Sealed with a promise

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Sealed with a promise Page 8

by Mary Margret Daughtridge


  Only she un­der­s­to­od how much of Pic­kett’s self-con­cept had be­en ero­ded by not ha­ving the energy, the sta­mi­na, and the vi­gor ex­pec­ted of a per­son her age. Her high-ac­hi­eving fa­mily had be­li­eved Pic­kett had a cha­rac­ter flaw that kept her from do­ing her best, and so had Pic­kett. Wat­c­hing Pic­kett blos­som and be­gin to as­sert her­self on­ce she had energy to burn had be­en the sin­g­le most sa­tis­f­ying ex­pe­ri­en­ce of Em­mie’s li­fe.

  Ce­li­ac co­uldn’t be cu­red, but a per­son co­uld be­co­me symptom-free by avo­iding all whe­at and whe­at pro­ducts and all the bo­ta­ni­cal co­usins of whe­at, li­ke rye and bar­ley. Com­p­le­tely. Al­ways. For the rest of her li­fe. Un­til a per­son tri­ed to eli­mi­na­te it, he or she had no idea how ubi­qu­ito­us whe­at was, and how of­ten it was a hid­den in­g­re­di­ent. Whe­ne­ver she was with her, Em­mie didn’t eat an­y­t­hing that Pic­kett co­uldn’t eat, so she un­der­s­to­od how of­ten Pic­kett co­uldn’t par­ti­ci­pa­te in that most ba­sic hu­man bon­ding ri­tu­al: the sha­ring of fo­od. And pro­bably, only she un­der­s­to­od how much sha­ring the ca­ke with her brand new hus­band wo­uld me­an to Pic­kett.

  So wha­te­ver stran­ge vi­be Em­mie was get­ting from Ca­leb-she didn’t ha­ve to worry abo­ut it. She didn’t ha­ve to worry that he kept hel­ping her mo­re than she wan­ted to be hel­ped. This was for Pic­kett, and all she had to do was stay fo­cu­sed on her go­als.

  “Gra­ce was he­re all mor­ning with the de­co­ra­tor,” she told Ca­leb as he hef­ted the lar­ge box we­ig­hing over sixty po­unds on­to his sho­ul­der, “put­ting on the fi­nis­hing to­uc­hes. The ca­te­ring staff won’t be­gin set­ting up un­til la­ter. A qu­ick in and out to switch the ca­kes, and we’re do­ne.”

  They en­te­red thro­ugh the si­de por­ti­co-co­ve­red en­t­ran­ce he had dis­co­ve­red, and a short walk down the thickly car­pe­ted hall to­ok them to the re­cep­ti­on ro­om.

  “The ro­om is this way.” He ur­ged her for­ward with a fle­eting to­uch on the small of her back. It was the kind of to­uch men ga­ve wo­men they we­re with, but she had her he­ad on stra­ight now. She re­fu­sed to re­ad an­y­t­hing in­to it.

  Ba­lan­cing the box on one sho­ul­der, he ope­ned the do­or. Em­mie got her first lo­ok at the re­cep­ti­on ro­om.

  Gra­ce’s tas­te was ex­qu­isi­te. Even tho­ugh she’d hi­red a de­co­ra­tor, she’d do­ne a lot of the work her­self. To Em­mie’s sur­p­ri­se, Gra­ce had es­c­he­wed the tra­di­ti­onal bri­dal whi­te and in­s­te­ad fil­led hu­ge urns with lush ar­ran­ge­ments of autumn flo­wers, se­ed­pods, and even shocks of corn and fluffy whi­te cot­ton bolls. The re­sult was lush and ele­gant, and yet as warm as Pic­kett her­self.

  Emmie’s he­art war­med to­ward Gra­ce as she sur­ve­yed the evi­den­ce that Gra­ce ap­pre­ci­ated her sis­ter as she was.

  Right be­hind that tho­ught ca­me a chill. The ca­ke she’d had co­pi­ed was exactly the to­we­ring whi­te con­fec­ti­on she wo­uld ha­ve ex­pec­ted Gra­ce to cho­ose. She felt the blo­od dra­in from her fa­ce.

  “What’s the mat­ter?” Do-Lord swung the lar­ge box from his sho­ul­der on­to a tab­le co­ve­red with a bron­ze gre­en ( not whi­te!) cloth.

