The Cinderella Hour (21 page)

I Do
Weddings

Peachtree
Road

Atlanta
, Georgia

Tuesday,
November
1

7
:
20
p.m.

Ellen O’Neil’s seven o’clock
appointment was twenty minutes late. Twenty minutes and counting.

The tardy mother-of-the-bride had called. In a panic. A
foreshadowing, Ellen feared, of the kind of wedding-related hysteria she would have
to nip in the bud.

Ellen ran a tight ship. She had been known to dismiss
irritating clients or refuse to work with them up front. It was a luxury she
could afford. She was the wedding coordinator all of Atlanta wanted. If she was
unavailable for a certain date, the wedding would be rescheduled to a time she
was free, even if it meant getting married on Halloween.

She had orchestrated such an October thirty-first wedding
last evening in Savannah, overseeing every flawless moment, through the
bon
voyage
luncheon for the newlyweds today.

Her return flight touched down at Hartsfield at five. At six,
from the computer in her boutique, she logged onto
The Cinderella Hour
website
and learned of tonight’s topics.

And guests.

One guest in particular. A chill ran through her when she saw
his name. The chill was familiar. It greeted her every time she tried to force
the memory from its shadows. Such attempts had been frequent in the two weeks
since Snow’s surprise on-air announcement that she and
The Cinderella Hour
were moving to Chicago.

The move had been in the works for a while, Snow admitted
when listeners called in to voice their distress. She hadn’t wanted to make a
big deal about it, or have anyone else make a big deal. WCHM would be
broadcasting
The Cinderella
Hour
live online, and the toll-free call-in
number would work perfectly well from Atlanta, and she hoped her Atlanta listeners would feel as free to participate in the show as they always had.

Ellen had been in a cab, heading home following a rehearsal
dinner at a mansion on Tuxedo Road, when Snow told her listeners she was
leaving. The cabbie had tried to engage her in conversation, to commiserate with
him that his late-night shift wasn’t going to be nearly as enjoyable—or educational—without
Snow to listen to. But Ellen had been silenced by her own concerns.

Her own fear.

She had spent the night convincing herself the fear was
unfounded. Yes, there would be men in Chicago who would hear Leigh Gable’s
voice in Snow’s and might contact Snow in the hope of finding Leigh. Snow would
tell them the truth. She had neither seen nor heard from her mother in sixteen
years.

And, because she had known that any of those men could be the
violent one from whom Leigh had fled, Snow would avoid further contact with
them all.

Snow had also changed her birth date, as Leigh had wanted her
to. The Valentine’s Day baby had become an Independence Day one. Her July
fourth birthday was in the public domain. A bit of trivia for her fans.

Snow would be safe in Chicago. She had seen her mother’s
bruises. She would know to be wary.

It was Ellen who needed more knowledge. She had made some
progress. But the memory of what happened the night Snow was conceived was as
reluctant to come out of hiding as she had been reluctant to search for it.

Ellen had no idea what she would do with the memory once she
recovered it. Most likely, it would merely confirm the violence she had experienced—and
had long since revealed to Snow—and there would be nothing more to do.

The memory came in words not in images—elements of the story
she had been told. The first three elements were reassuring. A mother, a bride,
and eggs. Ellen had no trouble envisioning harmless scenarios that would
embrace all three.

If not for the chill, she might have ended her search. But
she persevered, and this morning, in Savannah, a fourth element emerged from
the shadows.

Poison
.

And tonight, in Chicago—

Door chimes, signaling the arrival of Lucinda Buchanan and
her bride-to-be daughter Lucy, interrupted Ellen’s thoughts.

She would give them the short version of her usual three-hour
spiel, she decided, a presentation of options so extensive that she never had
to deal with last-minute suggestions from a bride’s college roommate or a groom’s
older sister based on something they had read in
Vogue
.

True, Ellen could leave the boutique at ten-twenty and have
every expectation of making it home in time. But every expectation wasn’t good
enough.

By eleven Atlanta time—ten in Chicago—she had to be at her
computer, listening to every word. The voice that created the memory would be
speaking. Maybe when she heard that voice the entire story would be revealed.

