The Bride Wore Size 12 (22 page)

Though most similar buildings have converted their basements into laundry rooms or at least parking garages (for which they charge shockingly high rent), Cooper’s grandfather never bothered, nor has Cooper since he inherited the place, so it’s continued to look like that malformed guy’s cave from
The Hobbit
(which I’ve never seen or read, because it looks quite dull, but I’ve heard Gavin go on about it ad nauseam).

I find Hal sitting in a puddle of light at a worktable Cooper once purchased during a fit of HGTV-induced home-repair fervor. Only instead of fixing a broken lamp or sawing an unstable chair leg, Hal is loading .22-caliber bullets into a small blue-finished, rubber-gripped revolver. Before him are four or five open gun cases, each revealing other revolvers of various designs and finishes, along with a great many boxes of bullets.

I see that Cooper’s gun safe is closed and locked, so I know none of the weapons came from there, and besides, only Cooper and I know the combination, which is Lucy’s birthday. The gun cases all seemed to have come from Hal’s duffel bag, which is lying on the floor beneath the worktable, right next to Lucy, who is studiously chewing on her left paw.

I’m not certain what to do. Hal hasn’t yet noticed me on the stairs, so retreating is definitely an option. I could sneak back upstairs and tell Jessica and Nicole that there’s a gas leak and they need to get out of the house, then call Canavan and ask him to get back here, pronto: there’s a gun-hoarding madman in my basement.

But before I have a chance to do this, an ice cube in one of the drinks I’m holding shifts, making a loud tinkling noise, and Hal looks up, the lenses of his glasses flashing in the light from the work lamp. He’s seen me.

“Why, hello, Hal,” I say brightly. “Had a bad day? Violence is never the answer, you know. Let’s have a nice refreshing drink and talk about it.”

Hal smiles sweetly.

“These aren’t for me,” he says, gesturing to the gun cases. “Cooper asked me to bring them over.”

“Oh?” I take a hesitant step or two down the stairs. “Is Cooper planning on arming a small militant group?”

Hal’s smile broadens. “No,” he says. “They’re for you, actually.”

25

I
have to continue the rest of the way down the stairs and hurry to sit down at the stool opposite Hal’s. Otherwise I’d have dropped both cocktails in shock. Once I’m safely seated, I take a long, restorative sip.

Jessica’s right. Key West lemonades are quite refreshing.

“Excuse me, Hal,” I say politely. “Did you say Cooper asked you to bring over all these guns for
me
?”

“Well, not to use all at once,” Hal says, in his soft, breathy voice. “You’re supposed to pick the one you feel most comfortable shooting. I was trying to remember the last time you were at the range. Didn’t you like this twenty-two?”

I want to enjoy more of Jessica’s drink, but guns and alcohol are a terrible combination, so I set both glasses to the far side of the worktable where I can look at them longingly.

“Hal,” I say carefully. “Why did Cooper ask you to bring over such a large and varied selection of guns for me?”

“Did he not mention it to you?” Hal looks surprised. “He told me there’s someone trying to kill you. Or at least, someone who’s already killed one person where you work, and may come after you next. From what I understand . . .” Hal looks nervous. This is probably the longest conversation he’s had with a member of the female sex since the last time he visited his mother. “ . . . this kind of thing happens to you a lot.”

“Okay,” I say, after taking a deep breath. “I do get where Cooper is coming from. But I work in a seven-hundred-bed dorm, Hal. I mean, residence hall. I can’t go around shooting a gun off in there. I might seriously injure—or kill—someone.”

“Uh,” Hal says. “That’s sort of the point. The nice thing about these pistols is that they’re for small-game hunting. Squirrels, rabbits, gophers, maybe a fox or coyote—varmints. You won’t do much damage to varmints of the two-legged kind with one of these unless, of course, you’re deliberately aiming at them, and they’re standing very close to you.”

I swallow. “Varmint of the two-legged kind” is a pretty good way to describe Hamad—or whoever it is that killed Jasmine and tried to kill Cameron Ripley.

