Wanted Wed or Alive: Thyme's Wedding

by Melissa F. Miller

  I force my shaking legs into motion. As I walk past Victor, he reaches for my hand. He pulls me close and kisses my forehead.

  The dentist snorts. “Touching.”

  I rise up on my toes and wrap my arms around his neck, hugging him close. “I love you,” I whisper loudly.

  “I love you more,” he purrs, lowering his chin.

  I press my forehead against his and whisper, more quietly this time, “Close the door behind you. Slam it in her face.”

  It’s a risk, sure, but moving to a second location with an armed captor? That’s a bigger one. Besides, I have to assume the gun’s safety is engaged. After all, the woman is a dentist. She’s educated, organized, and, presumably, she doesn’t have a death wish.

  He nods again, almost imperceptibly. It’s a terrible plan, but it’s the one we’re going to have to go with.

  “Okay, lovebirds, the tender moment’s over. Get out there.”

  I swallow and turn away from Victor. My steps are measured and as steady as I can manage, which isn’t very steady.

  I hear the rustle of Victor’s pants as he follows me toward the door. I cross the threshold and step out into the hallway. A second later, Victor steps out, and pulls the door closed behind him with a thunderous bang.

  “Run!”

  He could have saved his breath, because I’m already sprinting for the stairwell. He’s right behind. We reach the stairs and push the heavy fire door open together. I hurtle myself down the metal stairs. Our shoes clang against the stairs, and the sound echoes off the walls, as we race down four flights.

  My breath is ragged and my hands are shaking so badly I can’t even grip the banister. Above us, a slam reverberates as the dentist pursues us. We’ve got a decent lead, though. We might actually make it out of here.

  I launch myself, clear the final three stairs in a leap, and use my momentum to push down on the metal bar that opens the exit door.

  I’m outside. The kiss of cool air is a gift.

  I stumble out into the alleyway and keep running, arms and legs pumping. I won’t stop until I reach Rosemary’s catering van. I can hear Victor’s feet slapping the pavement, a half-step behind me. As we near the van, he pours on a burst of speed and passes me.

  He skids to a stop beside the rear right wheel and hunches over, blindly feeling for the mints tin. I throw a frantic glance behind me. Alexis Pridemore is trotting toward us, lab coat flapping. Two factors tilt in our favor: one, she’s pocketed the gun; and two, her sensible heels are slowing her down some.

  “Let me.” I bump him out of my way and contort myself so I can see the underside of the wheel well.

  Please, please, don’t let the tin have been dislodged during the drive from California to Arizona.

  I squint up at the wheel well and spot the shiny silver container. I pull it off and toss it to Victor while easing myself to standing.

  He palms it, slides the lid open, and jams his thumb down on the unlock button. The van beeps obligingly.

  I risk another backward glance, just in time to see Dr. Pridemore stop abruptly about ten feet away. She plants her feet in a wide-legged stance and reaches into her right pocket.

  “She’s going for her gun!”

  Victor yanks the driver’s side door open and jumps behind the wheel. I wrench the passenger door open and fling myself into the seat. He starts the engine while I fumble with my seatbelt.

  “Where am I going?” he yells as the van rumbles to life.

  “Just drive,” I tell him as I watch the dentist in the side mirror. “Fast.”

  He peels out of the parking spot and careens toward the street. Dr. Pridemore raises the weapon, takes aim, and fires. The shot pings into the rear doors.

  Victor jerks his head wildly and wrenches the steering wheel to the right. The tires squeal in response.

  “She’s shooting at us?”

  I keep my eyes on the mirror as I answer him. “I think she’s aiming for the rear tires, but she’s not a very good shot.”

  “That’s comforting … I guess.”

  “It’s better than the alternative. No, wait, she’s getting in her car. Gun it—go!”

  “Where?”

  “Um, head toward the lake,” I tell him as I fumble for my phone.

  He floors the gas pedal, and the van lurches forward for a moment, then we rocket out of the commercial district and onto a residential road.

