Here Comes the Groom (17 page)

“Yeah, mate.” He didn't know how much more of this heartrending honesty he could take.

“I'm real glad you didn't die, too.”

D
AN STOOD IN THE CHURCH,
the air of the vestry scented with honeycomb polish, old wood and an acrid note of incense. Father O'Malley had apologized for the chill but it was a short rehearsal and not worth heating the building, he'd explained.

The cold meant Dan shouldn't be having any trouble staying awake.

He yawned.

“Hell, I'm…I mean, sorry, Father.” It hadn't been a very late night. His female relatives had commandeered Jo for some prewedding pampering and a champagne sleepover.

It seemed ironic that when he and his bride were most desperate to spend time together, their wedding got in the way. Ross had forced him on a token stag night with a few mates where Baz had made another futile effort to talk him into the taupe waistcoat and cravat.

Dan didn't think he'd drunk that much alcohol but he'd been feeling off color all morning and the hangover remedy Ross had made him hadn't helped. He covered another yawn.

“Nerves take some people that way,” the priest said cheerfully. “My advice is to get a good night's sleep, son. You want to be bright eyed and bushy tailed tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Dan tightened his grip on his bride's hand, then was glad of the support as he experienced a momentary dizziness. Maybe it
was
nerves.

“You okay?” Jo murmured.

“Fine.” He'd worried her enough.

The wedding party was a small one. Ross as best man. Delwyn as bridesmaid. A last-minute flower girl because his niece Tilly had begged her way into the job. Jo had decided they should walk down the aisle together.

Feeling himself sway, Dan widened his stance and tried to concentrate as Father O'Malley rambled on, catching only snippets. Flowers handed over…vows…exchange of rings.

“Ross,” said the priest, “make sure you carry the bride's ring on your little finger, but, Delwyn, put the groom's ring on your thumb. I can't tell you how many are lost because the maid of honor uses her ring finger.”

Yesterday, Jo had turned down an engagement ring, insisting she was happy with the simple white-gold wedding bands he'd already chosen. On the quiet, Dan had taken hers back to have it set with three diamonds. He'd pick it up after this rehearsal.

He realized he'd zoned out again and tried to concentrate.

“Then you kiss the bride,” said Father O'Malley.

“That's definitely worth practicing.” Dan leaned toward Jo and found himself gripping her shoulders for support. “Okay, this is embarrassing,” he said, “but I'm feeling faint and I need fresh air.”

The priest laughed. “That's why we rehearse, son. To take the edge off the nerves. Well, there's only the
recessional now, so lead him out, Jo, and see you both tomorrow.”

Dan looked at his bride and it seemed as if he was viewing her through a pane of glass. She was watching him anxiously so he tried to smile but his mouth felt as pliable as day-old chewing gum.

“Let's get you outside,” she said. “Ross!”

Dan found himself being marched down the aisle between his bride and best man.

“I don't think you're supposed to join us,” he joked but he was glad of his friend's hand under his elbow.

“It wasn't supposed to happen this quickly,” Jo murmured.

“Shep, you bloody lightweight,” Ross muttered.

Dan realized he was leaning on Ross and straightened. “Your leg.”

“It's fine… Jo?” Ross's voice was casual. “Go get the car.”

They reached the top of the steps and Dan gripped the handrail. “Something's wrong. I can hardly stand up….”

Jo's VW Polo braked in front of them. She jumped out, leaving the engine running, and opened the back door. “Have a little lie-down, honey.”

Dan opened his mouth to argue…couldn't. His lids wouldn't stay open. He took a step forward and stumbled. Jo cried a warning and Ross's arms closed like iron bands around his chest. Briefly he returned to consciousness, felt upholstery leather, cool under his cheek. Backseat…he thought. Now where's Jo? Then nothing.

As Jo
ANXIOUSLY WATCHED
Ross bundle Dan into the back she heard the sound of voices growing louder from inside the church.

“Deal with it,” Ross grunted. “I'll meet you around the corner.”

Spinning around, she ran up the stairs, pulling the church doors closed behind her and startling Father O'Malley who was coming up the aisle with Delwyn and Merry, who was supervising the flower girl. “Why can't I wear high heels?” the little girl complained.

