The bride, who’d considered a mis-scheduled manicure a disaster on the morning of July fifth, posed radiantly for Mac while Parker dealt with a groomsman’s misplaced vest and tie.
After checking to see no emergencies required her attention or assistance, Laurel carried the cake’s centerpiece—a sugar vase she’d molded from a hexagon bowl and filled with miniature lilies.
Emma’s lilies had nothing on hers, Laurel thought—in execution or time spent. She’d embossed gum paste with a rolling pin covered with textured grosgrain ribbon, then meticulously cut out each individual petal. The result, once the stems had been wired and dipped in thinned royal icing, was both charming and elegant.
In the Ballroom, she ignored the buzz and hum of setup and studied the cake. More textured petals adorned each tier—a circular dance of those strong colors. More scattered over the cake board in what she considered a pretty and organic touch.
As she lifted the topper out of the box, someone knocked over a chair with a crash. She never blinked.
That’s what Del noticed. The noise, the shouts, the movement might not have existed. He watched her center the bowl of flowers on the top tier, step back to check the positioning, then take one of her tools out of the box to run a line—no, pipe, he corrected. He knew that much. She piped a couple of perfect lines, like a base on the bowl, around it with hands steady as a surgeon’s.
She circled the table again, nodded.
“Looks great.”
“Oh.” She took a step back. “I didn’t know you were here. Or going to be here.”
“It was the only way I could figure out how to have a Saturday night date with you.”
“That’s nice.”
He brushed his thumb over her cheek.
“Do I have icing on my face?”
“No. It’s just your face. How many flowers on that?”
“About fifty.”
He glanced around at the arrangements. “It looks like you and Em matched petal for petal.”
“We worked at it. Well, so far everything’s going smooth, so I might be able to—”
“Code Red!” Emma shouted in her earbud.
“Crap. Where?”
“Great Hall. We need everybody.”
“I’m on my way. Code Red,” she told Del as she rushed for the stairs. “My own fault. I said everything was going smooth. I know better than to say that.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I don’t know yet.” She hit the second-floor landing from one wing as Parker charged in from the other.
“SMOB and MOB altercation. Mac and Carter have the bride occupied and unaware.”
Laurel whipped the clip out of her hair, shoved it in her suit jacket pocket. “I thought we had detente there.”
“Apparently that’s over. Del, good you’re here. We might need you.”
As they approached, the sound of shouting pumped out of the Great Hall. And something crashed. Then someone screamed.
“You might need the cops,” Del commented.
They burst in to see Emma, her hair tumbling from its pins, trying desperately to separate the two snarling, elegantly dressed women. The bride’s stepmother’s hair and face dripped with the champagne tossed from the flute still in the mother of the bride’s hand.
“You bitch! You’re going down!”
Shoving, flailing arms sent Emma skidding on her heels then onto her ass as the women flew at each other.
Game, and with a hot beam in her eye, Emma scrambled up as Parker and Laurel sprang forward. Grabbing the closest body, Laurel hauled while curses spewed like grapeshot.
“Cut it out! Stop it now!” Laurel dodged a fist, then blocked an elbow with her forearm. The force of the contact sang straight up to her shoulder. “I said
stop! For God’s sake, it’s your daughter’s wedding.”
“It’s
my daughter’s wedding,” the woman Parker and Emma struggled to control shouted. “
My daughter.
Mine! Not this home-wrecking bimbo bitch’s.”
“Bimbo? Bimbo? You tight-assed lunatic, it’s your last face-lift I’m going to wreck.”
Emma solved the mother of the bride problem by sitting on her while Laurel grappled with her opponent.
As Del risked his skin by stepping between the two women, Laurel spotted reinforcements coming. Jack, and oddly Malcolm Kavanaugh, rushed into the melee.
Kneeling on the floor, Parker spoke quietly and steadily to the MOB whose temper was already giving way to wild tears. Laurel put her mouth close to the stepmother’s ear. “This isn’t solving anything, and if you care about Sarah, you’ll put it away, you’ll suck it up for the day. Are you listening? If you want to fight, you’ll do it another time, another place.”
“I didn’t do
anything, and she threw champagne in my face. Look at my hair, my makeup. My
dress.”
