Mother of the Bride (17 page)

The table was cleared and only one cranberry oil lamp burned on the buffet. The other sat on a kitchen counter, casting a pool of light over the sink where her mother and Herb stood rinsing dishes.

“Maybe Gus has a generator,” Herb was saying as Cydney came into the room. “I sure would if I lived this deep in the boonies.”

“He's gone to check it,” she told Herb. “He says there are battery lamps and flashlights in the pantry.”

“Loan me yours, kiddo, and I'll go look.”

Cydney gave it to him and off Herb went, a man on a mission.

“Mother,” she said. “Has Bebe said anything to you about music?”

“No, darling, she—oh my God!” Georgette shut off the water and spun away from the sink. “Music for the ceremony! How could I forget?”

“These things happen, Mother. Even with a detailed list.”

“Never mind that damned list.” Georgette rubbed her forehead, the only sign she ever gave that she was stressed. “How could I have forgotten music? If Angus had a piano, I could play.”

“He does have a piano. A grand.”

“Thank God.” She pressed a hand to her throat. “Crisis canceled.”

Too bad. It would've been fun—mean, but fun—to watch her mother sweat
j-u-u-u-s-t
a little.

“Let's find Bebe,” Cydney suggested. “And ask her what music she wants for the wedding.”

“Let's not. We'll end up with Goo-Goo Eyes and Nine Inch Snails.”

“Goo-Goo
Dolls,
Mother, and Nine Inch
Nails.”

“Garbage, by any name. I'm playing it, so
I'll
pick the music.”

“But this is Bebe's wedding, Mother.”

“And Aldo's.” Munroe pushed through the swinging door from the bar, his flashlight beam catching Cydney in the face. She swung her head away and blinked to clear the dazzle from her eyes. “I did forget to buy gas for the generator. I've got about a thimbleful in the garage.”

“Good heavens, Angus,” her mother said. “You're soaked.”

“Well, Georgette, the garage is outside. And as folks around here say, it's rainin' pitchforks and little dogs.”

“Here's a dish towel. At least dry your hair.”

When Cydney could see again, she turned her head and saw Munroe rubbing a red-and-white-checked dish towel over his head. He leaned against the butcher-block island, his ankles crossed, his muscled arms rain-speckled and gleaming in the glow of the oil lamp. His khakis and his shirt were so wet they looked pasted to his long legs and broad chest, leaving nothing at all about his physique to Cydney's imagination.

“Oh Angus,” her mother tsked. “You're dripping.”

So was Cydney, into a little puddle of hormones on the floor.

Munroe dried his face and arms, ran a hand through his wet-spiked hair and draped the towel around his neck. Lucky towel.

“Cydney tells me,” Georgette said, “that you have a grand piano.”

“It's my Aunt Phoebe's.” Munroe kicked off his loafers and peeled off his socks. His feet were long and strong and as gorgeous as the rest of him. Straight toes, high arches and narrow heels. “Is this about music for the wedding?”

“Yes,” her mother said. “In all the hubbub of packing and getting here, we forgot about music. I play piano. Not well enough for Carnegie Hall, but I can play 'The Wedding March' with sheet music.”

“There's music in the bench. You might want to look. We'll have to move the piano into the great room, then it'll have to be tuned. I don't know if Aldo and Herb and I can move it, but we can try. I'll call Aunt Phoebe's piano tuner in the morning and see when he can get out here.”

Lightning illuminated the bay window, giving Cydney a glimpse of wind-bent trees and the anything-to-help smile on Munroe's face. Monday night he'd threatened to invoke the codicil to his brother's will to keep Aldo from marrying Bebe, now he was volunteering to move a grand piano. What was wrong with this picture?

Thunder crashed, needles of rain pelted the glass and Herb came back from the pantry with an armful of flashlights and four battery lamps. He switched one on and sent a laser-bright shaft of light shooting across the kitchen.

“These babies sure kick out the light, Gus,” Herb said as he adjusted the beam. “We can signal the rescue plane, no problem.”

Cydney smiled at his good-natured humor. Her father would've blown his stack at the first flicker of the lights and chewed Munroe to pieces for failing to keep gas for the generator on hand.

“I don't think we need to send up flares just yet, Herb.” Munroe picked up a lamp and turned it on. “I'm going to change.”

“Would you like a cup of cocoa, Angus?” her mother asked.

