Bride Quartet Collection

by Nora Roberts

“Good thing he used to be a stuntman,” Jack added.“He ought to know how to fall.”

  Mal just took another pull on his beer.Yeah, he knew how to fall. But he also knew just what could happen if the landing didn’t go the way you’d planned.

  HIS MOTHER KEPT A TIDY HOUSE, MAL THOUGHT. THAT WAS PRIDE, habit, and basic disposition. But for Sunday dinner—this Sunday dinner—she’d gone on a cleaning binge equivalent to a drunk’s binge with a bottle of Wild Turkey.

  It was a nice house. He’d been careful when he’d started the hunt for one that would work for her, one he’d feel confident about her living in. He’d wanted a good neighborhood, the sort where people actually talked to each other, looked out for each other a little. He hadn’t wanted anything so big she’d be overwhelmed or rattle around, or anything so small she’d feel closed in.

  He’d found it in the modified ranch with its traditional brick face, the plot of lawn they could easily maintain between them. The attached garage with second-story apartment had been the big bonus.

  They loved each other, even liked each other quite a bit, but neither of them had wanted to actually live together. This way they each had their space, their privacy, their routine. But he was close enough to keep an eye on her. And, he knew very well, vice versa.

  He could, and did, forage in her kitchen if the mood struck, grab a cup of her coffee in the morning—or not. And she could call on him to see to some household repair or haul out the trash.

  The system worked for them.

  Except for the times she drove him crazy.

  “Ma, it’s just dinner. It’s food.”

  “Don’t tell me what it is.” Kay wagged a finger at him as she stirred the sauce—again—for the lasagna that was, he knew, her signature dish.“When’s the last time you brought a woman home to dinner?”

  “It’s been about never, give or take.”

  “Exactly.” She stopped wagging her finger to jab it at him.

  “I’m not bringing her anyway.” The idea made his shoulder blades itch. “She’s bringing herself.”

  “And shame on you for that.”

  “But she—”

  “Eh!”

  It was another signature, the sound that said “don’t even try to argue with me.”

  He took a breath, changed strategy. “It smells good.”

  “Tastes better.” She took a spoon, dipped, offered.

  “Yeah it does,” he agreed after the sample.

  “It better. It’s important to me.The girl’s got class.”

  “So do you, Ma.”

  “Damn right, but you know what I’m talking about. It was class that had her calling me to thank me for inviting her. I’m going to give her a good meal.” She winked. “With a little class. I made fancy hors d’oeuvres.”

  “Pigs in a blanket?” When she laughed, tossing back her head the way she did, he poked her. “I like pigs in a blanket.”

  “You’re not getting them tonight. You’re sure that’s a good wine?” She pointed to the two bottles on the counter, one opened to breathe.

  “I’m sure.”

  “You know more about that than me, with your Hollywood debauchery.”

  “Yeah, but back then I only drank it out of women’s navels.”

  “Sure can’t get a good drunk on that way,” she said, and this time he laughed.

  She stepped back from the stove, took yet another survey of the kitchen.

  She had a pretty bowl of fruit on the little drop-leaf table under the window where she liked to sit and have her coffee in the morning. The cute little shamrock plant Mal had given her shot up white blooms from its perch on the sill above the sink.

  Her collection of salt and pepper shakers filled the shelf on the wall over a bench he’d made in high school wood shop.

  You could eat off her floor, and every surface gleamed.

  She gave a satisfied nod, then opened her arms.“How do I look?”

  “As good as your lasagna.”

  “Red and spicy?”

  He tugged one of her mass of wild orange curls.“That’s right.”

  “I’m going to put this lasagna together and get it in to bake. I want you to go on and light the candles I’ve got sitting around. And don’t make a mess of anything.”

  “What am I going to make a mess of?”

  She shot him a green-eyed stare.“Nothing if you know what’s good for you.”

  Resigned, he took the lighter, walked around—dining room, living room, even the half bath. She had groupings of candles everyfricking-where. Probably arranged the way she’d seen in a magazine, or on the HGTV she was addicted to.