And she would know then what she had to do.

Mira and Thomas talked about
nothing and everything—and it all felt monumental—until it was time to check on
the sleeping girls.

Kneeling on the floor, Mira placed a hand on Eileen. Wendy’s
hand was already there.

The kitten stirred slightly beneath Mira’s fingers. It was a good
sign. The lethargy hadn’t deepened. And her respiratory rate was unchanged.

It was too soon to detect improvement. But Eileen was holding
her own.

Mira was about to stand when Wendy opened her eyes—and cried
out with alarm?

No. There was neither panic nor fear.

Wendy frowned, a search for bearings, as she gazed at Mira.
Her answer was found, it seemed, in Mira’s smile.

“Mira.”

“Hi, Wendy. I’m just checking on Eileen. She’s doing fine.”

“Does she need more fluid?”

“She will. In a couple of hours. For now, she has enough.”

“It’s been a while since Wendy has eaten,” Thomas said.

Wendy hadn’t looked at him until then. But she had known he
was there. “I’m okay, Thomas.”

“You know what, though?” Mira said. “I’d really like to spend
a little time with Eileen. I wouldn’t give her any shots, Wendy. Not without
your help. I’d just like to watch her, if that’s all right with you. I’ll lie
right here, where you’ve been lying, and keep her company while you and Thomas
find something to eat.”

Many dreams later, it was Mira who
frowned on awakening as she searched for her bearings. They came in the form of
earnest young eyes staring at her over the rise and fall of sleeping fur.

“Wendy.”

“You were sleeping.”

“I certainly was. What time is it?”

“Eight-forty-five,” Thomas answered. “You said you had to be
at Vivian’s a little before ten.”

“I do.” Mira propped herself up on an elbow and stroked Eileen.
Her fingertip exam complete, she said, “She’s still holding her own. I’ll leave
her here. She’ll need fluid at eleven and another dose of antibiotics at
two-thirty.”

“Okay. Wendy and I will see that she gets both.”

“So.” Mira sat up. “I’d better go.”

“Why?”

It wasn’t a child’s plaintive query.
Don’t go,
Mira—Mommy!—please don’t go.
But Wendy’s curiosity about her imminent
departure was far more promising than if she grabbed Mira’s black bag and rushed
her out the door.

“Well, my sister Vivian and I are going to listen to a radio
show together tonight.”
You’ll like Vivian, Wendy. And she’ll like you. And
Bea, who wasn’t lucky enough to have babies of her own, will be the world’s
best grandmother.

Mira’s thoughts were astounding. Presumptuous. Still tangled
in dreams.

Except that when she met Thomas’s gaze, it felt as if he was
envisioning their glorious future, too.

“Why?” Wendy asked again.

Because we’re falling, have fallen, in love . . . and the
landing is as soft as I knew it would be. He would never let me crash.
“Because Vivian’s husband—his
name is Blaine—is being interviewed on the show. Vivian and I want to hear what
he has to say.”

Wendy nodded. That was all the information she needed. She
crawled back onto the bed as Mira slid off.

Mira provided additional information to Thomas before she
left. All the ways he could reach her, if he needed her, by phone.

His eyes told her he did need her . . . even as he walked her
to the door.

“Will you drive carefully?”

“I will. I promise.”

“And call me when you get home from Vivian’s?”

“I’ll do that, too.”

“Mira . . .”

Mira wouldn’t let Thomas crash, either. “She’s a little girl,
Thomas. I’m a grown woman.”

Thomas touched her sleep-flushed cheek. “Yes, you are.”

“I can wait.”
For you. For us.
“I will wait.”

“Thank you.”

She smiled. “You’re welcome.”

Trey Larken’s firstborn had been denied the reins of Larken
& Son’s. She was, however, given the family home, built by Edwin Larken, on
her wedding day.

Mira expected Vivian to be in the mansion where, as girls,
she and Vivian lived separate lives. She wasn’t.

She could be with Blaine, Mira supposed. Despite his
encouraging her not to, she might have driven to his office. She would be
curled beside him on his couch, her hand entwined with his, his adoring gaze
doing all it could to bolster what he believed to be her woefully deficient
self-esteem.

