Sealed with a promise

by Mary Margret Daughtridge

“I’ve ne­ver be­en mo­re se­ri­o­us,” Em­mie ga­ve him one of her co­ol, spin­s­te­rish lo­oks. “But in a way, it is a trick-and un­less we do so­met­hing, the joke will be on Pic­kett. Gra­ce or­de­red the ca­ke from a re­gu­lar ba­kery.”

  “Too or­di­nary, huh?” The­se pe­op­le’s ga­mes in which they dis­p­la­yed the­ir we­alth and su­pe­ri­ority had stuck in his craw mo­re than on­ce. He co­uldn’t sympat­hi­ze with the­ir scrab­bling one-up­man­s­hip when they al­re­ady in­ha­bi­ted the top of the he­ap.

  “On the con­t­rary. Only the best will do.” Em­mie flic­ked her fin­gers dis­da­in­ful­ly. Her to­ne, lo­aded with sar­casm, sho­wed her re­ady com­p­re­hen­si­on, and he li­ked her bet­ter for it. “And that’s Gra­ce’s ex­cu­se. Sac­re Bleu’s ca­kes are the most be­a­uti­ful and the best tas­ting to be fo­und so­uth of the Ma­son-Di­xon li­ne. Un­for­tu­na­tely, they’re al­so ma­de with whe­at flo­ur.”

  Do- Lord cir­c­led his hand to ur­ge her to wind it up. “And that’s a prob­lem be­ca­use…”

  “Pic­kett has ce­li­ac di­se­ase, which me­ans she can’t eat an­y­t­hing with whe­at flo­ur as an in­g­re­di­ent.”

  When Do- Lord had ob­ser­ved Pic­kett pre­ten­ding to eat, but in ac­tu­ality le­aving fo­od un­to­uc­hed, he had as­su­med she avo­ided fat­te­ning fo­ods. Now he re­as­ses­sed her res­t­ra­int. “Do­es ever­yo­ne know she has this prob­lem?”

  “Oh, yes. You’re thin­king abo­ut the fo­od that’s be­en ser­ved this we­ekend, aren’t you?” Aga­in, Do-Lord was star­t­led by her re­ady com­p­re­hen­si­on of his tho­ught pro­ces­ses. He must be slip­ping if she was re­ading his fa­ce that easily. “The ro­ast tur­key,” she con­ti­nu­ed, “ser­ved on top of dres­sing and co­ve­red in gravy at the re­he­ar­sal din­ner last night was my per­so­nal fa­vo­ri­te for le­ast-edib­le fo­ods for Pic­kett. Al­t­ho­ugh I must say this mor­ning’s buf­fet runs a clo­se se­cond. The­re we­ren’t two fo­ods on the tab­le she co­uld sa­fely cho­ose. The­re’s a de­li­ci­o­us-you’ll par­don the pun-irony in fe­eding the gu­est of ho­nor fo­od she mustn’t eat, but must smi­le in gra­ti­tu­de for.”

  “So you’re sa­ying she’s not go­ing to be ab­le to eat her wed­ding ca­ke eit­her.” He shrug­ged. “No­body ever di­ed of mal­nut­ri­ti­on from not eating wed­ding ca­ke.” The things the­se pe­op­le fo­und im­por­tant ne­ver ce­ased to ama­ze him. “Big de­al. She’ll han­d­le it li­ke she al­ways do­es.”

  “You don’t un­der­s­tand.” Tur­ning away from him, Em­mie scan­ned the wall of pho­tos un­til she fo­und the one she was lo­oking for. She po­in­ted to a pic­tu­re of a bri­de and gro­om la­ug­hingly sho­ving ca­ke in­to one anot­her’s mo­uths. “See? She’ll ha­ve to eat it.”

