Mother of the Bride

by Lynn Michaels

  He was so glad to see her sitting in a Pepto-Bismol pink chair, her arms and her legs crossed, her left foot hooked around her right ankle. She glanced him a warning, I’m-still-pissed-at-you look until she saw the blue paper slippers on his feet. Then she smiled, got up and walked toward him. She’d finger-combed her kinked-up hair, washed the mud off her jaw and tried to scrub it off her sleeve. Gus could see paper towel lint caught in the white ribbed fabric.

  “You waited for me,” he said, smiling at her.

  “Of course I waited. I don’t want your pal the Sheriff to arrest me for abandoning you at the hospital.”

  “Elvin would never arrest you. He offered to arrest me, but I told him you’d let me rot in solitary before you bailed me out.”

  She didn’t deny it, just ducked her head and tucked her hands in her back pockets. “So how are you?”

  “I’ll live.” Gus leaned on the cane they’d given him in ER and wagged his right foot in its paper bootie. “Little toe’s broken and taped. They dug the rest of the pine needle out of my big toe and put Neosporin and a bandage on it.”

  He left out the jam in his big toe and the joint the ER doctor had popped. If she hadn’t heard him yowl he wasn’t going to mention it.

  “Wait here,” Cydney said, fishing her keys out of her pocket. “I’ll bring the Jeep up to the door.”

  She did and Gus managed to lever himself up into the seat with the cane. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  She gave him a thanks-for-asking smile. “Starving.”

  “Hang a right down here and we’ll drive through McDonald’s. I’d take you someplace nice, but no shoes, no service.”

  Cydney ordered a fish sandwich and a Sprite, Gus two Big Macs and a Coke. They shared a large order of fries and inhaled their sandwiches parked in the back of the lot with the engine off and a cool autumn breeze fluttering through the rolled-down windows.

  It would be Thanksgiving before he knew it and Christmas in the blink of an eye. Every year at Advent, Aunt Phoebe had invited the whole of Crooked Possum to Tall Pines for smoked turkey, oyster stuffing and mincemeat pie. Mamie Buckles always brought a pint of Jim Beam to spike the eggnog.

  Gus missed that blow-your-doors-off punch and Aunt Phoebe nagging him to put up lights and the tree and hang wreaths on the mantels. He even missed ducking the mistletoe and Elvin’s sister Louella. So much that his throat closed and he couldn’t finish his second Big Mac.

  Since Aunt Phoebe died, he and Aldo had spent Thanksgiving and Christmas eating Boston Market turkey and watching football. This year Aldo and Bebe were flying to Cannes to spend Christmas with Fletcher Parrish—his treat—and Gus would be alone.

  Cydney collected the sandwich wrappers, napkins and his blue paper booties and slid out of the Jeep. Gus watched her walk to a close-by trash can and wondered what she’d be doing on Christmas. Knowing Georgette, there’d be a big family dinner and—Wait a minute. What had Cydney told him? Herb was a nice guy, but she’d be surprised if Gus got an invitation to the wedding, surprised if Georgette married him on Christmas Eve. That was it. That lifted his spirits. He’d see Cydney at Herb and Georgette’s wedding. Maybe she’d forgive him by then.

  Why should she, Munroef his inner voice asked. You’ve never forgiven Fletcher Parrish for cutting you dead.

  Gus scowled. Cydney stuffed the trash in a can and started back to the Jeep. Parrish brushing him off was one thing, but calling him a “no-talent pretty boy” was flghtin’ words. Cydney ducked her head, caught the cuff of her sleeve in her fingers and plucked at her hair. Gus smiled. She’d done the same thing Monday night when he’d caught her talking to his picture. He made her nervous, but did he make her hot? In her kitchen Tuesday night, yeah, baby, but now? Gus doubted it, but he would do just about anything—including forgiving her father—if only she’d forgive him.

  “Look, they’re hiring.” He nodded at a banner stretched across the window when Cydney got in behind the wheel. “I’ll tell Aldo.”

  Gus smiled at her but she didn’t smile back, just started the engine and drove to the exit. “Which way?”

  “Depends on where you’re going.”

  She blinked at him. “Back to Tall Pines.”

