Bride Quartet Collection (93 page)

Neutral shifted, lightning speed, to annoyance.“That’s bullshit.”

“Don’t tell me what bullshit is when I’m looking at it. You know the way out,” she added, and started by him.

When he grabbed her arm, frostbite burned his fingers.

“Look, bad night, that’s all. Bad night, shitty mood. I shouldn’t have brought them over here.”

“You’re absolutely right.” She shoved his hand away. “Take them home with you.”

She stalked over, poured the beer down the sink.

When she glanced back, she was alone. She felt the jab right under the heart.

“Well,” she mumbled, and carefully rinsed out the bottle. “Okay then. All right.This isn’t going to work for me.”

She imagined heaving the bottle against the wall, hearing the glass shatter. But, she admitted, that didn’t work for her either, so she took it to the recycle bin.

Switching off lights, checking locks, she made her way back through the house, walked upstairs to her wing.

In the bedroom, she undressed, put her shoes away, placed the clothes in the proper hampers before slipping into her oldest and most comforting pajamas.

She completed her bedtime routine, every step.

Then lay angry, miserable, and awake through the night.

“
W
E DIDN’T HAVE A FIGHT.” PARKER PUSHED THROUGH HER SECOND mile in the gym. “What we have is an impasse.”

“It sounds like a fight to me,” Laurel said.

“A fight is where you argue, or shout, or say inappropriate things.This wasn’t a fight.”

“He left.You’re mad.Those are also elements of a fight.”

“Fine, have it your way,” Parker snapped. “We fought our way to the impasse.”

“He was stupid.”

“At last, we fully agree.”

“He was stupid,” Laurel continued, “to come over here at midnight when something was bothering him if he didn’t intend to tell you
what
was bothering him. And stupider to leave when you told him to leave because anyone who knows you understands you expected him to argue with you until you broke him down and he told you what was bothering him.”

With a nod, Parker grabbed her water bottle and chugged.

“Then again, he hasn’t known you as long as I have, so it’s possible he took ‘go home’ as just ‘go home.’”

A wet fist of tears clogged her chest. Parker pushed through them as she pushed through the next mile.“I can’t be with someone who won’t talk to me, who can’t be intimate with me except physically.”

“No, you can’t. But intimacy, the real kind, is harder for some than others. I’m not defending him,” Laurel added. “I’m assessing and extrapolating. I’m being you, since you’re too upset to be you.”

“Then I must be annoying. I’m sorry,” she said instantly, and stepped off the machine.“I’m sorry. I didn’t get any sleep, and I’m feeling mean.”

“It’s okay. Sometimes you are annoying.”

With a miserable half laugh, Parker grabbed a towel. “Yeah, I am. I’m annoying myself right now.” Burying her face in the towel, she scrubbed hard. Then just held it there when Laurel’s arms came around her.

“I don’t want to cry because it’s stupid to cry about this. I’d rather be annoying than stupid.”

“You’re not being either, and you know I’d tell you if you were.”

“I can count on you,” Parker said, and taking a steadying breath, lowered the towel.

“You’re pissed off, frustrated, sad, and really tired. So, take a few hours, get some rest. I can take anything that comes in. If I can’t, I’ll tap Emma and Mac.”

“Maybe I’ll take an hour. Go outside, take a walk, clear my head.”

“Whatever works. Give me the phone.”

“Oh, but—”

“I mean it, Parker, give me the phone.” Eyes narrowed, Laurel held out a finger, crooked it. “Otherwise, I’ll be forced to assume Malcolm’s not the only one with trust issues.”

“Unfair,” Parker muttered, but unhooked the phone from her waistband.

She didn’t bother to change, just tossed on a hoodie, zipped it. The brisk, cool air, so fresh from the evening’s rain, felt good. Denuded trees raised their dark arms up into a sky so blue and sharp and bright she regretted not grabbing sunglasses. The grass, hardened from the night’s frost, crunched under her feet.

