“Are you sure?” Trish asked.
Emmie wasn’t, but she nodded anyway. She wasn’t sure about anything. Emmie was wearing thong panties chosen by Grace and a strapless bra that mounded her breasts together and pointed them at the world like bazookas—both things that had never before entered the realm of the possible.
“I’m going to bring it to where it will just touch your shoulders and add some layers.” Trish reached for her scissors and smiled at Emmie in the mirror. “I’ll bet you wear it long because you can’t be bothered with regular haircuts. Don’t worry, this will be almost as easy, and hair won’t get caught under your sling.”
“I brought your medicine from the other bathroom.” Pickett handed her two capsules. “And you’re supposed to take it with food, so I fixed you a snack.”
Unable to take her eyes from the scissors flashing and snipping around her head, Emmie swallowed the pills and chased them with the milk Pickett placed in her hand.
Her head felt oddly weightless twenty minutes later when Trish turned off the blow-dryer. She turned her head back and forth, and as Trish had promised, strands no longer snagged in the sling. Her head moved easily, uninterrupted by constant painful tugs. Miraculously, since Trish had started work on her, even the pain deep in her shoulder joint had abated. If for no other reason, the haircut was worth it.
Trish moved a couple of strands a quarter inch and stood back. “Do you like it?
She giggled.
“What’s so funny?” Pickett smiled at her affectionately in the mirror.
“That there could be anything practical about all this.” Emmie waved at the feminine impedimenta—electrified wands, bottles and sprays of what Trish called “product,” brushes, huge round things and short ones that looked like paint brushes, tiny pots of color, a case that had to contain fifty lipsticks. She didn’t slow herself down worrying about any of this stuff.
She broadened the gesture to include her dress that someone had hung on a closet door. The dress fit so snugly, a thong was required so panty lines wouldn’t show. It was silly to need special underwear, when all you had to do was buy loose-fitting clothes.
The thought was more complex than she felt up to explaining, what with her head bobbing like a helium balloon. “If I’d known a haircut would make my shoulder stop hurting, I’d have done it days ago.”
Everybody laughed.
Finally, Grace touched a tissue carefully to the corners of her eyes. “Emmie, you are priceless!”
“Now, do you see why I love her?” Pickett chuckled.
“I’ve always seen why you loved her,” Grace averred.
“Me, too,” echoed Lyle and Sarah Bea.
“She’s special and courageous, and the perfect antidote to Grace’s perfectionism,” Lyle told Pickett. “We’re lucky you adopted her into this family.”
“I may be a perfectionist—though I prefer to think of myself as having high standards,”—Grace grinned—“and y’all think I’m the bossy big sister, but you have to admit I was right to bring in Trish.”
“I’d like to take credit that you’re out of pain,” Trish said, focusing on her professional duties, “but more likely, your pain meds have kicked in. Now is probably a good time to wax your eyebrows.” She pulled a small Crockpot from the back of the vanity. “Close your eyes.”
Chapter 11
DO-LORD WAITED BESIDE JAX AT THE FRONT OF THE church. Behind them the nave glowed with the light of many-branched candelabra. Before them the last long slants of the setting sun through the massive windows lit the very air with jewels of ruby, emerald, and topaz, and dabbed bits of magic here and there on the well-dressed guests packed together in the pews.
He breathed a heady mix of greenery and potted ferns, sweet moist smell of roses, carnation spiciness, woodsy chrysanthemums, layered over the odors of furniture polish, wood, and the slight mustiness of a room that’s often empty. The components didn’t smell all that different from a funeral. And yet the odor was unmistakably not a funeral. Emotions affected the chemical balances in the body, and the church was filled with smiling people. He wondered if there was some exhalation of joy and celebration that could be measured in parts per million.
Do-Lord had a military man’s appreciation of the value of ceremony, tradition, and panoply. The word panoply originally meant a full or complete suit of armor. Now it meant diverse elements gathered together into a complete collection and intended to impress. While the organ dripped the serene majesty of the Pachelbel Canon in D one note at a time, Pickett’s sisters, beginning with Grace and ending with Lyle, processed to the altar in measured steps.
