The Bride Wore Size 12 (29 page)

36

T
he bullet lodges itself neatly into the back of Howard’s hand, the one holding the knife.

Fortunately, instead of raking the knife across Kaileigh’s throat, Howard’s hand jerks upward and out from the force of the bullet, and the knife clatters harmlessly to the floor. Hal had the foresight to load the pistol with small-caliber hollow-point ammunition, so that instead of traveling through Howard’s hand and into Kaileigh’s neck, the bullet stays in Howard’s flesh, expanding upon entering its target. Not at all appropriate for squirrel hunting, but highly effective for stopping mentally unstable boys holding young women hostage at serrated knifepoint.

“Ow!” Howard screams, waving his smoking hand in the air. “Ow! Why did you do that? That really hurt!”

I lower the gun, my hands shaking uncontrollably.

Howard doesn’t know how lucky he is. I was aiming for the center of his head, the largest part of his body not covered by part of Kaileigh’s. It was a perfect target.

Thank God I missed.

The next thing I know, SWAT officers from the Sixth Precinct are swarming the Fischer Hall cafeteria screaming, “Freeze! NYPD! Everyone down on the floor!”

Both Howard and I are pressed to the floor by police officers dressed all in Kevlar and holding assault rifles. Howard is quickly arrested and taken away. Mr. and Mrs. Harris fall upon Kaileigh, who is shaken up but unhurt, except for a superficial cut on her neck. They shower her with kisses and promises that they will never, ever leave her side again.

It’s not until much later, as I’m sitting at a table in the cafeteria—where I’ve been commanded to stay by the unit supervisor—picking pieces of honeydew out of my hair, that Detective Canavan saunters over and sits down beside me.

He has a mug of steaming coffee for himself in one hand and another mug piled high with whipped cream in the other. He slides the mug piled high with whipped cream toward me.

“So, Wells,” he says. “What’s this I hear about you shooting the perp in the hand with an unregistered and unlicensed target pistol?”

“It’s not true.” Magda is sitting beside me, helping to pick pieces of melon from my hair, one of the unfortunate consequences of having been forced to lie on the cafeteria floor for so long. “I didn’t see a gun. And no one can find a gun. So, there is no gun. Is there, Heather?”

“It’s not true,” I say, taking a sip from the mug Canavan has slid my way. It’s coffee mixed with a generous portion of hot cocoa. In fact, it would be more accurate to call it hot cocoa with a splash of coffee. How did he remember? “What would a girl like me be doing with a gun, anyway? Hey—” I jerk the mug away from my lips. “Is there
alcohol
in this?”

Canavan shrugs. “There might be a little whiskey. In my personal experience, it’s the only thing that works on the shakes.”

I glance down at my fingers, which are still trembling. I quickly pull both my hands beneath the table.

“I didn’t think anyone had noticed,” I murmur, staring down at the whipped cream floating on the top of my drink.

“No one has, I don’t think,” Canavan says. “Takes someone who’s been in your same shoes to see it.” He doesn’t mention the details—who he shot when he was in my shoes, or how it turned out. He doesn’t have to. “The boy’ll be all right—fit enough to stand trial, anyway, for murdering the first girl and attempting to murder the reporter and the other girl, today. He won’t lose the hand either.”

“That’s good,” I murmur, remembering Howard’s scream as the bullet entered his skin.
Why did you do that? That really hurt!

Canavan curls a lip, amused by my expression. “You really need to toughen up a little, Wells, if you’re serious about getting a degree in criminology. All these mutts have a sob story about why they did the things they did, and a lot of them are pretty good. Hit you right here.” He points to his heart. “On the other hand, there are millions of other people out there in the world with stories that are equally heartbreaking, and guess what? They
didn’t
solve their problems by sticking their hands over a girl’s face to suffocate her, or by trying to choke some other guy to death with his earbuds. So don’t let ’em get to you. Now. Where’s the gun?”

I raise my eyes, widening them innocently the way Howard had. “Gun? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Detective.”

“Cut the crap, Wells. Someone shot that kid. To get off a shot like that, and without injuring a hair on that girl’s head, would take a pretty decent marksman.”

“Or markswoman,” I point out. “Women are actually thought to be better shots than men, overall, because they have lighter grips and lower centers of gravity, and so a firmer stance.”

