Mother of the Bride (31 page)

“Boy, that's the truth.” She sighed and wiped her eyes on the quilt. “But I can honestly say our night together moved me to tears.”

He rocked back on his elbows, laughing, took the cigar out of his mouth and stretched out on his side next to her, smiled and touched a fingertip to a curl tangled on her forehead. “Have I told you that I think you're absolutely adorable?”

Cydney could see by the soft curve of his mouth and the warmth in his eyes that he meant it. It wasn't “I love you, be mine forever,” but it wasn't bad. She blinked tears out of her eyes and told herself not to be maudlin, to be happy and grateful and enjoy this. She snuggled up to him and put a kiss on his chest.

“After our bath,” she said, looking up at him through her lashes, “do you think we could try that naked and screaming thing again?”

chapter

twenty-two

The last time he made Cydney scream—or had she made him scream?—Gus' watch said it was 4:22
A.M.
It was a Rolex and it lived on the table beside his bed because he rarely remembered to wear it. The next time he looked at it, cracking a bleary eye and peering at the 24-karat gold hands, it said 9:14
A.M.

That was his first awareness; his second, that he was drooling. He crept a hand out from under the pillow and wiped the corner of his mouth. That's when he felt the chill in the sheets, realized he was alone and flung himself over on his back.

A laser beam of sun shot through the window and damn near pierced his skull. He clapped a hand over his eyes until the strobe light in his head faded, then spread his fingers and frowned.

He'd fallen asleep with Cydney cuddled on his chest, her hand wrapped in his on his shoulder, his thumb stroking her wrist. Now there wasn't a wrinkle in the sheets, not a crease in her pillowcase.

Why wasn't she here?

Gus kicked off the covers and rolled to his feet. Her clothes were gone from the pile on the floor. His were neatly hung to dry over the shower doors in the bathroom. The towels he'd used to rub her down after he'd licked her dry were draped over racks. The bubbles he'd used to sculpt her a pair of Dolly Parton breasts while she leaned back between his legs with her head on his chest, laughing, had been rinsed down the bathtub drain. She'd emptied the ashes out of the soap
dish he'd used as an ashtray, washed it and left it on the sink and blown out the candles he'd lit on the edge of the tub. She'd even trimmed the wicks.

His bedroom and bathroom looked like he'd spent the night with Aunt Phoebe. Why had Cydney done this? Why had she erased every trace that she'd ever been in his bed?

Time to put his pants on, go find her and ask her.

Gus brushed his teeth and his hair first, wincing at his face in the mirror. He needed a shave—he looked like Sasquatch— but he zipped on a pair of jeans, pulled on a T-shirt and headed downstairs.

He found Cydney in the R&R room, in a beige cable-knit sweater and jeans, curled in the oversized brown corduroy chair. One of the afghans Aunt Phoebe had crocheted in bright stripes of leftover yarn covered her drawn-up knees. He could see her toes curled in beige socks through the fringed hem. A big red mug sat on the table, her laptop on the overstuffed arm of the chair. She sat staring at the screen with her elbow bent and her fist curled, her knuckles pressed against her lips. So intently, she didn't see him when he stopped between the pocket doors she'd left open.

The floor felt warm beneath his bare feet, warmer than it should, Gus thought, until the furnace kicked on and Cydney sighed, so heavily he heard her clear across the room. She didn't so much as glance at him until he sat down in front of her on the ottoman. Then her chin jerked up and she blinked, her almond-shaped almond-brown eyes full of tears.

“Oh—good morning.” She brushed quickly at her wet lashes with her curled index fingers and threw off the afghan. “The lights came on about an hour ago. I made coffee. What would you like for breakfast?”

“An answer.” Gus caught her feet as she swung them out of the chair. “Why did you clean up my bedroom?”

“It was a mess. Clothes all over and wet towels—”

“I was gonna bronze those towels. Why did you do your damnedest to make it look like you'd never been in my bed? Was I that lousy?”