“Love one, thanks. I'll be right back.”

He moved toward the swinging door with his loafers and the lamp, the beam pointing ahead of him. Be glad to help you peel off those khakis, Cydney thought, then jumped, startled, when he glanced at her over his shoulder and crooked a finger. Her mother and Herb didn't see; they were looking in the cabinets for a saucepan and mugs. She nodded and followed him through the door, into the pool of light cast by the lamp.

“I haven't seen Aldo and Bebe since the lights went out, have you?”

“No.” Cydney shook her head. “Three guesses where they are.”

“In the sack, probably. What d'you think I should do?”

“Yell'Fire!'?”

He laughed and gave her a gentle squeeze on the shoulder that made her breath catch. “I like you, Cydney Parrish.”

“I like you, too, Angus Munroe.”

“Gus,” he said, and smiled.

“Gus.” She smiled back at him. He nodded and pointed his finger at her. “Wait till I change and we'll yell 'Fire!' together.”

He turned toward the stairs and Cydney toward the kitchen, an old Barbra Streisand song, “He Touched Me,” playing in her head. It snapped off with a jolt when she pushed through the door and saw Bebe and Aldo standing at the gas range stirring a Dutch oven full of cocoa with wooden spoons. Well, darn. She was looking forward to yelling, “Fire!”

Gus came back a few minutes later in jeans, a pair of his white over-the-calf tube socks with gray toes and a white T-shirt with a chest pocket. He swung onto the slatted stool next to Cydney's at the island and reached for a big red mug of cocoa floating with marshmallows.

“Don't tell me you found marshmallows in my pantry, Georgette.”

“No,” she admitted. “I brought them with me.”

One bag of marshmallows, maybe two more inches of space in one suitcase, Cydney thought. What on earth had her mother packed?

The storm continued to crash and boom and flash like a strobe light. Gus turned on a portable radio and found an AM station crackling with static that said the National Weather Service had issued a severe thunderstorm watch for all of Taney County, which included Branson and Crooked Possum, until midnight.

“We won't get the lights back tonight,” he said, leaning his watch close to a battery lamp. “It's eight-forty-five.”

“You go on to bed, Georgie-girl,” Herb said. “I'll finish the dishes.”

Cydney couldn't recall her father ever offering to help with the dishes, let alone volunteering to do them. She remembered Fletch wolfing meals and racing back to his office, so
absorbed in himself that he barely heard what was said to him, or snapped answers that made it clear he couldn't be bothered with a wife and kids.

It hadn't been that way at all, really. In those days he'd worked two jobs—columnist for the
Kansas City Star
by day, novelist by night and on weekends—but that's how it had felt to Cydney. Especially when his fourth book hit it big and he'd walked out on them.

She stole a glance at Bebe, feeding cocoa to Aldo on a spoon. How much had she been aware of when Gwen brought her home to Gramma's house and left her there after she won her first Pulitzer? Abandoned, not good enough to be included in her mother's newfound success?

“I will not leave you with all these dishes, Herbert,” Georgette said firmly. “We'll finish them together.”

“Let Aldo and me do the dishes, Gramma.” Bebe dropped her spoon and spun her stool toward Georgette. “We're not tired.”

“Yeah.” Aldo hopped off his stool and started collecting empty mugs. “You cooked, Gramma George. We'll clean up the kitchen.”

“Thank you, Bebe dear. You, too, Aldo.” Georgette took Herb's arm and waggled her fingers. “Good night, Cydney. Good night, Angus.”

They each took a flashlight and pushed through the swinging door.

“Need a hand?” Gus asked his nephew.

“No thanks, Uncle Gus. We can manage.”

Gus glanced at Cydney. She gave him an oh-well shrug.

“Okay, then.” He slid off his stool and helped Cydney down from hers. “Goodnight.”

“Good night, Bebe,” Cydney said as Gus pushed open the swinging door for her. “Good night, Aldo.”

“Uncle Cyd?” Bebe called, and Cydney glanced at her over her shoulder. “I'm sorry I was such a brat today. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I love you.” She picked at the dishrag in her hands. “That's all.”

That was enough. “I love you, too, Bebe. Good night.”

Cydney smiled and pushed through the door. Gus followed her and switched on a flashlight.

“Would you like some company on your shopping trip tomorrow?”

Cydney blinked up at his face, half in shadow and half in the light cast by the flashlight. “You?”

