“I think it’s wonderful,” she said, winking at Alex as she caught the bride’s gaze. “Christmas will just start a day early this year. These Texas McCrimmons really know how to celebrate.” Wyatt held her closer and danced her past the long table that stretched along one entire side of the billowy white tent. The evening was more crisp than cold, and the strategically placed space heaters remained unlit. At one end of the table stood an enormous wedding cake topped with flowers; at the other end a fountain bubbled with champagne. In between lay all manner of Christmas delicacies, from Georgia sugared pecans to great platters of Texas barbecue, interspersed with conveniently placed bottles of Jack Daniel’s whiskey. A number of Stetson hats bobbed among the crowd of bare-headed Atlantans, but nobody seemed to mind. The Texas McCrimmons and the Carters from Georgia got along famously, finding as all Southerners can, common ground in good food and strong whiskey.
The song ended. Wyatt escorted her off the dance floor, next to the only other woman dressed in the same long, elegant green gown as Mary.
Joan Marchetti grinned at Mary. “Some bash, huh?”
“I’ll say. I nearly cried.”
“Me, too,” said Joan. “Particularly when that bagpiper cranked up and led them away from the altar. Jeez! They call that music?”
“I think it’s some kind of tradition with them,” Mary explained. “Means good luck or lots of children or something.”
Joan rolled her eyes. Mary studied her friend in the soft, diffused light. Joan, too, had been a victim of that camping trip from hell. She’d been raped and beaten—her nose broken so severely that even the simple act of breathing had been nearly impossible. Today, the only evidence of her injuries was a tiny red scar curled alongside one nostril. Her Uncle Nick had gotten her the best plastic surgeon in Manhattan. The results were amazing. Her skin had regained its creamy luminosity, and her dark Italian eyes again flashed with life.
“Alex makes a beautiful bride, doesn’t she?”
Mary nodded, recalling the little stone church all bedecked in green holly and white orchids and Joan’s voice soaring high into the air, the notes floating so perfect and beautiful that everyone held their breath. “She looked gorgeous. And you sang like an angel.”
“Thanks.” Joan smiled, then leaned over to whisper in Mary’s ear. “I was hoping Jonathan might be here. . . .”
Mary hastily shook her head. “I haven’t heard from Jonathan since my grandmother died. He sent me a card from Little Jump Off.”
“You miss him a lot, don’t you?” Joan asked it softly.
Mary nodded. “I miss both of them a lot.” An odd little bubble of sadness encompassed the two friends, then the band started up again. As Hugh Chandler, Joan’s longtime boyfriend, appeared from the buffet table and swept Joan onto the dance floor, Mary again felt Wyatt’s hand on her arm.
“May I have another dance, Ms. Crow?” he asked, courtly as ever.
“I’d love to, Wyatt.” Mary winked at Joan as she and Hugh swirled into a sea of couples. “Dance on, girlfriend,” Mary called. “We don’t get the Strutters every day.”
As Joan and Hugh whirled away, Wyatt began a languid two-step, perfect for the soft, soulful version of “Honeysuckle Rose” the Strutters were playing. He led her so perfectly to the rhythm of the music that goose bumps ran down her spine.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d taken dancing lessons.”
“I spent one miserable year at Miss Forte’s Ballroom Academy,” Wyatt drawled. “I was thirteen and stood eyeball to collarbone with every girl in the class.”
Mary laughed. “You must have learned something, though.”
“Oh, I’m terrific when I have the right partner,” he replied, swooping her in another quick, sexy circle.
He pulled her closer. She nestled her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes again. His cheek was smooth and soft and he clasped her hand against his chest so tightly she could feel the beating of his heart. She smiled, ruefully. Every unmarried woman in Atlanta would give her eyeteeth to be dancing with Wyatt Prentiss, the youngest man ever to make partner at Dawson, Church & Gahagan, yet all she could do was compare him with Jonathan Walkingstick. How Wyatt’s muscled shoulders were sculpted at the gym instead of earned in the forest; how the hair on the nape of his neck grew bristly instead of soft; how he smelled of expensive sandalwood cologne, rather than Jonathan’s Ivory soap.
