by Lori Wilde
“Yes.” Far more than you can ever know. Delaney raised her hands in supplication. “Please, sell me the veil.”
“I cannot sell it to you.”
An emotion she could not name, but that tasted a bit like grief, took hold of her. Why was possessing this particular wedding veil so important? There was no rational explanation for it, but an odd feeling clutched deep within her. The yearning was almost unbearable.
“Ten thousand.” She felt like an acolyte begging a Zen master for enlightenment.
Claire sucked in her breath and looked around the shabby little shop. “You really want it that badly?”
Delaney nodded, too emotionally twisted up inside to speak.
“All right.” Claire let out her breath in an audible whoosh. Her reluctance was palpable. “You may have it.”
She felt as if someone had lifted a chunk of granite off her heart.
Delaney’s breath came out on a squeak of pure joy. “Really?”
“Yes, but only under one condition,” Claire cautioned.
“Yes, yes.”
“You must swear that you will never, under any circumstances, wish upon the veil.”
“I’ll sign a waiver, a contract, whatever it takes. My friend Jillian is a lawyer; she can bear witness.”
“Delaney.” Jillian made a clucking noise. “Are you sure you want to do this? Ten thousand is a lot of money for a wedding veil.”
Defiantly she met Jillian’s eyes. “I want it, okay? Just back me up here.”
Something in her face must have telegraphed her seriousness. Delaney rarely took a stand on anything, hardly ever expressed an opinion or even a strong desire, but because of this, whenever she did take a stand, people usually listened.
Jillian held up her palms and took a step back. “Hey, if it’s what you want, I say go for it.”
“Thank you.” She turned back to Claire and reached inside her Prada handbag for her checkbook. “I promise never to wish on the veil. Now may I have it?”
Claire stuck out her hand to seal the deal. “Done.”
And that was the moment Delaney realized that although she’d managed to find the special magic she’d been aching to believe in, she had just made a solemn vow never to use it.
Chapter 2
That night, Delaney dreamed of her sister.
Skylar had been dead for seventeen years, but she popped up in Delaney’s dreams with surprising regularity. Although she couldn’t say why her sister still played such a prominent role in her sleeping life.
Maybe it was because Skylar’s passing had left her an only child. Afterward, her mother had tied the apron strings so tightly Delaney felt as if all the personality had been strangled out of her. Maybe dreaming of her outrageous sister was an avenue into her own subconscious. A way to express the feelings she’d learned to suppress.
Tonight, for some inexplicable reason, her sister wore roller skates, purple short-shorts, and a silver-sequined top hat. Other than the bizarre outfit, she looked exactly as she’d looked the last time Delaney had seen her—blond, beautiful, and sweet sixteen.
Skylar perched on the curvy footboard of Delaney’s sleigh bed, enthusiastically chewing a persimmon.
“Who eats persimmons?” Delaney asked.
“I do.”
“Of course you do.”
“Persimmons are like me. Unique. If you were a fruit, Laney, you’d be an apple. Dependable, granted, but boring as hell.”
“Watch what you’re doing. You’re dripping juice all over my new Ralph Lauren comforter.”
Skylar rolled her eyes. “See? What’d I tell you? Boring. Go ahead and bitch all you want; you can’t fool me. I know what you’ve been up to.”
“I haven’t been up to anything except protecting my expensive bedding from a persimmon-sucking ghost.”
“Low blow, baby sis. But I am glad to see you’re showing some spunk. Bravo,” Skylar said. “However, insults aren’t going to distract me from what you’re hiding under the bed.”
It was true. Delaney didn’t want her sister poking fun at the wedding veil.
“Come on, pull it out. I know it’s there. You might as well let me see it.”
She sighed, knowing Skylar would pester her until she either showed her the veil or she woke up. “It’s no big deal, just a wedding veil.”
“Hmm, the plot thickens,” Skylar mused. “What are you going to do about the veil that you’ve already got hanging in your closet? Remember that one? The veil Mother picked out for you.”