Autumn, she thought, with its color and shimmer and smoky scents was nearly done and winter creeping up to take its place.

Mac’s wedding was only a month away. Still so much to do, so many details, so many check marks. It was probably for the best she and Malcolm had taken this step back from each other. She needed to focus on the most important wedding Vows had ever planned.

God knew there was plenty to deal with on all the other events, and that didn’t touch on the Seaman extravaganza in the spring, which needed constant attention.

She still had countless arrangements and plans to finalize for Emma’s wedding, and for Laurel’s.

Then there was the book proposal.With the changes and additions her partners had put in, it was as solid and ready as it could be.Time to send it to the agent, she thought.

Really, the simple truth was she didn’t have time for a relationship.

At some point, down the road, maybe. But not now. And she would certainly expect and demand a full partnership, a real meeting of minds, absolute trust.

As her parents had.

She couldn’t be—wouldn’t allow herself to be—in love with a man who didn’t want the same. However much it hurt now to realize that, to accept that, it would hurt more later if she denied it.

“Hey, Parker.”

She jerked out of the internal debate, and stared at Carter as he veered toward her, briefcase in hand.

“Carter. I’ve lost track of the time.You’re leaving for work.”

“Yeah. Is everything okay?”

“Sure. I just . . . I’d better get inside, get to work.”

He took her hand. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Really. I didn’t get much sleep last night, so I’m . . .” Doing exactly what Malcolm had done. Closing down, closing in.

“I think Malcolm and I ended things last night.”

“I’ll be sorry if that’s true. Can you tell me why?”

“I guess we don’t have enough common ground, or look at things the same way. Or want the same things.”

That wet fist tried to flex again.

“Carter, I’m not really sure. I don’t understand him.”

“Do you want to?”

“I always want to understand, and I’d say that’s why things aren’t going to work.”

He set his briefcase down where they stood, then draped an arm around her shoulders and began to walk.

“You have to get to work.”

“I’ve got some time. When Mac and I were having problems, when I felt I didn’t understand her, you helped me.You gave me some insight into her that I needed. Maybe I can do the same for you.”

“He won’t let me in, Carter. There are all these locked doors. Whenever I ask him about the hard things—and the hard things are a factor in making us who we are—he says it’s no big deal, it was a long time ago, or just shifts the subject.”

“He doesn’t talk about himself much. I think you’re right about the locked doors. And I think there are some people who lock them so they can open others.That they think they won’t be able to walk through the others if they don’t shut out what came before.”

“I understand that, I do. To a point. But how can you be with someone, hope you might stay with someone, who isn’t willing to let you see what they locked away, who won’t share the problems, the bad times? Who won’t let you help?”

“From the little he’s said, and more from what my mother related, he took some pretty hard knocks as a kid. Emotionally when he lost his father, physically from his uncle and aunt. You can’t be a teacher without dealing with kids who’ve been through something like that, or are going through it. In a lot of cases, trust takes time, and a lot of work.”

“So I should give it more time, be patient, and work harder.”

“Some of that’s up to you.” He rubbed her arm as they walked. “On his part, I’d have to say he’s crazy about you and hasn’t quite figured out how to handle it. You want, need, and deserve the whole picture, and he’s thinking you should look at what he is now, that it should be enough.”

“That’s a good analysis.” She sighed and, grateful, leaned on him a little. “I don’t know if it makes me want to move forward or away, but it’s a good analysis.”

“I bet he didn’t get much sleep last night either.”

“I hope not.” It helped to smile, and she did as she turned to hug him. “Thank you, Carter. Whatever happens, this helped.”

She drew back. “Go to school.”

“Maybe you could take a nap.”

“Carter, who are you talking to?”

“I had to try.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek, started toward his car again. Nearly tripped over his own briefcase before he remembered it.

“Mac.” Parker breathed it as she turned to go inside.“You’re so damn lucky.”