  “The ca­ke. The ca­ke I bro­ught do­esn’t go with this.” She wa­ved her hand to in­di­ca­te the ro­om’s de­co­ra­ti­ons. With her usu­al fla­re Gra­ce had mel­ded a har­vest the­me, su­itab­le for the Sa­tur­day af­ter Than­k­s­gi­ving with the ga­i­ety of a wed­ding ce­leb­ra­ti­on. Urns and tab­les spor­ted lar­ge fab­ric bows with ends al­lo­wed to tra­il whim­si­cal­ly.

  Fran­ti­cal­ly, pra­ying Gra­ce had re­ver­ted to type at le­ast in the mat­ter of the ca­ke, Em­mie scan­ned the lar­ge ro­om for the ca­ke tab­le, which wo­uld ha­ve be­en set up se­pa­ra­te from the buf­fet. At last she saw the ca­ke on the ot­her si­de of the ro­om, flan­ked by mo­re har­vest still li­fes.

  “Oh no. That’s not the ca­ke.”

  Chapter 7

  Whi­te- fa­ced and shoc­ked as a per­son drawn aga­inst her will to lo­ok at a car wreck, Em­mie wo­ve thro­ugh the tab­les, each with a still-li­fe cen­ter­pi­ece, to get a clo­ser lo­ok.

  “I don’t un­der­s­tand it. A pic­tu­re of the ca­ke Gra­ce or­de­red was on the ba­kery’s web­si­te. She must ha­ve chan­ged her mind at the last mi­nu­te… but I don’t see how.”

  Emmie lo­oked da­zed, stric­ken. Sho­ul­ders slum­ped in de­fe­at, she crad­led the arm in the sling. When she swa­yed, Do-Lord sho­ved a cha­ir at her back.

  “Sit down,” he or­de­red, and pres­sed her in­to it firmly eno­ugh to show he me­ant bu­si­ness. He knelt in front of her and to­ok her wrist to check her pul­se. Her fin­gers we­re icy, but the throb he felt un­der the silky skin of her wrist was strong and ste­ady. He cur­led her fin­gers in­to her palm, and cup­ping her hand in his much lar­ger one, he blew on the fin­gers to warm them. “You lo­oked re­ady to col­lap­se. Don’t you think you’re ta­king this too se­ri­o­usly?”

  In a mo­ment the stun­ned lo­ok left her eyes, and she wit­h­d­rew her hand al­most apo­lo­ge­ti­cal­ly. “It’s just that I wan­ted to do so­met­hing for Pic­kett. Ever­y­t­hing abo­ut this wed­ding is for her fa­mily, not her. If she had her way, she and Jax wo­uld be mar­ri­ed in her mot­her’s li­ving ro­om with only her clo­sest fa­mily pre­sent. But they how­led at the no­ti­on. Sa­id this or that co­usin’s fe­elings wo­uld be hurt. Sa­id it was bad eno­ugh she was get­ting mar­ri­ed af­ter only be­ing en­ga­ged a month. Sa­id it wo­uld be li­ke the wed­ding was so­met­hing they we­re as­ha­med of. In the in­te­rests of fa­mily har­mony, she ga­ve up all say-so abo­ut her own wed­ding. I wan­ted one thing abo­ut this wed­ding to be spe­ci­al be­ca­use it was abo­ut her.

  “You want to know the irony? Gra­ce has do­ne a be­a­uti­ful job. This isn’t her tas­te.” Aga­in, Em­mie wa­ved to in­di­ca­te the ro­om’s de­co­ra­ti­ons. “Ever­y­t­hing, in­c­lu­ding the ca­ke, lo­oks exactly right for Pic­kett.”

  She had told him she wasn’t pla­ying a joke on Pic­kett, and he’d be­li­eved her. Still he’d per­sis­ted in thin­king this who­le ca­per was a prank, a way to spit in the eye of Gra­ce and ot­hers. She re­al­ly ca­red abo­ut Pic­kett tho­ugh. Des­pi­te how dif­fe­rent they ap­pe­ared, ge­nu­ine lo­yalty and af­fec­ti­on exis­ted bet­we­en them. He’d go­ne along with her, be­ca­use al­t­ho­ugh he had no par­ti­cu­lar de­si­re to get in­vol­ved in this fa­mily’s we­ird dyna­mics, he’d wan­ted Em­mie in his debt. She wo­uldn’t re­ne­ge even if they didn’t ful­fill the cur­rent mis­si­on obj­ec­ti­ve. He al­re­ady knew that much abo­ut her.

  “So what do you want to do?” He’d ma­de all the prog­ress ne­ces­sary for now. The­re was too much he­at bet­we­en them for him to do­ubt the fi­nal out­co­me, but Em­mie wasn’t used to a man’s at­ten­ti­ons. It wo­uld ta­ke pa­ti­en­ce and skill to get her whe­re he wan­ted her.

