Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) (3 page)

I sputtered a surprised laugh, and Mom chuckled with me.

“The two of you will battle your problems at times, and Pete’s problems at other times. It’s the sticking together that matters, extending grace to each other.” Mom wiped a tear from her eye. “You’re my adventurous girl, braver than I ever was.” She squeezed my hand. “Go for it.”

I pushed to sitting and wrapped Mom in a tight hug. She sniffled against my shoulder. She smelled of lavender and peaches, the way she used to when she rocked me through long nights of earaches and upset tummies when I was little.

“Oooo.” Mom pushed away and brushed at the front of her blouse. “You’re wet.” She swiped at the mascara smudging under her eyes. “Now we’re both a mess.”

Another tap on the door, and Harriet poked her head in, talking as she entered. “Need help? Pastor Mort and Sally are here and people are starting to get settled—” She cast a quick glance between Mom and me. “Oh dear. Emergency measures?”

I stood and handed the dripping washcloths to Harriet. “Yes, please. Quickly.”

It took both Mom and Harriet to wedge me back into the dress. Two days — how could I possibly have become wider in two days? It had to be the heat. I was swelling with every passing moment.

After much tugging and smoothing and inhaling, the dress zipped all the way to the top. I was so stuffed and stiff, I was going to look like a robot walking down the aisle.

Mom fiddled with my hair while Harriet dabbed blush on my cheeks.

“I’m a mess,” I groaned again.

“That’s what the veil is for, honey,” Harriet murmured as she pinned it in place and flipped the gauze over my face.

Thundering steps sounded on the stairs, alternating clump — bang, clump — bang, courtesy of an awkward walking cast. “What’s going on up here?” Sheriff Marge’s voice echoed in the narrow hallway, then she appeared in the doorway. “’Bout ready? Got an antsy groom out there.”

I turned away from the mirror.

Sheriff Marge sucked in a breath and beamed at me. “Ahh, yes. Well, he’ll think you were worth waiting for. Shoot, the whole county’s been waiting for you two to figure this out. Come on. We’re getting hungry.”

I uttered a wheezy laugh, but cut it off quickly before I passed out. Of course. It really was all about the food.

CHAPTER 3

Knowing Alex was as anxious as I was
helped tremendously. The two of us made it down the aisle without stumbling. I think I left permanent finger indentations in his arm.

Then he turned me over to Pete under the vine festooned arch, and I forgot all about being nervous. And I couldn’t stop grinning.

Everything happened in a blur. Pastor Mort cracked a few jokes and gave a short message. The whole time I was thinking that I should be listening, but I wasn’t — I was smiling into Pete’s crinkle-cornered sapphire blue eyes and clinging to his steady hands. Pastor Mort guided us through our vows and ring exchange. Then Pete lifted my veil and kissed me, long and vigorously, pulling me off my feet with his strong arms, and all I wanted was to stay in his embrace forever.

But we had an enthusiastic, if hungry, crowd to face.

“Ready, Babe?” Pete murmured near my ear.

I squeezed his hand.

We made a dash for the shade of a big maple — the starting line for the buffet to be served from the swaybacked tables and our impromptu receiving line. We greeted the friendly mob as they jostled into position to fill their plates, thanking everyone for coming, trading barbs and jokes and well-wishes.

I don’t think I’d ever blushed so much in my life. I also received so many cheek pecks and hugs that I started smelling like a dozen different colognes and perfumes on top of my own sweaty stickiness. I pressed against Pete’s side and tried to take deep, calm breaths. The dress felt like mummy wrappings.

Once people were settled into contented groups on the grass, scooping all kinds of yummy food from their paper plates, Pete and I started circulating, my hand tightly clasped in his. I was more than ready for him to spirit me away, but we were trying to do our civic and social duty.

All the floating snippets of conversations I overheard seemed to be about the fires. The sky had turned an eerie, dull orange color, as though there was a filter over the sun. I caught Sheriff Marge, Henry, Bob, and Pastor Mort, among others, casting worried glances toward the northeast. They probably knew the most about what progress — or not — the firefighting crews were making.

“Want to eat?” Pete wrapped his arms around my waist from behind and pulled me close.

I shook my head, happy with the sight of my friends and townspeople relaxing and enjoying each other’s company. Utter exhaustion swept over me.

“Let’s try.” Pete tugged on my hand, and we meandered toward the food tables.

Frankly, there wasn’t room in my dress for a meal. I picked through the best
Sockeye County’s gourmet cooks had to offer.

“They’re miles away,” Jim Carter said as he plunked a chicken thigh coated in ashy red barbecue sauce on my nearly empty plate. The jerk of his thumb over his shoulder indicated he meant the wildfires. “Well outside Lupine. Just gotta pray we don’t get gorge winds until they’re at least partially contained.”

“Anyone been evacuated?” Pete asked.

“A few ranches and the maintenance crew from a wind farm. Right now what’s burning is mostly uninhabited, but the land out there doesn’t have natural impediments, so the fire’s moving fast.” Jim swiped his brow with a forearm. “Haven’t seen it this dry since the summer I was fifteen. Fire came close to our house that year, burned down the gulch of the creek bed behind the barn. Lost some cattle. My dad didn’t sleep for two, three nights straight, plowing a firebreak around our place and spraying down the roofs and trees. My brother and I helped him as best we could.”

Based on Jim’s graying temples and modest paunch, I guessed that was at least thirty years ago and turned to gaze at the smoke billowing like thunderclouds on the horizon where a twice-in-a-lifetime series of fires raged. No wonder everyone was on edge.

The combination of the heat, smoky air and the fact that the next day was a regular working Monday kept people from lingering too long. While Platts Landing enjoys a good shindig, most folks have families and responsibilities that don’t allow for staying up until the wee hours.