  “Left.” When she made the turn, Gus asked, “And from there?”

  “Up to my room to write a book.” She glanced at him, chin up and eyes glinting. “Unless you want me to leave because I broke your toe.”

  “Are you going to yell at me some more?”

  “I don’t know.” She frowned, not at him but at the traffic snarled ahead of the Jeep. “I haven’t decided.”

  “Take the next right,” Gus said, and Cydney did when the Jeep crept up to the intersection. “Is this the way we came in?”

  “Nope, it’s the back way. Branson was just a berg in the sticks till Nashville moved north. Now the roads are two-lane parking lots.”

  It was also a shortcut to Tall Pines that took fifteen minutes off the almost hour trip. Gus sat sideways in his seat with his legs stretched toward the console, telling Cydney where to turn and which way. She didn’t so much as nod. Clearly she had nothing to say to him and didn’t want to be anywhere near him. Every time Gus nudged his left knee closer to the console Cydney edged closer to the door. She kept frowning, like she had a headache. Maybe she was trying to think of a worse name to call him than a sleazy, self-absorbed prick.

  It was 2:37 P.M. when the Jeep swung off the two-lane county blacktop and up the drive to Tall Pines. Cydney looked weary, her eyes smudged with dark circles in the deep shade cast by the pines.

  “I’d like you to come up to my office,” Gus said, “and watch me delete the Grand Plan to Wreck the Wedding.”

  “What difference will that make? It’ll still be in your head.”

  “Call it an act of contrition.”

  “I think the only reason you’re sorry is because I caught you.”

  “I’m sorry I hurt you. I never meant that.”

  “But you meant to hurt Bebe and Aldo.” She steered the Jeep through the first switchback and glared at him. “You meant to break them up and break their hearts.”

  “I meant to stop this mad rush to get married in a week.”

  “Then why don’t you freeze Aldo’s trust fund? That’s what you intended to do Monday night when you barged into my house.”

  “I didn’t intend anything. I simply lost my temper and jumped in the car and drove to Kansas City.”

  “With the codicil to your brother’s will in your pocket.” She shot him a gimme-a-break look. “Sounds like intent to me.”

  Gus sighed and rubbed a hand through his hair. “How can I explain this so you’ll understand?”

  “You can’t, so stop trying. You haven’t said or done one thing since I met you that wasn’t aimed at trying to stop this wedding.”

  “I just want Aldo and Bebe to wait a few months, that’s all.”

  “I’ll bet you do.” She shot him another glare midway up the second grade. “It’ll give you more time to plot and scheme to break them up.”

  “I am not trying to break them up,” Gus insisted. “If Aldo and Bebe still want to get married in six months I won’t stand in their way.”

  She stepped on the brake, slamming the Jeep to a stop that snapped Gus’ neck. He whipped his head toward her just as she flung herself at him over the console, fire in her eyes and a twitch in her clenched jaw.

  “You aren’t going to stand in their way now. If you do one more thing, one tiny little thing to screw up this wedding any worse than it already is, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what? Drop another rock on my foot? Threaten me with a croquet wicket? Come after me with a birdbath?”

  A horn blew behind them, startling Gus and Cydney around in their seats—so quickly they almost bumped heads—to look out the Jeep’s back window at Herb’s white Cadillac. Georgette and Herb waved.

  “Oh hell. They were supposed to be gone all day.” Cydney waved back, straightened behi
nd the wheel and stepped on the gas. “What’s happened now?”

  “Flat tire,” Herb explained when he parked the Cadillac beside the Jeep and he and Gus opened their doors at the same time. “Took the Auto Club three hours to find us, so we just had lunch in Branson.”

  “Too bad,” Gus said, levering himself out of the Jeep with his cane.

  “Not the end of the world,” Herb replied cheerfully as he walked around the Cadillac to open the passenger door. “Just a flat tire.”

  “We’ll try for Eureka Springs tomorrow.” Georgette rose out of the car, took a look at Gus over the dusty white roof and raised her sunglasses. “Good heavens, Angus. What have you done to yourself?”

  “Uh, well, Mother,” Cydney began, coming around the back end of the Jeep. “It’s a long story, but the upshot is—”

  “I broke my toe running for the alarm,” Gus cut in. “The power surged when it came on and set the damn thing off. Cydney was kind enough to drive me to Branson to have my foot x-rayed.”

