Dearly Depotted (5 page)

“Dying your fingers to match your hair is a little over the top, though.”

My sizzle fizzled. Damn. Nikki’s extra-gentle fingernail polish remover hadn’t worked, and there hadn’t been time to buy anything stronger. Too bad the outfit hadn’t included gloves.

As we headed west on the highway I filled Marco in on what to expect at the wedding, including my grandma-tending duties. Over the past few months Marco had become acquainted with the members of my slightly eccentric family, which made it even more amazing that he’d agreed to help out. “I really appreciate your stepping in at the last minute,” I told him.

His mouth curved up playfully. “You know what they say. Paybacks are murder.”

At the word
murder
a shiver raced up my spine. If I were superstitious I would have thought it was an omen. “Let’s not talk about murder. Tonight I intend to let my hair down and have fun. You dance, don’t you?”

“A little.”

“Good enough.” In that tux Marco could stand stone-still on the dance floor and I wouldn’t mind. As long as he put his arms around me I’d do the dancing for both of us.

 

At the Garden of Eden we were directed by Claymore’s father to an alcove on our right, where the groomsmen were cooling their heels. I introduced Marco to Bertie and Flip—both Claymore’s former fraternity brothers—and Pryce, who let me know by his expression that he wasn’t pleased I’d brought a stranger into their midst. Jillian’s younger brother, Kevin, was there, too, in his role as usher, being his usual disinterested self.

I did a final check on the garden arrangements, then distributed the boutonnieres and corsages before finally being able to join the bridesmaids for last-minute primping in the dressing room. The room had marble counters and sinks, mirrored walls, upholstered settees, and lockers for storing belongings. I put my purse in a locker, slipped the key in my bra, then took a seat with the others to wait for the star of the show to arrive.

I’d met Jillian’s sorority sisters—Onora, Ursula, and Sabina—three weeks earlier, when they’d flown in from New York for prewedding festivities. I wasn’t thrilled about having to walk up the aisle behind the five feet-nine, model-perfect beauties. Topping off at a mere five feet four inches in heels, I’d look more like the flower girl. But now that I thought about it, that was probably Jillian’s plan, since she had opted out of having a real flower girl. She didn’t want any little cherub stealing
her
show.

Glancing at their tense faces, I could see they were expecting to discover that the bride had changed her mind, sticking them with dresses they’d never wear again. So when Jillian breezed in at last—wearing her off-the-shoulder, pearl-studded designer gown and fingertip-length veil over an elaborate updo held in place with pearl-tipped bobby pins—we let out such huge sighs of relief that toilet paper rustled in the stalls. She’d made it. We were home free. Then we took a look at her face.

Ursula tossed aside the magazine she’d been reading. “I knew it. You’ve called off the wedding.”

“I didn’t call it off,” Jillian said, twisting her fingers together, as if afraid someone would rip the diamond from her hand. “But I might have to.” Her chin trembled. “Claymore is gone.”

“I’ll be damned,” Onora said with a snicker. “The
groom
got cold feet.”

“You don’t understand,” Jillian said, growing hysterical. “Claymore didn’t leave me—he’d never do that. He loves me to distraction. Claymore is
missing
! He’s not even answering his cell phone. I’m supposed to march up the aisle in two minutes. What am I going to do?”

At that the girls crowded around her for a group hug. I decided my time would be better spent tracking down the groom, so I slipped out to the reception area and found Claymore’s father pacing in front of the glass doors. Claymore’s mother was sitting on a small sofa, fanning her face with a program, and Pryce was standing outside the door talking on his cell phone. The other groomsmen just looked perturbed.

I walked over to Marco. “What’s going on?”

“Claymore was supposed to pick up his grandmother on his way here, but no one has been able to reach him or his grandmother to find out why they haven’t arrived.”

“I’m missing something here. Why would they have the
groom
pick up his grandmother? Isn’t he a bit busy?”