  “The­re’s not­hing to do. If we switch the ca­kes now, we’ll ru­in Gra­ce’s de­co­ra­ting sche­me. Even if Gra­ce knows I’m the one who did it, Pic­kett will catch the fal­lo­ut. I co­uldn’t let that hap­pen.”

  The co­lor had co­me back to her che­eks, but he ha­ted the ble­ak, de­fe­ated lo­ok in her eyes, the dow­n­tur­ned cur­ve of her mo­uth. “You’re gi­ving up?”

  “What el­se can I do? I tri­ed.”

  “Is no try,” he in­to­ned with Yo­da se­ri­o­us­ness, “is only do, not do.”

  “Oh, ple­ase. I don’t buy Hol­lywo­od phi­lo­sophy an­y­mo­re than Hol­lywo­od his­tory.”

  “For SE­ALs, that’s not Hol­lywo­od. That’s the re­al world.” Do-Lord pro­du­ced a poc­ket kni­fe and slit the pac­king ta�
�pe.

  Emmie ga­ve him a ba­le­ful lo­ok and ro­se from the cha­ir. “Okay. I tri­ed. I fa­iled. Is that go­od eno­ugh for you? We might as well get out of he­re.”

  “No­pe. Be­fo­re we go, I at le­ast want to see this ca­ke you went to so much tro­ub­le to get.” In­si­de the box we­re se­ve­ral smal­ler bo­xes, as well as plas­tic pi­eces with fun­c­ti­ons he didn’t re­cog­ni­ze. He pul­led out pa­pers en­c­lo­sed in a plas­tic zip-bag. “What are the­se? In­s­t­ruc­ti­ons?”

  “Yes, they sa­id they’d in­c­lu­de di­rec­ti­ons for as­sem­b­ling the ca­ke,” Em­mie an­s­we­red im­pa­ti­ently. “Co­me on, let’s go.”

  “In a mi­nu­te,” he kind of li­ked that she was or­de­ring him aro­und aga­in, as­su­ming she was in char­ge. He li­ked it bet­ter than sad and de­fe­ated an­y­way. He was al­so cu­ri­o­us abo­ut how a ca­ke the si­ze of this one was put to­get­her-so­met­hing he’d ne­ver had oc­ca­si­on to won­der abo­ut be­fo­re.

  He stu­di­ed the di­ag­rams and the pho­to of what the fi­nis­hed pro­duct wo­uld lo­ok li­ke. He held up the pho­to. “You know, Em­mie, I think this is that ca­ke. See that pat­tern of le­aves, and tho­se ver­ti­cal stri­pes?”

  “Okay, it is the sa­me ca­ke.” On­ce Ca­leb had po­in­ted them out, Em­mie co­uld see that Gra­ce had used the res­t­ra­ined, clas­si­cal pro­por­ti­ons and em­bel­lis­h­ments of the ori­gi­nal to form a bac­k­g­ro­und for the fru­its and flo­wers. “And it’s bril­li­ant. She has symbo­li­zed Pic­kett’s warmth and che­er­ful­ness, her nur­tu­ring and ge­ne­ro­us na­tu­re sup­por­ted-even en­ric­hed-by res­ting on very tra­di­ti­onal va­lu­es. It’s be­a­uti­ful, and you can see Gra­ce isn’t trying to ma­ke Pic­kett over. She un­der­s­tands who Pic­kett is.”

  “Bril­li­ant anal­y­sis,” Ca­leb pro­no­un­ced with a dry snap. “The only tro­ub­le is, Pic­kett can’t eat this ca­ke.”

  “I’m trying to lo­ok on the bright si­de. See the glass half full and all that.”

  “I wo­uldn’t ha­ve fi­gu­red you for a qu­it­ter. All we ha­ve to do is ta­ke the de­co­ra­ti­ons off that ca­ke and put them on this one.”

  “I’m not a qu­it­ter. I’m a re­alist. Wha­te­ver that wo­man’s to­uch thing is, I didn’t get it. Even with two go­od hands, I co­uldn’t co­me clo­se to ma­king my ca­ke lo­ok li­ke Gra­ce’s. Co­uld you?”

  “I don’t know abo­ut ha­ving a wo­man’s to­uch, but ye­ah, I can do it. It’s just a mat­ter of de­con­s­t­ruc­ting it, un­der­s­tan­ding the com­po­nents, and re­as­sem­b­ling.”

  “Oh, ye­ah. Right. That’s all we ha­ve to do.”