Do-Lord didn’t have to look at Jax to feel the electrical thrumming of his anticipation. Between them Tyler in a navy suit rocked side to side in his little black shoes that Do-Lord himself had polished.
At the very back of the sanctuary Emmie appeared. She came down the aisle with slightly wobbly composure in a slim brown column of a dress, simple to the point of plainness. His heart banged against his ribs as if he had jumped from twenty-thousand feet. Her eyes, those wide, guileless, intelligent, curious, summer-sky-blue eyes, met his, and he had the crazy idea for a minute that she was coming to him, coming for him. And just when he could have reached out and drawn her to him—she turned aside, of course, to join the ranks of bridesmaids.
Then the music changed, and Pickett in a dress that looked like it was made of whipped cream and candlelight appeared in the aisle, her face and golden hair obscured by antique lace. He felt such a lift of incandescent joy come from Jax, he had to blink the sudden wetness from his eyes.
Tyler piped in discovery, “That’s Pickett, Daddy! Our Pickett. There she is!”
A discreet chuckle bubbled through the assembled crowd. Only he saw Jax’s hand cover his son’s head in wordless caress and heard him murmur, “Our Pickett.”
From now on, and in a new way, Jax and Tyler were going to be all right.
Jax and Do-Lord got along because they were strong men who respected and even depended upon their differences. Though Jax was Do-Lord’s commanding officer, neither thought Jax was Do-Lord’s superior. Do-Lord had been offered officer training and turned it down more than once. His path had always been different from Jax’s, and he knew it. This day he rejoiced with Jax and knew he had never loved him more.
Pickett came down the aisle and put her hand in Jax’s, and for the first time ever, Do-Lord knew what it felt like to envy Jax.
Chapter 12
BY THE TIME THE WEDDING PARTY FINISHED WITH THE photographs at the church and arrived at the country club, the guests were already enjoying hors d’oeuvres and cocktails, filling the large room with well-bred din and the mingled scents of cologne.
Grace’s beautiful decorations lent importance to the occasion. Emmie adjusted the sling that Sarah Bea, the only Sessoms girl who sewed, had made. She had been up most of the night, after scouring fabric shops on Friday to find the material that matched her dress. Say what you would about the Sessoms’ belief they had a right to run Pickett’s life (and by extension, Emmie’s), they also spared no effort to make every detail of their sister’s wedding perfect. No ugly blue sling would be a jarring note in the wedding photos.
It allowed her arm to swing though, and Emmie cradled her elbow in her opposite hand as she worked her way along the edges of the crowd. Pickett and Jax and the others were immediately surrounded by well-wishers eager to exclaim over the beauty of the ceremony. She needed to reassure herself that the cake really was okay.
Senior Chief Lon Swales blocked her path. “Don’t be too obvious about looking at the cake,” Lon advised, having read her intentions. “We don’t want to call attention to it.”
He looked impressive in a blue uniform decorated with rows of gold braid on the sleeves and his massive chest loaded with insignia. His light green eyes swept over her, and the crow’s feet around them deepened. There was something kindly about his appreciation.
“Hel-lo, Emmie!” Th
e lingering perusal Davy gave her cleavage when he appeared at the senior chief’s side a moment later wasn’t kindly at all. The glistening brown of his eyes was deepened by his Navy uniform, and his expression was decidedly wolfish. It was so different from his dismissal of her earlier, she was taken aback. If not for the senior chief’s comforting presence she might have been either alarmed by Davy’s distinctly sexual appraisal or offended. As it was, an unaccustomed swell of power made her straighten rather than cringe. She might even be tempted to test the extent of that power, if she didn’t have more important things on her mind.
“Have you looked at it?” she asked Lon. “Does the dent in the frosting look too bad?” Even with three pairs of hands, removing one tier and substituting another hadn’t gone quite as planned. The marzipan decorations weren’t placed exactly as they had been on the original, and it had been necessary to stick the cascading ribbon into place with surgical glue supplied by Davy, who didn’t travel without his medical kit.