  The tall whi­te ca­ke ser­ved at wed­ding re­cep­ti­ons to­day was, in pre­vi­o­us cen­tu­ri­es, the bri­de’s ca­ke, whe­re­as the wed­ding ca­ke was tra­di­ti­onal­ly a fru­it­ca­ke, fil­led with nuts and… When he’d re­se­ar­c­hed wed­ding cus­toms, he’d pas­sed over the ri­tu­als with the ca­ke, as­su­ming all his du­ti­es wo­uld be over by then. Now he exa­mi­ned the pho­to mo­re clo­sely.

  The ti­ered wed­ding ca­ke sto­od in the fo­reg­ro­und of the pho­tog­raph, a fros­ting fan­tasy on flu­ted pil­lars. Only the he­ad and sho­ul­ders of the bri­de and gro­om we­re vi­sib­le be­hind it, and be­hind them, la­ug­hing gu­ests gat­he­red aro­und.

  The bri­de, anot­her co­usin he pre­su­med, lo­oked a bit li­ke Pic­kett. It was all too easy to ima­gi­ne Pic­kett in her pla­ce, but in­s­te­ad of la­ug­hing as the bri­de in the pic­tu­re was do­ing, smi­ling the stra­ined smi­le he’d se­en aga­in and aga­in on Pic­kett’s fa­ce this we­ekend.

  “When Jax fe­eds Pic­kett the ca­ke she won’t re­fu­se to eat it with ever­y­body wat­c­hing,” Em­mie ex­p­la­ined. “She’ll sac­ri­fi­ce her­self rat­her than ru­in the fun for ever­yo­ne el­se. She won’t want to hurt Gra­ce’s fe­elings and ma­ke a spec­tac­le.”

  A pi­ece of “nor­mal” be­ha­vi­or that cros­sed all cul­tu­ral li­nes was eating wha­te­ver was of­fe­red. In ope­ra­ti­ons whe­re SE­ALs had li­ved with lo­cals, he’d eaten ste­wed rat-not bad-and go­at’s eyes-kind of tas­te­less re­al­ly-and chi­li so hot his as­sho­le had bur­ned for a we­ek. Do-Lord un­der­s­to­od Pic­kett’s de­si­re not to call at­ten­ti­on to her­self by re­fu­sing. In so­me pla­ces the in­sult of re­fu­sing fo­od co­uld get you kil­led. At best, re­fu­sal bran­ded you fo­re­ver as an out­si­der.

  “Wa­it a mi­nu­te. Pic­kett do­esn’t want to hurt Gra­ce’s fe­elings? Isn’t that bac­k­wards?”

  Emmie rub­bed the spot bet­we­en her brows, smo­ot­hing away the li­ne trying to form the­re. “Yes, it is, and if you talk to her abo­ut it, even she se­es it. But Pic­kett is one of the kin­dest pe­op­le I’ve ever known. She al­ways thinks of ot­hers first. She’s not go­ing to cho­ose a mo­ment li­ke that to stand up for her­self.” Em­mie smi­led sadly. “Pic­kett won’t die from one bi­te of ca­ke.”

  “What will hap­pen?”

  “Her sto­mach will hurt, but not im­me­di­ately. It won’t start for eight ho­urs or so. Then she’ll spend the next twen­ty-fo­ur ho­urs in the bat­h­ro­om. Her ho­ney­mo­on will be ru­ined.” Em­mie ra­ised her ho­nest blue eyes. Do-Lord had ne­ver be­fo­re con­si­de­red that ho­nesty might ha­ve a co­lor, but if it did, it wo­uld be the soft, sum­mery blue of Em­mie’s eyes. “But it might not be that bad,” she fi­nis­hed. “It isn’t al­ways.”

  Do- Lord be­gan to un­der­s­tand how ever­yo­ne co­uld be awa­re of Pic­kett’s prob­lem, but pre­tend it ma­de no dif­fe­ren­ce. They wo­uldn’t ha­ve to suf­fer, or even watch Pic­kett suf­fer, the con­se­qu­en­ces. “The per­pet­ra­tors will get off scot-free in ot­her words.”