“We’ll take care of it.” She glanced at Parker, got a nod. “Del, I need you to bring a couple glasses of champagne up to my room, then you can take—I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“I’m Bibi,” the SMOB said in something close to a wail. “It’s all ruined. Everything’s ruined.”
“No, we’ll fix it. Del, you can take Bibi’s dress down to Mrs. G. She’ll fix it up. Come on with me, Bibi. We’re going to take care of everything.”
As she steered Bibi away, Parker repeated the routine on the MOB. “Emma’s going to take you somewhere to freshen up. I’ll be there in just a few minutes.”
“Don’t tell Sarah,” the MOB sobbed. “I don’t want to upset her.”
“Of course not. Go on with Emma. Don’t want to upset her,” Parker muttered when the woman was out of earshot.
“Hell of a party so far,” Mal commented.
Parker tugged down her suit jacket, smoothed her skirt. “What are you doing here?”
“Just dropped by to collect my winnings.”
“I don’t have time for that now.” She dismissed him by turning to one of the subs. “Make sure all the glass is cleaned up, and any spilled champagne. If anything else is broken or damaged, tell one of Emma’s team so they can deal with it. Jack, track down the FOB, will you? I’ll need to speak with him in my office. Immediately.”
“Sure. Sorry it took me so long. I was outside when I got the alert.”
“I moonlighted as a bouncer in L.A.,” Mal told her. “In case you want anybody tossed.”
“Funny, and not completely out of the question. FOB, Jack, thanks. Mac,” she said into her headpiece as she hurried away.
“She sure moves.” Mal watched her zip across the room and out the door.
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Jack said. “Let’s go find the FOB.”
“Jack? What the hell is an FOB?”
IN HER ROOM LAUREL EXAMINED THE APRICOT SILK DRESS SHE’D ordered Bibi to strip off. She could hear both the shower and the sobs through the bathroom door.
A few spots, a torn seam—could’ve been worse, she decided. Mrs. G would deal with it. And according to the emergency plan for just such situations, she knew Parker would have a hair and makeup team en route very shortly.
Her mission, and she had no choice but to accept it, was to keep Bibi calm, help put her back together, listen to h
er whine, bitch, and/or complain. And to get her to promise—with a blood oath if necessary—to behave herself through the rest of the event.
Smoothing her own disordered hair, she answered the knock on the door.
“Two glasses, as ordered.” Del eased in to set them on a table, and glanced toward the bathroom. “How’s it going?”
“Well, she’s down from sobs to whimpers. Here’s the dress. It’s not too bad. Parker would’ve given Mrs. G a heads-up, so she’ll be ready for it.”
“Okay.” He reached out to straighten her left earring. “Anything else I can do?”
“You could check with Mac, just to make sure the bride’s insulated from all this. Parker would’ve come up with a reason for a slight delay.” Calculating, Laurel rubbed at the tension in the back of her neck. “We’re twenty minutes out, so I figure ten or fifteen for the delay. We’re good. She turned off the shower,” Laurel noted. “You’d better go.”
“I’m gone. By the way? Nice block,” he added, lifting his arm to demonstrate.
She gave him a laughing shove, then closed the door.Taking a deep, bracing breath, she walked over to the bathroom, knocked. “Okay in there?”
Bibi opened the door. She wore Laurel’s best robe with her hair in dark blond dripping ropes over the shoulders. Her red, puffy eyes shimmered with the threat of more tears.
“Look at me. I’m a mess.”
“This should help.”
“Is it a gun?”
“Champagne. Have a seat, take a breath. We’re having your dress fixed, and we’ll have someone in to do your hair and makeup in a few minutes.”
“Oh, thank God.” Bibi took a deep gulp of the champagne.
“Thank God, and thank you. I feel horrible. Sick. Stupid. Twelve years. I’ve been married to Sam for twelve years. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“Of course.” Soothe, Laurel thought, remembering the Vows’ directive. Soothe, stroke, smooth over.
“I didn’t wreck anybody’s home. They were separated when we met. Well, okay, not technically, not officially, but practically. She hates me because I’m younger. She’s the starter wife; I’m the trophy wife. She’s the one who throws those labels around. And twelve years, I mean, well,
shit.”
