Into the Fire (33 page)

Izzy made sure the locker where he’d stashed his street clothes was secure, then followed Elmer out into the hallway.

What are you
doing
? What are you
doing
? Their feet on the gleamingly polished floor tapped out a rhythm that bounced around inside Izzy’s head, along with a hundred fragmented lyrics from a hundred different songs.

Going to the chapel…

Won’t you marry me, Bill…

Marry me and I’ll be there, be there…

I’m getting married in the morning. Ding dong the bells are gonna chime…

I’m not talking ’bout moving in…

Okay, where the fuck did
that
come from? The let’s-screw-because-it’s-1976 soft-rock masterpiece from England Dan and John Ford Coley didn’t fit with the rest of the soundtrack in his head.
There’s a cold wind blowing the stars around…
The song was doubly preposterous—astronomy-wise. No wind—no matter how cold—could actually blow stars around, although, clearly, some guys would tell a girl anything to get some. And that included pretending to be from England.

Dude was from, like, Texas. He went on to be a country singer in the 1980s and what was Izzy doing thinking about England freaking Dan Seals when he was about to walk into a room and marry a girl who, in eighteen short years, had managed to piss off her stepfather, cut herself off from her mother, alienate her older brother, survive Hurricane Katrina and the FEMA debacle, run away from home a half dozen or so times, hook up with an asshole who thought working for a drug lord was a good career choice, and get pregnant as the result of being tranked by that same evil drug lord. Oh, and maybe even have a sex video released onto the Internet.

It was quite the résumé.

Of course, Eden had also graduated from high school against all odds, managed to support herself for six months in Germany, and didn’t hold Pinkie responsible for his sperm donor’s odious sins.

And her smile…

Her smile made Izzy want to be her hero.

It was stupid. And he knew it. Which made him doubly stupid.

A girl with a history like Eden’s didn’t believe in heroes. Which was why she was still waiting for him to give her the signal that it was finally okay for them to have sex, so she could start paying him back for his kindness.

And when he dug down, way down deep inside, he knew that this marriage ceremony was his golden ticket. It was just a silly ritual—Lopez’s holy sacrament be damned. And okay, if there was a hell, he was probably going there for thinking that. But silly or holy, there was definitely a switch in Izzy’s head that was going to be flipped when he married this girl today.

He could pretend that it wouldn’t happen, that he was going to take her home to his apartment—that was his plan, to drive back to San Diego tonight—and
not
have sex with her.

But way down deep, he knew that being married was going to do it. It would make it okay. And he would rationalize that she wanted to—and who was he to deprive her of their newly wedded bliss?

Only then? She would know that she had been right—that Izzy was just like every other man she’d ever met—that beneath his kindness, that at the bottom of his generosity lay his throbbing, engorged motivation. And the trust they were slowly building between them would go back to zero. Or maybe negative twenty.

But she would dutifully climb into bed with him every night, and rock his world.

Because she felt that she had to.

Elmer Fudd opened the door to one of the rooms off the hallway with a flourish.

“Eden, look, we’ve got to—” Izzy walked in and stopped.

Eden wasn’t in there.

Fudd perceived a need for more of his faux-English-accented yapping. “This way, sir. The groom waits at the altar while the bride processes in.”

While there was a red carpet laid out down the aisle between rows of chairs, they had no guests. Zero. Not Danny, which was not unexpected. But not even Eden’s mother and little brother, which was beyond sad. “Isn’t it going to seem kind of, well, pathetic…? To process in an empty room, without—”

Fudd interrupted, taking him by the arm and leading him toward the altar. “Brides
like
to process, sir.”

“Yeah, but here’s the thing, Elmer.” Izzy took back his elbow. “I’ve kind of gotta talk to her first.”

“May I remind you, sir, that your payment was nonrefundable.”

Izzy headed back toward the hall. “Where is she?”

“We’ve already spent considerable time drawing up the prenuptial agreement,” Fudd continued, following. “And of course, there’s the rental of the gown.”

And there, indeed, was the gown—with Eden inside of it. She was coming down the hall, toward them, with someone who had to be Mrs. Fudd carrying her train.