  I’m trembling, awash in adrenaline, and it takes me three tries to unlock my phone. Finally, I navigate to my texts and find the one I sent to Victor while I was talking to Rosemary.

  “We’re looking for Winter Lake Village. They’re at 24 Holly Branch Court, but we’re supposed to leave the car on the outskirts of the neighborhood.”

  “We’ll see if we have company when we get there. We’re safer in here if that trigger-happy dentist is on the prowl.”

  His eyes drift up to the rearview mirror. Mine follow. The road is empty. There’s nobody behind us … yet.

  Chapter 16

  Sage

  Rosemary’s pacing, back and forth, back and forth, in front of Fake Thyme’s mantle and gas fireplace. As Dad would say if he were here, she’s wearing a path in the carpet.

  “Anything?” I ask, even though I know the answer is no. I’m leaning against the wall all of about three feet away from her path. If her text notification sounds, I’ll hear it.

  Her eyes are glued to her phone’s screen, as if her sheer concentration is enough to will a text from Thyme into existence. She doesn’t answer me or even give any indication that she heard me.

  This isn’t good. I leave her to her back-and-forth loop and go off in search of Dave and Roman. Mainly, Dave, to be honest. Because if anyone can deal with Rosemary in her intense state, I hope it’s Dave.

  I find them in the garage. If you can call the space a garage. ‘Garage’ more or less suggests that the space is devoted to storing a vehicle, maybe some yard tools, a lawnmower, bicycles, holiday decorations—the usual. I suppose a workbench or other hobbyist gear would also fit within the traditional definition of a garage.

  But this … is not that.

  The space is spotless. The concrete floor is swept clean and painted a glossy white. The walls are lined floor to ceiling on three sides with shelving. And I’m not talking about the wire racks available at the big box home improvement stores. This place looks like a retail warehouse ate a smaller retail warehouse and vomited up the contents. These are heavy-duty shelves. They’re deep, solid, and jam-packed with items. The center of the garage—the spot where one would typically find a car—holds a long white counter. A cash register and a rack full of bags anchors one end of the counter. I spot shelves behind the counter that hold neat stacks of cash register tape, a credit card reader, that stiff white paper used to wrap fragile items, bubble wrap, packing tape, clear tape, and twine. The counter is highlighted by warm recessed lighting.

  “What in the …?” I trail off, unable to even form a suitable question.

  Roman laughs. “Crazy, right?”

  “Is this … Santa’s workshop? Or wrapping station?” I finally manage.

  Dave throws his hands up. “It might as well be. But, no, apparently it’s Thyme’s Time to Shop.”

  “Pardon?”

  He edges past me and picks up a roll of preprinted stickers. The circular labels all read ‘Thyme’s Time to Shop’ in a fussy pink script. The font, more than anything else related to the theft of my baby sister’s identity, seems to be the ultimate affront.

  “See?”

  “Uh. Oh-kay?”

  Roman makes a sweeping gesture that encompasses the shelving and its contents. “She was selling all this stuff. Out of her garage, apparently.”

  I survey the rows and rows of plastic tubs. “What is it?”

  “Mainly leggings.”

  “Pardon?” I realize I sound like a hard-of-hearing parrot, but my brain isn’t quite able to take in the information it’s receiving. It’s ki
nd of disorienting.

  “Leggings. Really soft, colorful leggings.” Roman’s voice holds a hint of longing.

  “You … want to wear leggings?”

  We’re still newlyweds. I’m not entirely sure how to handle this admission, confession, whatever it is—but I don’t think he should be making it in front of our brother-in-law. I cut my eyes toward Dave, who is convulsing and red-faced. He’s either choking or trying not to laugh.

  “What? No. I’m just saying they feel like butter.” Roman walks over to the nearest shelf, pulls a plastic tub out from its spot, and pries off the lid. He removes a pair of coral-and-gray ikat-printed leggings and thrusts them at me. “Here. Feel this.”

  Perplexed and oddly embarrassed, I stroke the fabric. Okay, he’s right. It feels like butter. Or suede. Or sueded butter. Instantly, I want—no, need–to encase my legs with this material. Actually, what I want is to rub it against my cheek and sigh contentedly, but I restrain myself. I can’t, however, quite suppress the moan of desire that escapes my lips.