  “Per­pet­ra­tor is too strong a word. I don’t think an­yo­ne me­ans to do Pic­kett harm-in fact, I’m su­re they don’t.” Em­mie co­un­te­red with a scho­larly judi­ci­o­us­ness. “Ha­ving an out­si­der’s per­s­pec­ti­ve, I can see the fa­mily blind spots. They be­li­eve a tab­les­po­on or two, or just a bi­te, won’t hurt. All the aunts, un­c­les, and co­usins ha­ve go­ne to a lot of tro­ub­le to show the­ir sup­port of Pic­kett. Gra­ce has wor­ked mi­rac­les to pull this wed­ding off in such a short ti­me. She ho­nestly be­li­eves she’s ma­king su­re ever­y­t­hing abo­ut Pic­kett’s wed­ding is per­fect.”

  “And so, you think the so­lu­ti­on is to bring in a rin­ger for the ca­ke.” Do-Lord strug­gled aga­inst a chuc­k­le that wan­ted to bre­ak lo­ose.

  “I wo­uld do an­y­t­hing for Pic­kett. I can’t chan­ge the pe­op­le, but with yo­ur help, I can chan­ge the ca­ke.” Em­mie pa­used whi­le she fre­ed her ha­ir from un­der­ne­ath the sling. “If an­y­body is go­ing to gi­ve Pic­kett at le­ast one mo­ment of unal­lo­yed, lig­h­t­he­ar­ted fun at her wed­ding, it’s go­ing to be me, and, ‘sho­uld you cho­ose to ac­cept this mis­si­on, Mr. Gra­ves,’” Em­mie in­to­ned the li­ne from the old Mis­si­on Im­pos­sib­le TV show, “you.”

  And they ac­cu­sed SE­ALs of be­ing cow­boys! Em­mie’s me­ans of de­aling with it had to be the most overly ela­bo­ra­te so­lu­ti­on he’d ever he­ard tell of.

  La­ug­hing, Do-Lord ra­ised his hands and bac­ked away. “Hey, I ad­mi­re yo­ur de­si­re to ri­de in on a whi­te hor­se and sa­ve yo­ur fri­end from em­bar­ras­sment or an up­set sto­mach, but this isn’t my prob­lem. Not yo­urs eit­her. It’s Pic­kett’s and Jax’s.” He’d bet Jax hadn’t gi­ven any mo­re tho­ught to the wed­ding ca­ke than he had. Less, if an­y­t­hing. Jax tho­ught li­ke an of­fi­cer-me­aning he ga­ve or­ders and ex­pec­ted ot­hers to ma­na­ge the de­ta­ils.

&n
bsp; “Then you won’t help me?”

  So­met­hing abo­ut the ex­p­res­si­on in her eyes, so­me lo­ok he co­uld only call lo­ne­li­ness, ma­de him gen­t­le his to­ne. “You’re trying to bu­ild a mil­li­on-dol­lar mo­uset­rap. All I ha­ve to do is tell Jax not to fe­ed Pic­kett the ca­ke. If Jax knew what was go­ing down, he wo­uldn’t ca­re what the tri­bal ri­tu­als are. He’d put a stop to it.”

  “If you do, Pic­kett will wind up em­bar­ras­sed and ten­se be­ca­use so­me­body-pro­bably a lot of so­me­bo­di­es-will ma­ke jokes abo­ut why they won’t eat the wed­ding ca­ke. And then, if she at­tempts to ex­p­la­in, they’ll be em­bar­ras­sed be­ca­use the­ir jokes cal­led at­ten­ti­on to her ‘afflic­ti­on’-”

  “‘Afflic­ti­on?’ You’ve got­ta be kid­ding.”

  “- and then Pic­kett will be mo­re em­bar­ras­sed.”

  She was right abo­ut that. Jax wo­uld put a stop to any te­asing, too-but li­kely by ca­using he­ads to roll.