Marco nodded toward Pryce. “Your ex-boyfriend was supposed to do it, but a client called with an emergency, and his parents had already left to come here.”

I turned to glare at the man I’d once foolishly wanted to marry. “Pryce is a corporate lawyer. What kind of emergency could he have? A client’s check bounced too high?”

Marco began to massage the back of my neck. He knew how Pryce set my teeth on edge. “Calm down, sunshine. I’m just reporting what I heard.”

At the touch of his fingers on my nape I closed my eyes and sighed, feeling my irritation drain away. With Marco so near, I couldn’t even remember why I’d been angry.

At that moment Pryce ended his call, conferred with his father, then headed in our direction. Grudgingly, I had to admit he looked good—in a plastic, store mannequin kind of way. His light brown hair was perfectly cut, his fingernails manicured, and his shoes impeccably shined. I immediately stuck my red-tinted hands behind my back.

“Claymore will be here in a few moments,” Pryce announced to the groomsmen. “He didn’t realize he’d turned off his cell phone. It seems my grandmother left her handbag in her room at the retirement village, necessitating a trip back to get it.”

Only Pryce would call a purse a handbag. I saw him glance at Marco, whose hand was still on my neck, then at me, as if calculating the distance between us and what it signified.

“I suppose I should report back to Jillian,” I told Marco. “She’s hyperventilating in the dressing room.”

“I’ll finish your massage later,” he murmured in my ear, sending little shockwaves of excitement straight into my brain. He removed his fingers, leaving my nape to fend for itself.

“Here’s another thought for later,” I said, turning to run my palms down his lapels. “I’ll take a turn as masseuse and repay the debt I owe you.”

Marco’s gaze grew warm. “I like your thinking.”

 

“Claymore is on his way,” I announced to the frantic foursome in the restroom. The three bridesmaids gave each other high fives. Jillian clasped her fingers around the diamond studs on her earlobes and dropped to her knees in prayer.

There was a knock on the door, then my uncle called, “Jillian, a word, please?”

“What is it, Daddy?” Jillian asked, stepping into the hall. A moment later I heard her shriek, “No! They can’t be here. They didn’t RSVP. You have to make them leave before the Osbornes see them.”

“I can’t do that, Jill,” my uncle said. “I told you only to prepare you.”

A moment later Jillian barreled inside and grabbed my shoulders, her eyes wide and desperate. “My uncle Josiah and cousin Melanie are here. We have to get rid of them.”

“There you go with that
we
thing,” I said, pushing off her hands. “Be happy they’re here. You never see your mother’s side of the family.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Are you brain-dead? Picture Uncle Josiah, with his scowling face, hooked nose, and dirty farmer overalls. What if he
wore
his overalls, Abby? What if Melanie wore one of her dowdy flowered dresses? Or brought her baby? You
do
remember Melanie had a baby last year, don’t you?”

“So she’s a single mom. I still don’t see the problem.”

Jillian bent to stare me in the eye. “She had a baby with
Jack Snyder
—remember Jack? Arsonist, thief, felon—sent to prison for selling drugs?”

“All very interesting, but not relevant. Your uncle and cousin are here, Jill. Suck it up.”

“Come on, Abby, you know how particular Claymore’s parents are. Can you imagine what they’ll think of me after meeting Melanie and Uncle Josiah?”

I didn’t know Melanie and Josiah very well—they were related to Jillian on her mother’s side—but I did know that Aunt Corrine had never liked her sister Roxanne’s choice of a husband. Roxanne died from a sudden stroke eight years ago, and Josiah had grown overly protective of his only child, Melanie. Since then, there’d been little contact between the families. The Turners had been invited to the wedding as a courtesy. No one had expected them to come.

“Look at it this way, Jill. You’re poised and polished. The Osbornes will take one look at them and you’ll shine by comparison. They’ll appreciate you even more than they do now.”