  “Um, what size are these?”

  He snatches them back. “Focus, Sage.”

  I shake my head and snap back to reality. What’s wrong with me? My sister and her husband-to-be are being detained by a gun-wielding dentist who’s set the whole town after us, and I’m lusting after a pair of leggings?

  “Right.” I nod briskly to let him know I’ve got myself in hand. He starts to shove the leggings back into the bin. “Hey, why don’t you … you know, leave those on the counter. For later.”

  He shoots me a look of pure disdain, and I muster a shrug and a sheepish smile. You have to understand, the cloth feels like liquid, or clouds, or … unicorn fur.

  “So, Fake Thyme must’ve been selling this crap out of her garage,” Dave interjects.

  I scan the shelves once more. “All of these bins are filled with leggings?”

  “Most of them,” Roman clarifies. “Some of them hold colorful plastic containers, exercise bands, workout DVDs, and plastic shake containers.”

  “Oh!”

  My husband and my brother-in-law shoot me identical expressions of surprise. I guess the exclamation was more emphatic than I realized.

  “Sorry, I know what that stuff is. Show me a box?”

  Dave crosses the garage and removes a bin from the shelves closest to the bay door. He thumps it down on the counter.

  I take off the lid and peer inside. “Mmm-hmm, just as I thought.”

  “Don’t keep us in suspense, Sherlock,” Roman cracks.

  “Well, my dear Watson, it’s elementary. This—,” I pause dramatically and remove a glossy pamphlet/recipe book/workout program/journaling tool from the tub with a flourish, “—is the Fit-tastic Shape System guaranteed to mold you into the best version of you in forty-five days or your money back!”

  Both men stare at me blankly—by which I mean, they show no spark of recognition, no soupçon of wry amusement, no abashed smile of acknowledgment that they, too, have, in a weak moment, been tempted by (or even fallen prey to) the glittery promises of the Fit-tastic Shape System monolith.

  After a long, silent moment, I let the promotional material fall from my hand and flutter to the counter.

  “Seriously? Nothing?”

  Just then, the door from the house opens, and Rosemary enters the garage, still laser-focused on her phone, which answers the unasked question: she hasn’t heard from Thyme.

  She glances up from her phone and spots the brochure. “Fake Thyme was doing Fit-tastic Shape?”

  “I think she was selling it,” I tell her, tilting the box filled with portion control containers and the workout gear toward her.

  “Huh. That’s a racket.”

  “Tell me about it.” I can hear the smug note in my voice, but I can’t help it. And to be honest, I’m not ashamed of it. I feel vindicated. Even if my husband and hers have no idea about the octopus-like reach of the Fit-tastic Shape devotees and their seductive promises, Rosemary knows. She knows.

  “Ugh. Maybe one of her downlines killed her.” Rosemary chuckles.

  As far as I know, neither Rosemary nor Thyme has ever fallen sway to a multilevel marketing company. That’s one benefit of being raised by hippies: the need to conform, to succumb to peer pressure is utterly nonexistent. Speaking for myself, I’ve never been remotely tempted by the promises of luxury cars, tropical vacations, and economic independence.

  But. And it’s a big but. I have loads of friends who’ve decided to supplement their family’s income by selling essential oils or purses or natural cleaning supplies or, um, marital aids. And I dutifully present myself at myriad girls’ nights or brunches or cocktail hours that I know full well come with an expectation that I’ll buy something, anything.

  And I do.

  I peruse the catalog and find the second least expensive item (because the least expensive item is a glaring neon sign that screams ‘I’m only doing this because we’re friends’). That’s what I buy. No matter what it is. This is the reason I am the proud owner of a hand-painted ceramic cat dish (but no cat), a face cream made from rare mushrooms that smells like death, a bespoke passport holder, and … one set of Fit-tastic Shape Perfect Portion Boxes, still shrink-wrapped.