  On the ot­her hand, ma­king an end-run aro­und the system that al­lo­wed the prob­lem to dis­c­re­etly di­sap­pe­ar was much mo­re a Chi­ef’s ap­pro­ach, es­pe­ci­al­ly when ever­yo­ne ne­eded to res­pect ever­yo­ne el­se in the mor­ning.

  Screw­ball as it was, Em­mie’s sche­me had a cer­ta­in qu­ixo­tic ap­pe­al-li­ke a re­ver­se prac­ti­cal joke. He’d be­en pis­sed by the co­usins’ sly de­va­lu­ing of Pic­kett, and whi­le the re­medy didn’t ad­mi­nis­ter the jus­ti­ce they de­ser­ved, he’d li­ke to know he’d put one over on them.

  “I just want Pic­kett to ha­ve the sa­me kind of fun ever­yo­ne el­se gets to ha­ve, wit­ho­ut hur­ting an­y­body’s fe­elings or put­ting an­yo­ne in the wrong.”

  To his sur­p­ri­se, Em­mie was win­ning him over. His ir­ri­ta­ti­on with her had va­nis­hed as so­on as she grab­bed his arm. May­be be­ca­use in the last few mi­nu­tes he’d be­gun to think she was in­te­res­ting. Pla­in, yes, but fe­ma­le, de­fi­ni­tely. A wed­ding ca­ke he­ist was the most en­ter­ta­in­ment he’d be­en of­fe­red this we­ekend. Go­od de­eds of this kind we­re no­to­ri­o­us for bac­k­fi­ring, tho­ugh.

  To ga­in ti­me whi­le he tho­ught it over, Do-Lord pre­ten­ded to study the wed­ding ca­ke pic­tu­re. The pho­to be­si­de it was of the sa­me co­up­le ta­ken from a slightly dif­fe­rent an­g­le. This ti­me the flash had il­lu­mi­na­ted mo­re of the bystan­ders. One smi­ling fa­ce, just past the bri­de’s sho­ul­der, ar­res­ted his at­ten­ti­on.

  His he­art be­at har­der, and the small of his back pric­k­led as swe­at pop­ped out. His co­un­t­ry-boy smi­le wi­de­ned.

  “Is that Te­ague Cal­ho­un, the se­na­tor?”

  Emmie mo­ved clo­ser to see what he was lo­oking at. “Um-hmm. He’ll be co­ming to Pic­kett’s wed­ding too. His wi­fe is a co­usin on Pic­kett’s gran­d­mot­her’s si­de, I think. Her mot­her’s mot­her,” she cla­ri­fi­ed, as if that ma­de all the dif­fe­ren­ce. She snic­ke­red, but not un­kindly. “Ever­y­body calls this Aunt Lilly Ha­le’s ‘brag­ging wall.’ She’s got a pre­si­dent up he­re so­mew­he­re.” Em­mie re­ac­hed past him to po­int out the fa­mo­us fa­ce in a gro­up of men dres­sed in hun­ting ca­mo. “I’ll bet that wed­ding pho­to, whi­le no­mi­nal­ly of Aunt Lilly Ha­le’s gran­d­da­ug­h­ter, ma­de the cut be­ca­use Un­c­le Te­ague is one of the ric­hest men in North Ca­ro­li­na, in ad­di­ti­on to be­ing a se­na­tor.”

  And she knew him. Do-Lord’s he­art ra­te kic­ked up aga­in. What we­re the odds? A plan for­med in his mind, but he had to know one de­ta­il first. “Is Te­ague Cal­ho­un re­al­ly yo­ur un­c­le, or just so­me­body el­se you call ‘uncle?’”