“You’re just trying to start trouble.”
“But of course. Everybody knows stirring up trouble is what I do best.” Skylar polished off the persimmon and chucked the remains in the trash can.
“I didn’t know ghosts could eat,” Delaney said, trying to deflect Skylar’s attention.
“Technically, I’m not a ghost. Rather, I’m a figment of your dream imagination. You could send me packing if you really wanted to, but honestly your life would be pretty damn dull without me. So quit arguing and produce the veil.” Skylar made “gimme” motions with her fingers.
Delaney flipped her head over the side of the bed and grappled underneath the bed skirt until she found the sack. She slipped it out, sat up, and cautiously handed her the sack. “Be careful with it.”
Skylar peeked inside and whistled. “Holy shit, that’s an awesome veil.”
“I know.” Her sister’s approval meant a lot. Delaney felt eight years old again, full of wistful longing to be glamorous and grown-up. Hanging around Skylar’s vanity, watching her apply makeup and change outfits as she got ready for a date.
“And I see that you found the veil at a consignment shop.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Mom’s never going to let you wear it.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“You could fight her on this. Oops, oh, wait, I forgot. You’re so into being the perfect daughter, you could never buck the flawless Honey Montgomery Cartwright.”
“No need to get unpleasant.” Delaney snatched the wedding veil away from Skylar and folded it back into the sack.
“Ah, perfect little princess. Lucky for me I died when I did. I would never have heard the end of how perfect you are, and how perfect I am not.”
Skylar’s comment shot her full of anger. Delaney remembered the raw horror and agonizing grief she’d experienced over her sister’s death. Nostrils flaring, hands knotted into fists, she faced off with her. “No, it was not lucky! It was terrible the way you died.”
“Okay, sorry. Chill.”
“I won’t chill. The way Mother and Daddy were afterward was awful. Losing you was the worst thing that ever happened to this family. I had to be perfect because you got your silly self killed, sneaking off to a KISS concert, drinking with your friends, and then getting smashed up in a car crash. If you hadn’t been so damn rebellious, you’d still be alive and I wouldn’t have ended up spending my whole life making amends for something you did. I had to have chaperoned dates until I was nineteen. Mother wouldn’t even allow me to go to sleepaway camp, much less a rock concert. She refused to let me get my driver’s license until I was twenty-one. And it was your entire fault.”
“Ooh, where’s all this emotion coming from?” Skylar applauded. “I approve. Usually, you’re so pent-up.”
“I don’t want your approval.”
“Why not?” Skylar crossed her legs and the wheels of her skates left dirty marks on the sheets.
Delaney cringed. “Watch the linens, will you?”
“What? Scared you’ll become like me? Scared Mommy won’t love you anymore if you do?”
That’s exactly what she was scared of, but Delaney couldn’t tell her sister that. “I am going to wear this veil on my wedding day. Wait and see.”
“Sure you are,” Skylar scoffed.
“I am!”
“Nah.” Skylar pushed the top hat back off her forehead and assessed Delaney with a pensive stare. “You’ll cave and
our mother will get her way yet again.”
“I won’t.”
“We’ll see.”
Delaney clutched the sack to her chest, knowing her sister was right. If she responded true to form and accepted her mother’s edicts for what constituted the perfect wedding, she would not be wearing the consignment shop veil.
“I have an idea on how to handle Mother.” Skylar smirked. “If you’ve got the balls for it.”
“There’s no need to be crude.” Delaney pressed her lips together. “What’s your idea?”
“Why don’t you sew a designer label on the veil, put it in an expensive box, and tell Mom someone very high up on the blue-blood food chain sent it to you. Like one of our Philadelphia relatives we’ve never met.”
Delaney gasped. “But I can’t do that. It’s underhanded and sneaky.”
“I knew you didn’t have the balls for it. Night, Chicken Little.” Skylar swung her legs off the bed, the wheels of her skates making a clacking noise as she stood. “See ya in your dreams.”
“Wait, don’t go.”
Skylar paused. “Yeah?”
