The uneasy feeling set Molly’s nerves on edge, and she wrung her hands. Even Nate sensed something was wrong, shifting from foot to foot. “What did you guys want to do tonight?”
Paul and Lucy glanced at one another; Paul shrugged. “We could see White Roses.”
“Isn’t that rated R?” Nate asked.
“No, no.” Molly waved the objection aside. “It’s in a series with Righteous Among Nations.”
“Yeah, this one’s about some college students’ anti-Nazi propaganda campaign.” Paul’s uncharacteristic monotone made the intriguing description ring flat.
“And it’s really violent.” Nate folded his arms, delivering a verdict. “They both are.”
“It really happened.” Annoyance crept into Paul’s voice.
“I bet Molly wants to see The Woman from AUNTIE.” Lucy knew her too well.
Nate rolled his eyes. “That movie sounds ridiculous.”
Now it was Molly’s turn to get her hackles up. “It’s a spy spoof; that’s the point.” And this pair could use some humor.
“I was thinking,” Nate continued, “skating and this hot chocolate bar I’ve heard about.”
“Sounds romantic,” Lucy said. Paul nodded absently.
Nate stared at Paul and Lucy in the awkward silence. “Great,” he said slowly. “Let’s go.”
As they trudged out to Nate’s Lexus, Molly fell behind Nate and Paul to walk with Lucy. “Everythin’ all right?”
Lucy shrugged. “The inevitable’s catching up with us.”
She wasn’t sure what Lucy meant, but it certainly didn’t sound good. Molly wrapped her friend in a consoling side-hug. “It’ll all work out for the best, right?”
“I guess. But it hurts now.”
Molly squeezed her shoulders. She knew the feeling all too well.
The perfect beginning for a romantic evening.
Molly was the only one who spent more time on skates than off. Lucy was fine until a child ran into her, knocking her flat on her back. She spent the next half hour on the sidelines with Paul holding an icepack to the back of her skull. Both of them insisted Nate and Molly keep skating, but Nate needed a break every five minutes, and, like Paul and Lucy, he insisted she not sit out. When the rink closed for resurfacing, Molly was the first to suggest that they leave.
It was an excellent choice. Blocky dark wood furniture made the hot chocolate bar feel rustic and cozy. The aroma of cocoa with a hint of a dozen other tantalizing scents from amaretto to wintergreen filled the restaurant — and seemed to relieve the stress hanging over them.
Once they were nestled into a booth, they discussed the myriad choices for cocoa while waiting for the waitress. She arrived and took down Nate’s order of iced Chocolat de Menthe, Molly’s Heavenly Hazelnut Hot Cocoa with steamed caramel almond milk, and Lucy’s White-Hot Chocolate Raspberry.
Paul glanced up from the menu. “Is the CinnaMochaCocoa or the MochaChocoLatte-Ya-Ya better?”
“The CinnaMochaCocoa is hot chocolate and espresso with cinnamon.” She sighed as if bored — and paid no attention to the exaggerated discomfort from Nate’s corner of the booth. “The MochaChocoLatte-Ya-Ya is orange syrup, hot chocolate and espresso.”
Had Paul ever ordered coffee in front of them? Molly watched Lucy. Something behind her eyes shifted, defeated.
Paul made his decision. “I’ll have the CinnaMochaCocoa.”
Nate barely waited until the waitress left. “Really, dude?”
Molly didn’t bother hiding the sharp elbow she sent into his ribs. Paul and Lucy shot him matching glares.
“I know he’s not Mormon.” Protest rose in Nate’s voice. Molly had never seen him that upset. He turned to Paul. “Way to respect your girlfriend’s beliefs, man.”
Paul stared swords at Nate a moment longer, then turned to Lucy. “Is that a problem for you?”
“Least of our problems,” she muttered.
“Shall we make this to go?” Molly suggested.
The ride home was quiet, as if drinking their cocoa precluded conversation. Once they’d dropped Lucy and Paul off, the unease of the evening lingered. Molly would have to talk to Lucy later — without Paul or Nate around.
Should she talk to Nate about what he’d done? He’d stuck up for her best friend, but the way he did it left a bitter taste with Molly.