  She’d put out fancy little towels and soaps in the half bath, and he knew from experience she’d skin his hide if he actually used them.

  He poked into her little office, her bedroom, the master bath, mostly to keep out of her way so she couldn’t nag him again.

  She’d made a home here, he mused.A good one, a comfortable one. And in a very real way it was the first home they’d had. Everything else had been quarters, or rentals.Transitory.

  So if she wanted to paint the walls—as she had, a different color in every room—if she wanted to play with candles and set out fancy soap no one could use but the guest, she was entitled.

  When he figured he’d stalled long enough, he started back.The knock on the door stopped him.

  “You take her coat,” his mother called out.“And hang it in the closet.”

  “What am I, a moron?” he muttered.

  He opened the door to see Parker, wearing a light trench open over a dark green dress, holding a bunch of baby irises in blues and white.

  “Hi. I guess you didn’t have trouble finding the place.”

  “Not a bit.”

  “I’ll get your coat.”

  “What a nice house.” She scanned the living room as he took her trench. “It looks like your mother.”

  “How?”

  “It’s colorful.”

  “You’ve got that right. Come on back. She’s in the kitchen. How’d the event go?”

  “It was . . . Oh, look at these!” With obvious pleasure she stopped to study a wall of framed postcards.“These are wonderful.”

  “She collected them on tour—different places my father was stationed or where she met up with him for R and R.”

  “It’s a wonderful way to remember.You must’ve been to some of these places. Do you remember?”

  “Not especially.” He took her free hand, led her back to the kitchen.

  They walked in just as Kay closed the oven door.

  “Kay, it’s so good to see you.Thanks so much for having me.”

  “You’re welcome. Irises.” Pleasure warmed her face. “They’re my favorite.”

  “Someone mentioned that. It’s Emma’s work.”

  “Doesn’t she have a way.” Sniffing at them, Kay set the arrangement on the counter.“I’ll have them here for now, but tonight I’m going to be selfish and put them in my bedroom. Mal, get the girl some wine. She’s been working all day.”

  “I’d love some.You have such a pretty home. It feels happy.”

  Exactly right, Mal thought as he poured the wine. “Here you go. Ma.”

  Kay sampled, pursed her lips. “Not bad.You two go on out in the living room and sit. I’ll bring out some hors d’oeuvres.”

  “Can I help? I’m not much of a cook, but I’m a very good assistant.”

  “Not much left to do now. We’ll just have a seat for a while. I guess you can go ahead and take the tray in with you, Mal, and I’ll be right along.” She opened the refrigerator, took out her best platter and the cold appetizers.

  “Oh, I love these.” Carrying her wine, Parker stepped to the salt and pepper shakers.

  She meant it, Malcolm concluded with considerable surprise. He’d gotten good at detecting her polite tone and her genuine pleasure.

  There were fancy ones, funny ones, and, he guessed the most polite term would be, risqué ones.<
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  “I started collecting them right after I got married. Something small I could pack up whenever we moved.Then I got a little carried away.”

  “They’re wonderful. Charming and fun. Batman and Robin?”

  Kay strolled over. “Mal gave me those for Mother’s Day back when he was about twelve. Gave me those humping dogs, too—didn’t think I’d put them out. He was sixteen then, I think, and trying to get my goat. I got his.” She glanced back, grinned at him and the memory. “Embarrassed the hell out of him when I put them on the shelf.”

  Mal shifted. “What do you want me to do with this tray?”

  Parker glanced at him, smiled. “Oh, thanks.” She chose a pretty round of bread topped with brie and a raspberry. “And these?” Parker continued, bonding with his mother over salt and pepper shakers while he held a tray of canapes.

  He wasn’t sure, as the evening progressed, whether to be pleased, relieved, or worried about just how well his mother and Parker got on.