Canavan stares at me with something akin to horror. “Who the hell told you that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “I read it on the Internet. Why, is it not true?”

“Not in my experience,” he says. “My wife and daughters won’t go anywhere near the range, and God knows I’ve been trying to get them to for the past twenty years.”

“Lack of interest,” I say, “and lack of skill are two entirely different things.”

“Did you shoot the damned kid or not, Wells? Hostage says you did.”

I’ve long since disposed of the evidence. It’s amazing what a girl can do if she’s resourceful enough, has worked in the same building long enough, and knows enough people in the right places. Oh, and is getting married in a month, and leaving for her honeymoon in Venice, and doesn’t want to deal with the hassle of an unlawful-use or possession-of-firearm charge that might keep her from traveling outside the country.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Detective,” I say sweetly.

“Neither do I,” Magda says. “I was there, and I saw the whole thing. I don’t know where the shot came from. Somewhere over there, maybe.” She points in the direction of the snack-cake rack. “Oh, he’s gone. Well, it could have been him. You know, that little girl was hysterical. Who knows what she saw?”

She finds another piece of melon in my hair and drops it onto the table.

Detective Canavan looks dissatisfied. “Right,” he says. “Why don’t I believe you two?”

I shrug. “This job has hardened you,” I say. “You really should think about retiring. Maybe let a younger detective take over for you. Maybe even me, someday.”

“God help this city if that ever happens,” Canavan mutters. He scoots his chair from the table and says, as he leaves, “Use bar soap and water on your hands, none of that antibacterial stuff. That’s the best way to remove gunpowder residue. And for God’s sake, go home to that boyfriend of yours. And finish that.” He points at the mug in front of me. “That’s an order.”

“She can’t go home,” Magda says matter-of-factly as she begins to braid my hair. I’m afraid to look at what she’s styling it into. “She has her final fitting for her wedding gown. It’s in half an hour.”

I groan. I’d forgotten all about it.

“Oh God,” I say. “I think I’m going to have to postpone that.”

“No,” Magda says, smacking me lightly on top of the head. “You can’t do that! It’s important! You have to look your best for the big day. You can’t disappoint Cooper. Besides, we’re all coming, to see how the dress has turned out.”

I groan again, and reach for the drink Canavan has doctored. “Magda, no. It’s all the way uptown and I’m just not feeling up to riding the subway right now. I’m too, uh, beautiful—”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Canavan says disgustedly. He turns and whistles at a uniformed officer walking by. “You. Sullivan. C’mere.”

The officer hurries over. “Sir?”

“You got a patrol car, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Drive these two ladies uptown,” he says.

Officer Sullivan looks down at us in confusion. “Sir?”

“They’ve got a very important appointment,” Canavan explains tersely. “Use your lights and siren. They can’t be late.”

Sullivan looks even more confused. “I’m sorry, sir, which precinct am I taking them to uptown?”

“No precinct,” Canavan roars. “They’ve got a wedding-dress-fitting appointment. Now go!”

Which is how, forty-five minutes later, Magda and I find ourselves outside the boutique at which I bought my wedding dress, thanking Officer Sullivan and his partner, who both seem highly amused by the unusual mission.

“Next time I have an emergency,” Magda coos across the sidewalk, blowing them kisses, “I’m only calling you two!”

“You do that,” Officer Sullivan says, and smiles as he waves back. There are probably worse ways a police officer can spend a morning than transporting two blondes in the back of his cruiser.

Before I touch the door to the boutique, it’s yanked open, and Nicole Cartwright is standing there wearing a butter-yellow jumpsuit and a stricken expression on her face.

“Where have you been?” she demands. “You’re late.”

“Only a little late,” I say. “There was traffic by the Pan Am Building.”

“You couldn’t have called?” Nicole demands. “It never occurred to you that things might have gotten a little hectic here too?”

“At the bridal shop?” Magda looks at me, her drawn-on eyebrows raised. “What happened? Has someone had diarrhea in the sink like in that movie about the bridesmaids?”

“Oh my God, Huey, chill.” Jessica suddenly appears in the doorway, a glass of champagne in one hand and her cell phone in the other. “Quit blocking the doorway and let them in.”

“I’ve told you to stop calling me—”

The door is torn open from behind Jessica, and suddenly Cooper appears on crutches, his face dark with beard scruff, not to mention new purple bruises that are only now beginning to show.