“What would you say if I got you a ring for your birthday?” Nate glanced at Molly. Despite the teasing tone, Molly had a feeling he was serious.
Her hot cocoa grew cold in her stomach. She held her seatbelt to take pressure off her rib cage. “Lovely gift, wasn’t it?”
Nate wasn’t falling for that. “Nice straight answer.”
She stared out the window.
“I don’t want to seem pushy about this. Really, I’m not in any hurry.”
“It’s not that I’m hesitant, Nate. It’s just —” That she was hesitant. “I have a lot I want to accomplish,” she finally finished.
“I know. I love that about you.” He reached over to pat her knee. “We can take it slow. But just think about it: do you have to be single to do all those things?”
Of course she did. Pretending to be engaged was an advantage at work, but she couldn’t possibly reach her goals if she let herself get distracted by Nearly Perfect Nate.
And the same went for Zach.
A very good thing neither of them would be within ten miles of her and Grace tomorrow.
Molly tapped her foot in front of Gail’s Gowns. She focused on the rain hitting her umbrella, the weather that almost qualified as warm in February, the shop’s window display, anything except the nerves humming in her system.
Nervous? Not really. Anxious, yes. A lot might be riding on this appointment, from Molly’s career and pride to Grace’s potential victims.
Molly mentally recited her objectives. Get a feel for Grace’s schedule. See if she’d recruited — or imported — any allies. Build a relationship of trust. She could do this.
But her parents’ warning flashed through her mind. If Grace ever found out —
She wouldn’t find out. Molly would see to it. She just had to be Molly Ryan, marrying Jason Tolliver. Not Special Agent Malone, not Garda Malone and especially not Molly Malone, ex-girlfriend of Zach Saint.
Molly spotted Grace’s car and braced herself. She needed to be Molly Ryan, but she needed to protect her heart. Good thing neither Jason Tolliver nor Zach Saint was invited today. She could stuff her real life in a box in the corner of her mind and be a blushing bride.
Maybe.
Grace hailed Molly across the car park and ran up to her, launching headlong into the day’s wedding plans while still twenty feet away. “What colors did you want for your bridesmaids?”
A safe start. Molly slid into her cover. “Haven’t totally decided — but I’d like get Bridie back for the fuchsia and lime green number I had to wear in her weddin’.”
Grace cringed. “Sounds desperate attractive, mar dhea.”
She finally reached Molly and directed her to the shop doors. To add a level of difficulty to the mission, she had to tie in dress shopping to Molly Ryan’s Irish nationalist roots. “I’m definitely wantin’ shamrock green,” Molly said.
“Then let’s do orange as well. If you can’t go to Ireland for your weddin’, you should bring Ireland to you. Now, orange flowers.” Grace rattled off orange and green flowers from the bells of Ireland to tiger lilies, two solid minutes of her personal Parade of Roses.
“You certainly know a lot about flowers.”
“I worked as a florist in Derry.” Grace took Molly’s umbrella and stuffed it into the canvas tote on her arm. “Come to think of it, I have some contacts in the area. I could get you a good deal.”
Contacts? The Venn diagram of Chicago florists and IRA terrorists couldn’t overlap much. Molly opened the shop’s glass door. “Thank you — you’re doin’ so much for us.”
“Haven’t done anythin’ yet.” Grace nodded toward an appro
aching attendant and turned back to shake off her umbrella on the doormat instead of the mauve carpeting.
“Hi,” said the shop assistant. “I’m Claire.”
Grace jumped in before Molly introduced herself. “I’m Grace and this is Molly. She’s the bride.”
Claire noted that. “Is this your mother?”
“No, friend of the family slash weddin’ planner,” Grace supplied, though Molly hadn’t agreed to that. Molly held her tongue and again said a prayer of thanks that Grace was taking the bait and ingratiating herself . . . and Grace was not actually her mother.
Grace turned to her. “Have you a budget for your dress?”
One detail they hadn’t discussed in the briefing. So much for Zach’s vast wealth of knowledge and experience and superiority.
“We’ve at least two thousand to work with, right?” Grace almost pleaded.
