Mother of the Bride (6 page)

“How did I end up with a concussion, Miss Parrish?”

“We didn't mean to drop you, Mr. Munroe.” She edged forward in the chair. Earnestly, Gus thought, beseechingly, her fingers so tightly clenched on her knees that her knuckles were white. “We tried to wake you up, but we couldn't, and Bebe was getting hysterical. She thought she'd killed you. Aldo and I were trying to get you off the floor.”

He remembered now. Sort of. A hazy recollection of
thumps and shrieks and tears. “And that's when you dropped me?”

“No. We dropped you in the backyard. We were trying to get you into my truck so we could take you to the hospital. I had your feet, Aldo your shoulders. Bebe was walking beside you holding your hand. Everything was fine until she tripped over the wicket.”

What wicket? Gus almost asked, then remembered trailing Cydney from the garage to the house, the leaves crunching under his feet … their smoky scent and the memories of Artie they'd stirred … the shapely curve of Cydney Parrish's silhouette in the wash of the patio lights. When had he noticed that? Gus couldn't remember and it made him scowl.

“The wicket you couldn't find because it was buried in leaves?”

“That's the one.” She nodded miserably. “Bebe fell flat on her face and Aldo let go of you to help her up. The resident in ER last night thought she'd broken her ankle. So did I. It was so swollen and Aldo was frantic. They took an X ray. It's just a bad sprain. A double sprain.”

Cydney Parrish rattled on about ice packs and air boots. Gus listened, wondering where he'd been while the entire emergency room staff, or so it seemed hearing her Uncle Cyd tell it, devoted themselves to Bebe and her sprained ankle. He could see himself lying unconscious on a gurney pushed out into the hall, nurses flitting past him like he was a stiff waiting to be wheeled off to the morgue.

It hadn't been that way at all. Someone had taken the time to determine his nose was only cracked, not broken, his skull only concussed, not fractured—but that's how Gus felt. Pushed off and forgotten. Dropped like an afterthought—or a crabby old Victorian patriarch with a glass jaw—when the beautiful Bebe tripped over the wicket.

Cydney Parrish ran down finally, like a wound-too-tight music box. She had a lovely voice. Clear and smooth. Perfect for distracting him from his cracked nose and concussion and the fact that she was here and not Aldo. He wondered what it meant. Probably that his nephew was still pissed at him.

“How long will Bebe have to wear this air boot?” he asked.

“A week, at least. Maybe ten days.”

“Well then.” Gus smiled. “The wedding will have to wait.”

“No it won't. Bebe wants her mother here—my sister, Gwen. She'll be home from Moscow next Thursday, so we've scheduled the wedding for the following Saturday. That's twelve days, which is more than enough time for Bebe's ankle to heal.”

“Why the rush? This isn't a have-to wedding, is it?”

“No, Mr. Munroe. Gwen is a photojournalist and she has a very busy schedule, so we're simply trying to fit the wedding in around her schedule.”

“That's backwards, Miss Parrish. I know who your sister is, and I'd think she'd want to make sure Aldo and Bebe are certain of their feelings before they leap into marriage. I know I do. Surely if she has, say, six months to plan for it, your sister can find a few days in her schedule to attend her daughter's wedding.”

Gus would. In his head, in fact, he was already planning around the May first deadline for his next Max Stone mystery. How many more pages he'd have to write per day, how many more hours he'd have to spend at the PC to finish the book and still have time to play father of the groom.

“I'm sure it does seem backwards to you,” Cydney replied, not quite meeting his gaze. “But my mother and Bebe and I are so used to arranging family events around Gwen's schedule that it's second nature.”

So was covering for her sister, Gus surmised. Like father, like daughter. He'd read an article in
People
magazine that said Gwen Parrish was every bit as driven as her father. A not-so-nice euphemism for selfish as hell.

“Aldo put you up to this, didn't he?” Gus asked.

“What do you mean?” Cydney blinked at him, the picture of innocence. “Put me up to what?”

“Coming in here to con me, bribe me, beg me—whatever it takes to keep me from putting the kibosh on this wedding.”