“Where is she?” he demands, squinting in the sunlight. Then he sees me and, despite the obvious pain he’s in, begins to hobble toward me. “Don’t you ever—”

I have no idea what kind of threat he’s about to deliver, because I run toward him to wrap both arms around his neck and kiss him on the mouth, forgetting all about his bruised lips. He appears to forget about them too, and his cracked ribs as well, pulling me tight against his heart and filling me with the crisp clean Cooper-ish scent of him.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper, when he finally releases me—which he has to do, since he needs at least one arm to balance on his crutches. “You’re supposed to be home, resting.”

“You think I could stay in bed after hearing you
shot
someone?” he whispers back, his blue eyes looking a little moist. “And then went to try on
wedding dresses
? You crazy kook.”

“Just one wedding dress,” I say. “And you can’t see me in it. It’s bad luck.”

“I think we’ve had all the bad luck any two human beings are allowed in one lifetime. It’s time our luck changes for the better.”

I kiss him on the nose, the one part of his face that escaped his encounter with Ricardo. “Then don’t look at me in my dress until the big day.”

The one arm he’s kept around me tightens. “Deal. And don’t you shoot anyone else until the big day. Unless they deserve it, like I hear the kid today did.”

I squeeze him back. “Deal.”

“Wow, Heather, I love your hair like that,” Jessica says as Cooper and I enter the shop, reaching up to touch the French braid Magda’s given me. “That’s a good look for you. Anyway, don’t listen to Nicole, it’s not that big a deal.”

“What’s not that big a deal?” I ask. The owner of the shop, Lizzie Nichols, gives me a warm greeting, pours glasses of champagne for both Magda and me, then goes to make sure everything is ready in my dressing room, including the vintage wedding gown I’ve purchased from her, which she’s been busy adjusting to my exact measurements. I’m not too surprised to see that Hal has accompanied Cooper to the shop and has taken up residency on a pink fainting couch beside a shabby-chic ivory-colored coffee table, looking completely uncomfortable and out of place.

I
am
a little surprised to see that in a gingham fabric armchair not too far from him sits Sammy the Schnozz, looking much more at ease, scrolling through messages on his smartphone (being a pawnbroker is a full-time business, after all).

What surprises me even more is when I hear a delicate cough from behind me, and I turn around.

It’s my mother.

37

R
eally?” I ask in disbelief.

Because I haven’t been through enough in one day? I’ve had one resident reveal he’s put his and another resident’s lives at risk by entering into a marriage forbidden by his criminally despotic father.

I’ve had to shoot another resident because he took a student hostage at knifepoint.

And now
this
?

I’m ready to turn around and walk straight out of the shop, champagne glass still in hand, when my father, of all people, stops me by blocking the door with his body.

“Just listen to what your mother has to say, Heather.” His voice registers weary resignation.

“Why?” I demand flatly. “I’m tired. I have watermelon in my hair. I want to try on my wedding dress and then go have a nice lunch with my friends, like a normal person. I don’t want to listen to any more bullshit excuses from anyone, Dad,
especially
Mom. Honestly, I can’t take it anymore.”

“Darling, I know,” my mother says, moving toward me. She’s wearing a long dove-gray tunic over soft, draping gray trousers and enough silver jewelry to choke a horse. Every time she moves, the chains around her neck and bangles at her wrists tinkle musically, exactly as they had the night she’d invited herself over to Cooper’s brownstone. “I’m so, so sorry about what happened to Cooper—not to mention what I understand you went through this morning. But what happened with Cooper . . . that was my fault, and I couldn’t be more sorry.”

My eyes fill with tears—and ridiculously, almost more than anything else today, this is what enrages me the most. Why do I feel like crying over something this stupid woman has said?

“You’re sorry for
that
?” I demand. “Not that you shouldn’t be . . . you should. But out of everything,
that
’s
what you’re sorry for? You aren’t even responsible for that. Ricardo did that, not you.”

“Yes, yes,” my mother says. “But I should have known better than to think he wouldn’t find me here, even if I did try to keep a low profile. You don’t need this on top of all the other stresses you have.”

By “this” she appears to mean Cooper’s injuries. She gestures toward him as she says it, the bangles on her wrists tinkling.