She paused a moment, just to study the house, the soft blue of it against the brilliant sky. All those lovely lines, she thought, the pretty touches of gingerbread, the gleam of windows. Like a wedding, she decided, those were details. At the core it was more than house, even more than a home, which was so vital to her. It was a symbol; it was a statement. It stood as it had for generations, a testament to her name, to her family. By standing it proved it was in her blood to build to last.

How could she build with Malcolm without understanding his foundation?

She went in through the kitchen. Coffee, she thought, a decent breakfast to boost some energy into her system. Maybe the answers would come, one way or the other, once she made herself fall back into routine.

But when she walked into the kitchen, Mrs. Grady sat at the counter, her eyes wet.

“What is it, what’s wrong?” Her own troubles forgotten, Parker rushed around the counter.

“There was a terrible accident last night. A car accident.”

“I know. Del said something about it. Oh God. Someone was killed? Someone you knew?”

“Worse than that. There were three girls—teenagers. There’d been four, but they’d just dropped the other off at home.They’re all dead, all of them.”

“Oh, no. Oh God.”

“I know the mother of one of them, from the book club I’m in.”

“Mrs. G, Mrs. G.” Parker wrapped her arms around her, rocked. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“There were two people in the other car. One’s stable now, they say, the other still critical.”

“I’m going to make you some tea.” She brushed Mrs. Grady’s hair back from her face. “You lie down awhile, and I’ll bring it to you. I’ll sit with you.”

“No, I’m all right here.We know, you and I, how death—sudden and cruel like this—how it devastates you.”

“Yes.” Parker squeezed her hand, then walked over to make the tea.

“Dana, the woman I know from the book club? I never liked her.” Mrs. Grady pulled a tissue out of her apron pocket, dabbed at her eyes, her cheeks. “Disagreeable sort of person, know-it-all, that kind of thing. And now I think she’s lost a child, and none of that matters anymore. Someone took pictures of the terrible wreck of the car, and they had it on the local news. I hope she doesn’t see it, that she never has to see that, that they towed it away and locked it away before she ever saw it.”

“I want you to . . .” Towed it away, Parker thought.

Malcolm.

She squeezed her eyes shut, took a breath. First things first.

“I want you to drink your tea while I make you some breakfast.”

“Darling girl.” Mrs. Grady blew her nose, almost managed a smile. “Bless your heart, you can’t cook worth spit.”

“I can scramble eggs and make toast.” She set the tea in front of Mrs. Grady. “And if you don’t trust me that far, I’ll get Laurel to make it. But you’re going to have some breakfast and some tea. Then you’re going to call Hilly Babcock, because you’re going to want your good friend.”

“Bossy.”

“That’s right.”

She grabbed Parker’s hand as tears swirled again. “I’ve been sitting here, my heart broken for those lost children, for their families, even for the child who fate spared. And a part of me thanked God, couldn’t help but thank God, that I still have mine.”

“You’ve got a right to be grateful for that.We all do. It doesn’t take away the sorrow and the sympathy for the loss.”

She wrapped her arms around Mrs. Grady again because she remembered, too well remembered, when they’d lost theirs. The way the world had simply fallen away, and the air had closed off. When there was nothing but terrible, ripping grief.

“Drink your tea.” Parker gave her a last, hard squeeze. “I’m calling Laurel and Emma and Mac, and we’ll take some time to be grateful, and time to be sorry.”

She kissed Mrs. Grady’s cheek. “But I’m making breakfast.”

T
HE FOUR OF THEM SWITCHED OFF KEEPING AN EYE ON MRS. GRADY, trying not to be obvious about it. With all of them juggling appointments, a rehearsal that evening, and a weekend with back-to-back events, Parker barely had time to think.

But she made a point of looking the story up online.

This, she thought as her throat clutched at the photograph, was what Malcolm had seen the night before. How much more horrible would it be to have seen it in reality?

This is what had put that look in his eyes, that tone in his voice.