Or she could be with Lacey, the best friend who had undoubtedly
been privy to the Luke-Snow-Vivian saga from the start and would be delighted
to join Vivian in making derisive comments about Snow throughout the interview.

Vivian might also be in her own office working on a case,
having forgotten all about the interview because there was no room in her
self-confident life for worrying about Snow. Or Luke. Or whatever happened in
the past.

That was the most likely scenario, Mira decided. Brilliant
though Dr. Blaine Prescott might be, he was wrong about Vivian. Physicians
shouldn’t treat loved ones. It was unreasonable to expect them to be objective.
And it made sense that Blaine’s slightest concern about Vivian would become
exaggerated by his love.

Mira had no idea where Vivian was, only where she wasn’t, cowering
in her mansion as she awaited Blaine’s interview with Snow.

Mira also knew who Vivian wasn’t, a woman in need of her
sister’s support.

Parked near the entrance to the estate’s winding drive, Mira
checked for messages on her home phone. An electronic voice informed her she had
two.

As always, the voice gave no clue to the identity of the
caller or the nature of the message, obscene or friendly.

The first message, left at
4
:
30
,
was from Bea.

“I’ve closed up shop and set the alarm. Let me know if you’re
bringing home a sick kitten. I’ll come over while you’re with Vivian. FYI, I
now understand your impulse to confront Snow for hurting Luke. It’s all I can
do not to drive to the fire station and read Luke Kilcannon the riot act for
hurting you. I mean really, how
dare
he? So far, I’ve resisted the urge.
In fact, I’ve come up with another reason, which is not to say an
excuse,
for
his behavior. It’s November first, the anniversary of the night Jared tried to
kill him. Emotional anniversaries can catch you by surprise. Your heart remembers
before your brain does. You feel unexpected sadness—or, in Luke’s case,
anger—without understanding why. It makes me think this might not be the best
night for Luke to see Snow. But who knows? Maybe they’ll both remember the way
they felt about each other then. In any event, Luke’s off the hook for the time
being. But if we don’t get an apology from him by noon tomorrow,
watch out!”

Mira smiled at Bea’s mother-bear protectiveness as she waited
for the second message. It was received at
6
:
15
from a Chicago number unfamiliar to her.

“Hi, Mira. It’s Snow Gable. Thank you so much for your
invitation to lunch. I would love to—anytime. I’ve been looking forward to
meeting you for years. Do you remember Mrs. Evans, the school nurse at Hilltop
Elementary when you were there? She was the Pinewood nurse, too, and a neighbor
of ours. And so nice. She told me about you and even predicted that we would become
friends at Larken High. Anyway, please call me. Whenever. My various numbers
are . . .”

Mira saved Snow’s message and dialed Bea.

“Where are you?”

“Parked at Vivian’s front gate. If she doesn’t show up in the
next five minutes, I’m heading home.”

“No kitten?”

“No kitten. Thomas is watching her.”

“Wow.”

“Wow what?”

“Your voice when you said his name. More fireworks?”

“For both of us, I think.”

“You think?”

“I’m pretty sure. But for now, and for as long as it takes
until Wendy is secure in the knowledge that she’s the most important thing in
his life, we’ll have to take it the same way Thomas is taking his relationship
with Wendy—one nap at a time. When she’s napping, I have a feeling he and I
will be talking.”

“You’re in love.”

“Yes. I am.”

“And he’s in love with you.”

“He hasn’t said that, Bea. And maybe I’m completely
overreading the situation. It felt so real when I was there, but as I was
driving home, I began to wonder if I was imagining things. I don’t think so,
but . . .”

“I repeat,” Bea said. “Wow. And
hooray
.”

“Thanks. We’ll see—oh, wait a minute, we have approaching
headlights. Maybe Vivian is . . . no, it’s a delivery van. That seems a little
odd at this time of night.”

“Are you in a safe place?”

“Yes. And the van is a safe one. It’s from Bert’s Tuxedo
Rentals.”

“Is he driving?”