“Remember, nobody but Grace knows what it was supposed to look like.” Lon’s expression changed in some way she couldn’t quantify the same instant that Caleb materialized at her side. She couldn’t imagine how they’d accomplished it, but she was suddenly sure that Lon intercepting her had been no accident.
Caleb and Jax, since the wedding was formal, were wearing ceremonial or dress uniforms—the Navy’s equivalent to a tuxedo. Gold braid slashes on the sleeve indicated his chief petty officer rank and more insignia than she could identify dotted his chest. She recognized the Trident, nicknamed the Budweiser because of its resemblance to that famous trademark. Fully one-third of his chest was covered with bright gold medals. The sight was intended to impress, and it did. “I stopped by the bar to get me a beer and brought you a glass of champagne—I didn’t know what you like,” he said, offering the flute.
Emmie accepted it eagerly. “I’m not much of a drinker. But I do like champagne.” She took a sip, relishing how the tart zing soothed the dryness of her mouth. She also liked the warm weight of his hand on her waist, though she didn’t know exactly how it got there. She snuck a look at his face. Against the deep blue of his uniform, the golden tan of his cheeks took on a burnished look. His eyes appeared more gold than green. Underneath the perpetual lazy amusement he regarded the world with, something gleamed hot. The steady rhythm of her heart stalled before shifting into a slow, heavy thud. She took another, larger swallow.
“Go easy on that. It will go to your head if you’re not used to drinking.” His eyes left hers to flick over the crowd.
“Are you looking for someone?”
“Not now.” The fire was banked when his gaze returned to her. “Later, you can introduce me to Senator Calhoun.”
“Why?” Emmie gasped before she thought. “I wouldn’t have thought you were a celebrity chaser.” His hand left her waist, and he gave her a look as cool as the one a minute ago had been hot. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “That was pretty graceless. I’ll be glad to introduce you.”
“You don’t like Calhoun very much do you?”
“He’s okay, I guess. He has a politician’s gift for seeming genuinely delighted to see one. He’ll say all the right things. You watch—he’ll even ask about my mother—but whenever I’m around him, I always wind up aware of how unimportant an academic is in the greater scheme of things. I shouldn’t blame him or take it personally though. Not many people try to get to know me. I’m pretty dull.”
“Oh no, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am. Most people think someone who loves to teach, who’s perfectly happy with life as a teacher, is dull. I guess it’s because they found school boring when they were kids. Anyway, few eyes light up when I tell them I’m a professor. Unless they’re academics too.”
If she looked like she did tonight, people’s eyes would light up if she said she was a sanitation worker.
“The conservative media has combined effete and intellectual so many times, most think the words are synonymous. God forbid we think those with knowledge have a contribution to make.”
“So you stay in your ivory tower?”
“See, that’s an example of what I’m talking about. People say ‘ivory tower’ with disdain. Few grasp the exhilaration of intellectual daring or respect the discipline of intellectual rigor. What on earth makes them imagine that teaching young people has no value?”
“You’re overstating. People do understand the value of knowledge. The Navy does.”
“You’re right. The largest marine biology research grants come from the Navy. I’m not talking about knowledge. I’m talking about how people who gather it are perceived. Biology professors don’t appear on reality TV. Nobody thinks we are the stuff that dreams are made of.”
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“You know Shakespeare?” The delicate arch of her eyebrows lifted.
“I recognize the quote.” He didn’t know why her surprise irritated him. She had bought his country-boy disguise—which was, after all, his intention.
“Did you know A Midsummer Night’s Dream is set in the New World? The ‘vexed burmoothes’ where the play’s shipwreck occurs is a real place—the Bermuda Islands, which had recently been discovered. All his audience knew about the burmoothes was that terrible storms struck it, and shipwrecks in the area—Bermuda is off the coast of North Carolina—were common.”
“So Shakespeare was getting his audience to buy into the fantasy by using a setting that was ‘real’ but unexplored. Like Edgar Rice Burrough’s A Princess of Mars.