He’d come to her, she thought. Closed in, yes, but he’d come to her.

So, as soon as she could, she’d go to him.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

M
ALCOLM BLED THE NEW, LONGER BRAKE LINES FOR THE JEEP THE customer ordered lifted. He suspected the kid wanted the modification more for looks and peer status than any serious offroading.

Whatever the reason, Malcolm figured he got paid the same.

Working methodically with his iPod blasting out his playlist from its port on a workbench, he replaced the front shock absorbers and the coil springs with their taller counterparts. The customer’s requirement meant modifying the control arms, the track bars, and lengthening the brake lines.

The kid would end up right this side of legal—barely.

It wasn’t a rush job, nothing he had to dig into after closing. But then neither was the oil change he’d slated to take care of next instead of passing the basic job to Glen.

Busywork, he admitted as the Killers rocked out. Well, he wanted to keep busy.

The time he spent jacking up the kid’s ride, doing an oil change, then a brake job, meant he wouldn’t spend that time thinking.

Mostly.

Thinking about what was screwed up in the world, and currently his life, wouldn’t fix it.The world would continue to screw up no matter how long and hard he thought about it.

And his life? A little time and space was probably in order.The Parker thing had gotten pretty intense, and maybe a little crowded—and that was on him, no question.

He’d pushed, he’d pursued, he’d plotted the course. Somehow he—she—they, he wasn’t entirely sure—had navigated that course a lot speedier and into much deeper territory than he’d expected.

They’d been spending nearly every free moment together, and plenty of moments that weren’t exactly free. Then
boom
, he’s thinking about next week with her, and the next months—and okay, beyond even that. It just wasn’t what he’d banked on.

Plus, before he knows what’s happening, he’s taking her to dinner at his mother’s, asking her to stay the night in his bed.

Both of those particular events broke precedent. Not that he had hard-and-fast rules about it. It was more a cautionary avoidance to keep things at a comfortable level.

Then again, Parker wasn’t comfortable, he thought as he installed a skid plate for the oil pan. He’d known that going in.

She was complicated and nowhere near as predictable as she looked on the outside. He’d wanted to know how she worked, he couldn’t deny it. And the more he’d examined the parts, the more caught up he’d become.

He knew those parts now, and how she worked. She was a detail-oriented, somewhat—hell, extremely—anal, goal-focused woman. Mixed in there she had a talent and a need to arrange those details into a perfect package and tie them with a bow.

If that, plus the money and pedigree, had been it, she’d have probably been a beautiful pain in the ass. But inside her was a deep-seated need for family, for stability, for home—and God knew he understood that one—and an appreciation for what she’d been given. She was unflinchingly loyal, generous, and, being hardwired to be productive and useful, had a work ethic that kicked ass.

She was complicated and real, and like the image he had of her mother on the side of the road in a pretty spring dress, he thought she defined what beauty was. In and out.

So he’d ended up breaking those not-exactly rules because the more he’d learned, the more caught up he’d become, the more he’d known she was exactly what he wanted.

He could deal with wants. He’d wanted plenty. Some he’d gotten, some he hadn’t. And he’d always figured things averaged out in the end. But he’d realized the night before, when he’d gone to her because he’d been edgy and unsettled and just fucking sad, that want had merged with need.

He’d needed to be with her, just
be
there, with her, in that ordered space she created where somehow everything just made sense.

Needing something—someone—that was jumping off a building without a safety harness. He’d learned the hard way he was better off taking care of himself, dealing with himself and what was his. Period.

Except he’d started thinking of her as
his
. He’d already told her bits and pieces of things he’d never told anyone else, and didn’t much see the point in thinking about.

So . . .

Better he’d pissed her off, he decided. Better she’d tossed him out. They’d both take a couple of breaths, simmer down. Reevaluate.

He checked the modifications, moving from the front end to the rear.

And over the music of the Foo Fighters he heard the distinctive sound of high heels on concrete.