  “Well, come inside.” Georgette gestured for him to follow her and Herb up the porch steps. “I’ll fix you an ice bag.”

  When they disappeared through the front doors, Gus turned toward Cydney. “What is it with you people and ice bags?”

  “You didn’t have to lie for me.” She leaned against the Jeep’s tailgate, glaring at him. “I’d rather tell the truth and let my mother kill me.”

  “I did trip up the foyer steps. I can’t prove it but I did. For all you or I or the radiologist know, that’s when I broke my toe. And for the last time, I don’t lie. But if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t for someone who thinks I’m a sleazy, self-absorbed prick.”

  “Do you want me to watch you delete the Grand Plan to Wreck the Wedding or not?”

  “You bet I do.”

  “Then let’s go. I’ve got a book to write.”

  Gus didn’t need the cane going up the stairs, he had the banister to hang on to, and he managed to hobble across his office to his big blue leather swivel chair. Cydney perched one hip on the corner of his desk and watched over his shoulder while he performed the keystrokes to send the Grand Plan to the recycle bin. He poised the track ball over Yes to confirm and glanced at her.

  “Care to do the honors?”

  She shook her head. “You wrote it, you delete it.”

  Gus did, then followed the file to the trash bin. “Last chance,” he taunted. “Sure you don’t want a copy to show Georgette?”

  “Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? My mother would pack Bebe out of here so fast it would make her head swim.” She crossed her arms and tilted her head at him. “I’m surprised you didn’t think of it.”

  Gus wished to hell he had. This was twice—twice—she’d seen a perfectly brilliant solution to ridding Aldo of Bebe Parrish, one that had gone right over his head. Too bad he was a sleazy, self-absorbed prick of his word and he’d sworn off sabotage. He clicked the file and Delete, sighed as the Grand Plan vanished into cyberspace, then swiveled his chair around to look at Cydney.

  “Your thought processes absolutely amaze me,” he said. “How do you think of these things?”

  “Easy.” She smiled and tapped her temple. “I’ve got what it takes.”

  chapter

  eighteen

  The sleazy, self-absorbed prick could always rewrite the Grand Plan, but since he hadn’t thought of giving it to her mother and she had, Cydney doubted that he would. What a dipstick. Sitting up there in his Ivory Tower with a bomb in his hands and too stupid to light the fuse.

  How did he ever plot his way through a book?

  If they were speaking, she’d ask him. Cydney sat in front of her laptop at the Duncan Phyfe desk in her room, chin on her fist, frowning at the cursor blinking at the end of the one and only line she’d typed more than an hour ago—”CHAPTER ONE.”

  “Great start, Cydney,” she muttered. “Chapter one of what?”

  Her mystery-in-progress was five years old and in Kansas City. She couldn’t remember where she was in the story—or her detective heroine’s name—so she’d decided to start a new book. She was determined to think one up. And she would, by golly, just as soon as she got over being mad as hell at Dipstick and hurt by his betrayal.

  “Knock off the pity party, Cydney.” She sat up straight and placed her fingers on the keypad. “Butt in the chair, fingers on the keys and—”

  “Hey, kiddo.” Herb tapped on the door. “Georgie-girl sent me to tell you dinner’s ready.”

  “Thanks, Herb.” Dipstick was the last person on earth she wanted to see. Maybe he wouldn’t show for dinner, but if she didn’t, Georgette would be the next person at her door. “I’ll be right down.”

  Cydney changed into khaki trousers and another ribbed pullover, this one forest-green, and picked her hair out as best she could. She could’ve washed and dried it twice in the time she’d spent staring at the cursor and feeling sorry for herself, but oh well. She slapped on powder foundation, a little blush and lip gloss. Just in case Dipstick did show.

  Halfway down the back stairs, she smelled pot roast. The sconces on the dining room walls and the cranberry lamps on the buffet were lit. So were the candles on the table, gleaming on the Blue Willow china—only four places set—and a small vase full of red and gold zinnias.