“Oh no. You were incredible.” She put her feet on the
floor, hunched forward and slid her hands into his. “I slept with you because I wanted to. I had a wonderful, memorable night and that's all I want.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“I can't tell you because it will start another fight.”

“The goddamn wedding again.”

“Not exactly.” She tugged her hands out of his and laid them on her knees. “I know how you feel about Bebe but I love her. She's been the hub of my life. I feel like a wheel that's had all its spokes ripped out. I've been sitting here thinking. And wondering—” She drew a breath and let it go in a teary sigh, her eyes filling again. “What will I do without her? How will I fill the giant hole Bebe is going to leave in my life?”

“Well, for starters, throw your camera away—”

“And finish my book. Why didn't I think of that?” She clapped both her hands on his shoulders, picked up her cup and sprang out of the chair. “Thanks, Mr. Wizard. Problem solved, life fixed.”

“Listen, Miss Snippy.” Gus wheeled off the ottoman behind her and followed her out of the R&R room. “You asked me.”

“No. I did not.” She lofted a finger at him over her shoulder as she crossed the living room. “You asked me why I was crying and I told you.”

“Well what the hell did you want me to say?”

“I didn't
want
you to say anything.” She pushed partway through the swinging door and spun around, sloshing tea out of the mug in her left hand. “But that never seems to stop you.”

The damn door almost did, flying back on its hinges straight at his nose from the shove Cydney gave it. Gus sidestepped it, stiff-armed it out of his way on its next swing and followed her into the kitchen. She wheeled away from the stove, a spitfire glint in her eye and a frying pan cocked in her hand.

“Bacon or sausage?”

“Sausage.”

“Pancakes or French toast?”

“French toast.”

She banged the skillet on a burner and grabbed a mug off the counter, filled it from the Krups machine and plunked it down on the island. “Orange juice or half a grapefruit?”

“Orange juice.” Better keep her away from knives, Gus thought, and swung himself onto a stool.

She poured him a glass from the carton in the fridge, slid it to him across the island and stalked back to the stove with a package of sausage. Gus watched her fork links into the pan and adjust the flame.

“Ever ask yourself how Bebe got to be the hub of your life?”

Cydney ignored him, but Gus figured she would. She went back to the fridge for eggs, milk, butter and French bread. He waited till she'd cut a plate full of thick slices and tossed the knife in the sink. When she'd cracked the last egg and had no more to throw at him, he went on.

“It creeps up on you. One minute you're you, with your own life and your own stuff, and the next minute there's this little boy looking up at you. He's scared and he's confused, 'cause he doesn't understand why you're standing in Mommy and Daddy's place. He doesn't know where they went and he doesn't care. He just wants them back and he wants you gone 'cause you aren't them and you're never gonna be, and somehow he knows that.”

She kept her back to him, poured milk over the eggs in a blue earthenware bowl, tossed in vanilla and nutmeg and snatched a whisk out of a crock. This whole thing was a crock. He was saying things to Cydney he'd sworn he'd never tell another living soul, but he was tired of fighting with her, weary of hearing about poor little obnoxious Bebe. And he was sick to death of Cydney's condescension. She'd never said, “Look, bub. You're a man. You just don't get it,” but it was in her body language and the tone of her voice. Well yeah, he was a man but he got it and it was high damn time she knew it.

“You try to explain so he'll understand, but he's too little. The words you use scare him and make him cry. So you hug
him and let him cry. That's all you can do. You let him hit you and kick you and scream for Mommy and Daddy. You hold him so he won't hurt himself and you let him cry till he falls asleep with his little arms limp and his soft, hot cheek pressed against your neck.”

She was listening. Her chin drifted toward her shoulder, and the whisk in her hand, furiously beating the eggs, started to slow.

“You put him in his toddler bed, on his stomach like Aunt Phoebe said,” Gus went on, “and you stand there looking at him. You're scared to death 'cause you're just a kid yourself, but you're all he has and you've got to stick this out. He's so sad you can feel it seep into your hand when you lay it on his back. You feel helpless. You don't know what to do but stand there with your hand on him. He whimpers in his sleep and you feel something inside you just—break. It hurts but you know it's nothing compared to what's hurting him.”