He only had to angle his head, and there she was, wearing one of her sexy business suits, that arresting face unframed, a bag the size of a Buick on her shoulder.

“The door wasn’t locked.”

“No.” He pulled the rag out of his back pocket to wipe his hands.

She shouldn’t be here, he thought.The place smelled of oil and engine and sweat. And so, he imagined, did he.

“I thought you had a thing tonight.”

“I did. It’s finished.” She gave him that cool-eyed stare.“But we’re not, so would you mind turning that down?”

“I’ve got to get the wheels and tires on this thing.”

“Fine. I’ll wait.”

She would, he concluded. She was good at that.

So he figured the Foo Fighters would have to learn to fly without him. He put down his tools, shut down the iPod, then opened the cooler he’d put on the bench beside it. He took out one of the two beers he’d packed. “Want one?”

“No.”

He opened it, took a long pull while he eyed her.“Something on your mind, Legs?”

“Quite a bit, actually. I heard about the accident, about those three girls.Why didn’t you tell me about it last night?”

“I didn’t want to talk about it.” The image—shattered glass, blood, blackened metal on a rain-slicked road—flashed back into his mind. “Still don’t.”

“You’d rather let it eat at you.”

“It’s not eating at me.”

“I think, I really think, that’s the first lie you’ve told me.”

It infuriated him, unreasonably, that she was right.

“I know what’s going on inside my gut, Parker. And talking about it doesn’t change squat. It doesn’t make those girls any less dead, or keep the couple in the other car from a fucking world of hurt. Life goes on, until it doesn’t.”

The heat he spewed did nothing to ruffle her cool.

“If I really believed you were that fatalistic and callous, I’d feel sorry for you. But I don’t.You came to me last night because you were upset, but you couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me why. Maybe getting mad at me helped, maybe you could displace the upset with anger. But I don’t deserve that, Malcolm, and neither do you.”

Chalk up another in the
She’s Right
column.The score, Brown: 2; Kavanaugh: 0, just pissed him off.“I shouldn’t have come by last night when I was in a crappy mood.You want an apology? I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you know me at all, Malcolm?”

“Christ.” He muttered it and took another swig of the beer he didn’t really have the taste for.

“And don’t take that dismissive
male
attitude with me.”

“I
am
a male,” he shot back, pleased he’d scraped away a layer of that calm, revved to scrape away more.“I have a male attitude.”

“Then you can stuff this in your attitude. If I’m with you, I’m with you when you’re doing flips and handsprings, and I’m with you when you’re in a crappy mood.”

“Yeah?” Something choked him, twisted in throat, in gut. “Couldn’t prove that by last night.”

“You didn’t give me—”

“What part of ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ don’t you get? And how the hell does this get turned around into being about you and me? Three kids are dead, and if they were lucky, they died fast. But it wouldn’t have been fast enough. Five, ten seconds of knowing what’s coming is forever. That and never getting to grow up, never getting to push the rewind button and say ‘let me do that different this time’ is a hell of a price for some girl who barely had her license a year and two of her friends to pay for being stupid.”

She didn’t jolt when the bottle he heaved smashed against the wall, but let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a hum of sympathy. “I nearly did that same thing last night after you left. Then I thought what good would it do, and I’d just have to clean it up. Did it help?” she wondered.

“God, you’re a piece of work. Not everything has a neat, practical answer. Everything doesn’t always add the fuck up. If it did, three girls wouldn’t be dead because they were driving too damn fast and texting friends.”

Her heart hurt at the waste of it all. “Is that what happened? How do you know?”

“I know people.” Damn it, he thought, and shoved at his hair as he struggled to box in the rage that had blindsided him. “Listen, they’re keeping that under wraps until they finish the investigation.”

