Mother of the Bride

by Lynn Michaels

  “Elvin, wait a minute.” Gus hopped around on his left foot, eased his weight onto his right, sucked air between his teeth but managed to stand straight. Shaky but straight. “Miss Parrish was reaching into my pocket for her car keys. She was not assaulting me.”

  “Yes I was.” Cydney stuck her left arm out, turned her hand over and opened her fingers. The rock fell like a bullet and thunked into Gus’ right foot. He felt something crunch and howled, tried to grab his foot and keeled over on his side in the wet grass. “Just like that. That’s exactly how I did it.”

  “Mighty nice recreation,” Elvin said. He meant recreation, but he pronounced it without the hyphen, took a step toward Gus and dropped to his heels beside him, his gun belt creaking. “You okay, Gus?”

  “Just peachy, Elvin,” he croaked.

  “Hang in there, hoss.” He clapped Gus on the shoulder, poked the brim of his hat back and squinted up at Cydney. “I thank you kindly for showin’ me how, Miss Parrish. Now if you’d kindly tell me why.”

  “Certainly, Sheriff.” Cydney hunkered down beside Elvin and wrapped her arms around her drawn-up knees. “I dropped the rock on Mr. Munroe’s foot because he kissed me and I didn’t want him to.”

  “Did’ja tell him you didn’t want him to kiss you?”

  “I didn’t have a chance. He grabbed me and wouldn’t let go.”

  Gus groaned. He knew what she was doing—getting even. He closed his eyes and told himself he deserved this.

  “Well.” Gus heard Elvin’s gun belt creak again, opened his eyes and saw the Sheriff looming over him, his shoulders so wide they blocked the sun. “We got us a domestic disagreement here, Gus? If’n so, I got no choice but to call in the Crisis Management Team.”

  “No, Elvin. No, no, wo.” Gus shot up on his hands, shaking his head emphatically. “This is not a domestic dispute.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Elvin walked the toothpick to the other side of his mouth and glanced at Cydney. “You ‘gree with that, Miss Parrish?”

  “I suppose it depends on how you define domestic.” “For God’s sake, Cydney,” Gus nearly shouted, the pain in his foot snapping his temper. “Knock it off and tell him we aren’t shacked up.”

  She wrinkled her nose at Elvin and said, “Not in this lifetime.” “Well then, ma’am. What the heck’er you doin’ here?” “I came for the wedding, Sheriff. My niece is marrying Mr.

  Munroe’s nephew a week from tomorrow.”

  “Well, ain’t that nice. ‘Gratulations, Gus.” Elvin offered his hand.

  Gus took it. “Thanks, Elvin. Help me up, would you?” “Glad to. Just as soon as you give Miss Parrish her keys.” Gus fished his keys and Cydney’s out of his pocket and tossed both rings to Elvin. “Would you mind unlocking the garage?” “Don’t bother, Sheriff. I can manage.” Cydney gave him a bright smile and took the keys out of his hand. “Thanks for your help.” When she disappeared around the corner of the garage,

  Elvin squatted beside Gus, his fingers laced together between his knees.

  “She’s leavin’ for good, ain’t she?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Unless you arrest her.”

  “Don’t think I can do that. Might be able to arrest you,

  though.” Elvin took the toothpick out of his mouth. “That be any help?”

  “I’d rot in solitary before she’d bail me out.” “What the hell’d you do wrong ‘sides kiss her?” “Everything.” Gus could see that now and sighed. “Well.” Elvin put the toothpick back in his mouth, flipped it end over end, stood up and adjusted his gun belt. “Think I

  got a idea.”

  “Does it include helping me up?” Gus asked sourly. “Just lay there lookin’ feeble, hoss, and lemme handle this.”

  chapter

  seventeen

  Intuition told Gus he’d be smart to let Cydney go and give her a chance to cool off. Experience told him he was out of his mind to let Elvin handle this.

  “I appreciate your concern, Elvin. Really,” Gus said, trying to lever himself off the ground. “But I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”

  “Happens I don’t at the moment,” he replied, ambling toward the driveway. “Lucky for you, ‘cause I got a flare for this sorta thing.”

  “I have only three words to say to you—Crisis Management Team.”