I stare at her. I’m not the only one. All of my bridesmaids, and Cooper and his friends, are staring at her, too.

The urge to weep has left me.

“What stresses?” I ask my mother. “You mean wedding stresses?”

“Well, those,” she says, “and everything else your father’s told me about. I mean, my God, Heather, giving up your music? Working in a dorm? Do you think this is the life I’d hoped you’d have? Of course not.”

I feel as if the ground beneath me is moving—like a subway train is passing beneath us. But there’s no subway station nearby. What I’m feeling is a seismic shift in my emotions. A therapist would probably call it a breakthrough.

“What’s so wrong with my life?” I demand. “I’m surrounded here in this shop with people who love me.”

Well, except for Patty. Where
is
she? On the other hand, dancers are notoriously late for everything, and pregnant dancers are even worse.

“I do something I love for a living,” I go on, “that helps others and gives me meaning in my life. I’m also going to school and studying to get a degree in something I believe in, something that I hope will make a difference in the world someday. I’m marrying the man I love, who loves me back—”

I throw a smile at Cooper, who smiles back so encouragingly as he leans on his crutches between his two sisters that I can feel his love radiating through me. It more than makes up for the love this woman has withheld from me.

“We’re going to start a life together,” I say to my mother. “It may not be the kind of life you’d want, Mom, but it’s exactly what I want. So why exactly did you have to come here now and try to mess it up?”

My mother blinks back at me, as well as at all my friends, who are glaring at her with what I can only call extreme hostility. Magda looks ready to grab the nearest champagne bottle and smash it over Mom’s head, and I can’t help noticing that Hal has one hand inside his duffel bag, which of course he’s brought with him, sitting at his feet. Even Jessica has folded her rail-thin arms across her chest and narrowed her heavily lined eyes at my mother, like she’s waiting for the signal for the bitch slapping to begin, and Nicole has both her plump hands squeezed into indignant fists. Sammy the Schnozz has actually looked up from his cell phone, shocked into paying attention to something other than falling gold prices.

In the ensuing silence, Lizzie Nichols, has come back into the waiting area.

“Well,” she says brightly. “Everything’s ready if you’d like to try on your dress now, Heath . . .”

Her voice trails off as she senses the tension in the room.

“Or maybe,” she says, slowly backing away, as if from a coiled rattlesnake, “you and your family need a few more minutes. Why don’t I come back later?”

She gives a bright smile and hurries away as quickly as her stylish, but extremely narrow, pencil skirt will allow.

My father breaks the silence.

“I think what Heather is looking for,” he says to my mother, “is an apology. Not only for what happened to Cooper, but for . . . well, everything.”

My mother nods. Now she’s the one who appears resigned.

“I can see that,” she says with a sigh. “I do have a way of mucking things up, don’t I? But contrary to popular opinion, I didn’t come here to try to mess up your life, Heather. Not on purpose, anyway.” She walks toward the coffee table Hal is sitting beside and removes one of her jangly silver bracelets, dropping it onto the glass table cover. “I actually came here with the intention of trying to set things right between us.” Another bracelet joins the first. “But as usual, what I wanted to say to you didn’t come out the right way. I’ve always had problems expressing myself—unlike you. And then, of course, there’s what happened to Cooper. I know you don’t want anything more to do with me. That’s probably better for everyone concerned. Ricardo will be making bail soon, and I wouldn’t want to put any of you in danger by letting you know where you can find me, in case he asks.”

She scoops off a few of the silver necklaces and drops them beside the bracelets. They make a surprisingly solid thunk on the glass.

“So trust me,” Mom goes on. “I won’t bother you again, Heather. The truth is, I never did get the hang of this mothering thing. Not everyone has the maternal instinct, you know. I read in a magazine once that some female mammals abandon their young in the wild. They simply can’t be bothered. It’s not the fault of the offspring. It’s a faulty gene in the mother. The mothering gene, it’s called. They lack it. I think I do too. In other words, Heather—” She pulls out both her long, sparkly chandelier earrings and lays them beside the rest of her jewelry on the coffee table. “It was never you, darling. It was me.”

I stare at her bewilderedly. “I know that, Mom,” I say. “Why are you taking off all your jewelry?”

“Oh.” She looks down at the pile as if realizing for the first time it’s there. “Call it a wedding present, if you like.”