Still.

“I do not need, nor did I ask for, a gun, Hal,” I say, as politely as I can. “Not even one for small-game hunting. Where
is
Cooper, anyway?”

Virgin Hal looks uncomfortable as he sets aside the first pistol and opens the case for another. “He asked me not to tell you, because he doesn’t want you to worry. But he said he’ll be home soon, and in the meantime he asked me to stick around here to make sure you’re all right, in case you have any visitors. Male visitors,” he adds hastily, looking toward the ceiling. “I don’t think he meant his sisters.”

I latch on to only a single word Hal’s uttered. “Worry? Why doesn’t Cooper want me to worry about him? Is he in trouble, or something? I thought he was working on a simple case of insurance fraud.”

“He is,” Hal says quickly. “That’s what I mean. Nothing to worry about.”

So why am I only worrying more?

“Great,” I mutter beneath my breath. “I’m the one Cooper’s marrying, but he doesn’t tell me anything. You, the arms dealer, he tells everything.”

“I’m not an arms dealer.” Hal looks hurt. “I would never sell any of these. I’m a collector. I only loan them to special friends. And don’t you think it’s better that someone like me has them than some mutt who’s going to do something terrible with them?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Wait a minute. Did you just say ‘mutt’? Hal, are you a cop?”

“I . . . used to be,” he says, with his head ducked. I can’t see his eyes, because of the thick glasses, but he appears unhappy. “I don’t really enjoy discussing those days. Could we please concentrate on selecting a weapon for you instead? It would make me very happy. You’re a good shot, you know.”

Now I widen my eyes at him. “I am?”

“I saw you at the practice range,” he says, glancing up shyly. “You shot very accurately, even though you hadn’t had much experience. Many women do, though.” There’s a hint of bitterness in his voice as he adds, “They tend to have a lighter touch on the grip than men, and more stability in the”—his gaze dips below my waist, and he clears his throat uncomfortably—“lower body area. A lower center of gravity helps with stance.”

I have no idea how to respond to this. “Is that a fact?”

Hal is warming to his subject. “Oh, yes,” he replies enthusiastically. “The only reason you don’t see as many women as men in shooting competitions is because often the women who are the best shots are the ones least interested in pursuing shooting as a sport or hobby. They tend to be like you: they think guns are too violent, or too loud, or are only for criminals, or hunters. That kind of thing. It’s a shame.”

He sighs sadly, and it’s evident in that moment why Hal is still a virgin (if his nickname is accurate): he simply hasn’t found the right girl . . . or is too shy to have opened himself up this candidly in front of her.

“Really,” is all I can think of to say.

I remember the few times I’d reluctantly allowed Cooper to drag me to the shooting range where he and his friends go to practice firing their weapons (something he feels he’s required to do as a licensed gun owner in the state of New York, and also, I suppose, as someone in his line of work). The men had far outnumbered the women there, but there’d definitely been a few women.

One of them had been a bleached blonde wearing head-to-toe pink: pink stilettos, pink minidress, pink hair band, and even pink shooting gloves (to protect her manicure) to go with her pink-handled Ruger. She had fired a perfect heart shape (in bullet holes) around the center of her target from fifty feet away, then lowered her pink-tinted eye protectors, nodded with satisfaction, and walked out, swinging her pink Hello Kitty plastic gun case.

That was the only part of my trip to the gun range that I’d enjoyed. I’d mentioned to Cooper that I’d go with him more often if I could have an outfit color-coordinated with my gun, like the pink lady, but I’d been kidding.

So it isn’t completely out of the blue that Cooper has sent Hal over on a mission not only to protect me, but to offer me a weapon with which to protect myself.

Sadly, none of the pistols Hal has on offer are pink. I sigh. I have absolutely no intention of taking a gun to work, but I figure I might as well play along to keep Hal happy.

“Okay. Which one did you think I shot best with?”

Hal looks pleased, and shows me. Once I’m holding the smooth handle in my hand, I remember.

