by Demaree Iles
Charlie began to sweat. Think, stupid.
He couldn’t just wheel it back to the kitchen. Every guest there would give him hell for being so cold and heartless to his daughter on her wedding day. And for the rest of his life, there would be no end to the river of misery Ruby would send his way for doing it.
Should he serve it, however, the life sentences he’d receive would equal the exact amount of bodies they would find inside this ballroom…if he didn’t get the gas chamber or the chair. And Ruby would be among them.
So? Dad said. She’d finally get what she deserves, the little bitch.
Charlie tried to ignore him as he struggled with options.
It could be destroyed. He could just turn around, jerk one end of the cart up with all of his might, and tip the fucking thing over. For a moment, the image of it toppling to its doom like a glistening red sky-scraper in the throes of an earthquake flashed across his mind’s eye. The massive splatter on the floor would guarantee everyone’s safety, for there wouldn’t be an edible morsel left. Of course, the result would be the same: disbelief and outright hatred.
Had to be another way.
“Excuse me,” someone said into a microphone. Speakers throughout the hall squealed with feedback and the music stopped. “May I have your ʼtention, please?”
It was Paul, the groom’s brother; tapping the side of his glass a little too long and leaning his hip against the table to stay upright. Toast time from the best man. Sort of.
Even more of a jerk than Randall, and way more drunk, he mumbled and bellowed through a story full of boring anecdotes about two boring guys from a boring family. To Charlie’s surprise, the kid at least kept it clean.
“To the bride and groom,” he stammered, finishing with a dramatic gulp of his champagne that went mostly on his shirt.
“The bride and groom,” echoed the guests.
Ruby and Randall stood to thank him and Ruby raised more than one eyebrow when she hugged her new brother-in-law for what seemed a few seconds too long. Murmurs went through the crowd like a wave, but Charlie missed it. He was too busy gazing at the floor and looking for a way out of his personal nightmare.
The lights suddenly softened.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the bandleader said into his own microphone, “May I present Mr. and Mrs. Randall Bailey.”
The band began playing a slow tune while Charlie’s daughter and new son-in-law took to the dance floor and stared deep into each other’s eyes, doing their best to appear graceful. The moment was supposed to be poignant for all in attendance, but he ignored them.
There was just no easy out.
Inner Dad offered his two cents-worth. Why are you even trying? Look around, dumbass.
Most of the customers that came into his bakery on a regular basis were decent folk; good, hardworking, and kindhearted people who always treated him decently and were a joy to be around. Charlie lifted his head and scanned the crowd. Not this group.
The guest list was just what he should have expected from Ruby. Every face held a bad memory and belonged to someone who’d treated him badly at one time or another. Some worse than others—and there were a handful that would be doing the world a favor if they just dropped dead—but that wasn’t for him to decide.
Apparently, some part of him thought otherwise.
Ruby’s entourage of single girlfriends was there; two-faced sluts that used people for whatever they could get out of them. Each of them had badmouthed him at one time or another, as if the lying attorneys and cheating accountants who had fathered them were somehow honorable men.
Then there was Phil Taylor and the Woolery brothers. Phil had beaten the hell out of Charlie at least once a week all the way through junior high. Jim and John Woolery—Phil’s faithful aides-de-camp—took care of all the holding and dunking.
Over by the buffet table was David Finley, the city councilman. It had been Finley’s boys that broke into the bakery two years ago and set loose rats for the sole purpose of getting his business shut down by the state, all because Charlie refused to give their dad a discount on doughnuts. When confronted, Finley never confirmed or denied what his sons had done. He just laughed at Charlie and closed the door.
These were the guests around him; all drinking, dancing, and making merry.
Never in his life had he done anything to these people, yet they all had taken a piece of him. The most horrible faces from his life had somehow become Ruby’s friends.
Was it supposed to matter that both of the Woolery brothers had grandkids now, or that Phil Taylor was a Presbyterian minister? People could change, but not these. They’d just become older versions of rotten human beings.
So what’re ya gonna do about it? Dad once again.
The Christian thing to do was forgive. His faith, however, had been hanging by a thread since Tommy’s death. What kind of god, he figured, could take a sweet kid like Tommy in a searing ball of flame while allowing pieces of human garbage to go on living? It wasn’t right, and he was fed up with what wasn’t right in the world.
He wanted to believe. When someone could explain to him the reason for Tommy’s senseless death with something more than ‘God has a plan’, he’d be all ears.
“I had a plan, too,” he said to the dancing crowd.
You tell ʼem, Charlie-boy.
He thought of all that he had wanted for his son and all of the things Tommy would never get to do. He recalled all of the mean things that had been said or done to his son—hell, done to him as well. At that very moment, Charlie’s fear vanished like candle smoke before a strong wind. His heart went dark.
He was surrounded by people enjoying all that life had to offer…undeserving people. Well, today he had something to offer them. A treat to the eye and the palate: Ruby’s cake. He would give them their just desserts. Today, he would play God.
But he would be no one’s Messiah. There would be no salvation for this band of deserving hellions, no sir. He would be the God of the Old Testament. The God of Abraham.