“I didn’t notice, and it’s already down the road.”

“It probably
was
him, burning the candle at both ends,
driving around after dark as if his sixty-eight-year-old eyes were still
eighteen.”

Mira knew that—for Bea—the landmarks that made driving easy
in daylight became shadows when night fell. Bea could drive at night. But, like
most of her friends, she preferred not to.

Was Bert Wells one of those friends? Bea had never mentioned him
before. But now, in a single sentence, she conveyed concern, fondness, and a
familiarity spanning fifty years.

“You’ve known Bert since he was eighteen?”

“I knew him
when
he was eighteen. We’ve bumped into
each other from time to time since.”

“His wife left him a year ago,” Mira said.

The receptionist at Hilltop Veterinary Hospital had thrived
on gossip. The dissolution of Bert’s forty-five-year marriage was a major
development and placed an attractive, successful older man squarely on the town’s
available bachelors list.

When Mira’s observation evoked uncharacteristic silence at
the other end of the phone, she indulged in a little of the gossip it had been
impossible not to overhear. “She waltzed off with her dance instructor.”

“Not the instructor. A widower from Lake Forest who was also
taking lessons. Both were brushing up on their ballroom dancing before going on
a cruise.”

“Wasn’t Bert going on the cruise?”

“I imagine he was. But he didn’t need dancing lessons.”

“
Bea
.”

“Oh, all right! Bert has always been an incredible dancer. I
know because he was my date for the Glass Slipper Ball. We weren’t boyfriend
and girlfriend. He was pinned to a girl in the senior class. But he and a few
of his friends volunteered their services to sophomore girls, such as me, who
were in need of dates. It was a nice thing for him to do, and for all I know
renting himself out for a special occasion may have planted the idea for his
future tuxedo rental business. He didn’t actually rent himself out, of course.
It was a donation, pure and simple.”

“You had a good time?”

“He’s a good man.”

“A good single man.”

“Mira.”

“What would be wrong with taking him a few tins of the
buckeyes you put in my freezer?”

“Any sign of Vivian?”

Mira smiled. “None. Time to drive home, I think, and give
Thomas a call. Or drop by and listen to
The Cinderella Hour
with you? If
I promise not to mention buckeyes . . . or Bert?”

“I’ll listen to Luke’s interview in the morning. I’m not
going to listen to the one with Blaine. I know I should, as a nurse, but I can’t.”

“Because of your miscarriages.”

“Yep.”

“Because you were depressed?”

“I really was. It wasn’t postpartum depression. How could it
be? I was never even close to being
partum
. It was just a regular old
depression I couldn’t shake.” A regular old depression that lingered longer
after each successive miscarriage. It had been during the depression following
her final miscarriage, the death knell of her marriage, that Bert Wells found
her wandering aimlessly down Main Street. He had taken her by the hand on that
wintry afternoon, and they had walked, and they had talked, for hours.

“Sounds good,” Helen told Blaine at nine-forty-six. “I hear you loud and clear.”

“And I, you. So we’re both putting this line on hold until
about
10
:
11
?”

“We are. I’ll talk to you then.”

At nine-forty-nine, Luke made a
legal U-turn on Larken Avenue. He had time to swing by Mira’s and make it to
WCHM by eleven.

What he needed to say wouldn’t take long. But it had to be
said in person. He’d had no right to lash out at her. And she’d had every right
to do what she had done. He would have done the same to any man who hurt her.

At the moment, Luke
was
that man. He had spent the
rest of his shift, and the forty-nine minutes since it ended, beating himself
up about it—and other things.

Eileen was better, Thomas decided
at nine-fifty-five.

It wasn’t just wishful thinking. She had turned a subtle yet
definitive corner, as human patients often did.

Wendy thought so, too. She saw the change, too, as a doctor
would.

My daughter, the intensivist. That might have been Thomas’s
affectionate musing. But it wasn’t.

My lovely Wendy.
Our
lovely Wendy, the vet.

When the phone sounded, Thomas guessed it would be the
veterinarian herself, checking in before the interview began.

It wasn’t Mira.

But it was extraordinary news.