“It’s basically a target pistol,” Hal explains. “Not at all what I or anyone else would recommend as a gun for personal safety. But you seemed to feel comfortable with it—at least, you hit the target pretty much dead to center every time—and at close range it will definitely maim someone, so that’s all that matters.”

“How nice,” I say.

“Also, it will easily fit in your purse or a deep pocket,” Hal goes on, missing my sarcasm. “It only holds nine rounds, but you won’t need more than that. The key is to shoot and get out. Never let anyone take the gun off you. Unless they’re a police officer, of course, in which case you have to surrender it, but then you’ll go to jail because you don’t have a license to own a gun, let alone carry it around the streets of New York City. Otherwise, though, never ever give up your weapon, no matter what.”

“Okay,” I say weakly. Simply holding a weapon outside a shooting range makes me feel a little sick. How does Cooper wear one every day? Maybe Hal is right, and I’m one of those women who is a good shot but simply doesn’t like guns. “Are you sure I’m in enough danger to need this?”

“Well, Cooper seems to think so. And if he thinks so, it must be true.”

It’s kind of funny that just as Hal says this, Lucy, who’s been lying worshipfully at his feet, suddenly lifts her head, her ears perked up. A second later, she’s barking excitedly and racing up the stairs to the first floor, her foxlike tail streaming behind her.

This can only mean one thing, as confirmed when Jessica’s strident voice shouts down the stairs, “Heather! You’d better get up here. Cooper’s home. And you’re not going to believe this.”

26

J
essica’s right. I don’t believe it.

Cooper’s coming through the front door, supported around the waist by another one of his bosom pals, Sammy the Schnozz. This is because Cooper’s right foot is swathed in a black-fabric-and-metal cast, from his bare toes all the way up to his knee.

When he turns around as Sammy closes the door behind them, I see that Cooper’s lip is swollen to three times its normal size, and there’s a mouse forming under his left eye as well.

“I’m all right,” he says when he sees the horror on my face, and hears the gasps from his twin sisters. He gently fights off Lucy’s excited leaps with the foot in the cast. “It’s worse than it looks.” He attempts a wink and a boyish grin. Both look painful. “You should see the other guy.”

Now I know why he called everyone but me. He can barely speak because of the size of the gash in his lip. His speech is garbled, the way someone whose mouth has been shot up with novacaine sounds. I’d have known instantly something was wrong and rushed to him, just as I do now.

I wrap both arms around him, taking over for Sammy. It’s only when Cooper winces that I realize he must have a cracked rib or two as well.

“My God,” I say, my heart pounding against his. “What happened?”

Cooper kisses the top of my head and whispers, “It’s a long story. I’m just glad you’re safe. I heard about what happened to the reporter.” His arms tighten around me. “Thank God it wasn’t you.”

But it
was
me. It was my fault, anyway.

And carrying around a gun isn’t going to change that, or make it right, whatever Cooper might think.

Now obviously isn’t the time to tell him this, however.

Nicole is even more upset about her big brother’s condition than I am—or at least she’s more dramatic about it. As soon as she sees his injuries, she shrieks, and flings herself at Cooper with as much passion as Lucy, only Nicole’s tongue isn’t hanging out and she isn’t wagging her tail.

Unfortunately, Cooper can’t nudge his sister away with his cast as easily as he was able to nudge the dog.

“Were you in a
car accident
?” Nicole wails. “Was anyone else hurt? Were there
fatalities
?”

“No one else was hurt,” Sammy the Schnozz says, trying to take some semblance of control of the situation. “Some kid was texting and rear-ended him, is all. Kid is fine, Coop is fine. Give the man some room, okay, ladies, whaddaya say?”

Sammy, who is a pawnbroker, speaks with a strong New York accent and is easily able to command a room, a must when dealing with what are probably stolen goods and hysterical twentysomethings like Nicole.

“Of course,” Nicole says, backing off immediately. “Is there anything we can do? Tea? Jessica, go make some tea.”

“Tea?” Jessica looks at her sister as if she’s gone insane. “When the hell has Cooper ever drunk tea? No one wants tea. How about a real drink? Anyone? I’ve got some Key West lemonade already poured.”