  He knew very well Parker could and did adjust her manner and conversation to any sort of social situation. But it was more than that here. He knew, just as he’d known when they’d shared that first pizza, that she was relaxed and enjoying herself.

  They talked about places they’d both been, places his parents had traveled before he’d been born, when he’d been too young to remember, others he barely remembered.

  They talked about her business, and his mother’s laugh bolted out time and again when Parker relayed some weird or funny anecdote about an event.

  “I’d never have the patience for it. All those people calling day and night, whining, bitching, demanding. Hell, I want to pop one of Mal’s customers at least twice a day.”

  “Parker doesn’t pop them,” Malcolm put in.“She crushes them like bugs.”

  “Only when absolutely necessary.”

  “What are you going to do about Linda Elliot, or whatever her last name is now?” When Parker hesitated, Kay shrugged. “None of my business.”

  “No, it’s not that. I’m not sure, really. It’s going to be tricky. I have crushed her like a bug, which gave me tremendous satisfaction. But she’s Mac’s mother.”

  “She’s a slut who thinks she’s better than everybody else.”

  “Jesus, Ma.”

  “No, you’re absolutely right,” Parker said to Kay. “She is a slut who not only thinks she’s better than everybody else, but has a persecution complex on top of it. I’ve despised her all of my life, so there’s nothing you could say about her that would offend me.” Parker sampled another bite of lasagna and lifted her eyebrows at Malcolm. “What? I’m not allowed to despise anyone?”

  “Just doesn’t seem your style.”

  “She used and emotionally abused one of my closest friends as long as I can remember. She deserved a lot more than what I was finally able to give her. But . . .” Parker moved her shoulders, drank some wine. “She’ll come to the wedding. She’ll want to show off the new husband, flaunt it. She’s currently barred from the estate, but I’ll have to rescind the directive for that.”

  “You, what, banished her?”

  Parker smiled at Malcolm.“Yes.Very satisfying.And believe me, she’ll be handled at the wedding. I’m not sure how yet, but I’ll lock her in the basement before I let her spoil one minute of that day for Mac and Carter.”

  Kay pursed her lips, nodded. “I bet you would. If you need any help on that, let me know. I’ve never had any use for her.”

  “I didn’t realize you and Linda knew each other.”

  “Oh, she wouldn’t know me from a naked Eve, but our paths crossed here and there. Used to come in for dinner when I worked at the restaurant. And she went to plenty of the parties where I helped out.”

  Kay moved her shoulders as Malcolm often did to signal “no big deal.”

  “She’s the type who looks right through you when she’s snapping her fingers for another drink or faster service, and doesn’t quibble to complain about the help when you’re standing right there.”

  Parker smiled, and there was something fierce in her eyes.“Kay, would you like to come to Mac’s wedding?”

  Kay blinked. “Well, I barely know the girl, or Carter either.”

  “I’d very much like if you’d come, if you’d be a guest in my home for my friend’s wedding.”

  “To help bury the body?”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. But if it does . . .”

  “I’ll bring the shovel.” Kay clanked her glass enthusiastically to Parker’s.

  “You two are a little scary,” Malcolm observed.

  At the end of the evening, after the meal was cleared, after dessert and coffee—and when his mother made apple pie from scratch she was serious—she waved him and Parker off. “I’ll deal with the dishes in my own good time.”

  “Everything was wonderful. Really wonderful.Thank you.”

  Kay gave Malcolm a smug smile over Parker’s shoulder when Parker kissed her cheek.

  “See that he brings you back.Take her up and show her your place, Mal.”

  “Sure. ’Night, Ma.Thanks for dinner.”

  He walked Parker around to the steps leading up to his apartment. “You gave her a really good time.”

  “It was mutual.”

  “She likes you, and she’s careful about who she lets in.”

  “Then I’m flattered.”

  He paused outside his door. “Why did you invite her to the wedding?”

  “I think she’ll enjoy it. Is that a problem?”

  “No, and she will. But something else was going on in there.” He tapped a finger to her temple. “Something else when you asked her to come.”