  “Not re­al­ly. I so­und li­ke I cla­im kin to a lot of pe­op­le I’m not re­la­ted to, don’t I?” Ro­se co­lor suf­fu­sed Em­mie’s che­ek, as if she was em­bar­ras­sed. The to­uch of co­lor em­p­ha­si­zed the blue of her eyes and cal­led at­ten­ti­on to the por­ce­la­in cla­rity of her skin. He’d se­en a lot of por­ce­la­in in the last few days, and now he un­der­s­to­od what tho­se ro­man­ce wri­ters me­ant. He didn’t think he’d ever se­en pret­ti­er skin in his li­fe. “Cal­ling him ‘uncle’ is just anot­her ha­bit I got in­to, but in this ca­se it’s be­ca­use my gran­d­mot­her was a fri­end of his. Why are you so in­te­res­ted in him?”

  Emmie cla­imed kin to a host of pe­op­le she wasn’t re­la­ted to, whe­re­as the only per­son he knew for su­re he was re­la­ted to, didn’t cla­im him at all. It was just one of the many, many dif­fe­ren­ces bet­we­en them. Do-Lord ig­no­red the re­li­ef he felt that she was no re­la­ti­on of Cal­ho­un’s.

  “Just sur­p­ri­sed, is all.” Do-Lord de­ci­ded to gi­ve her part of the truth. He was star­ting to re­ali­ze that Em­mie, un­worldly and de­tac­hed tho­ugh she might ap­pe­ar, saw a gre­at de­al. “My unit was de­ta­iled to pro­tect him one ti­me.”

  “Isn’t it stran­ge how no mat­ter whe­re you go, you se­em to me­et the sa­me pe­op­le over and over? Or at any ra­te, pe­op­le who se­em to know the sa­me pe­op­le you do? Te­ague Cal­ho­un was exe­cu­tor of my gran­d­mot­her’s es­ta­te-not that I think he did the ac­tu­al work. He has ‘pe­op­le.’ I ne­ver ex­pec­ted to see him aga­in on­ce the es­ta­te was set­tled, but it tur­ned out he’s at all Pic­kett’s fa­mily par­ti­es. The im­por­tant ones,” she ad­ded cyni­cal­ly, “whe­re all the im­por­tant pe­op­le will be se­en.”

  Kar­mic cir­c­les, she was tal­king abo­ut. Gro­ups of so­uls who re­in­car­na­te to­get­her to work out debts left over from past li­ves. Re­in­car­na­ti­on ma­de a lot of sen­se to Do-Lord, but he’d ne­ver con­si­de­red that he and Cal­ho­un might ha­ve kar­mic ti­es that wo­uld bring them to­get­her over and over un­til they le­ar­ned the­ir les­sons. Un­til the mo­ment Cal­ho­un had ap­pe­ared in Af­g­ha­nis­tan, he’d ne­ver met the man.

  Kar­ma or not, the evi­den­ce was in front of him that the un­fi­nis­hed bu­si­ness bet­we­en him and Cal­ho­un co­uldn’t be ig­no­red. It wasn’t go­ing to stay bu­ri­ed even tho­ugh he’d re­fu­sed one op­por­tu­nity to even the sco­re.

  He had to think. Do-Lord fo­ught the dis­t­rac­ti­on of her fe­mi­ni­ne scent. She sto­od just be­hind him, still stud­ying the wall of pho­tog­raphs. He won­de­red if she knew how of­ten she en­c­ro­ac­hed on his spa­ce, or what it me­ant.

  In spi­te of the fact that she ir­ri­ta­ted him, he was star­ting to li­ke her. She was ab­rupt, but he sus­pec­ted that was be­ca­use she was as go­al-dri­ven as he was, and had as lit­tle pa­ti­en­ce with me­anin­g­less chat­ter. She was as lo­yal to Pic­kett as he was to Jax. Whe­re she ga­ve her­self, she ga­ve her­self com­p­le­tely. Bri­efly, he won­de­red what it wo­uld be li­ke to te­ase her in­to full se­xu­al awa­re­ness of him, to stro­ke that he­at he sen­sed in­to fla­me.