Of wrath.
****
He turned and checked the plates and utensils for the third time to be sure there were enough for everyone. It was a shame that his most beautiful creation would soon be devoured, but life was like that. No light without dark, no good without bad—nothing gained without sacrifice.
“Hey, father of the bride!”
The slap between Charlie’s shoulder blades almost toppled the stack of plates he was straightening.
“Whoa…sorry ʼbout that, Charlie-boy,” Grady said.
For the thousandth time, Charlie bit back his anger. “Grady.”
His brother-in-law stirred a bourbon and coke with his finger and splayed his feet further apart, no doubt to stop the room from swaying.
“So how’s it feel marryin’ inta big money?”
“I didn’t get married, Grady. Ruby did.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Grady said, shoving Charlie’s shoulder, “you know what I mean.”
“My daughter has never needed someone else’s money, Grady,” Charlie said in a measured tone. “I’ve taken pretty good care of her all these years.”
Grady belched. “Yeah, but a baker’s pay can’t—”
“Dad! Mom wants you,” Grady’s oldest boy Kenny said, appearing behind them and taking his father by the arm.
“Wha?”
Both men turned to see Grady’s wife glaring at her husband from their table near the dance floor. She was apparently the one person Grady wouldn’t cross. Charlie saw it on his face.
“Well…congrats, buddy,” Grady mumbled, but Charlie had already turned back to the plates and utensils.
He could hear Grady’s son speaking to his father in a muffled tone as they walked away. Somewhere in the mumbling, he heard a slurred ‘screw him’ from Grady, chased by another swig of bourbon. Charlie stood with his back turned and squeezed one of the plates hard between his hands, almost hard enough to break it.
“May I have this
dance?” said Ruby, suddenly appearing from the crowd.
Charlie loosened his grip on the plate and managed a smile. “Of course.”
“Kind of jumpy, aren’t ya?”
She hooked her arm in his and they walked to the dance floor. He had to admit she looked very pretty, but outward appearance had never been Ruby’s shortcoming. Charlie glanced over his shoulder at the cake.
“Don’t worry,” she said, taking his hand with a wicked grin, “no one’s going to touch it before I do. That cake’s mine.”
The song started and there was a soft round of applause as they started to dance.
“So how’d Mom take it this morning?” Ruby said. “Was she torn up?”
He couldn’t help but notice the glint in Ruby’s eyes, as if she almost hoped her mother was upset about missing the event.
Was Pearl this way when I met her? “A little choked-up,” he said, “but she’s okay.”
“Well, it’s her fault, Dad, and you know it. If she’d just lose some of that weight…”
Charlie noted the large volume of jiggle in his daughter’s own upper arms as they spun around, but he chose to leave the subject alone.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m here representing us both.”
“Yeah, and quite well I see,” she said, nodding toward the cake. “So did you add extra cream cheese like I wanted?”
“Yes.”
“What about the raspberries?”
“The freshest.”
“What about the—”
“Relax, Punkin. I’ve made a cake or two before.”
“Oh, I know, Daddy. But this is the most special one you’ve ever made, ya know?”
The song was winding down, and so were Charlie’s sentimental feelings. Though they still held hands, the space between them widened as the dance ended. In truth, the distance between them seemed to have started the day she was born and continued to spread like an infectious disease. He stepped back and took her all in, feeling it would be the last time he ever really saw her. He had to admit he’d never seen her look more beautiful, and yet she hadn’t really changed at all.
“Don’t worry, Ruby,” he said, releasing her hand. “It will be the best tasting treat you will ever have. I promise.”
He leaned in to kiss her cheek, but she jerked her head away at the last second.
“Makeup, Daddy, ya know?”
Other couples took to the dance floor as the next song began and he watched his daughter hurry back to her purse at the table to consult a compact mirror. Charlie shook his head. He walked back to resume his vigil in front of the towering cake.
No one could touch it until the bride and groom had their moment.
Chapter Sixteen
“You look like you could use a drink,” a woman said, emerging from the crowd.
Charlie turned to see the stylishly-dressed lady and felt he should know her. The long, flowing silver hair was thick and luxuriant; cascading down the purple, backless dress and over bare shoulders that appeared to belong to a younger woman. With matching shoes and a lacy shawl, the woman looked far more elegant (and sexy, Charlie thought) than any other in the room. She was close to his age, but far more impressive than any of Pearl’s old acquaintances.
Whoever she was, she was beautiful. Could have been related to the Baileys, he thought, but that didn’t seem right, either. The woman’s smile seemed too pleasant and genuine to belong to that family and the lilt of her voice was like warm butter.
“Remember me, Charlie?”
Like any man confronted with such beauty, he was kicking himself for not recognizing her. His face went flush.
It was the bracelets that did it. They jangled at her wrists in the soft lights as Charlie recalled a woman with gray locks pulled back in a pony tail and large-frame glasses that must have been replaced by contact lenses. It was the proprietor of the craft store in the flesh, and she looked like a gorgeous dream.
She handed Charlie a filled glass that matched her own. The rising aroma of good cognac opened his sinuses.