“Lemonade,” Cooper says. “Mmm.”

I can tell that Cooper is on painkillers, and also that Sammy is lying. I know injuries sustained in an accident from a fistfight when I see one. At Fischer Hall, roommate conflicts between girls result in nasty notes left on refrigerators and bathroom mirrors and social media pages. Roommate conflicts between boys result in fat lips and bruises exactly like the one blooming under Cooper’s eye.

What happened to his foot, I can’t even begin to imagine, but I know it’s not from any fender bender. This is bad. Really bad.

I don’t know how bad until Cooper looks down at me, smiles crookedly (thank God he still seems to have all his teeth), and says, “Sure, I’ll take a lemonade, Jess. And sorry I didn’t call, honey. I was a little tied up.”

He giggles. Cooper, who never giggles.

“But Heather,” I hear Nicole protest. “You told me Cooper
did
call—”

“Shut up, Nicole,” I snap. Her eyes widen with hurt feelings, but I’m in no mood to apologize. I’m too busy checking her brother’s wrists for rope burns, thinking he must literally have been tied up to be giggling like that at his own joke. I don’t notice anything unusual, however. Just his poor, battered, gorgeous face.

“Have I told you lately how much I love you?” Cooper asks, nuzzling my ear. “You’re so beautiful. The most beautiful girl in the world.” It’s hard to make out what he’s saying because of his fat lip, but the gist is there.

“Oh my God,” Jessica says with a horse laugh. “Screw the drinks. What’s he on? I want some.”

Unnerved, I say firmly, “No drinks. In fact, girls, I think it’s time you both went home. I need to get Cooper to bed.”

Nicole is still looking hurt. “But he’s our brother. We want to help.”

“No need. I’ve got him,” Virgin Hal says with a sigh, stepping forward from the hallway where he’s been lurking. He crosses toward us with so much deliberation that I realize he’s been waiting for this: he’s known all along that Cooper was hurt, and hadn’t told me.

I’m furious.

“Oh, hey, Hal,” Cooper says, delighted to see him. “How’s it going?”

“Better for you right now than me, old friend,” Hal says, and bends down to lift my fiancé as gently as if he’s lifting a child. Then he begins to carry Cooper up the stairs—not without some groaning on Cooper’s part, as his cracked ribs are pressed the wrong way, and some grunting on Hal’s part. Huge as Hal is, Cooper isn’t exactly a small guy.

“What floor, Heather?” Hal asks, his voice strained.

“Second is fine,” I say, though Cooper has been spending all his time in my apartment on the third floor since we got engaged. It would serve both of them right if I made them go up another floor. “There’s a bedroom on the left.”

“Thank God,” Hal says, staggering a little.

Nicole and Jessica stand at the bottom of the stairwell in the foyer, craning their necks to watch Hal carry their brother up the steps. It’s an impressive sight, and for once the two of them have been stunned into blessed silence.

Sammy the Schnozz, meanwhile, pulls a messy wad of official-looking forms from the pocket of his khaki pants and hands them to me.

“These are from the hospital,” he says somewhat apologetically. “It’s a simple fracture of the right tibia, they said. In English that means he has a broken ankle. A broken rib too. His face is just bruised. He should be fine in time for the wedding, I swear.”

“What
really
happened to him?” I demand. “I know it wasn’t a car accident, Sammy. And don’t say he came by that shiner while investigating a case of insurance fraud, either.”

Sammy glances at Nicole and Jessica. “Uh. Yeah. I better let him explain that to you.”

Stupid guy code.

“Anyway, he’s got an appointment to see the doctor again on Monday,” Sammy goes on rapidly, perhaps after seeing my face. “Until then he’s supposed to rest and take acetaminophen only, not aspirin, as it impedes healing or something? Who knew? There’s a prescription for some stronger stuff in there too, though they doped him pretty good at the hospital. He’ll probably need to take more later. Oh, and there’s a prescription for crutches too. You’ll need to pick some up for him. They were out of them at the hospital. They said there’s a twenty-four-hour medical supply place over in Chelsea.”

