Here Comes the Groom (19 page)

“Nan's very busy in the garden today,” she said cheerfully. “Nan, this is Ross.” They'd already been introduced but he had been gone ten minutes.

Ross limped forward to shake her hand and Rosemary frowned. “You hurt your leg…you should rest it.”

“That's what I keep telling him,” said Jo.

“You should listen to Jocelyn,” Unexpectedly Nan turned and gave her a sweet smile. “You're a good girl,” she said. “A good girl, my darling.”

Caught by surprise, Jo felt tears start to her eyes. She
couldn't
cry, Nan would get upset. Helplessly she looked at Ross.

“I've always wanted to grow vegetables,” he said, drawing Rosemary's gaze. Jo had briefed him on suitable
conversational openings. “But I don't know where to start.”

Nan beamed. “Well, you've come the right person.” She sat down again. “First, you need good compost, and I don't mean that rubbish they sell at garden centers. Jocelyn, come and tell…what's your name again?… Ross? Jocelyn, come and tell Ross what I've taught you about compost.”

The Iceman poured tea and handed around lemon cakes while Jo extolled the virtues of humus and potash, seaweed and worm farms. Nan took her hand and squeezed it approvingly. I can do this, Jo thought with strengthened resolve.
We can do this.

“Of course,” she said reflectively, “Ross already has a working knowledge of manure.”

D
AN LEANED HIS ARMS
on the dash of the ancient Holden ute and hid his exhausted face against them. Through the damp Swanndri he smelled cracked vinyl and dust.

“You wanna call her, mate?” said his rescuer, Hone, an old Maori hunter who'd picked Dan up on the edge of the ranges. “Tell her you won't make it? I got a cell you can borrow.”

“Yeah…thanks.”

As Hone pulled over, Dan sat up and took another look at the time on the dashboard clock—2:05 p.m.—then dialed Jo's cell phone number. But somehow he couldn't bring himself to push Send.

Hone looked at him sympathetically. “You don't like disappointing your old lady, eh? But the only way you'll get there now is if you grow some wings and fly.”

Dan stared at him. Then he dropped the cell, grabbed the old man's face between his hands and planted a smacking kiss on his tattooed forehead.

“Jeez, mate, you're back on the market quick.”

“Can I make another call?”

“Sure.”

Dan rang directory and got the number he needed. Then, heart in his mouth, he called Frank McBride. When he hung up, Hone was already driving toward Holyoake.

Taking off his watch, Dan dropped it into his new friend's lap. “I know it's broken but it's all I've got. And it will still net a hundred at least.”

Hone tossed it back. “Nah, mate, happy to help. Besides, it's not yours to give away is it?”

“Ross won't need a watch where he's going.”

Hone gave a wheezy chuckle, but still wouldn't accept it. “Come back and hunt with me sometime.” He coaxed the shift stick into gear. “I didn't know Beacon Bay had an airfield.”

“It doesn't.” The closest lay across the bay in Totara. “Like you said, mate, I have to grow wings.” Leaning forward, Dan scanned the sky. The weather was closing in again. He wasn't home yet.

He only realized he'd sworn when Hone stepped on the gas.

 

R
OSS SNAPPED HIS CELL SHUT
and turned from the steering wheel to look at Jo. “That was Pat. Very politely asking where the hell we are.”

They'd been parked a couple of miles from the church for thirty minutes, delaying their arrival. After all, Dan
was
supposed to be with them.

Jo looked out the window at the spire in the distance, heard the bells herald four o'clock—the scheduled start of her wedding.

“What do you want to do?”

She sighed, then straightened her shoulders. “I guess it's time for an explanation.” Ross started the engine while she packed up the playing cards. “And you owe me twenty bucks,” she added.

Jo hoped that was simply because he was a bad
card player and not because he knew the dangers facing Dan.

“Consider it my fee for aiding and abetting, Swannie,” he said.

The church sat isolated on a small headland jutting into the sea, one of those picturesque early colonial buildings featured in tourism campaigns. White clapboard, steep pitched roof, arched, stained-glass windows. The gardens had been planted by early missionaries pining for home and comprised wind-twisted magnolias and camellias and a lawn of crunchy kikuyu grass salt-frosted a permanent maize-yellow.

As they pulled up, Jo saw Herman and Pat hovering on the steps. Tilly, cute and sullen in her flower girl's dress, stood behind them. Herman had the door open almost before the vehicle stopped. “I told Pat you couldn't hurry your visit,” he said, then frowned. “Where's Dan?”

Jo gave him her hand to help her out. “Why don't I tell everybody at the same time,” she suggested. Gathering her skirt, she started up the steps.