“Do you really think your plan would work?”
“Guaranteed.” She winked.
Delaney worried her bottom lip. She wasn’t a liar, but she wanted so badly to wear the veil at her wedding.
“I’ll tell you something else,” Skylar added.
“Oh?”
“I was hanging out tonight, eavesdropping on your dinner conversation with your friends, and I think they’re right.”
“About what?”
“Seducing Evan. Making him your sex hostage. Sounds totally hot. Go for it. Maybe it’ll be the jump start you two need.”
“Your glowing endorsement is all the more reason not to do it.” Delaney glowered.
“You sound just like her, you know.” Skylar wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue.
“Just like whom?”
“Who do you think?”
Skylar was right. She did sound just like their mother. Judgmental, inflexible, overly concerned with appearances. And that was the last thing Delaney wanted.
She dragged a hand through her hair. “This is horrible! How can I stop from becoming like her?”
“Do the most outrageous thing you can think to do. Kidnap Evan from his office, take him to the woods, and have your way with him. I triple dog dare you.”
“Fine,” Delaney said. “If that’s what it takes to prove to you I’m not like Mother, I’ll do it.”
Skylar snorted. “Seeing is believing, pipsqueak.”
Following that snarky comment, Delaney woke up.
Detective Dominic Vinetti watched Dr. Evan Van Zandt stride into the exam room, frowning at the chart in his hand and shaking his head. A bullet of dread ricocheted through the ventricles of Nick’s heart at the serious expression on the other man’s face.
“I’ve received the results of your follow-up tests,” Van Zandt said, “and I’m sorry, Nick, but the outcome isn’t as favorable as we had hoped.”
Sweat broke across Nick’s brow. He fisted his hands and swallowed hard. In this stupid paper gown he was nearly naked and felt too damn exposed. He scowled past his anxiety and mouthed toughly, “Whaddya mean?”
“It’s been eight weeks since the injury and while your leg is improved, you’re still healing at a much slower rate than I anticipated. I’m afraid I can’t yet allow you to return to work.”
Fear swamped him. Anxiety soup. Followed on its heels by a thick, rolling wave of despair. Son of a bitch. He could not spend one more hour watching bad television. Could not play one more video game or surf the net one more time or he’d lose his frickin’ mind.
“I gotta go back to work, Doc. I’ll take a desk job. Sit on my butt, no chasing suspects. I promise.” He held up his palm as if he were taking an oath on the witness stand.
Van Zandt fidgeted with his tie, then flipped up the tail of his lab coat and took a seat on the rolling stool. He had the butter-soft face of a man who’d lived an easy life. “I can’t in good conscience sign the release form.”
Nick pressed his palms together, supplicating. “I’m going nuts, here. Please don’t make me beg.”
“Have you been doing your exercises?”
“Regular as a nun to mass.”
Van Zandt threw back his head and brayed loudly at Nick’s comment. “Well, at least you still have your sense of humor.”
Irritation dug into Nick’s gut. The guy laughed like a freaking barnyard donkey. “Yeah, lucky me. Ha, ha.”
“Have you been taking your antibiotics?” Van Zandt asked.
“Morning, noon, and night.”
“What about the pain pills?”
“Not so much.”
“When was the last time you took one?”
“I never got the prescription filled when I left the hospital,” he admitted.
“You’re kidding.”
Nick shook his head.
“There’s no need to be macho. If you’re hurting, take the Vicodin. Pain inhibits healing.”
“Pills make me feel dulled.”
“Take them anyway.”
“I’ve seen a lot of people get addicted to those things.”
“You’re too strong-minded to get addicted.”
“You have no idea how bored I am.”
“Let’s listen to your lungs.” Van Zandt took a stethoscope out of his pocket. He placed the earpieces in his ears and pressed the bell of the stethoscope against Nick’s back. The damn thing felt as if he’d just pulled it out of the freezer. “Deep breath.”
Nick inhaled.
“Have you been eating a healthy diet?”