“Isabelle,” he heard himself whisper.
“Relax, Charlie,” she said. “Everything will be fine.”
She guided him toward a pair of unoccupied red velvet chairs that were placed next to each other near the cake table. Might as well, he thought. No one would dare touch Ruby’s cake without incurring his daughter’s fury. Besides, it would feel good to get off his feet.
The chairs were angled close enough for intimate conversation, but they sat in silence for a moment and sipped at the excellent liqueur. Charlie hadn’t eaten anything since the rehearsal dinner the night before, giving the alcohol an even more profound effect. He’d never been a big drinker, but the cognac was pure silk and he began to relax.
She leaned toward him. “We know what’s in the cake, Charles.”
The hairs on the back of Charlie’s neck stood straight up. On any other day, panic would have seized him. He would have stood up in denial and tried to force old bones to run. Instead, he found himself letting go; feeling like an escaped inmate who’d grown tired of running from the dogs, a weary man finally putting down his burden.
For too many years he’d been beaten down, ridiculed, humiliated; forcing a smile on his face as the anger slowly built into something bigger. The eyes of the green-eyed beauty across from him seemed to take all that away. The hate that had coursed through him for so long began to evaporate and an overwhelming sense of relief washed over him. It was more than the alcohol. Even so, Charlie took another sip.
“Busy day, huh?” she said.
Always the analyst, Charlie gave her an appraising look and tried to question her motives. Who was she really—an undercover cop? Maybe she was just an entrepreneur bent on blackmailing him. After all, her shop couldn’t have been making that much money. He wasn’t sure what to say. “What do you want?”
“Not a thing, Charlie. We’re just admirers. Not of what you’ve done or what you’re doing, you understand, but of the man you are.”
“Huh?”
Isabelle locked eyes with him. “You’re a good man, Charlie LaRue. We’ve seen how you’ve been treated. Disrespect, disregard, malevolence—and by so many for far too long. You deserve better.”
“What are you talking about?” he said. “And why do you keep saying ‘we’?”
“My companion and me,” she said. “We’ve admired you for quite some time.”
From somewhere behind her chair a small figure appeared and moved deftly along the floor. It leapt and landed without a sound on the wide arm of her chair, looked to her for permission, and then carefully nestled into her lap before turning its white-faced gaze to Charlie. The gray cat purred beneath her hand.
Charlie’s breath caught, yet he couldn’t stifle a grin. “Figured you two knew each other,” he said. “Why the charade?”
Isabelle continued petting the animal and looked up. “Believed in you, but had to be careful.”
“Why would you have to be careful with me?”
She smiled. “Not me. Him.”
The cat raised his head from her lap and gave him an appraising look.
“As good a judge of character as Sebastian is, he has made mistakes before in trusting too quickly. Right, baby?” Sebastian turned his chin up to her and she scratched it. “Remember Cortez?”
She laughed, and the cat made a disgusted sound and dropped his head in her lap again.
“I almost didn’t think you were real,” Charlie said. “I thought I dreamed you.”
“Like you imagined that spool of wire? Oh relax, Charlie,” she said, seeing his expression. “I’m not judging you. I appreciate your situation…and your method in handling it.”
Charlie finished his drink in one long swallow and closed his eyes, letting the warmth course through his veins. He sighed and lowered his empty glass before opening them again.
“Who—what are you?” he said. He leaned forward. “Really.”
She answered w
ith an index finger to her lips, leaning in and taking his empty glass. Her eyes sparkled. When she sat back again, she raised his empty glass to her lips as if to take a sip. To his amazement, Charlie noticed it wasn’t empty anymore. In fact, it was full again with the caramel-colored whiskey.
What the…how’d she do that?
His eyes hadn’t left hers from the moment she sat down and there was no one else anywhere near them. She sampled the warm liquor and smiled.
“There are many names for what I am, but they all depend on who’s doing the name-calling. Personally, I like ‘observer’, but the names don’t matter. What matters is that our kind has been witness to injustice in this world for hundreds of years.”
The cat purred as she stroked its fur and closed its eyes in approval. “Human beings have gifts, Charlie. Unfortunately, most of them never realize it. They go through life chasing after money, titles—whatever makes them comfortable—and often die without ever knowing the special talent or power they had all along. Even worse, they tend to discriminate against those who do use their gift. People like you, Charlie.”
She handed the glass back. He drank half in one gulp.
“Then you’re a…what?” he mumbled. “A witch?”
“Some of us band together,” she continued. “Strength in numbers and all that, but it works. To keep harmony with the universe in our own lives, we dedicate ourselves to helping other gifted souls.”
“So you’re a—”
“As I said, Charlie, there are many names.”
“What do you want with me?” he asked.
“What do you want for yourself?”
Hmm. In his entire life, no one had ever asked him that question. Even so, the answer had been hiding within him. “I…I just want…peace. I just want to be happy and live in peace.”
To himself, he sounded like a beauty pageant contestant giving the same old party line. Not to the woman in front of him. Isabelle took his free hand in hers, her expression one of sincerity and understanding.
“Of course, you do,” she said. “And you deserve just that.”