“I won’t say anything. Mrs. Grady knows the driver’s mother, and it’s hit her pretty hard. Maybe listening to her, making her tea, holding her hand didn’t help all that much. Maybe it wasn’t a neat, practical answer, and maybe it doesn’t all add the fuck up. But I had to do something. When someone I care about is hurting or upset or just sad, I have to do something.”

“Whether they want you to or not.”

“Yes, I suppose so.To my mind, reaching out, reaching for one another doesn’t make what happened to those girls less of a tragedy, or make anyone less heartsick for them and their families. But point taken.You don’t want me to listen.You don’t want me to hold your hand. So that makes the need to do those things about me, not you.”

She took a long breath, and he heard the unsteadiness of it. That, more than anything she’d said or done, cut at him.

“You throw the glass against the wall, then you clean it up and throw it away.That’s your practicality, Malcolm.”

“Sometimes a smashed bottle’s just a smashed bottle. Look, I’ve got to get the wheels back on this Jeep.”

It wasn’t anger he saw on her face, and her anger had been the goal. It was hurt. It was that single, unsteady breath.

She nodded once. “Good luck with that.”

For a moment, just as she turned to walk away, he wished he still had the beer bottle in his hand. Just so he could smash it again.

“I thought I was dead.”

She stopped, turned. She waited.

“When it went wrong, when I knew it was going south, I thought I could pull out of it. But the whole thing was fucked. Technical glitch, miscalculation, and some budget cuts that didn’t get passed down to those of us on the line. Several people up the chain made a bad decision, doesn’t really matter why. The why’s the reason I ended up getting a big fat check at the end of the day.”

“The why’s the reason you got hurt.”

“Put it down to a clusterfuck.” That’s what he’d done. That’s what he’d had to do to get past it. “Anyway, I had that initial moment—gag’s gone south; then the next—I can deal. Then . . . then the next when I knew I couldn’t and thought I was dead. We’re talking seconds from one point to the next, but it all slows down.There’s noise—snatches and bursts—and outside this tunnel you’re in, it’s just a blur. But inside, everything’s slowed down so that few seconds is endless. And it’s goddamn terrifying. That’s before the pain.”

He had to take a breath, had to calm a little.While he did, she walked to the workbench and took out the bottle of water he’d tossed in with the beer.

She opened it, and with her eyes steady on his, handed it to him.

Jesus, he thought. Jesus, she
was
a piece of work. An amazing piece of work.

“Okay.” He cooled his throat. “After the pain, you know you’re not dead. You just want to be. Inside you’re screaming, and that sound’s barely human. You can’t get even that sound out when you’re choking on your own blood. When you can’t breathe because your lungs have started to collapse. It’s more than you can stand, those seconds, trapped in the pain, waiting to die. Wanting to so it’ll just end.

“What good does it do for you to know this?” he demanded.

“It’s part of you. We’re not blank slates, Malcolm. What we’ve done, what we’ve survived, all go into us.What happened to those girls, your reaction to it—”

“I don’t know why it hit me the way it did. Maybe because it had been a long day, maybe because it was close to home. I don’t flash back to my own crash every time I deal with a wreck. It’s not like that.”

“What is it like?”

“It’s over, or I wouldn’t be standing here. It started being over when I woke up in the hospital. Not dead. It’s a pretty big deal, not being dead, and I wanted to stay that way.”

He put the water down to get the broom and dustpan, and started sweeping up the broken glass.

“If it had to hurt like ten levels of hell, okay. I’d lived through the crash, I’d live through that. Need to put me back together with pins? Go right ahead, as long as I walked out of there. I started making plans to do that; it was a way to get through. No more living day to day.”

“You pushed the rewind button.”

He glanced back at her. “Yeah, in a way. Or maybe I switched to forward. But I knew when I woke up, and my mother was sitting there, when I saw her face, I knew I wasn’t going back. I’m not going to say I’m all she had, or has, because she’s more than that. But I could stop living the kind of life that put the rest of her family at risk that way. I got the chance to do something for her, and to move forward for myself.”