  “One li’l boo-boo.” Elvin planted himself in the middle of the driveway and hitched up his gun belt. “B’hold the power of the badge, hoss.”

  When Cydney’s Jeep came around the garage, its blue doors tracked with last night’s rain and road dust, Elvin squared his shoulders and flung up his hand. Gus wasn’t sure Cydney would stop, but she did. Wisely. Hitting Elvin would be like hitting a bridge abutment. She didn’t look happy when she got out of the Jeep and came around the bug-spattered front end. She looked like she knew what was coming.

  “Yes, Sheriff?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Can’t say you wasn’t justified droppin’ that rock on ol’ Gus’ foot, but assault with a deadly weapon is still assault with a deadly weapon.”

  Cydney blinked at him, incredulous. “A rock?”

  “You’d be amazed, ma’am, what can turn deadly in a pair o’ angry hands. I recommend you fetch ol’ Gus up to the hospital in Branson. If’n he’s inclined to press charges”—No, Elvin, no! Gus wanted to shout at him—”I do believe the court would look kindly upon you.”

  Cydney swung a laser beam, you-slug-you glare on Gus. He sprawled on his back and let his head thud on the spongy grass.

  “The court being you,” Cydney said. “Is that right, Sheriff?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I would be the court.”

  “And I would be the plaintiff.” Gus pushed up on his hands. “If I were going to press charges, which I’m not. And I don’t need to be fetched anywhere by anyone. I can fetch myself.”

  Just as soon as he figured out how to get off the ground. Elvin swung around to face him and Cydney peeked past him, took a look at Gus’ bashed up and already bruised foot and winced.

  “Big talk,” Elvin said, “from a feller flat on his keister.”

  “If you’d help me up, Your Honor, I wouldn’t be flat on my keister.”

  Elvin stepped toward him. Cydney opened the Jeep’s passenger door wide on its hinges and said, “Load him up, Sheriff.”

  “No thank you.” Gus clasped Elvin’s broad-as-an-oak forearm and pulled himself up. “I’m just fine.”

  Except he couldn’t stand on his right foot. Left, no problem— right, no way. He tried twice and ended up clinging to Elvin.

  “You’re lookin’ like a fool here, hoss,” he muttered in Gus’ ear. “Git in the damn car. It’s a hunnard mile round-trip t’Branson. Plenty o’ time to sweet talk ‘er into stayin’.”

  “That’s your idea? Acaptive audience?”

  “‘Course it is, idjet.”

  “Loadme up, Sheriff.”

  Cydney was already belted in behind the wheel, the engine running, her head turned to watch Gus hop toward the Jeep, leaning on Elvin, his jeans soaked and baggy-assed, his gray T-shirt streaked with grass stains. Oh what a manly picture he made, said the raised eyebrow and puckered corner of her mouth. Elvin boosted him up into the seat and touched his hat brim.

  “Drive careful, Miss Parrish.” He shut the door and stepped back.

  Cydney trod on the gas. The Jeep shot past Crooked Possum’s one and only police cruiser and tore around the circle drive in front of the house, its tires squealing. Gus grabbed the door handle and hung on.

  “I did not tell Elvin I was going to press charges.”

  “Fasten your seat belt and don’t talk to me. I agreed to drive you to the hospital in Branson. I did not agree to listen to your lame, self-serving excuses.”

  “Ah yes, the emergency room.” Gus buckled his shoulder harness. “What fond memories it brings of the night we met.”

  “Ah yes,” she mocked, rocketing the Jeep through the first grade in the three-mile plunge down the side of t
he mountain. “The night you showed your true colors.”

  “Since I met you my colors are black and blue. And red.” Gus frowned at his throbbing right foot. “My big toe is bleeding.”

  “Here.” She reached into the back for the pop-up box of Kleenex on the seat and threw it at him. Gus caught it and said, “Thank you, Nurse Ratched.”

  He plucked a handful of tissues, raised his foot and wadded them around his toe. The Jeep screeched through the first switchback in the drive, an easy right-hand loop onto the second grade at thirty miles per hour—a close brush with g-forces at close to fifty.

  “If you’re trying to kill me,” Gus said, “you could just let me get out and lay down in front of your truck.”

  She glared at him but took her foot off the gas. “Don’t tempt me.”