Cydney stood with her back mostly to him, the head she'd beaten into the eggs hissing and settling into the bowl. Grease popped in the skillet and she jumped, dropped the whisk and grabbed a fork.

“Every night he cries himself to sleep. And he whimpers.” Gus watched Cydney lay the sausages out to drain on a paper towel. “You sleep in a chair by his bed so you can pat him back to sleep. He's exhausted and pale when he wakes up in the morning. He opens his eyes and he sees you and he gives you this oh-hell-it's-you look that makes it hurt when you breathe, but you ignore it and you start over. Every day you start over. Tears and tantrums, the angry, bruised little eyes. Every night he cries and every night it's the chair and the whimpering and the patting till you think it's never going to stop.”

Cydney swung the sausage pan into the sink. Her hand quivered as she lifted the cast-iron skillet onto the burner. She coated it with butter, dredged a slice of bread and tossed it, sizzling, into the pan.

“And then one morning he wakes up, blinks at you like he always does, and you're bracing yourself for the oh-shit-you-
again look, and he smiles. Then he stands up on his knees and raises his hands and you pick him up. He puts his arms around your neck and his head on your shoulder. You kiss his little head and he hugs you, and that's it. He's yours and you're his and you'd lay down your life to make sure nothing ever hurts him this bad ever again.”

A slice of soaked French bread hung from the fork in Cydney's hand. Gus watched the crust tear away and the whole thing plop back into the bowl. Smoke rolled off the cast-iron skillet, but Cydney just stood there until Gus got up. Then she dropped the fork and switched off the burner, wheeled and threw her arms around his rib cage, her face buried in his T-shirt. Gus held her, pressed his cheek to her hair and felt a sob shudder through her.

“It was rough with Bebe,” she sniffled, “but nothing like that.”

“I've been thinking. Maybe I'm wrong about Aldo and Bebe. Maybe they're not a disaster, maybe they're perfect together. Two abandoned little angels who managed to find each other.”

“Oh Gus!”
Cydney wailed and sobbed against his chest.

He let her cry, rubbing his hands on her back, molding her breasts to his chest. When she sighed, her warm breath fanned the tear spot on his T-shirt and stuck it to his left nipple. Gus felt himself stir and kissed the top of her head.

“Boy do I feel shallow,” she said, a watery quaver in her voice. “No wonder you wrote the Grand Plan to Wreck the Wedding.”

“Well thanks, but it wasn't the answer. Or the right thing to do.”

“But now I understand why you wrote it. Poor Aldo.” She gave a quivery sigh. “Poor little guy.”

“Don't feel too bad for him. He doesn't remember those first few weeks after Artie and Beth died, and he figured out pretty quick how to work me. 'Course, I let him.”

“Oh Bebe, too. My mother had such a guilt complex. She was sure it was her fault, that she must've done something or said something that gave Gwen the idea it was perfectly fine
to dump her child and go on with her life. My mother bent over backwards to make up for it and I jumped right in and helped her.”

“Ah, overcompensation. I know it well.”

“I love my life. I really do.” Cydney backed out of his embrace, tugged the dish towel off the handle on the oven door and used it to wipe tears from her amazingly long, amazingly dark eyelashes. “But I feel abandoned, like Bebe dumped me—just like Gwen dumped her. And I feel so damn angry because I did this to myself.”

“I did the same thing, babe. Picked up the shovel when Aldo was a little guy and dug this hole in my life with my own hands.”

“That's
exactly
how I feel.” She smiled at him, a dazzling, sparkly-eyed smile that made his pulse jump. “And you do, too?”

Gus curved his hands around her hips, eased her against his zipper and felt himself stiffen. “I told you we had a lot in common.”

“You tried to tell me.” She laid her hands on his chest, scraped a fingernail on a tearstain, which made him shiver. “Now if I could just figure out what to put in Bebe's place.”