Molly flinched, but managed to smile and nod. “Wouldn’t be the most expensive dress I’ve bought.”
That caught both Grace’s and Claire’s curiosity.
“Solo dresses — the fancy ones in Irish dance — are expensive.” She didn’t want to admit how much her family had spent on the ones she’d worn at Worlds as a teen.
“Oh, you danced?” Grace sighed, her hands clasped over her heart. “Do you still?”
“I do.” Molly could build on that, too. “I teach for Scoil Síofra at the Irish American Heritage Center.” Where her parents accompanied the dance company. “From time to time,” she added.
Hopefully Grace would never look the school up.
Claire took over, launching into whirlwind tour of gowns, an overwhelming array of silhouettes, necklines, sleeve styles, train lengths, fabrics, colors and price choices.
Molly nodded as if she understood and cared about all that. “Seems the only option you’re missin’ is nuclear armaments.”
“Why on earth would we be needin’ somethin’ like that?” Grace’s voice jumped up an octave in a fevered tone. “That’s patently ridiculous.”
“I was only jokin’.” Molly couldn’t tell if Grace was angry or defensive, but either way, that was a misstep. She’d have to watch herself.
After a moment of awkward silence, Claire stepped in. “Have you started shopping?”
“I haven’t.” Molly had been involved in three weddings in her life — her sister’s and two friends’ — and all were high stress affairs. One shopping trip had ended with the even-tempered bride in tears. She didn’t want to bring that upon herself any sooner than she had to.
“That’s all right. Anything in particular you want?”
Grace took this opportunity to jump in. “I’d love to see you in somethin’ like this.” She hoisted a thick three-ring binder from her bag and flipped it open. The top page was a picture of Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina: white strapless dress, full skirt, black floral decorations.
“I’m no Audrey Hepburn.” Molly had a completely different body type.
“You want to be the center of attention at your weddin’, don’t you?”
Molly had already had that happen once, and it wasn’t an experience she wanted to repeat. “Bridie’s fuchsia and lime green bridesmaid dress? Strapless — and let’s just say walkin’ in the procession coined the term ‘wardrobe malfunction.’”
Claire laughed. “Okay, not strapless. Anything else?”
“White?”
“I know!” Grace thumbed to another section in her notebook.
Could she have a binder for whatever she was planning? Where might she keep it? Could Molly get into her house with time to snoop around?
“Have you anythin’ along these lines?” Grace held up the notebook for Claire at an angle to shield her next suggestion from Molly. Was that light in Claire’s eyes more eager or evil?
Molly suppressed an internal groan. She was not looking forward to the rest of this afternoon.
Claire took Molly’s dress size and led them to wait by the fitting rooms a moment.
“I’m sure a strapless dress wouldn’t be a problem again,” Grace murmured while they waited. Most likely, whatever she’d shown Claire was strapless.
“Perhaps not. I just don’t want to spend the day worryin’ about it.”
Grace clucked sympathetically. “You’ll have enough to worry about, I’m sure. Will you be gettin’ married in your parish?”
Fortunately, Molly Ryan hadn’t left the Catholic church, but Molly Malone didn’t know if the Bureau would forge church records again. Even more fortunately, Molly Malone had worked in a parish office long enough to know exactly what excuse to use. “Ah, well, the archdiocese requires counselin’, and our parish is booked out through June.”
“Might you try one of those weekend counselin’ retreats? I’d go with you.”
To a couples pre-marriage counseling retreat? “We might get married in his church. Or somewhere else.”
“Oh.” Grace was quiet for a moment, giving Molly enough time to build to a panic. Would Grace not accept that? They might be able to get a church if they needed. Definitely not St. Adelaide, but there were plenty of other parishes where she might call in a favor —
Grace brightened. “You’ll have to find an officiant, so.” She browsed through the tabs in her notebook, then opened to another section.
Molly closed her eyes to hide a wince.
Claire returned to let Molly into the fitting room. “Can I help, dearie?” Grace offered.
In the changing room? Molly gaped at her for a full second before Claire saved her. “We’re great, thanks.”