“Mom.” I’m not angry at her anymore. How can I be, when I have such a rich life, and hers is so pathetic? Plus I’ve said everything I needed to say to her. I’m feeling pretty good. “I don’t want your old jewelry.”

“Oh,” she says lightly. “I think you do. Consider it your ‘something borrowed.’ ”

She steps forward to give me a quick hug. Now that all her necklaces and bracelets are gone, she doesn’t jingle when she walks.

I don’t want to hug her back, but there’s something about being hugged by your mother that makes it impossible to not at least raise your arms and put them around her. The scent of her Chanel is as familiar to me, in a way, as the scent of Cooper’s shampoo and laundry detergent. And also as comforting, even though she completely betrayed me once.

But it turns out you can’t help loving your mother, no matter how hard you try.

“Good-bye, darling,” she says, and turns and walks swiftly from the shop before I can say another word. My father doesn’t attempt to bar her way.

“What the hell,” Jessica demands, after downing the remains of her champagne, “was that all about?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” I say.

Sammy the Schnozz has begun lifting pieces of the jewelry from the coffee table. Of course he has a loupe, the magnifying eyepiece used to closely examine gems and precious metals. He’s pulled one from his pocket and is studying her bracelets and chains with a jeweler’s concentration.

“She feels bad, Heather,” my father says. “She wanted to make amends.”

Cooper laughs out loud at this.

“She does,” my father insists. “She understands she won’t be welcome at the wedding—and obviously can’t attend because Ricardo will be hunting her—but if you can make a place for her in your heart, Heather—”

There will always be a place for her in my heart, I think. In my life? I’m not so sure.

Sammy the Schnozz whistles, slowly and appreciatively.

“What is it?” I ask him.

He lowers the loupe and looks at me solemnly. “Your mother may lack the maternal instinct, but she sure knows a thing or two about jewelry. These are platinum. All of them. Solid platinum.”

I glance at Cooper, then back at Sammy the Schnozz. “No. No, they’re not. They’re silver. No one walks around wearing that much—”

“Platinum? No one I know. Pirates, maybe. Who else wears their fortune around their necks?”

“Or someone else’s fortune,” Cooper says, looking down at all the softly gleaming metal on the table.

I shake my head, hardly able to comprehend what I’m seeing.

“No,” I say again, shaking my head. “No, she wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t have stolen all my money only to give it back.”

Sammy has his smartphone out and is working the calculator. “She didn’t,” he says. “Platinum is selling high these days, but what you’d get if you sold this by weight”—his fingers fly over the keyboard—“is only about a quarter of a million dollars.”

I glance at Cooper, who returns my stunned gaze. “
Only
a quarter of a million dollars,” I say to him.

“Not nearly what she owes you,” he says. “But a start.” A grin begins to spread across his face. He holds out one arm, and I step into his embrace. “We could definitely upgrade the honeymoon.”

“Or,” I say, “we could turn the basement into a nice apartment, and then rent it out and make a healthy return on our investment.”

“So practical,” Cooper says, kissing me. “Such an amazing head for money.”

“And she’s got really good aim,” Virgin Hal adds shyly.

“Don’t forget,” my father, the convict, hastens to add, “whatever you do, you’ll have to pay taxes on the sale of the jewelry.”

“Thanks for the reminder, Dad,” I say, looking up from Cooper’s chest. “Did you know anything about this?”

“Well,” Dad says, looking a little sheepish. “I can’t say I’m entirely surprised. I knew your mother wanted to make amends, and I knew she and Ricardo had split up, judging from some phone conversations I’ve heard her making. I knew she took something of his, and he wanted it back—”

“No wonder she said to consider it something borrowed!” Magda cries, pointing at the jewelry. “She stole it!”

“From
my
manager, who stole it from me first. That jewelry is mine,” I declare. “It’s the only restitution I’m going to get.”

“Damn straight,” Cooper says, nodding at Hal. “Confiscate it, in the name of the law. Heather’s law,” he adds, winking at me.

“I’ll be happy to,” Hal says, and sweeps the jewelry into his duffel bag.

“How are we doing out here?” Lizzie, the proprietor of the salon, pops her head back into the waiting room. “Are we feeling ready to try on a wedding dress now?”

“You know what?” I say, turning to her. “I absolutely am.”

“Well, then,” she says, looking pleased. “Follow me.”

And so I do.