Jillian blinked rapidly, digesting the information, but it didn’t take her long to see the advantages of her position. “You’re absolutely right.” She heaved a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Abs. Flunking out of law school didn’t damage those little brain cells of yours one iota.”

At ten minutes past eight o’clock that evening, with the sun low on the horizon, the groomsmen in place, the guests facing the rear, and the video cameras rolling, I marched through the arch behind the other bridesmaids to the strains of Pachelbel’s Canon, with Jillian and her father steps behind. I glanced back just to make sure the bride hadn’t bolted. Of course, it didn’t hurt that her father had her arm in a viselike grip.

Occupying the first three rows on the left was the Knight clan, with Grace and her new beau, Richard Davis, seated behind them. Richard looked very Texan in an ivory linen suit, a tan shirt, and a brown string tie, had his arm around Grace and was murmuring something in her ear that was causing her to glow. In the very last row on the left were Jillian’s cousin Melanie and uncle Josiah, who had mercifully not worn his bib overalls, but had instead donned a coal black suit that looked more suitable for a funeral. Lottie and her husband had opted to stay home and enjoy the holiday with their family.

On the right, Claymore’s parents were sitting like bookends with his grandmother pinned between. Grandma Osborne was a small woman with silver hair, a tremble in her voice, and an iron will. She’d always been the matriarch of the Osborne family and still considered herself so, despite occasional memory lapses and a physical decline that gave her a slightly shuffling gait.

Ahead, I could see the groomsmen standing on the grass with their backs to the gazebo. Marco was definitely the hunkiest man there, although the whole lineup looked like they could have stepped out of the pages of
GQ
. My gaze met Marco’s, and after that I barely noticed anything else, not even my mother’s incessant picture taking, although the little green halos from her flashbulb did make it difficult to focus. I took my place next to Sabina on the far left, then leaned back, trying to catch another glimpse of Marco. Pryce must have noticed, because he gave me a frown and stepped back to block my view.

Once the bride had been handed off by her relieved father, the service ran without a hitch until the reverend asked if anyone had a reason why the couple shouldn’t be united—a line I’d begged Jillian to leave out, but once again, when had she ever listened to me?

Grandma Osborne had a reason. “There’s insect spray on this grass,” she clamored, rising from her chair. “Claymore, you know strong smells make me vomit. Someone get me a paper bag.” She was immediately shushed by Claymore’s embarrassed parents and lowered to her seat, where she was given a piece of hard candy to settle her stomach.

Once the service resumed I decided to give the eye contact thing with Marco another try, but when I went to step back I found that my right stiletto had sunk into the damp earth. I tried to dislodge it but succeeded in freeing only my foot. In a panic, I slipped my toes inside the shoe and pulled up on it as hard as I could. It came loose with a loud
thwuck,
causing me to lurch forward, then backward, in an effort to compensate. My bouquet flew out of my hands as I windmilled my arms, then grasped the nearest object, to save myself from a fall.

The only problem with that plan was that the object turned out to be Sabina’s arm, and since she wasn’t expecting it, we both went down. I grabbed the bouquet and scrambled to my feet, whispering apologies to her, mortified beyond belief, only to discover that no one was looking at us. They were staring at something in the back row that was causing my beautiful floral arrangements to teeter.

The first thing that came to mind was that Jillian had used my fall as a diversion to make a mad dash for freedom, and some of the guests had tackled her before she could escape. But there she stood on the steps of the gazebo, next to Claymore, her palms pressed against the sides of her face, her mouth open in shock.

From the back I heard grunts, and punches being thrown, and fists hitting flesh. Then I heard a woman scream, “Stop it! You’ll kill him!”

At that moment my arrangements started to topple. I hitched up my skirt and sprinted down the aisle to rescue them, grabbing the risers just before they fell onto the two men wrestling on the ground. As I stood with an arm slung around each vase, Marco and Bertie pulled the men apart, affording me and the videographers—who were capturing the event for posterity—a view of their faces.