Mother of the Bride (36 page)

Maybe if she read what she'd already written it would jump-start her brain. Cydney minimized chapter five, brought up chapter four and read the last couple pages.

“Hello, Mr. Munroe.” I put on my best smile and offered my hand to his book jacket photo. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

My voice sounded funny over the tinny ring in my ears from the whack I'd taken on the back of the head. It made the deep voice that answered me
—
from the depths of my imagination, I thought
—
sound like it was coming from the bottom of an empty fifty-five gallon drum.

“Nice to meet you, too, Miss
—
f “

“Vanish. Cydney Vanish. I'm Bebe's aunt.”

“I thought she had an Uncle Sid.”

“That's Bebe's nickname for me, Uncle Cyd.” I laughed, pretending. “I've read all your books, Mr. Munroe.”

“So I see.” The deep voice didn't sound hollow anymore. It sounded like Angus Munroe was really in the room, standing behind me, eyeing his books lined up in the bookcase. “Are those pictures of me? “

“Pictures?” I laughed again. “What pictures, Mr. Munroe? “

“The ones in your lap.” The voice sounded sharp and edgy and very close. “The ones on the wall over the desk.”

I heard the floor creak as if someone were walking across it. Then I felt it and my heart seized. I shot up on my knees, whirled around and saw Angus Munroe
—

“Tall, dark and drop-dead handsome,” Gus read aloud over her shoulder. “Hey, I like this part.”

Cydney slapped her laptop shut and glared at him. He leaned on the back of the couch, one arm propping his chin on his hand. A grin on his face, his glasses slipped down on the end of his nose.

“Snoop. You snuck up on me.”

“Did not.” He vaulted over the couch and bounced down beside her, in his jeans and a red sweatshirt, and looped her under his arm. “I came downstairs, said, 'morning,' you said nothing. I went into the kitchen and drank a cup of coffee. I stuck my head past the door, said 'Wanna go upstairs and get naked?' You didn't answer, so I tiptoed over and had myself a peek.” He raised his head and looked at her through his half lenses. “A peek not a snoop.”

Cydney laughed and leaned her head against his chest, her heart aching and melting at the same time. Gus jostled her against him, chuckled into her hair and said, “You're still stuck, aren't you?”

“Boy, ami. I just can't think what happens next.”

“You know what happens next, you were there.”

“Yes, but I just—can't think how to say it.”

“Want some help?”

Cydney drew her head back and looked at him.

“Just offering.” He flung his hands up. “You could take advantage of something besides my body, you know.”

“I appreciate it, Gus. I really do, but I have to find out if I can do this on my own.”

“You think I never get stuck? Think your father never gets stuck? Sure we do, and I'm telling you from experience that it's a one-way ticket to writer's block to sit here beating your head against the screen if you don't have to. It only makes it worse.”

“This is killing you, isn't it? I'm writing about you and you can't stand it. You're dying to read it.”

“By inches I'm dying. By centimeters. By millimeters—”

“Oh stop.” Cydney laughed and opened the laptop. Gus could hate it. Pick it to death. Tell her she didn't have what it
takes.
Get real,
her little voice said.
It's about him. He'll love it.
“Here's where I'm stuck, at the end of chapter four. I don't know where to go from here.”

He pushed his glasses up his nose and leaned closer to the screen. “Scroll up a few pages.” Cydney did until he said, “Stop,” nudged her fingers off the page up and page down keys and took over.

Her heart banged while he read. When he reached the end of chapter four, laughed and kissed the top of her head, she let go of the breath she hadn't realized she'd drawn and held.

“Funny, babe. Almost as cute as you. Nice job.”

“Thanks. Where would you go from here?”

“Right this second? Upstairs with me.” Cydney poked him in the ribs and he grinned. “Are you gonna stick with first-person?”

“No. That's just so I can get the story down.”

“Then I'd change point of view.”

“Get into your head?”

“You've been in my pants. Why not my brain?”

“I thought that's where your brain is.”

“Only when I'm around you. C'mon. I'll help you get started.”

“Oh Gus. I don't know.”

“Be brave.” He gave her a buck-up knuckle on the shoulder. “Live dangerously. Bring up chapter five.”

Cydney did, her fingers clammy. “If you pick on me, I'll cry.”