“Yeah, me.”

“Well—don't you have a book to write?”

“I always have a book to write, but I can take a day off.”

“Then—um—yes.” Cydney's heart fluttered. “That'd be great.”

“Good.” He took her arm and led her across the living room to the gallery stairs. “Keep the flashlight. My bedroom is up those stairs,” he said, nodding at the foyer. “Next to my office.”

“Thanks. I can make it to my room from here.”

“I'm sure you can, but I'll wait anyway.” He gave her a lift onto the first step. “Up you go.”

Cydney climbed to the gallery and turned around. “See? Made it.”

“I knew you could. Good night, Cydney.”

“Goodnight, Gus.”

A sheet of lightning gave her light enough to watch him cross the living room and disappear up the foyer stairs. When she heard a door shut, she wheeled down the hall as fast as she dared in the dark, pushed open her door, flung it shut behind her and belly-flopped on the bed, her heart pounding in her chest.

He touched me,
Barbra Streisand sang in her head.
He put bis band near mine and then be touched me. I felt a … a …
what? Cydney couldn't remember what Barbra felt. A sparkle? A glow? She felt shaky and on fire, rolled on her back and cupped her flushed face.

Who would've believed that behind Angus Munroe's scowl lurked a touchy-feely guy who liked to be called Gus, with a grin that turned her bones to goo? Cydney had no idea if cold showers worked, but she scrambled off the bed and made for the bathroom to find out. She did not want to end up a
headline on the front page of
The National Enquirer.
She could see it now—
GORGEOUS GUS MUNROE'S BIGGEST FAN SPONTANEOUSLY
COMBUSTS IN HIS LIVING ROOM.

She lit three of the aromatherapy candles she always traveled with on the toilet tank and cranked on the shower, lukewarm rather than ice cold, stripped and got in. She stuck her head under the spray and then remembered the power failure, which meant no hair dryer. She'd look like Little Orphan Annie in the morning.

She couldn't imagine that Gus really wanted to go shopping with her. She thought he was being polite, since she'd gotten lost twice getting here. If he were up to something nefarious, he'd let her go alone, figuring she'd get lost again and the buzzards would have her bones picked clean by the time they found her with the wedding decorations.

He was behaving like a polite and considerate host, doing everything he could to make them feel welcome, and yet something about it didn't feel right. Cydney hated it when she did this, let a little thing like Gus' damn-the-hernia-be-glad-to-move-the-piano smile fester in the back of her mind. Why couldn't she just accept him at face value?

She didn't hear the bathroom door open, but she felt a draft of cool air and saw a shadow on the other side of the pebbled glass door. Her heart kicked and she fumbled with the taps to shut off the water.

“Who's there?” she called.

“It's me, Uncle Cyd,” Bebe said. Cydney heard the toilet lid shut and saw Bebe's shadow shift as she sat down.

Cydney opened the shower door and reached for a towel. The candles flickering on the tank behind Bebe lit her mane of copper-red hair like a Renaissance painting. She wrapped the towel around her body and tucked the end between her breasts. “Yes, Bebe?”

“Why were you spying on me and Aldo in the hall?”

“I wasn't spying on you. I was on my way downstairs when I heard a thump and looked around the corner and caught you telling a bald-faced lie to Mr. Munroe.”

“Aldo and I are engaged, Uncle Cyd. You keep forgetting that.”

“How can I forget it? You keep reminding me of it every five minutes like it means something.”

“It
does
mean something. It means we love each other, we're committed to each other and we have the right to make our own decisions.”

“You and Aldo have intentions, Bebe. That's all it means to be engaged. You have an intention to marry and commit to each other. You do not have the right to behave like you're married or demand that people treat you like you're married until you
are
married.”

“Marriage is just a ceremony and a stupid piece of paper!”

“Then why are you and Aldo bothering with it? Why did you drag your grandmother and me and Herb down here to the backwater of nowhere if marriage is just a stupid piece of paper?”

“Because I want my mother at my wedding!” Bebe cried, tears in her eyes and her voice as she jumped to her feet. “And you aren't her!”

“But I'm
here
and Gwen isn't. If she really wanted to be at your wedding, she would be. It wouldn't matter where you held it, and we wouldn't have to plot and scheme to keep her from leaving.”

“The only person who's leaving is
you”
Bebe shouted, pointing a finger at her. “I don't want you at my wedding!”