While Molly changed into the store’s foundation garments, Claire popped out to fetch a chair so she could lift the dresses over Molly. Molly reviewed her unmet objectives — figure out Grace’s calendar, search for co-conspirators, build on common ground.
“Molly?” Grace called from outside the fitting room. “I’ve the store’s color card, and clover’s the best shade of green. Would you say tangerine or pumpkin is closer to the right orange?”
Shouldn’t Molly be the one picking the green?
Didn’t matter. Molly checked the spare, narrow changing room, but there was no color card for her reference. “Hard to say from here, but if I had to guess, pumpkin?”
“All right. Should I go fetch a few bridesmaid dresses?” Grace’s retreating footsteps gave an answer before Molly could.
Claire returned to the fitting room dragging a chair. She gathered up the dress, hopped onto the chair and slipped the dress over Molly. “Hope it’s long enough.”
Claire zipped up the dress and fiddled with something in the back. She jumped down walked around Molly, brushing and making minor adjustments. She finally admitted defeat. “Too short.” She fetched a veil, hopped back on the chair and forced the comb into Molly’s curls.
Molly flinched at the slice of pain across her scalp. “Sorry,” Claire said. She jumped down and got the door. “Time for the big reveal!”
But Grace wasn’t there. Molly followed Claire to the green carpeted platform in front of a three-way mirror. A brief glimpse showed the dress was gorgeous. Before she got a full view of herself, Claire gave her a tiara, nearly as sparkly as the ones Molly had worn on the Irish dance stage. Molly worked the headpiece into her hair under the comb for the veil.
As Molly stepped onto a riser, Grace returned to deposit an armload of orange and green dresses in a nearby chair. “All right, I think we have the bridesmaid dress in here, and then we have to — oh, Molly! Look at you!”
She turned to the mirror and instinctively inhaled.
There was a bride.
A bride with revoltingly gaudy taste. No, she should probably like this. Molly Malone might’ve had her fill of everything that glittered, but the thousands of crystals flashing in the dress matched Molly Ryan’s over-the-top ring.
Her ring. Molly’s stomach clenched, and her fingers flew into a fist. Whew. Still there. Still a bit too big — ring size and stone size — but the little ball of Scotch tape he
ld for now.
Claire smiled at Molly’s frowning reflection. “The crystal silk chiffon overlay gives the gown this fluid, shimmery motion.” She plucked at the skirt to show off the fabric’s movement.
“I like that,” Grace interjected. “Do you think we should tie your colors in to your invitations — and are you puttin’ photos in with them?”
Molly’s shrug sent a ripple flowing down the dress. “I think so.”
“We need to have you register, too,” Grace said.
“Let me tell you about the dress so you can decide what you like.” Claire traced an outline of Molly’s figure in the mirror. “This dress is cut in a fit-and-flare or trumpet silhouette — it’s fitted through the bodice and hips and flares out at the knees, which shows off your figure and balances your height nicely.”
Molly scrutinized her reflection — it was too fitted if she wanted to walk in it — but Grace agreed. “That it does. Oh, have you any ideas for the centerpieces — and how many people are you invitin’?”
“We haven’t decided.” And there was an opening. “Any other family friends in the area?”
“I don’t know, you know yourself.”
Fantastic. Claire pressed on in her dress description, gesturing at each feature. “The horizontal pleats on this panel accentuate your narrow waist, and the vertical ones on the bodice and the sweetheart neckline draw the focus up.”
“Is that quite white?” Grace squinted at the dress.
“This shade is champagne magnolia. Oh, I compromised on the sleeves: sleeves and straps for extra stability.” Two centimeters of ruffled organza at Molly’s shoulder and a centimeter-wide strap hardly seemed strong enough to keep the dress up.
“Will you be wearin’ your hair up or down?”
“Hadn’t really thought about it,” Molly murmured, fighting the tension tightening her shoulders. Or was it the restrictive undergarments?
Claire arranged the veil. “With these curls, you’ll be gorgeous either way. This tiara and veil are by the same designer. Champagne pearls and enameled gold and silver flowers. The veil is silk tulle with a silk charmeuse ribbon edging.”
Saints & Suspects Page 8