“I have a slice of pizza now and again, but otherwise I’m doing the whole rabbit food thing and staying away from beer like you said the last time I was here.”
“Good, good.” Van Zandt nodded.
“Why am I not healing? You really think it’s just because I haven’t been taking the pain pills?”
“Could be. How’s your stress level?”
“I told you, I’m going stir-crazy with nothing to do.”
“Anything else going on?” Van Zandt finished listening to his lungs and came around the examination table to lay the stethoscope against Nick’s heart.
“You mean beside the fact my grandfather died two days after I got wounded on the job? And my income has been cut by a third while I’m on disability? And oh, yes, my ex-wife, who left me on our honeymoon last year, just sent me a wedding invitation. Guess what? She’s three months pregnant, marrying a famous stand-up comedian, and moving to Martha’s Vineyard.”
Nick didn’t like discussing his private business, especially that bit about Amber, but he was playing the sympathy card, hoping Van Zandt would feel sorry enough for him that he’d sign that release form.
“Really?” Van Zandt looked surprised and dropped his stethoscope back into the pocket of his lab coat.
“Yeah, my life’s a regular soap opera. You’ve heard it on TV, maybe read it in the tabloids. I’m the schmuck who got cuckolded by Gary Feldstein.” It occurred to Nick that he felt as empty inside as those new plastic specimen cups lining the shelf over the sink.
He’d closed himself off emotionally and he was dead numb. Talking about it was like poking your arm with a needle after it had been submerged in ice-cold water for a long time—you’d already lost all the feeling, it was the perfect time for more pain, before the arm woke up and started throbbing like hell.
“Ouch,” Van Zandt said.
“Tell me about it. See why I have to get back to work? My mind’s a mess. I need the distraction.”
“I see why you’re not healing. Excess stress takes a tremendous toll on our bodies. I’m getting married myself in August, so I do understand the anxiety involved. Although I can’t imagine what it must be like to get dumped on your honeymoon.” Van Zandt tried to appear empathetic, but only succeeded in looking constipated.
“I would say
congratulations, Doc, but I’m sorta soured on the whole subject of marriage.”
“Understandably so.”
“Word to the wise. Watch your back.”
“I appreciate the warning, but I can assure you my fiancée isn’t like that.”
“Yeah,” Nick muttered. “That’s what I thought.”
“My fiancée and I have known each other since we were children. She’s sweet-tempered, quiet, and modest. I’ve never met anyone so easy to get along with.”
“Well, you know what they say about the quiet ones.”
“I have no cause for concern.”
The son of a bitch looked so damn smug. Like he had the world by the balls. As if he was so sure that something like that could never happen to him.
“Whatever you say.” Nick shrugged. “Now that you understand where my tension is coming from, will you sign the form and put me back to work?”
Van Zandt’s smile was kind, but firm. “Nice try, but no. Now let’s have a look at that leg.”
He pulled back the paper sheet to study Nick’s injury, his fingers gently probing the knee. The wound was surprisingly tender, the scars still pink and fresh-looking. The kneecap was slightly puffy. Nick sucked in his breath at Van Zandt’s poking.
“It shouldn’t be this tender two months post-op.” Van Zandt shook his head. “And you’ve still got a lot of swelling. You’re going to have to baby it more. Take your pain pills. I know you’re an intense guy, but for God’s sake, man, try to find a way to relax.”
Nick sighed. Dammit all. “How much longer?”
“I’m headed to Guatemala with a surgical team, and I’ll be out of the country for six weeks,” Van Zandt said. “We’ll have Maryanne schedule you for an appointment the day after I get back.”
“Six more weeks!”
“I know it seems like a long time, but it’s what your body requires. If I allow you to go back to work too soon, you could have a relapse that would end your career as an undercover detective.” Van Zandt scribbled something on a prescription pad, tore off the top sheet, and handed it to him. “This is the name of a good massage therapist. She’ll teach you some relaxation techniques to get you through your recovery. In the meantime, try to find a low-key hobby to keep your mind busy.”