Still, Eden was the one who stopped short. “You look amazing,” she told Izzy.

“It’s the uniform,” he said. “It makes everyone…look…” Talk about amazing. Her hair was up, pulled almost severely back, with just a few strands to soften the effect. It accentuated the perfection of Eden’s face, and made her big brown eyes seem even larger.

She smiled at him almost shyly. “I wore makeup,” she said. “Since you said…”

“You look beautiful,” Izzy told her.

The dress itself somehow managed to draw attention away from her pregnant belly. Somehow? It was all thanks to the plunging neckline, which framed her shoulders, her delicate collarbone, her graceful neck, and the full, smooth tops of her breasts.

“I feel like a princess,” she said. “Marrying a prince.”

“I’m no prince, Eed,” he told her.

“Well, I’m not a princess either, so…”

“Smile, sir.” Elmer Fudd conjured a camera out of thin air, and Izzy automatically stepped closer to Eden. She took his elbow, the softness of her breast grazing his arm, and the camera flashed.

“Wait,” Eden said. “Nipple check—no, it’s okay—I’m good.”

What? Izzy looked down and…Yeah, the dress was definitely a costume malfunction waiting to happen. God help him.

“Can we get an extra picture to send to my mother?” she asked.

Her mother.

Eden had told Izzy that her mother wasn’t able to stand up to her stepfather and, because of that, even though they lived a mere ten minutes away from the wedding chapel, she and Eden’s little brother Ben would not attend. When Izzy had made noise about how spineless that was, she hadn’t defended her mother. But she told him that it wasn’t as if she were surprised. “It’s always been that way,” she’d matter-of-factly said and changed the subject.

But now she was looking at him as if the ultimate wedding gift would be this extra photograph, of Eden and Izzy—with Eden in her rented fairy-princess dress. For her spineless mother.

“Unless it’s too expensive,” she quickly added, because he hadn’t said yes fast enough. “I can always make a photocopy at Kinko’s.”

They’d stopped at a jewelers when they’d gotten into town, and Eden had picked out the plainest, simplest, least expensive, slender gold band for her wedding ring. She’d also refused to trade Manbearpig for a real engagement ring, agreeing only under severe pressure to let him buy her a ring guard so it would stay on her finger without all that sticky tape.

And she’d already picked out the location of their wedding dinner—a restaurant that served an all-you-can-eat buffet for $5.95. It had, she’d told him earnestly, a really great salad bar, too.

“An extra photo’s not too expensive,” Izzy told Eden now.

“Are you sure?” she asked—she was surely picking up how totally freaked out he was.

“Yes,” he said, even though he was sure of only one thing—that he was completely screwed. He was going to do this, because no way could he blindside her by changing his mind at this late hour. He was going to do this, he was going to take her home—and he was going to lose her.

Elmer was at his elbow again. “Shall we, sir?”

“You’re supposed to wait down there.” Eden gestured into the room with her bouquet of fake flowers. “I’m supposed to process, although I have to warn you, I can’t move too fast. I don’t think popping a boob is what they mean by ‘making an entrance.’”

Izzy laughed despite himself. “It certainly puts the
yes
in process.”

Eden laughed, too, but her smile faded into an expression far more serious and extremely sincere. “Thank you,” she said again, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “For all of this. It’s really…lovely.”

Izzy let Elmer pull him back, as Mrs. Fudd hit a remote control and music started to play. It was the standard wedding fanfare—thundering and majestic organ music—with Bugs Bunny singing the classic made-up words.
Here comes the bride, all dressed in white.

Out in the hall, Eden started to laugh. “Did you pick this music?” she asked.

Izzy nodded. He’d figured, since they were going with a traditional white gown…

Eden grinned at him, and gave him a thumbs-up before pulling her veil down over her face and, chastely holding her bouquet atop her prominent baby bump, she processed quite ceremoniously down the red carpet.

S
ACRAMENTO
, C
ALIFORNIA

Steve and Paul had the crappiest selection of tea.

It was all Sleepytime and Peaceful Slumber. Where was the Triple Caffeine Punch-in-the-Face or Heart Palpitation Rage Inducer?

Hannah settled on a plain old green/black mix, heating a mug of water in the microwave before she realized the tea was decaffeinated.