The women retrieved their serving dishes and utensils from the food tables while the men folded blankets, collapsed lawn chairs and rounded up children.

A tiny, blue-veined hand perched on my arm. “Sweetie, I have leftovers.”

I turned to look down — way down — into the sharp, almost black eyes of Mae Brock. She balanced a foil-covered casserole dish on her hip.

One paper-thin eyelid slid halfway down over her left eye, and she cracked a sly grin.

Was she winking at me? I plastered a smile on my face.

“I know you won’t be having much time for cooking in the next day or two, and I certainly couldn’t eat all this by myself.” Mae thrust the pan at me. “Pork sausage and stuffing casserole — used to be my
Sherman’s favorite. Hopefully your new husband will last longer. My Sherman died of colon cancer just after his fifty-first birthday.”

I grabbed the heavy pan before she dropped it. It might have weighed more than she did. I peeked under the tin foil — at the untouched crushed cornflake surface. Sally must have broadcast the secret warning to all of the attendees in time — or enough people had had previous experience with Mae’s cooking to spread the word organically.

“That’ll put some meat on your bones.” With startling strength Mae gave my backside a resounding smack, exacerbated by the taut satin hugging my curves — apparently where she thought the meat should go. I winced. She tottered off, cackling.

“Is this something I should know about?” Pete’s voice, low and husky, sent tingles up my spine.

I whirled around to face him and found that he was struggling, unsuccessfully, not to laugh.

“You carry it.” I pushed the pan into his arms, then leaned in, whispering, “We’ll throw the casserole away then wash her dish and send a thank you note back with it.”

“I don’t know. I might like more meat on your bones.” Pete’s eyes sparkled in the way that makes my knees turn to jelly as he tried to take another peek over my shoulder at my backside.

I pinched him.

“You’re perfect, you know,” he murmured.

“Actually, I’m not. But it’s too late. You’re stuck now.” I stood on my tiptoes, wrapped my arms around his neck and planted a juicy kiss on his lips.

A throat cleared behind me, and Alex stood there, a small, apologetic smile on his face. “Your mother and I are leaving now.”

Pete and I spread the hugs around and helped bundle them in their new-to-them used Camry — part of their strict austerity measures adopted in order to recover from my mother’s gambling addiction.

I reached through the open passenger window and squeezed Mom’s hand. “Call me.”

“In a few days. I’ll give the two of you a little space just now.” She tipped her head toward the driver’s side where Pete and Alex were having a conversation, her smile widening. “But, yes, I will. Feeling better — about the future?”

I exhaled, as least as much as I could in the dress, and nodded. “You were right, as usual.” I glanced up and caught Pete’s eye over the top of the car. We shared a grin.

“Take the dress off as soon as possible,” Mom whispered. “You’re getting hives.”

I jerked back and glanced down at my chest. Sure enough, red welts spread across my upper torso and onto my arms. I groaned. From the itchy prickles also tormenting my less visible parts, I was pretty sure the hives were running rampant.

“It’s the heat and the lace and the nerves,” Mom murmured. “They’ll go down just as soon as you’re comfortable and cooled off.”

Unlike my mother, I have never been good at being glamorous. Even trying is an effort in futility.

Pete and I waved good-bye as Alex pulled away and hurried through the remainder of our thank-yous and seeing people off. Then I practically dragged him across the campground to my — I mean our — fifth-wheel trailer. Tuppence bounded up the steps behind us.

Once inside, I presented my back to him. “Unzip me. Get it off.”

“Babe.” Pete sounded worried. “We don’t have to rush.”

I flapped my hands. “I’m going to swell up like three-day roadkill if I don’t get this dress off.”

“Oh. You are kinda red.” Pete set Mae’s pan and a few other loaded plates well-meaning friends had foisted onto us on the dining table. People seemed to think cooking would be nigh unto impossible for a staycationing, honeymooning couple, that we might actually starve without their attention.

“Aaargh.” I hopped from one foot to the other. Tuppence whined and pressed against my leg so hard she almost knocked me off balance.

“All right, Babe. All right.” Pete held me with one hand on my waist, the other hand fumbling with the zipper.

Then he switched to two hands tugging on the zipper. His breath came in frustrated puffs against my shoulder blade. “Um, Meredith? We might have a problem.”

“I don’t care what happens to the dress,” I gritted through clenched teeth. “I’m inflating by the second.”

“Hold still.” He wedged a couple fingers — or his thumb? — under the top edge of the dress and started pulling.

I grabbed the back of a dining chair for support. “I have scissors,” I wheezed.

Then something popped, and the zipper let go, all the way down. I clutched at the fabric, but missed, as it slid to a pile around my knees.

“Got it.” Pete said, sounding immensely pleased with himself. “Better?”

I stood there, blinking and suddenly shivering, in the scanty scraps of fabric that pass for underwear when you’re wearing a tight, low-cut gown.

He turned me around by the shoulders, grinned, and nodded. “Better.”

I snorted. Then I giggled.

“You know, I have an antidote for hives,” Pete said.

“Really?”

He scooped me up in his arms and nuzzled my neck. “Mmhmm.” He carried me up the steps to the bedroom, and things improved remarkably from there.

The only comment I have is that I satisfied my burning curiosity on one point — if Pete had survived fifteen years in the Navy without getting a tattoo. He did. I know this because I checked every square inch of his skin.

oOo

I woke up in the dark to the sound of deep, steady breathing in my bed — and not my own. I grinned and snuggled closer to Pete. Hard to do as I was already wrapped in his arms, but I managed. 

The happy reality that his breathing was going to become my primary comfort noise in the middle of the night settled on me. I have a list of all’s-right-with-the-world sounds — train whistles, the campground’s nightly rotation of sprinklers, the hooting of great horned owls, and now my husband’s breathing.