  “I’ve been trying, but clearly you’re above temptation.”

  “You aren’t above anything, are you? I knew you were up to no good. The second you said have the wedding at Tall Pines I knew it.”

  “I was up to no good, but I’m not now. If you’d just listen—”

  “So you can lie to me some more?” She wheeled the Jeep through the second switchback, this one a left, cutting it so close to the edge of the drive that the pine boughs overhanging the split-rail fence scraped her window. “No thanks.”

  “I did not lie to you. I told you from the jump I thought Aldo marrying Bebe was a crappy idea. I still do.”

  “You’re entitled to your opinion. You are not entitled to scheme and connive and do everything you can to sabotage Bebe and Aldo getting married because you think it’s a crappy idea.”

  “You’re right. I realized that last night when I read the Grand Plan. Know what else I realized? If Aldo’s dumb enough to marry your niece he deserves whatever he gets.”

  She slammed on the brake, screeching the Jeep to a stop. Gus glanced in the rearview mirror, saw ten feet of skid marks smoking behind the Jeep, glanced at Cydney and saw murder in her eyes.

  “You arrogant, insulting—”

  “Don’t forget selfish,” Gus cut in. “And if you want to see selfish up close and personal—not to mention spoiled stinking rotten and a few fries short of a Happy Meal—take a good look at your niece.”

  “Have a peek at your nephew, Munroe. Good thing he’s a millionaire ‘cause Aldo doesn’t have brains enough to get a job pushing the menu buttons on the cash register at McDonald’s!”

  “They make a great pair, don’t they? So do you and I, in case you haven’t noticed. We raised them.”

  That one took the fight out of her. She stared at him for a second, then swung her head away, her knuckles white on the wheel.

  “Hard to think up a snappy comeback to the truth, isn’t it? I had the same problem when I tried to rationalize the Grand Plan. I told myself I was scheming and plotting to save Aldo from a fate worse than death. But that was my judgment, and the truth is, I was playing God with people’s lives. Yours included, and I’m sorry.”

  She gave him a dubious frown, a fleck of mud on her jaw, another on the sleeve of her white pullover.

  “I don’t believe you. I think you’re just trying to con me so the minute my back is turned you can start scheming and plotting again.”

  “No more sabotage.” Gus flicked an X across his heart and held up his hand. “Swear to God.”

  “I don’t trust you,” she said flatly.

  “Give me a chance to prove I’ve reformed.” Gus undid his seat belt and inched toward her. “I want us to be friends again.”

  “I’m not sure I want to be your friend.”

  “Then let’s try something else.” Gus leaned toward her. When she didn’t draw away, he leaned even closer. “How about lovers?”

  Her eyes widened and her breath caught. He tipped his chin to kiss her, so focused on her parted peach lips he didn’t see her left hand until it smacked him in the jaw. His head bounced off her seat, the Jeep leaped forward and Gus fell back against the door, his cheek stinging.

  “That’s your solution to everything, isn’t it?” She shot him a flushed and furious glare, her foot hard on the gas again. “Grab the little blonde with the big case of hero worship and plant one on her.”

  Gus pushed himself up in the seat and rubbed his jaw. “What?”

  “I probably am—no, make that was—your biggest fan.” She clamped her hands on the wheel and squealed the Jeep almost sideways through the last switchback and the final drop to the county road. “Why do you think I have pictures of you tacked all over my writing room?”

  He’d thought she was a nut. He’d asked her what kind of nut—Glenn Close or his biggest fan. She hadn’t answered him and he hadn’t wondered once since what all those pictures of him stuck all over the wall above her rickety old desk signified. Please God, she didn’t remember what he’d said. He’d give anything to forget.

  “I’ll tell you what you thought. You thought I was a nut.” She slammed on the brake and skidded the Jeep to a stop at the bottom of the drive. “Which way?”

  “Left,” Gus said. “I’m sorry I called you a nut.”

  “I’m sure I looked like one sitting on the floor talking to your picture.” She turned left and floored the accelerator. “I was practicing what I’d say to you. I was so excited that at last I was going to meet you and be able to tell you how much I love your books.”