“Father,” Jo said breathlessly, “I just wanted to ask…” Her mind went blank.

“Yes,” he encouraged.

“If—if you'd noticed how much weight Delwyn's lost.”

 

S
OUND FILTERED INTO
Dan's consciousness. Birdsong. Smells. Dense. Earthy. Woody…a rustle above. Instinctively he rolled, found his nose buried in leaves and shoved himself unsteadily to a crouch, blinking to focus. Identify the enemy.

A native wood pigeon stilled in the miro tree where it had been feasting on berries, its white breast like a flag of surrender, the rest of its metallic-green plumage indistinguishable against the canopy. Dan blinked. Head cocked, the bird blinked back, then with a heavy whir of wings flew off the branch and disappeared.

Still dazed, he sank down on his rump, leaning against a tree while he got his bearings.

Kereru was a forest bird…he was in a forest? His blank gaze took in the surrounding trees…podocarps mostly, tawa, taraire, puriri and miro. Ancient trees
rooted in the land. Light struggled to pierce the chill mist that cloaked the canopies in white. But he wasn't cold.

Dan looked down. He was wearing hiking boots, a Swanndri bush jacket, jeans. He touched his aching head, felt a woolen beanie.

Closing his eyes, he searched his memory. Jo's lips brushing against his. “I believe in you.”

The subdued murmurs of strangers, men. “I hope you know what you're doing.”

And Ross. “So do I, but she's convinced…” Words lost in the louder thwack, thwack, thwack of helicopter rotor blades. Dan rubbed his forehead. No, he was confused, mixing past with present. He remembered the church, a dry throat and feeling woozy. His eyes snapped open. Dammit, he'd been drugged.

Turning, he saw a bivouac. He'd been lying on a groundsheet in front of the makeshift shelter, his head on a rucksack. He opened the pack.

Rope, a basic first-aid kit, Maglite flashlight, two-liter water bottle. Unscrewing the top, Dan drank deeply. Windproof lighter, water purification tablets. Sheath knife, Mars bars.

No map, no compass…no fricking indication of where he was. At the bottom of the rucksack was a tight bundle of clothing in a plastic bag. Dan unfurled it and stared. His black wedding suit, white shirt, taupe silk vest and matching tie.

There was an envelope in the breast pocket, under the taupe kerchief. He pulled it out and a yellow Post-it note fluttered to the ground. Ross had written
I will act like a girl.

“Holy shit, I'm in the Ureweras.”

Years earlier, on a training cycle his team had been dropped in this rugged national park with three days to reach a designated checkpoint while remaining undetected by a pursuit team. The Whakatane river had proved the most troublesome part of the exercise and Lee had related the legend of the Maori maiden.

In the absence of the men, Wairaka had retrieved a
waka
—canoe—which had drifted out to sea, shouting
Ka Whakatane au i ahau
as she paddled it back to land. I will act like a man.

In the miserable three days of training exercise that followed, it had become the team's catch-cry with one important modification. “I will act like a girl.”

He tore open the envelope.

As he stared at the message, dumbfounded and appalled, drops of rain splattered on the page and blurred the kisses.
I'm marrying a scary, crazy woman.

Carefully Dan dabbed the paper dry against his jeans, and slid it into his pocket.

Scary because he couldn't hide anything from her. Crazy because there was no way in hell he'd make it back in…

Pushing back his sleeve to check the time, Dan cursed. As a tracker, he'd been drawn to a watch with gadgets—GPS, distance timer. Ross had replaced it with his analog diver's watch. Knowing Ross, that meant Dan would be immersed in water somewhere on his journey. Grimly, he repacked his rucksack, rolling the contents in the plastic groundsheet first.

He had no idea where he was in those 213,000 hectares. He had no map but the hazy one in his memory, no compass, no communications. And when he got out of the park, nothing but his ability to persuade people to help him. Even once he reached a road, he was looking at a three-and-a-half-hour drive to Beacon Bay.