“Aldo did no such thing. We drew straws and I—I mean, I
volunteered. I wanted to give you this.” She unzipped her brown leather purse, withdrew a business card and handed it to him. “My attorney. I told him to expect your call. I should've gotten out the leaf blower and found that wicket. I didn't. I was negligent. Sue me, Mr. Munroe. Don't use this to ruin the wedding.”

Gus was stunned. What a perfectly brilliant idea. Why hadn't he thought of it? And why was Cydney Parrish looking at him like she expected him to sprout horns and fangs? Where had she gotten the idea he was such an ogre?

Can't imagine, Munroe,
his inner voice said.
Maybe you barging into her house waving Artie's will had something to do with it.

“I wouldn't dream of suing family, Miss Parrish.” Gus tossed the card on the table. “I'm offended that you think I would.”

“Perhaps I got the wrong impression, Mr. Munroe.”

She plucked the codicil to Artie's will out of her bag, unfolded it and smoothed it on the table in front of him. She had to get out of her chair to do it, which brought her close enough that Gus could see how amazingly dark her eyebrows were, how long and thick her lashes. He drew a breath of her perfume, a light, flowery scent that soothed the throb in his nose. The faxed codicil was a crushed and wrinkled mess. Gus had last seen it wadded into a ball in Cydney Parrish's hand and flung at his chest.

“If I jumped to conclusions,” she said, settling back in her chair and nodding at the codicil, “that's why.”

See?
his inner voice said.
Told you so.

“Oh shut up,” Gus snapped. “I hate it when you're right.”

Cydney Parrish went stiff in her chair. “What did you say?”

“I said—” Gus snatched up the codicil, crumpled it and tossed it into the trash can beside the bed. “I'd like a chance to make things right. We got off on the wrong foot last night. It was entirely my fault and I apologize. Care to start over?”

Cydney's chin took a swift, dubious jerk to one side.

“I'm Aldo's uncle, Angus Munroe.” Gus stuck his right
hand through the bars on the bed rail. “Pleased to meet you, Miss—?”

He threw in a smile. A rusty, rarely used one. Cydney Par-rish didn't return it, but she inched forward in her chair and slipped her hand into his.

“Parrish,” she said warily. “Cydney Parrish. Bebe's aunt.”

“Is Aldo here, by any chance?”

“No. He and Bebe had classes this morning. He left you a note and your keys. Your car is in the parking lot.”

She took her hand back and dipped into her bag, pulled out a folded sheet of white paper, his glasses and his keys and gave them to him.

“Thank you.” Gus put his keys on the table, his half lenses gingerly and crookedly on the tip of his swollen nose, unfolded the note and read:

Uncle Gus. This is a warning. You do anything—and I mean
anything
—to cause trouble for Bebe and me or to screw up our wedding and I'll never talk to you again. I mean it. I'm twenty-one and I can get married if I want. If you're so worried about my money, you keep it. It'll be mine when I'm twenty-five. I can work for the next four years and so can Bebe. I'll be at her Uncle Cyd's house around five if you want to talk to me before you go back to Crooked Possum.

—Aldo PS. You behaved like a jerk last night and you owe Miss Parrish an apology.

Gus' temper and the dull, sick throb in his head soared. He put his head back against the rock disguised as a pillow and shut his eyes. He wanted to crush the note in his fist and make Aldo eat it. Or eat it himself along with the codicil. He'd behaved like a jackass and he knew it. He didn't need Aldo to remind him.

“Mr. Munroe? Are you all right?”

Cydney Parrish laid a hand on his shoulder, a light, gentle touch Gus felt through the thin blue hospital gown he wore.
He opened his eyes and saw her leaning forward in her chair, her arm slipped through the bed rail to reach him. What lovely eyes she had, almond-shaped and almond-colored with amber-flecked irises. Peach-kissed skin and a mouth to match.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked.

How 'bout a kiss?
his inner voice suggested.

“Amirror,” Gus said. “I'd like a mirror.”

She bit her lower lip—the one he was fantasizing about nibbling—dug a gold compact out of her purse, opened it and passed it to him. Gus raised the round mirror in the lid and surveyed the damage. He looked like he'd run face first into a brick wall. Both eyes were turning black, he had scratches on his chin and his jaw and W. C. Fields' nose.