  All Gus had wanted from her father at that long ago mystery conference was an autograph and a chance to tell Fletcher Parrish how much his books meant to him. He knew what that felt like, to be let down by someone you admire. Gus leaned his elbow on the armrest on the door and wiped his hand over his mouth. Why was there never an abyss handy when he needed one to open up and swallow him?

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Why do you think?” She shot him a sizzling look. “I want you to feel like the sleazy, self-absorbed prick I think you are.”

  “That’s what I thought. Just checking.”

  “How dare you sit in my dining room and tell me you don’t read manuscripts by beginning writers? How dare you!” She beat her fist against the wheel. “My father is Fletcher Parrish, you arrogant jerk. If I want a published author to read my book, all I have to do is call Dad!”

  “So finish the book and let your old man read it,” Gus shot back. “Don’t jump on my case ‘cause you don’t have what it takes to be a writer.”

  She hit the brake and slid the Jeep to a sideways halt in the middle of the road. Gus flung up his hands and caught himself on the dash.

  “I’ve got what it takes,” she said between her teeth.

  “No you don’t. If you did your book would be finished.”

  She made a disgusted noise, wrenched the Jeep straight on the road and stepped on the gas. “Like you know anything about my life.”

  “I know you’ve been writing the same book for five years.” Gus grabbed the shoulder harness and fastened it. “I’ve written six and a screenplay. If you’d put the amount of time into your writing that you’ve put into being Bebe’s personal body slave you’d have finished your book a long damn time ago.”

  “Just put your butt in the chair, right?” she jeered, rocketing the Jeep up the long, curved hill that swooped down from the top of the ridge to the entrance to Tall Pines.

  “That’s ninety percent of it.” Gus leaned toward the instrument panel and saw the digital speedometer flicking past 50. “Put your butt in the chair and keep it there until the book’s finished.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re a recluse. You don’t have a life.”

  “Yes I do and I value it. If you don’t take your foot off the gas we’re gonna be airborne when we hit the top of this hill.”

  She glared at him and glanced at the speedometer, lifted her foot from the accelerator and eased on the brake. The Jeep didn’t take off but it bounced going over the crest of the ridge. Cydney kept her foot on the brake until the speedometer fell from 50 to 40 to 35.

  “I do too h
ave what it takes,” she repeated, a quaver in her voice.

  “Prove it. Finish the book.”

  “I will, damn you. I’ll prove to you I’ve got what it takes.”

  “Don’t prove it to me. Prove it to yourself.”

  She opened her mouth, snapped it shut and glared at him.

  “Are you through yelling and calling me names?” he asked.

  “For the moment.” She swung her gaze back to the windshield and slowed the Jeep at a three-way split in the road. “Now where?”

  “Straight through, then bear left.”

  She didn’t say anything else and neither did Gus. The dash clock said it was 10 A.M. The thud in his head and the throb in his foot said it ought to be midnight. He leaned back in the seat, shut his eyes and opened them only when Cydney asked him which way to turn.

  His body was one giant ache by the time they reached Branson. His joints creaked louder than the hinges when Cydney stopped the Jeep at the emergency room entrance and Gus pushed his door open. He swung his left foot out onto the concrete walk, his right foot numb but starting to prickle, and looked at the glass doors of the hospital entrance.

  “Ten feet,” he said. “I used to play hopscotch. I can do this.”

  He drew a breath and hopped toward the door. When he started to wobble, Cydney slid under his right arm and wrapped her left around his waist. Gus curved his arm around her, bent his head over hers and inhaled a noseful of her lilac-scented hair.

  “Stop that.” She jerked her head away and nudged him with her shoulder. “C’mon, Hopalong, before you fall and hurt yourself again.”

  “I’m going to say this one last time.” Gus clenched his jaw. “I have yet to inflict pain or injury on myself in your presence.”

  “Oh, really? Who stepped on the pine needle? Who put his big foot through the wicket after I told him it was there?”

  “Who dropped a rock on my foot? Not once, but twice? Who dropped me on a goddamn concrete birdbath?”

  “Aldo dropped you on the birdbath. I had your feet.”

  They argued all the way to the ER checkin, where Cydney dumped him in a wheelchair and stalked off. Straight back to Kansas City, Gus was certain, but she was in the waiting room when he came limping out of ER on a cane three hours later.