“Exactly.” She smiled a teacher’s smile at the quick comprehension of the student. “‘Vexed’ refers to the hurricanes common to the area. He is making use of his audience’s expectations about romance and adventure in the New World to establish a point of departure for his story. Uh-oh. I went into lecture mode. Sorry.”
“We’ve wandered away from our topic. Why don’t you think you’re the stuff of dreams?”
“I’m a college professor—actually, not even that. I’m a junior instructor. What’s that Latin phrase that means the point proves itself? My brain seems fuzzy tonight.”
“Ipso facto,” Caleb supplied.
“Right. Let me put it this way. I’ll bet a lot more romances have been written with SEALs as heroes, than ecology professors as heroines.”
Emmie peered into her champagne flute as if she wasn’t sure what was in it. “There seems to be more veritas than usual in this vino.”
Do-Lord laughed at the look of consternation in her wide, innocent eyes. And at the way she inverted the Latin epigram in vino veritas, there is truth in wine.
Other members of the unit came up, some in uniform, some in civilian dress. He introduced Emmie, but he kept his hand on her waist. The conversation became general, and Emmie’s gaze became unfocused as her mind wandered.
“Emmie!” Sarah Bea’s voice penetrated Emmie’s brain fog. Her head felt disconnected from her body, and she had given in to the confusing babble and constantly shifting crowd. “Pickett’s going to throw the bouquet now instead of later. You and Lyle are the only unmarried bridesmaids. Don’t you know the one who catches the bouquet will be the next to get married?”
“Don’t think I’m going to catch a bouquet,” objected Lyle. “I don’t believe in that superstition, but I also don’t believe in taking chances.”
Sarah Bea rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible,” she said without heat. “Emmie, you go on now.”
Emmie finished the last of her champagne and rose to join the women who thronged at one end of the large room. Hobbled by the long narrow skirt of her bridesmaid dress, she teetered a bit on the high-heeled shoes that amounted to little more than straps.
A little girl, one of the several running in from the side room where the children were having a separate party, caught her hips and steadied her. “Here.” She offered a hand with very, very short polished nails, “I’ll help you get to the front.”
“Do you hope to
catch the bouquet?” Emmie had already seen Cousin Annalynn, sixty if she was a day and twice widowed, jockeying for position. “Aren’t you a little young?”
“I’m ten.” The little girl grinned to reveal teeth too large for her face. When the rest of her bone structure caught up she’d probably be striking, but right now, with her dense freckles and dancing eyes, she had a rather appealing homeliness. “I just like to be where the action is.”
The child radiated an intensity that made it easy to believe. “You go to the front where you can see then. I’ll catch up.”
The child scooted between two adults, using her smaller size to find openings in the crowd.
“That’s Teague Calhoun’s little girl,” a thin woman in an exquisite petal pink gown informed her. Like Emmie, she was making no effort to squeeze closer to the women surrounding Pickett. No longer young, the woman had classically perfect features that would have made Emmie feel more like a mud hen than usual—indeed, her beauty would have made most women feel that way. But in her oddly disconnected state Emmie reacted mostly to the wide and fixed look in the woman’s eye.
Emmie knew that look. Like the person was watching a scene of unendurable darkness and couldn’t find the energy or the will to tear her eyes away. She had seen it in refugee camps on the faces of starving people. It was one of the few clear memories she had of early childhood. Her parents had taken her to so many disparate cultures that when snippets surfaced, she had no idea when they happened or where. She thought she remembered the camp because the suffering was intelligible even to a small child. It transcended all considerations of skin color, language, religion, or sex. And that expression had been on everyone’s face.
This woman wasn’t starving. Her lovely dress and the diamonds at her ears announced she lived at the other end of the bell curve from those who couldn’t afford one cup of meal. She smiled in a way that didn’t change her eyes at all. “That little girl will never be a beauty, but in a few years most people will think she is.”
Mary Margret Daughtridge SEALed Bundle Page 39