“The swelling should go down in a couple of days,” Cydney said. “Sooner, the doctor said, if you use ice packs.”

Gus shut the compact and passed it back to her. “Aldo said I could see him at your place around five. D'you mind?”

“Not at all. You're welcome to stay for dinner if you'd like.”

“Thank you, Miss Parrish, but Crooked Possum is a long drive. Perhaps another time. Thank you for coming this morning.”

“You're welcome, Mr. Munroe.” She rose from the chair and looped her purse over her shoulder. “I brought you some toiletries and your clothes. I washed them and put them in the closet.”

“And the flowers, Miss Parrish? Did you bring those?”

“No. They were here when I—” She broke off, an affronted blaze flaming across her cheeks. “I'm not trying to bribe you with flowers and a home-cooked meal, Mr. Munroe. I didn't come here to con you. I came to talk about Bebe and Aldo. I hoped we could discuss the wedding like adults and come to an agreement.”

“I came to Kansas City for the same reason, Miss Parrish. No offense, but I didn't come to talk to you. I came to talk to Aldo. He thinks I'm in a twist over his trust fund, but he's
wrong. I couldn't care less about the money, but I care a great deal about my nephew.”

“What about Bebe?” she demanded.

“Bebe isn't my responsibility. Aldo is. It's up to him to convince me that he knows what he's doing.”

“I see.” Cydney Parrish snatched up her shawl and stalked toward the door. She caught the handle and flung a look at him over her shoulder. “How about you, Mr. Munroe? Do
you
know what you're doing?”

chapter

seven

Did he know what he was doing? What kind of question was that? And who did Cydney Parrish think she was to ask it? Gus
always
knew what he was doing. Every minute, every second, every hour of every day.

He sat up on the side of the bed, fuming over the cheeky question. The door opened and a nurse came in pushing a cart.

“Doctor will be in soon. You can get up and get dressed if you feel like it. Sorry about these.” She smiled as she loaded the floral bouquets on the cart. “Delivered to the wrong room.”

Oh swell. Another apology he owed Cydney Parrish.

Gus wobbled into the bathroom with the disposable razors and shaving cream she'd brought him, leaned one hand on the sink, probed the back of his head with the other and found the lump in his skull. Just grazing it with his fingertips made him gasp and spots dance before his eyes. What the hell had he landed on when Aldo dropped him?

“Grazed the edge of a concrete birdbath,” the doctor told him. “Lucky you've got a hard head.”

Oh, the tales I could tell,
his inner voice said wearily.

The doctor, a crusty old coot in a rumpled white lab coat, came in just as Gus was getting out of the shower, feeling steadier and a whole lot better. He checked Gus' reflexes, shined a penlight in his eyes that damn near blinded him and gave him a flash of memory—a dazzling overhead light and fingers poking the back of his head. Last night in the emergency room, Gus guessed, and asked the doctor why he couldn't remember more.

“'Cause you've got a concussion. Mild, thanks to that rock you've got for a noggin. Memory gaps are normal. Nothing to worry about. We kept you overnight just as a precaution.”

The doctor wrote him a prescription for the headache, told him to take it easy for a couple days, lay off booze for a while, and said he could get dressed and leave. Gus did, in the clothes he'd worn the day before, freshly laundered by Cydney Parrish.

He sniffed the sleeve of his gray sweater on his way to the elevator and smelled fabric softener. Liquid or dryer sheet? he wondered, and decided Cydney Parrish was the liquid type. She'd ironed his jeans, too, and brushed his gray suede hiking boots.

It's nice to have a woman around the bouse, Munroe,
his inner voice said, but Gus pretended not to hear.

After he signed his release forms, Gus filled the prescription at the pharmacy in the hospital lobby, bought one of those blue chemical ice bags already frozen and went in search of his Jaguar. Aldo hadn't set the alarm, but he'd parked the sleek, British racing green coupe diagonally across three spaces in the back of the lot. Well. Maybe he'd only make Aldo eat half of his smart-aleck note.