“It's my fault,” Ross confessed.

“What's your fault?” said Pat. “What's going on?”

“Dan's been delayed,” Jo said calmly. Her gaze clashed with Ross's. “But he'll
be
here.”

His jaw set. “If we haven't seen or heard from him in half an hour—”

“Okay.” Jo continued up the stairs. She wouldn't panic yet.

A low hum of conjecture followed her down the aisle but by the time she'd reached the pulpit she could have heard a pin drop. Father O'Malley said anxiously, “Is everything all right, Jocelyn?”

“It's fine.” She looked around the curious faces of her friends and community and smiled. “I want to thank you all for your patience and reassure you that the groom's on his way. I arranged to have him helicopter-dropped in the Ureweras overnight so you'll understand his delay.”

Out of the corner of her eye Jo saw Ross put a hand over his face.

Every adult in the congregation stared at her. Only the kids returned her smile. Unconcerned, Merry's one-year-old, Harry, chewed on a hymnbook.

Herman turned to Ross, bewildered. “Is this a joke?”

“No,” said Ross. “Like I said, this was my fault.”

“It was my idea,” Jo interrupted. “He'll be here.”

“So you've heard from him then?” the priest asked.

“No,” she admitted, “but I don't think he'll phone unless he can't make it.”

“But what if his cell's flat, or lost or out of range?” called Pat.

“That's impossible,” said Jo, “since we didn't give him one. However, I'm sure he's resourceful enough to borrow one.”

Another stunned silence.

Pat turned to her soon-to-be ex husband. “Aren't the Ureweras hours from here?”

Herman nodded. “I've been hunting there,” he said slowly. “It's no walk in the park.” Again he turned to Ross. “Was this some kind of stag-night trick?”

“Yes,” said Ross.

“No,” said Jo. “This was something private between Dan and me.”

“Did you two fight?” Father O'Malley asked. “Is that what this is about?”

“No, but it's a great idea as a future punishment,” she joked.

More stares. It was like being back in the paddock with those unblinking bulls. Jo managed a smile. “Anyway, feel free to talk among yourselves and stretch your legs while we're waiting.” She stepped down from the pulpit. People started talking in low voices, sending her lots of sidelong glances. Pat approached with a steely glint in her eye. Herman started questioning Ross.

Jo's cell rang in her beaded white bag. Her fingers trembled as she fumbled with the delicate catch to pick up. “Hello?”

“Don't start without me, we're nearly there,” Delwyn said breathlessly. “And, oh, Jo, I'm married! I went to Wayne and told him I wanted him, not the trappings. And he said prove it, so we went to the registry office with our license, only there was a queue and—”

“Delwyn,” Jo interrupted. “Tell me when you get here, okay? I need to keep the line free.” Flipping the cell closed, she stood. “My bridesmaid,” she told the congregation. She caught Ross checking his watch. “I still have twenty-two minutes,” she said defiantly.

But Delwyn's call had shattered her composure, left Jo feeling like she was clinging to a cliff-face by her pearly painted fingernails. She took a fortifying breath.

But she was still clinging.

 

“L
OW THICK CLOUD UP NORTH,”
pilot Frank McBride shouted over the Cessna's engine. “If visibility is as bad as I think it is…”

They'd have to land in Totara. Waiting at the flight door, Dan looked at his new borrowed watch—4:07
p.m.—then at Frank. Glancing over his shoulder, the older man grinned. “I'll circle a third time,” he yelled.

Frank had set up a tandem parachuting and skydiving operation out of his hometown, Holyoake, on his retirement from the SAS, some twenty-odd years earlier.

Now in his early sixties, the former air trooper still wore his famous handlebar moustache, and the gentle spread of middle age had given him the semblance of a benign walrus.

Parachuting was a basic skill in the SAS but those in air troop took it to the highest level, able to jump at altitudes high enough to freeze Frank's facial hair, as well as at elevations that even experienced skydivers would consider dangerously low.

Dan hailed from mobility troop, a ground force, and hadn't thrown himself out of a plane for eighteen months. Frank had stroked his moustache when he heard that, but as Dan pointed out, he wasn't looking to freefall. A simple static line would do.

What neither of them could control was the weather. The clouds parted only enough for glimpses of land, nothing to help Dan get a visual on the chosen drop zone, the school football field a kilometer from the church.

He was perfectly capable of landing on the rectory lawn but, given he and Frank were civilians now, and Frank had a commercial license to protect, they were sticking to the rules.

And the rules said a drop zone of 100 by 100 meters square, clear of trees, fences, buildings and telephone wires.