  “She also sold leggings, apparently,” I tell Rosemary. “Really soft leggings.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Dave tells her, aiming a thumb toward the shelves near the light switch. “But proceed with caution. Your sister, Captain Ahab over here, has already fallen under the spell of that great white whale known as comfy leggings.”

  Rosemary snorts, and I roll my eyes. I know my own husband would sport a pair if I could find a size that fit his muscular golfer thighs. After a second, her laughter dies, and she narrows her eyes.

  “Soft, colorful leggings?” she wants to know.

  “Well, yeah,” Dave says.

  “Come here.” I lead her to the shelves and open an extra-large bin to show her the mother lode.

  “Hmm.” She takes out a pair of leggings embossed with rainbow-colored foil butterflies and considers them. “Thyme has a bunch of these.”

  “She does?” Thyme has never struck me as a butterfly-type gal, but live and learn.

  “Well, not these exact ones. Not this pattern. But this brand—MiMiMew.”

  “You’re sure? This brand here?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I guess we didn’t tell you because you were on your honeymoon. After your wedding, Mom and Dad’s … um … escort—”

  “Prison guard?”

  “Well, yeah. But turns out he’s also a YouLift driver. Anyway, he drove us all to the airport, Me and Dave and Thyme and Victor—”

  “Wait. With Mom and Dad, what, handcuffed in the third row?”

  “Um … well, yeah.”

  “Rosemary!”

  “Oh, come on, Sage. They didn’t mind. It meant they got to spend more time with us.”

  “You’re shameless.”

  “Anyway. He got my bag and Thyme’s mixed up, and I didn’t realize it until I got home and opened my bag to unpack. It was crammed full of—”

  “MiMiMew leggings?” I venture.

  “MiMiMew leggings.”

  As weird as this news is, it pales in comparison to what happens next: An air raid siren blares.

  I jump. Dave drops a bin on his foot. And poor Mona Lisa wedges herself under the counter and covers her ears with her paws.

  “Now what?” Rosemary shouts.

  I’m beyond afraid to find out the answer to that question. But, by all appearances, of its own volition, Fake Thyme’s automatic garage door begins its slow, jerky rise. I believe I’m going to learn the answer whether I want to or not.

  Rosemary weaves her elbow under mine and pulls me close. I reach for Roman with my free hand, and Dave links up on the other side of Rosemary. I square my shoulders. If nothing else, we’ll present a unified front to … whatever we’re about to meet.

  Chapter 17


  Rosemary

  To say that I’m utterly bewildered by what we found in the garage/showroom/warehouse is a huge understatement. The addition of a blaring air raid siren and a garage door that appears to be demonically possessed—or at least sentient—serve only to compound my befuddlement.

  As the door inches higher, time seems to slow down. I’m suspended, waiting with equal parts dread and anticipation, for what will come. The good news is this drama is providing a measure of distraction from my concerns about Thyme and Victor.

  To my left, Dave’s gone rigid. He’s at attention, alert and ready to spring into action at the first whiff of danger. To my right, Sage is sniffing the air, her nose twitching as if she’s a rabbit. Mona Lisa mirrors her from her spot under the counter.

  “Do you smell that?” Sage murmurs.

  I inhale through my nose. It’s not the scent of danger. It’s something familiar … sweet and salty and on the cusp of burnt. I can’t place it, though.

  “Is that kettle corn?” Roman ventures.

  I think he’s right. Why kettle corn? I can’t imagine. But at this point, everything about Snow City points to the limitations of my imagination. All I can do is wait to see what happens next.

  The garage door continues its upward journey, revealing a pair of feet encased in green plastic clogs just on the other side, at the top of the driveway. The owner of the feet is wearing gray sweatpants. The door jerks up another several inches. The gender and age of the clogs-wearer remain a mystery for now, but the air raid siren goes silent, which is a blessed relief—although in the sudden stillness, I realize that my ears are ringing.

  I ignore the sensation and focus on the person in the driveway as the door rolls up the track. The visitor is a woman—barely more than a girl, really. She looks to be five or six years younger than I am. In her early twenties, if I have to guess.