“I'm not going to pick on you. Just type what I say. The last line of four is ‘What kind of a nut are you?’ So the first line of chapter five is, ‘A very fetching nut, Gus could see, now that she stood on her knees facing him.’ “He kissed her temple and Cydney smiled, feeling loved again, even though she wasn't. “‘Probably harmless, but still a nut.’“

“A nut with no idea how to explain what she's doing,” she said, laughing up at the grin on his face. “A nut who wishes she were dead.”

“That's good. Write it down.” He gave her shoulders an
encouraging squeeze. “Now this. 'She had lovely, almond-brown eyes tipped up at the corners and oddly dark brows for someone with such silvery-blond hair. A gamine face, the face of a pixie.' “

“What's a gamine and how do you spell it?”

“G-a-m-i-n-e, Scrabble whiz, and it's an urchin.”

“Oh how flattering.”

“Well, that's what you looked like. All waifish and woebegone—”

“Ooh, I like that,” Cydney said excitedly, and typed it.

“I wanted to say, 'Aww.' “He breathed it in her ear from deep in his throat, tickling her with his breath. “But then it dawned on me that maybe you weren't being charmingly coy, but coolly calculating.”

“Oh right.” She smirked. “Like I knew you were coming.”

“That's pretty much what my big-mouth know-it-all voice said. Like you knew I was coming and planned it. Like all the women I think are after me because I'm a rich, famous writer lay awake nights dreaming up screwball scenarios to get my attention.”

“Do women really do that kind of thing to you?”

“No.” Gus snapped his fingers. “Damn it.”

“Aldo said that's why you moved to Crooked Possum, so nobody could find you unless you wanted them to.”

“I moved us to Crooked Possum so nobody could find Aldo unless I wanted them to. I bought this place for Aunt Phoebe. Her dream was to own a bed-and-breakfast, but her heart gave out before she could open Tall Pines.” Gus tossed his glasses aside, rubbed his hand on her arm and gazed around the living room. “I ought to sell it, but I just can't.”

He looked so wistful, so handsome, like such a little boy with his hair falling over his eyes. Cydney's throat ached looking at him. He'd kept Tall Pines for Aunt Phoebe, kept the dining room just the way she'd left it and built a shrine from Aldo's baby pictures on her grand piano.

“By the way,” she said, blinking at the tears in her eyes. “Louella and I packed all your pictures in a box till after the wedding.”

“I might just leave them there.” He sighed. “I think it's time.”

Oh Gus. Oh please, she prayed. Don't say another word. Don't even think about broken little angels who managed to find each other.

“So what do you think of chapter five?” He glanced her a smile, blinked and frowned. “Why are you crying? Did I pick on you?”

“Oh no. No, no, no.” Cydney kissed his chin, hoping he couldn't feel the teary shiver in her mouth. “You were a big help. Thanks.”

She swung her head away, hit Save and sucked a breath. This was so hard, but she'd vowed to enjoy it, to enjoy Gus as long as she had him. She slanted a hey-big-boy smile at him through her lashes, laid her hand on his thigh and let her fingers creep toward his fly.

“Are you still not wearing any underwear?”

“Unzip me and find out.”

Cydney shut down the laptop and put it on the table, leaned into him and reached for the snap on his jeans. Gus bent his head, his eyes smoky, his lips parted. Cydney heard a doorknob turn, footsteps skid to a halt and looked over her shoulder.

At her mother, standing on the foyer in pink knit slacks and a creamy turtleneck, every strand of champagne hair in place, her makeup perfect and fire in her eyes. She threw her blue wool coat and her Hermes bag at a chair and thrust her hands on her hips.

“What the hell is going on here?”

“Beats me, Mother.” Cydney stood up with Gus beside her, his hand on the small of her back, and squared off on Georgette. She was thirty-two, not seventeen, and she was sick of having her privacy trampled. “What do you think is going on?”

“I think you've all lost your minds, that's what I think. How could you let your father just waltz through the door?”

“How were we supposed to stop him, Mother?” Cydney
waved at the open door behind her. “He barged through it exactly as you just did.”

“Did I barge? I'm sorry.” Georgette pressed one hand to her breast. “I meant to storm through the door screaming and throwing things.”

“Now, now, Georgie-girl.” Herb stepped inside, shut the door and slipped an arm around her. “We're all intelligent, rational adults. For Bebe and Aldo's sake, we can make the best of this awkward situation.”