Frank's son, Tom, who was operating the flight door, tapped Dan on the shoulder. “You're cutting it fine, mate. Think you should phone her?”

Dan shook his head.

Maybe it was crazy, but he believed phoning would be breaking faith with her. Jo believed he'd make it and he believed she'd wait.

Another glance at his watch: still 4:09 p.m. But how long would she wait?

“Look!” Tom pointed over his shoulder. A break in the cloud revealed the slash of narrow football field like a green flag.

“Door!” Dan hollered. A blast of wind buffeted them as Tom acted. No time for thanks, already the cloud was closing. Hanging his feet outside the aircraft, Dan launched, stomach swooping in the brief plummet before his parachute deployed, jerking his body up and back. Legs swinging, he grasped the toggles on the end of the steering lines, using them to line up the field, then slow him down as it rushed toward him.

Two barefoot kids were kicking a rugby ball on the field as he sailed over the goal post. They stopped to stare, heads flung back, mouths gaping as he landed a few hundred yards in front of them.

As he pulled in the billowing fabric, they arrived panting. “That was so cool, mister,” one of them said.

He unclipped the harness, bundled the chute. “You two live close by?”

“Behind the school.” The taller one jerked his head at a house beyond the trees. He was about fourteen with a friendly, open face. “I'm Simon Craft and this is my brother, Billy.”

“Can you do me a favor, Simon?”

“Sure.”

“Will you take the chute and gear to your house? I'll send someone back for them soon.”

“Heck, yeah.”

Removing his helmet, Dan stripped off his jumpsuit to the tux underneath. The younger boy's eyes widened like saucers. “Are you James Bond?”

Dan looked down at his tux—crumpled and streaked with dried dirt and blood—and laughed. There had been no time to clean anything but his hands and face. And even that hadn't made much improvement. There was a graze across one cheekbone, a bruise on the bridge of his nose where the pack had hit him. And yet he felt…free. Alive and exhilarated.

“No, son, I'm a farmer and I'm late for my wedding. I'll come back and tell you about it later.” He handed the bundle to the older boy. “Take good care of it.”

Simon's skinny arms tightened around it. “I will.”

It was 4:25 p.m. Dan broke into a run.

 

A
T
4:29
P.M.
J
O'S HEART
leaped as the church door banged open, the sound echoing around the interior. A few people stood in the pews stretching their legs, most still sat, but every head turned. Delwyn burst in, wearing her midnight-blue bridesmaid dress—apparently Dan had balked at slimming black—and hauling Wayne behind her.

“Sorry…sorry I'm so late. Have you been waiting forever?” Pushing Wayne into one of the pews she flew up the aisle, her shoes clattering on the wooden floor, and holding up her ring finger to Jo. After giving her an excited hug, she glanced around puzzled. “Where's the groom?”

Disappointment crushed the last of Jo's courage. Dropping her bag, she sank down on the altar step, her gown spreading around her. “Okay,” she said to Ross. “Call for reinforcements.”

The best man opened his cell, hesitated and then snapped it close. “Or we could give him ten more minutes?”

No way could she let Ross Coltrane win this game of chicken. Jo held out her hands and let him pull her to her feet. For a moment she tightened her grip. “Thanks.”

“It's only because I don't want to be the stand-in.” They smiled at each other.

Incredulous, Pat glanced from Ross to Jo. “This has gone far enough. Dan could be lying unconscious somewhere…hurt…bleeding. I won't allow it.”

Herman put an arm around Jo's shoulder. “Ten more minutes,” he said to Pat.

“No, this is ridiculous.” Pat appealed to the congregation. “Who's on my side?”

Debate broke out, growing in volume as contrary opinions were aired. Jo nearly missed the ring of her cell phone. She dived for her bag. “Hello?”

“Why did you do it?” Dan asked.

Throat tight she turned her back on the congregation, which hushed as people realized she was on a call.

“I thought,” she croaked, started again. “I thought you needed this.” Her next words came in a rush. “Tell me you're okay. Please…you can dump me after that. I just need to know you're safe.”

“I'm okay,” he called from somewhere behind her. Spinning around, Jo saw him standing at the church entrance. She gulped as she took in his appearance.

“My suit,” Barry said faintly, from the end of one pew.

Dan shrugged. “I told you taupe wasn't my color.”

The single-breasted black jacket and trousers were rumpled and muddy, there was a rip on one knee and the shiny waistcoat and tie were stained with brown watermarks.

The white shirt had seen better days and the silk kerchief was a limp rag in the breast pocket. His hair was tangled, his jaw unshaven. A cut across the bridge of his nose was blooming into a bruise that suggested he'd have a black eye tomorrow.