  “Trust me.” He pul­led his cell pho­ne from an in­si­de poc­ket and han­ded it to Em­mie. “Do you know how to use the ca­me­ra? Okay, get pic­tu­res from as many an­g­les as pos­sib­le, whi­le I ret­ri­eve my lap­top from the truck.”

  “Lap­top!”

  “Um- hmm. The pho­ne pic­tu­res will be too small to gi­ve us the de­ta­il we’ll ne­ed. Plus I’m go­ing to want to graph it in­to sec­tors.” He stop­ped vi­su­ali­zing the steps he wo­uld ne­ed to lo­ok in­to her eyes, whe­re ho­pe war­red with in­com­p­re­hen­si­on. They we­re such pretty eyes, but stra­ined-lo­oking, and tin­ged vi­olet un­der­ne­ath. She was ex­ha­us­ted from be­ing in con­s­tant pa­in. With one fin­ger he smo­ot­hed the ple­at that mar­red the sil­ken per­fec­ti­on of her brow.

  “Trust me,” he ur­ged aga­in, and drop­ped a kiss on the pla­ce he had smo­ot­hed. He hadn’t in­ten­ded to kiss her yet, but ha­ving felt that in­c­re­dib­le skin with his fin­ger, he wan­ted to ex­p­lo­re the tex­tu­re with his lips. He wren­c­hed his tho­ughts away from ima­ges of sam­p­ling the tas­te of her bre­asts and in­ner thighs.

  Right now, he ho­nestly wan­ted to help her gi­ve her gift to her fri­end. Qu­ixo­tic tho­ugh it was, the task of re-de­co­ra­ting a wed­ding ca­ke grab­bed his in­te­rest. Ever sin­ce he had em­bar­ked with Em­mie on this qu­est, the bo­re­dom that had be­en his con­s­tant com­pa­ni­on, the sen­se of be­ing one step re­mo­ved from ever­y­t­hing, had di­sap­pe­ared. And it wasn’t just the pros­pect of get­ting so­me sex that had gal­va­ni­zed him. He co­uld switch the ca­kes by him­self, but if he co­uld con­vey to her his en­t­hu­si­asm, and in­s­till his con­fi­den­ce, it wo­uld be even mo­re fun.

  “I can tell you’re ex­ha­us­ted. But I know how to do this. I’ve ne­ver re­ver­se-en­gi­ne­ered a wed­ding ca­ke, but it’s the kind of prob­lem I sol­ve all the ti­me.”

  “Okay.” He co­uld al­most see her pull her­self to­get­her, re­ach in­si­de her­self for her re­ser­ves, but when she un­con­s­ci­o­usly tri­ed to squ­are her sho­ul­ders, she win­ced.

  “Do you ha­ve any pa­in meds?”

  “I’m ta­king the an­ti-in­f­lam­ma­tory they ga­ve me, but the stuff for pa­in ma­kes me go­ofy.”

  “All right. Let’s get this op over so you can rest un­til ti­me for the wed­ding.”

  Res­ting wasn’t re­al­ly an op­ti­on. As so­on as they fi­nis­hed he­re, she had to go to Pic­kett’s mot­her’s ho­use whe­re Pic­kett’s sis­ters wo­uld dress her in her ma­id of ho­nor out­fit. Gra­ce and Sa­rah Bea and even Lyle, who usu­al­ly ma­in­ta­ined a han­ds-off at­ti­tu­de, had ma­de it cle­ar that even if she had be­en ca­pab­le of ho­oking a bra or zip­ping a dress, they wo­uldn’t ha­ve trus­ted her to dress on her own.

  She’d re­sent the­ir bos­si­ness ex­cept they we­re right. She wasn’t ugly. She was just pla­in, and re­al­ly that su­ited her fi­ne. When she’d tri­ed a few ti­mes to put to­get­her out­fits that lo­oked li­ke what ot­her girls wo­re, the re­sults we­re di­sas­t­ro­us. And ma­ke­up? She’d bo­ught eye sha­dow and blus­hers but had no idea what to do with them. She had no prob­lem with her lack of fe­mi­ni­ne skills ex­cept for oc­ca­si­ons li­ke this, which we­re for­tu­na­tely ra­re.

  But for an oc­ca­si­on li­ke this, even Gra­ce didn’t de­pend on her own skills. She’d hi­red a ha­ir­d­res­ser and ma­ke­up ar­tist to primp and pa­int them. Em­mie ho­ped she wo­uldn’t ha­te the re­sults, but she fi­gu­red she pro­bably wo­uld. She’d had it with frizzy perms and fussy “do’s” she didn’t ha­ve a pra­yer of ma­in­ta­ining wit­ho­ut using eno­ugh ha­ir­s­p­ray to ca­use an air qu­ality alert.