“You
are intelligent and rational, Herbert.” Her mother turned toward him on one foot. “I am intelligent and rational. Fletcher Parrish is a moody, petulant, hypercritical egomaniac with a mean streak.”

“My finest qualities, George. Those of which I am proudest.”

What Cydney heard in her father's voice was a wry, almost self-deprecating twist, not his usual sneer. She looked up at him coming down the gallery stairs in mauve silk pajamas, a matching dressing gown and leather mules, a fond smile on his face as he gazed at her mother.

“I'm warning you, Fletch.” She stepped down from the foyer, one perfectly manicured nail thrust at him like a dagger. “One tantrum, one snit, and you'll pay me alimony until the day you die.”

“Is this your intended?” Her father smiled sweetly at Georgette and offered his hand to Herb. “Fletcher Parrish. You're a lucky man.”

“Herb Baker.” Herb shook his hand. “Your loss is my gain.”

“Right you are. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.” Fletch laid an arm on his shoulders and glanced at Cydney. “I trust you made some?”

Not for you, she wanted to say.
Well, then say it,
her little voice egged her on, so Cydney did. “I didn't make it for you,” she said boldly. “But yes, I made coffee.”

“Brews the best pot on the planet, our Cydney.” Fletch ignored the zinger and swept Herb across the living room,
pushed the swinging door open, held it and glanced back at Georgette. “Are you joining us?”

“You bet I am,” she growled. “I'm not taking my eyes off you.”

And she didn't until she reached the bar and the 125 pumpkins piled on it caught her eye. She turned toward Gus and said, “Pumpkins are fruit, Angus. These will store much better in a cool place,” then she wheeled through the door behind Herb.

Fletch turned to follow her, paused and looked at Gus. “How's the hand, Munroe?”

“I may never play the violin again.”

“Glad to hear it. My nose hurts like hell,” he said, but he smiled and pushed through the door.

When it swung shut Gus laid his hands on her shoulders. “What do you think? The body snatchers came last night?”

“Dream on.” Cydney turned to face him. “He's up to something.”

“Who's gonna tell Georgette about the pumpkins?”

“Not me. I'd rather put on Domino's coat and go stand out in the woods. At least I'd stand a fighting chance of
not
being shot.”

“Then let's go change.” Gus cupped her elbow and turned her toward the gallery. “I'll take you shopping.”

“I was kidding about my truck, Gus. It's insured,” Cydney said. Which reminded her, she had to call her insurance agent.

“I'm not buying you a truck. I'm buying you a sweater.” He gave her a wicked, hot-eyed smile. “And lingerie.”

Cydney shouldn't have let him, but he had so much fun in the Victoria's Secret wannabe boutique they found in Branson. He growled in his throat and panted like a dog over her shoulder as she looked through the racks. Knowing he'd never see her wear any of this stuff made her heart hurt, but she played along and laughed when he looked up at the ceiling, whistling, and tried to follow her into the changing room.

She cried a little while she was back there, where he couldn't
see or hear her, and dabbed her eyes with her bra. The tear-stains were dry by the time he took her to lunch at a lovely wood-beamed and wood-paneled restaurant perched halfway up a mountain.

The hostess seated them at a table by a big window, lit a candle in a glass globe and left. Cydney leaned her chin on her hand and gazed at the snow-studded hills gathering mist in the valleys and hollows between them. In her dreams she'd been to places like this with Gus for romantic dinners, basking in the heat of passion in his eyes, serenely ignoring the murmured conversation she overheard from the next table:

“That's Cydney Parrish, the famous author.”

“Ohhh.
Who's the guy with her?”

“Dunno. Looks kinda familiar. Maybe he used to be famous.”

Cydney rolled her eyes at her reflection in the window. You dweeb.

“Something bothering you?” Gus asked.

She glanced at him, looking up at her from the menu over the wire rims of his glasses. “Nope,” she said. “Not a thing.”

He half cocked an eyebrow and went back to the menu.

“Well. There is one tiny little thing.”

He sighed and shut the menu. “The wedding.”

“The pumpkins. I keep wondering if Bebe and Aldo have made it back to Tall Pines yet and told my mother.”

Gus cupped his ear to the window. “I can't hear her screaming.”

Cydney laughed. He smiled. “We'll eat and head back.”

It was almost two when Gus turned the Jag up the drive to Tall Pines. The blue spruce that had come down during the storm had been cleared away. Only a scatter of needles and small branches marked where it had fallen over the first switchback.