Stop it, she scolded herself. You and Jonathan gave it a shot, but it didn’t work out. Now let it go.
“You okay?” Wyatt was looking down at her.
“Fine,” Mary assured him. “Just trying to keep the beat.”
Wyatt held her closer as the sax player took a long, smoky solo, then the husky-voiced singer began again. Just as the singer started the last chorus, Wyatt began dancing her quickly over to the other side of the floor.
“Is something wrong?” Mary said, lifting her head at his abrupt movements.
“Unless I’m seriously double-parked, I think someone wants to talk to you,” said Wyatt. “There’s a big, mean-looking cop motioning me over.”
Mary looked up, astonished. Wyatt hadn’t been joking. On the far side of the tent stood Martel Madison, former tackle for the Atlanta Falcons, now a Deckard County Sheriff’s deputy assigned to the Courthouse. Although Martel stood with his cap under his arm, trying to look inconspicuous in the frock-coated crowd, he was failing miserably. Two hundred eighty-five solid pounds of armed, deputized power was hard to miss.
“Martel?” Mary failed to keep the surprise out of her voice. “What are you doing here?”
“Mr. Falkner said to come get you. He needs to see you right now.”
“What’s the matter?” Mary had nothing on the docket; she wasn’t scheduled to even show up in court until after New Year’s.
“Don’t know. He’s up in his office with Santa Claus pants on, talking to some dude from DC.” Martel shrugged. “I just got the call to come here and take you back to the courthouse, ASAP.”
“Like this?” Mary gestured at the green silk maid-of-honor dress that wisped around her ankles. Surely Jim Falkner wouldn’t actually call her away from Alex’s wedding reception to come back to work.
Martel shrugged again. “I just do what they tell me, Ms. Crow.”
Mary looked around. Already some of the wedding guests had begun to stare, curious about why an armed officer had intruded on the festivities. “Okay, Martel,” she sighed. “Go wait in your squad. I’ll be there in a second.”
She watched as Martel disappeared through the tent flap, then she turned back to Wyatt.
“Looks like you’ll have to finish this dance with someone else.” She smiled apologetically.
“Can’t do without you, can they?”
“I guess not.” Usually, she didn’t mind being called back to work. Tonight she did. Tonight was her best friend’s wedding. Tonight was the most fun she’d had in a long, long time.
Wyatt squeezed her hand, which still rested in the crook of his arm. “I’m sorry you have to go, Mary. Any chance we could get together over the holidays? We could go to Mack Church’s eggnog frolic. It’s the day after Christmas.”
“I don’t know, Wyatt. Jim Falkner keeps me pretty busy.”
“Well, don’t say no yet. Call me if you get free. We’ll just make an appearance, then go do something fun.”
“Okay. I’ll try.” She pecked him on the cheek, then she began to move through the crowd toward Martel’s squad. She wished she could say good-bye to Alex before she left, but she and Charlie stood engulfed by a crowd of well-wishers. As she twisted through to the edge of the tent, she glanced back over her shoulder. Alex had seen her and was looking at her, her expression at once knowing and sad.
“I have to go!” Mary mouthed.
Alex nodded. Smiling, she gave her a thumbs-up sign, then blew her a kiss.
Mary stopped for a moment, wanting to freeze Alex’s image like a photograph. A clear winter evening, the ten
t looking magical as a snowflake, Alex beautiful and happy and waving good-bye. From here on, their lives would go down different paths. Mary would still know her dearest friend, but never again in quite the same way as before. She swallowed as sudden tears stung her eyes, then she walked out from under the canopy and turned toward the squad car. Alex had a man to love. Mary probably had another one to hang.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SALLIE BISSELL is a native of Nashville, Tennessee. She currently divides her time between her hometown and Asheville, North Carolina, where she still makes occasional forays into the Nantahala National Forest. She is at work on her second novel, which will feature prosecutor Mary Crow and will be published by Bantam in 2002.
IN THE FOREST OF HARM
A Bantam Book
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2001 by Sallie Bissell.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 00-048621
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by
any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
www.randomhouse.com
eISBN: 978-0-307-41812-8
v3.0
In The Forest Of Harm Page 32