Sammy clears his throat uncomfortably. He’s a skinny guy in a short-sleeved dress shirt and a straw fedora, with the longest nose I’ve ever seen. “And may I just say,” he adds, “I’m real sorry about this, Heather. But in our line of work, you know, it happens.”

“Our line of work?”

I look down at the myriad forms, some yellow, some white, some pink. Since Cooper and I aren’t married yet, I haven’t been able to put him on my New York College health insurance plan, which is excellent. Being self-employed, Cooper is also self-insured, by some plan I believe he found in his favorite reference guide, the phone book. It is the worst insurance in the entire country. I know, because as his bookkeeper, I’m the one who’s had to deal with the company.

You should see the other guy,
Cooper had said. If the other guy is worse off, we might be sued. The police might show up to investigate, or the guy’s friends might show up first, to finish the job. Maybe that’s why Cooper’s asked Hal to come over with all his guns . . .

“Heather, Jessica and I have talked about it, and we’ve decided we’ll go,” Nicole says suddenly, tugging on my shirt sleeve.

I blink at her, startled. “I’m sorry, what?”

“We’ll go get the prescriptions filled, the pills and the crutches,” Nicole says, speaking to me slowly, as if I’m a child. “And then we’ll leave, I swear, if that’s what you want us to do.”

“And I swear I won’t take any of Cooper’s pills,” Jessica adds. “Even though I have nothing to do this weekend, so they’d be excellent for recreational purposes. But I’m really trying to cut down on my recreational drug use and go entirely herbal. And cut down on my alcohol intake, too, of course.”

I look from Sammy to the wad of forms in my hands to the twins. Suddenly I want to cry. Not from feelings of depression, but from gratitude, and, yes, even love. I may not have a family—one I like, anyway—but I seem to have friends.

“You’d do that?” I ask, my voice breaking a little.

Nicole’s jaw drops in shock. “Heather, yes. Of course!”

“Duh, Heather,” Jessica says, rolling her eyes. “We’re your bridesmaids, remember?”

“Which reminds me, you have your final fitting tomorrow.” Nicole bites her lower lip, then releases it, and asks in a rush, “You still want us to be there, right?
Both
of us?”

I’d forgotten all about the fitting. At this point I can no more imagine squeezing in time for a fitting than I can remember the dress I chose so many months ago—but really it was only last May, right after Cooper proposed, when we’d been planning on an elopement.

But I do know one thing.

I say to the twins, tears filling my eyes, “Of course I want you there. Both of you.”

I surreptitiously check the sidewalk before allowing them to leave, making sure it’s free of lurking white Escalades, then triple lock the door behind the twins and turn to demand of Sammy, “All right, who was it who did that to Cooper? Tell me the truth. Was it a guy named Hamad?”

“Hamad?” Sammy looks confused.

“Sammy, don’t play dumb with me. I know this fight Cooper got into had something to do with me, or Hal wouldn’t be here, insisting I carry a gun to work tomorrow. So tell it to me straight. Was it more than one guy? Were they foreign? Were they driving an Escalade?”

Sammy looks even more confused. “There was only one guy, and he wasn’t in an Escalade. His name was Ricardo.”

I stare at Sammy, dumbfounded. Now I’m the one who’s confused.

“Ricardo?” I echo. I’m certain I haven’t heard him correctly. “Ricardo is my mother’s boyfriend. Or ex-boyfriend, I guess. She says they’ve had a falling out . . .”

“Exactly,” Sammy says. “But not to worry. From what I understand, Coop took care of that creep good. When this Ricardo jokester is released from the hospital, where he’s currently being treated for the broken nose and pelvis Cooper gave ’im, he’ll be taken straight to the Tombs, then on to Rikers, where scum like him belongs. Coop, he knows how to handle his business, you know what I mean?”

I murmur, “Yeah, I know what you mean,” because I can’t think of anything else to say.