  The tho­ught was ama­zingly hot, but he dis­mis­sed it. Whi­le so­me SE­ALs se­emed to think we­aring the Tri­dent en­tit­led them to sex an­y­ti­me they wan­ted, he didn’t use wo­men. Sex wasn’t hard to co­me by for any SE­AL. The­re was ne­ver any re­ason to ta­ke ad­van­ta­ge of a wo­man who didn’t know the sco­re. But that didn’t me­an he wo­uld turn away this op­por­tu­nity the uni­ver­se had sent him. She had the bac­k­g­ro­und he ne­eded, and the en­tr?e in­to a stra­ta of so­ci­ety he co­uldn’t to­uch-yet an­yo­ne co­uld see she wasn’t one of them.

  And right now she ne­eded him. A smart Chi­ef ma­de su­re mo­re pe­op­le owed him fa­vors than he owed fa­vors to. Do-Lord had be­en won­de­ring ever sin­ce Af­g­ha­nis­tan how he wo­uld get clo­ser to Cal­ho­un in a way that wo­uldn’t im­p­li­ca­te ot­her SE­ALs. Now he knew.

  Chapter 4

  “I’m in.” A con­s­pi­ra­to­ri­al grin tur­ne
d Ca­leb’s eyes a de­vi­lish sha­de of gol­den. “What do we ha­ve to do?”

  He was go­ing to help her. The sud­den re­li­ef from the ten­si­on of the last ho­ur left Em­mie al­most giddy.

  A lot of pe­op­le tho­ught, be­ca­use she didn’t pay at­ten­ti­on to the sa­me things ot­hers did, Em­mie wasn’t ob­ser­vant. She co­uldn’t tell the dif­fe­ren­ce bet­we­en a Mer­ce­des and a BMW, a Ro­lex and a Ti­mex, and didn’t know why an­yo­ne wo­uld was­te ti­me shop­ping when slacks co­uld be or­de­red from ca­ta­logs. The sur­fa­ce of things didn’t in­te­rest her.

  She had no­ti­ced that tho­ugh he spo­ke with a co­untry ac­cent, his En­g­lish was gram­ma­ti­cal. He em­p­lo­yed an inex­ha­us­tib­le vo­ca­bu­lary of smi­les, and des­pi­te me­ti­cu­lo­us co­ur­tesy, un­til the­se last few mi­nu­tes, he’d ba­rely to­le­ra­ted her.

  That one may smi­le, and smi­le, and be a vil­la­in. The qu­ote from Ham­let pop­ped in­to her he­ad. She didn’t think he was a vil­la­in, exactly, but she knew be­yond do­ubt he used that par­ti­cu­lar smi­le to co­ver his tho­ughts rat­her than to re­ve­al them.

  The­re was mo­re to him than met the eye. A lot mo­re. The tho­ught was a lit­tle shi­very, but in­t­ri­gu­ing. He had re­asons of his own for as­sis­ting her. So be it.

  “The ca­ke I or­de­red is wa­iting to be pic­ked up at the UPS of­fi­ce. We’ll ta­ke it to the co­untry club whi­le no one is the­re and sub­s­ti­tu­te it. Sim­p­le, re­al­ly.” “What will we do with the ot­her ca­ke?” “Pack it in the box the sub­s­ti­tu­te ca­ke ca­me in. I spent ho­urs on the In­ter­net lo­ca­ting a ba­ker who wo­uld ma­ke a glu­ten-free ca­ke iden­ti­cal to the one Gra­ce or­de­red.” And ma­xed out her Vi­sa to get the ca­ke ma­de and he­re on ti­me. “I ma­de the plan be­fo­re I hurt my arm, tho­ugh. My ca­ke will ha­ve to be as­sem­b­led.”

  “Ha­ven’t you ever he­ard of Murphy’s Law? An­y­t­hing that can go wrong-”