And the wedding was—he checked Ross's watch—in nine hours. Which left him five and a half to get out of here. “Jo,” he groaned aloud. “What have you done?”

If the sun were shining he could have found north using the hands of the watch. Except there wasn't any sun. Mist hung over the forest like a shroud, diffusing the early morning light into an amorphous nothing.

Rain feathered through the mist, chilly and persistent on the back of his neck as he shouldered his backpack and walked into the forest, examining the foliage.

Dan quieted his mind, narrowed his focus and tried to recall everything he knew about the topography. The terrain was a series of fault lines, river-carved valleys and steep mountain ridges, thickly mantled by vegetation. The rivers flowed north.

Right now, he stood on the downward-sloping side of
a small clearing. The chopper would have landed on a ridgeline. Most of the trees below were beech, a dominant species in the southern end of the ranges, which meant that civilization lay to the southeast.

In the Southern Hemisphere, the thickest growth was to the north. Finding a broken tree, he checked the stump. The growth rings spaced more widely on the northern side.

Now he had orientation.

His best chance was in finding a river. Rivers were high ways. There'd be trails, huts and people. But for now he'd skirt the ridgelines to avoid being boxed in. He didn't have time to retrace his steps. And being high would give him a vantage point when the mist cleared.

Before he left, he crossed some twigs in a marker, pointing the direction he would take. In case Jo came to her senses. Or Ross got cold feet.

Yeah, right.

 

“A
RE YOU SURE YOU WANT
to talk business now?” Grant shifted uneasily in his chair. “You're getting married this afternoon…wouldn't you prefer to concentrate on bridal stuff?”

Jo, Grant and Chris sat at a corner table in Shaker's. Around them the place was being transformed for her early-evening wedding reception. One person tied black bows around white-swathed chairs, another positioned wrought-iron candelabra holding silver tapers on white runners over black tablecloths, while a third buffed wine glasses.

Jo had chosen this day, time and venue precisely because she wanted to make Grant nervous. Chris frowned
at his colleague. “She wants to tie up loose ends before she enters the next phase of her life, don't you, Jo?”

“Exactly,” she said.
Assuming that door's still open.
“And since I've postponed this meeting twice already…”

Chris smiled. “Well, that sounds promising.” He pulled a contract from his briefcase and pushed it across the starched tablecloth. “We made all the changes you requested…sponsorship, staff guarantees, et cetera.”

She'd been playing with him, setting up a few hoops, throwing in a couple of loops. Accepting the paperwork, Jo pretended to read it.

There was another, private, reason for doing this now. She needed the distraction. Somewhere in the Ureweras, Dan was struggling to get home. What had he made of her letter? Had he understood any part of why she'd done this? Jo talked herself down. It was done now; all she could do was wait…and pray.

“Jo, you need a pen?” Chris proffered a black-and-gold Mont Blanc.

“Very nice,” she said, turning it over to admire it.

“Keep it,” he said magnanimously. “A goodwill gesture…no strings. Here, let me take the top off for you.”

“Thanks.” Jo handed him the pen. “So I have one question before we go any further.” And though she knew that whether this worked or not she wouldn't be signing, her throat went dry.
What if I'm wrong and they're not bluffing? What if I've put the
Chronicle
's future…my staff's jobs at risk?

Chris leaned forward. “Shoot.”

“Excuse me, sir, may I put this on the table?”

Impatiently, he sat back and the florist positioned a glossy white box. Eight long-stemmed white roses sat on a bed of dark green ivy. Jo touched the velvety buds. “So Dan went for white, then.”

The florist smiled at her. She looked like a flower herself with a vibrant, flowing top patterned in water lilies. “He liked the idea that white holds the potential to move to any color,” she said, her long earrings tinkling as she gesticulated. “Psychically, it represents wholeness. New directions.” She glanced at Chris, who was rolling his eyes. “It's so nice to meet a man with an open mind,” she told Jo.

God, I hope so.
She returned that sweet smile. “Thank you, you've done a wonderful job.”

In a strange way it was calming to sit in the middle of this organized chaos—every perfectly executed detail a reminder of Dan's commitment. Please God, let him see her action in the same light.