Which was just swell.

She brewed it and sipped it anyway, looking around the cozy room. Farmhouse-style wood-slab table, rustic Mexican tile on the floor, refrigerator covered in magnets and photographs, pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. Despite the transformation of the chaos room, nothing had changed in this kitchen in years.

In fact, the last time she’d been here was with Angelina. Before the wedding. Murphy was out of the country, on some Troubleshooters assignment, and she and Angel had come to Sacramento for a Mary J. Blige concert.

Paul had found out they were in town, and talked them into coming over for dinner and to see Steve’s latest version of the stank-mobile, which was fascinating, sure, but nauseating to ride in for more than ten minutes.

But they’d taken the obligatory spin around the block, and then come up here for a beer while Steve showered off the day’s grease—which had an oniony bouquet, having no doubt deep-fried Vidalia rings at some local restaurant in its previous life.

They’d sat right at this kitchen table and she and Paul had entertained Angelina with Murphy stories while he cooked dinner. Remember the time when Murph lit his tent on fire, but didn’t know it? Remember the time Murph entered the open mic night at the Alaskan bar—and got a standing O for being able to burp the entire alphabet? Remember when that asshole Bernie broke his leg while hiking up to Mendenhall glacier, and Murph carried him all the way back—fifteen miles—to the cars? Remember when Murph decided he needed to go on a vision quest, because so many tourists thought he was an Inuit shaman—which was totally Pat’s fault, because he was the one who’d told them that? Remember when Murph convinced Paul that Hannah was studying to be an opera singer and Paul got her a gig singing the “Star Spangled Banner” at a minor league baseball game—and
she’d
gotten a standing ovation?

Remember when Murphy laughed all the time?

All
the time.

God, how Hannah had adored him—even though he saw her only as a friend. Even as he prepared for his wedding to
her
best friend.

Remember how badly she’d wanted him to kiss her the way he’d kissed Angelina, to hold her, to make love to
her
?

Be careful what you wish for.

Despite the fact that Hannah had started to cry, she and Murphy hadn’t talked at all after they’d had sex. And she had to be honest with herself—what they’d done in that bed was have sex, not make love. Still, Murph had held her close afterward, gently stroking her hair, until they’d both fallen asleep.

Hannah’d woken up first. She’d taken another shower, and when she came out, Murph was already out of bed and in the master bathroom.

Where he still was now.

Hannah ran water in the kitchen sink, washing out her mug and setting it in the drying rack. God, her ankle hurt like a bitch. Cleverly, she’d chosen sex over icing it and would no doubt pay for it.

For the rest of her life.

Because, God, all she could think about was how stupid she had been, to get out of that bed. If she hadn’t, they might still be there right now, doing it again, and keeping the harsh reality of the world at bay.

There was a towel hanging off the refrigerator door, and Hannah grabbed it to dry her hands—and came face-to-face with a photo.

It was one of many—most were of Steve’s nieces and nephews with an occasional beefcake shot of former Marine Paul without his shirt—stuck to the fridge.

But Hannah was in this one, her smile only slightly stiff as she stood next to Murphy. Who had his arm around Angelina.

Murphy touched Hannah’s shoulder and she jumped about a mile—he’d come into the kitchen and was standing right behind her.

Jeez
-us.

“You scared me.”

“Sorry.” He signed it as well as said it.

And there they stood. Considerably less at ease than they’d been before his dingle had tangoed in her cha-cha. As Hannah’s grandma would have said. Although she never would have used all three ridiculous euphemisms in the same sentence.

“You want some tea?” she asked, exactly as Murph, too, spoke. “I found a hypnotist who’s willing to see me today.”

“No, thank you,” he added, as she asked, “When?”

“Three o’clock.”

“That late?” she asked, and he pointed to the clock on the microwave. It was almost 2:30 now.

“We slept for a while,” he said.

“I was tired,” she said.

“Me, too.”

“Oh, my God,” Hannah said, “we’re in the freaking twilight zone. Can we please just look each other in the eye and acknowledge that what we had was really great sex?” But then she had to ask. “That
was
great sex, wasn’t it?”