  “All right, yes. Linda hurts people. It’s what she does, whether deliberately or carelessly. Your mother strikes me as a woman who doesn’t bruise easily, but Linda managed to. So she should come to Mac’s wedding as a welcomed guest while Linda will be there only out of duty, and will never be welcomed in my home again.”

  “That manages to be calculated and kind at the same time.”

  “Multitasking is my specialty.”

  “No question.” He ran a hand down her arm, lightly. “You’re careful about who you let in.”

  “Yes.”

  He studied her a moment longer. “I don’t bring women here. It’s . . . weird,” he added, gesturing toward the house.

  “I guess it could be.”

  He unlocked the door. “Come on in.”

  It wasn’t colorful like his mother’s, and came very close to spartan.And it showed an efficiency that spoke directly to Parker’s sensibilities.

  “Isn’t this clever? I imagined a couple of small rooms, and instead it’s like one open space.A kind of great room, with a kitchen tucked in the corner, and your living space angled off by the furniture.”

  She shook her head at the enormous flat-screen dominating the wall. “What is it with men and the size of their TVs?”

  “What is it with women and shoes?”

  “Touché.”

  She wandered over, saw the small, and again efficient and streamlined, bedroom through the open pocket door, wandered back again.

  “I like the pencil sketches.” The black-framed grouping on the wall held wonderfully detailed street scenes.

  “Yeah, they’re okay.”

  She took a step closer, peered at the signature in the bottom corner. “Kavanaugh.”

  “My father did them.”

  “They’re wonderful, Malcolm. It’s a good piece of him to have with you. Can you draw?”

  “No.”

  “Neither can I.” She turned, smiled at him.

  “Stay.”

  “I have an overnight bag in the trunk of my car.” She opened her purse, took out her keys. “Would you mind?”

  He took the keys, jingling them as he studied her. “Where’s your phone?”

  “In my purse. I turned it off before dinner.”

  He leaned in to kiss her. “Answer y
our calls, then turn it back off. I’ll get your bag.”

  She pulled out her phone when he went out, but took another moment to look at his space.

  Ordered, efficient, she thought again, and very spare.The space, she thought, of a man used to moving on, and doing so with little fuss.

  Shallow roots, she mused, and hers were so very, very deep.

  She wasn’t sure, not at all sure, just what that meant.

  Pushing it away, she turned on her phone and began to work her way through texts and voice mail.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  MALCOLM ARRIVED AT THE CRASH SITE WELL AFTER THE COPS, THE fire department, the paramedics. As a concession to the cold, light rain, he yanked up the hood of his sweatshirt as he walked to the yellow tape and flares.

  They’d removed the bodies—he had no doubt there had been bodies when he saw the crushed and twisted mass that had once been a BMW.

  The second car had taken an ugly hit, but could probably be salvaged.

  With some luck, whoever had been in the Lexus should have walked, limped, or been carried away still breathing.

  His job was to tow away what was left.

  Over a road slick from an incessant drizzle, the cop lights shone through the shifting mist onto broken and glittering safety glass, skid marks, bent and blackened chrome, blood, and, more horribly, a single shoe not yet recovered from the shoulder of the road. It etched a picture in his mind, one of fear and pain and shocking loss.

  The accident reconstruction team was already at work, but he could put it together for himself.

  Wet road, a thin haze of fog. BMW, driving too fast, swerves, skids, loses control, crosses the center line, clips Lexus. Goes airborne, flips, slams, rolls twice, maybe three times.

  Yeah, given the weight, the velocity, the angles, figure three times.

  Somebody goes through the windshield, probably a passenger in the backseat of the mangled M6 who hadn’t been wearing a seat belt. If there’d been a front-seat passenger, he or she would’ve been crushed.The driver wouldn’t have been any luckier.

  He could see the fire department had sliced through the BMW, using the Jaws of Life like a can opener, but the odds they’d pulled anyone alive out of that violent wreck were next to nil.