  “Darling.” Georgette pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen with a smile and a bowl of mashed potatoes. Herb followed with the pot roast. “Bebe phoned. She and Aldo are staying the night in Branson, so it’s just you and me and Herb and Angus.”

  Yippee skippy, said Cydney’s little voice.

  “How went the shopping, or did Bebe say?”

  “She’s sure we’ll love everything she bought.” Georgette put the bowl down and looked at Cydney across the table. “W-a-a-ay cool stuff.”

  “Uh-oh,” Herb said for both of them.

  “Evening, all,” Dipstick said, limping into the room in his stockinged feet without his cane.

  He’d been in the shower—his hair looked wet—and he wore faded jeans and a blue oxford-cloth shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Just glancing at him, Cydney felt a stab of hurt and an ache of longing so sharp it snatched her breath. She pulled her chair out and sat down, angry with herself and wishing she’d stayed in her room.

  “You’re limping along pretty good there, Gus,” Herb said.

  “The foot feels much better,” he said, sitting down on Cydney’s left.

  Right on the edge of her peripheral vision, right where she could just see him all through dinner. The harder she tried to ignore him, the more aware of him she was—the aura of warmth emanating from his body, the gleam of the candles on his fresh-shaved jaw. He seemed perfectly relaxed and totally oblivious to her, while every word he spoke and every move he made rubbed her sore feelings raw.

  When her mother got up to clear the table, Cydney pitched in, rinsing dishes and stacking them while Georgette cut a blueberry pie—something else she’d whipped up and tossed in the cooler—and topped the slices with whipped cream. Cydney made coffee and tea from the kettle simmering on a back burner and offered her mother clean forks. When Georgette reached for them, she snatched them away.

  “Pot roast is your best take-no-prisoners meal, Mother. Who are you trying to con, wheedle or browbeat?”

  “What’s the Grand Plan you and Angus were shouting about in the driveway?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Then I’ll pry it out of Angus.”

  “With a crowbar, maybe. Blueberry pie, no way.”

  “Bet me.” Georgette filched the forks from Cydney.

  “What do I win if you can’t get him to talk?”

  “Like that’ll ever happen.” Her mother rolled her eyes, slid the plates onto a tray and headed for the dining room.

  Cydney followed with the tea and the coffee. Georgette doled out pie and Cydney filled cups. When Dipstick finished, he shifted in his chair to look at her mother and crossed his right knee o
ver his left.

  “Delicious, Georgette. I couldn’t have asked for a better last meal.”

  Her mother blinked at him. “Last meal?”

  “I figure that’s what it’ll be after you hear what I have to say. I’m totally, utterly and completely opposed to this wedding taking place next Saturday. I invited you to Tall Pines intending to do everything I could to see to it that it doesn’t happen.”

  Cydney stabbed herself in the lip, dropped her fork and swept her napkin over her mouth. Her eyes teared and she tasted blood. The glint in her mother’s eyes said Dipstick would be tasting it, too, in a minute.

  “Can I say, Angus,” she said tightly, “that I’m not surprised.”

  “You can say whatever you like, Georgette. I intend to.”

  “You have more to say?”

  “I have plenty to say.” So did Cydney, just as soon as her lip stopped bleeding and the feeling came back. “I told Cydney when she came to see me at the hospital Tuesday morning that arranging the wedding around Gwen’s return from Russia is backwards. You’re all rushing around to pull this off in a week so she won’t be inconvenienced.”

  “No, that’s not why. We’re rushing around to pull this wedding off in a week because that’s what Bebe wants.”

  “If Bebe wanted to jump off a bridge, would you let her?”

  “Oh come now, Angus. That’s stretching the analogy.”

  “No, Georgette, I don’t think it is. What Bebe wants, Bebe gets, because you and Cydney give it to her. I know why you do it, because I do the same thing with Aldo. I overindulge him because I love him and he’s all the family I have left. But mostly I do it because he lost his father and mother. I try to make up for their loss, just like you and Cydney try to make up for Gwen dumping Bebe and going on with her life.”

  “Baldly put,” Georgette said, her nostrils flaring. “But accurate.”

  “I tried to voice my objections at dinner Tuesday evening, but you were all so caught up in where to have the wedding, no one heard me. That’s what gave me the idea for the Grand Plan.”