  The pho­ne in her hand vib­ra­ted, and she han­ded it to him.

  Whi­le he an­s­we­red, for the first ti­me Em­mie to­ok a men­tal step back and as­ked her­self what was go­ing on he­re. No­body had kis­sed her li­ke that in lon­ger than she co­uld re­mem­ber. She didn’t ha­ve a word for what it had felt li­ke. He ap­pa­rently had mo­ved on, but she was still trying to un­der­s­tand why he had do­ne it. Still be­mu­sed by the kiss, Em­mie won­de­red when he’d be­co­me the one in char­ge.

  She’d be­en re­ady to gi­ve up, and tho­ugh she didn’t see how he tho­ught they co­uld suc­ce­ed, his con­fi­den­ce was con­ta­gi­o­us. She was wil­ling to shift the prob­lem to his ca­pab­le sho­ul­ders. In­tent on her go­als, she had tri­ed to ig­no­re the fact that he roc­ked her off ba­lan­ce over and over. Now she had to fa­ce the re­ali­za­ti­on that he in­te­res­ted her as a man. He had elu­ded her every at­tempt to ca­te­go­ri­ze him.

  The truth was re­la­ti­on­s­hips we­re few and far bet­we­en for Em­mie be­ca­use ex­cept on an ce­reb­ral le­vel, most men bo­red her. And wit­ho­ut any fal­se pri­de, it was simply true that few men co­uld ke­ep up with her in­tel­lec­tu­al­ly. Cho­osing her ca­re­er over any re­la­ti­on­s­hip had en­ta­iled no sac­ri­fi­ce.

  She’d as­su­med the se­xu­al in­te­rest she felt from him was a ma­le ref­lex. Ac­cor­ding to so­met­hing she’d re­ad re­cently, the at­trac­ti�
�ve­ness of so-cal­led ide­al wo­men amo­un­ted to fit­ness for chil­d­be­aring. Even the fa­mo­us pre­fe­ren­ce for blon­des bo­iled down to the fact that they had mo­re es­t­ro­gen. This ma­de her as at­trac­ti­ve as the next wo­man sin­ce she was he­althy, and her ha­ir was dark ash blon­de. As for her at­trac­ti­on to him-well, she was a wo­man, and bi­ology was bi­ology. He was an ex­cel­lent spe­ci­men by any me­asu­re. A man who wo­uld be ab­le to ke­ep her and her ba­bi­es sa­fe.

  No. She wasn’t go­ing to think abo­ut it. She wasn’t go­ing to think of it at all. For a mi­nu­te, when he’d pla­ced that kiss on her brow, she’d got­ten the idea the­re was so­met­hing abo­ut her, rat­her than her es­t­ro­gen qu­oti­ent that he res­pon­ded to. Which was ri­di­cu­lo­us. She was pro­bably kid­ding her­self, and she had sworn she wo­uldn’t do that aga­in.

  “Go­od news.” Do-Lord pres­sed the end but­ton and tur­ned back to her. “That was two of the guys from the unit who ha­ve co­me for the wed­ding. They’re al­re­ady in town, and they’ll be he­re in a few mi­nu­tes. With the­ir help we’ll ha­ve this ca­ke dis­man­t­led and re­as­sem­b­led in no ti­me.”

  Emmie lo­oked up from her pic­tu­re ta­king to see two men gli­de in­to the ro­om as Do-Lord ope­ned the do­or.

  “This is Se­ni­or Chi­ef Lon Swa­les.” Do-Lord in­di­ca­ted the ol­der man in his for­ti­es. “And the ugly one is Davy Gra­zi­ano.”

  As Em­mie sho­ok hands and res­pon­ded to the­ir “ple­ased to me­et you’s,” she had a fle­eting im­p­res­si­on that Do-Lord and the se­ni­or chi­ef we­re re­la­ted. No, she’d spent too much ti­me in the last few days no­ti­cing fa­mily re­sem­b­lan­ces. On se­cond glan­ce, ex­cept for a si­mi­la­rity of co­lo­ring, they didn’t lo­ok that much ali­ke. It must be so­met­hing abo­ut the­ir stan­ce, the way they held the­ir he­ads. They we­re all mem­bers of the sa­me crack SE­AL unit and un­do­ub­tedly spent a lot of ti­me to­get­her.

 

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