Here Comes the Groom (2 page)

Jo fanned out her top and stared at the numbers flashing on the panel, 2…3…4. She'd wanted that so badly tonight. Not love—at thirty-one she'd lost faith in that—but lust. She would have settled for lust. Brad might have been an arrogant ass but he knew what a woman wanted to hear—that she was desirable—and he could have made her forget.

The elevator stopped at six. The happy couple disembarked, leaving behind their heat and their pheromones. Jo gazed after them wistfully.

Dan leaned over her shoulder to jab the door-close button, and his warm breath stirred her hair. Slowly turning her head, Jo stared at him as he moved to her right, giving her more room. He and Maxine had broken up. Maybe it was a sign?

She dragged her eyes to the flashing panel. Yeah, a sign you're drunk! You don't risk a twenty-seven-year
friendship by suggesting a one-night stand. Except…what she
might
lose suddenly didn't seem important weighed against what she
might
lose tomorrow.

“You sure you're okay, Jo? You look pale.”

“Relax, I'm not going to throw up on you.”

“Thank God for that.

“Here we are.” Dan led the way to her room, taking her key when Jo fumbled it and opened the door.

“Come in,” she invited him. “We've hardly talked. Help yourself to a drink from the minibar, I won't be a minute.”

Staggering into the bathroom, Jo splashed water on her face, she finger-combed her disheveled hair and left the bathroom, licking her glossy lips.
I need a memory hot enough to last me a lifetime.

She found Dan pouring boiling water into two mugs. “I've made coffee,” he said, over his shoulder. “You probably need it.”

“Sounds good.” Her heart was beating so fast he must hear it. Jo looped her arms around his waist and laid her face against his back.

“Maybe you'd better lie down,” he said, adding sugar and milk, “if you can't stand up by yourself.”

Frustrated, Jo released him. “Dan, turn around.”

He picked up the mugs and turned, pulling them up over her head in the nick of time.

“What the…” Stepping between the outstretched mugs, she yanked his face down to hers. Dan stiffened. “Jo, don't—”

She kissed him, stifling his protests with her tongue.

It was odd kissing someone she loved platonically,
odd and way too much like a science experiment. Although… Dan wrenched his mouth away and said in a tight voice, “Step away, before you get burned.”

“Wow, you really think you're that good?” then she realized he was still holding the mugs outstretched, and hot coffee was dripping over his fingers and splattering onto the cream carpet.

She sobered, real fast. “Dan…”

“Just get out of the goddamn way, Jo.”

He dumped the mugs on the bedside table and disappeared into the bathroom where she heard him turn on the faucet. For a moment, Jo stood in abject humiliation before wrapping herself in a dressing gown and following him. He had his fingers under a stream of cold water.

“Dan,” she choked. “I'm sorry.”

“You bloody should be!” His eyes met hers in the mirror. “Where's your brain, Jo?”

“It was only a one-off,” she protested. “I might be drunk and stupid but I'm not that drunk and stupid.”

His mouth twitched. “This isn't even about me, is it?” She shook her head and relief softened his features. “So what…the ticking clock again?”

It took her a moment to realize he was talking about her desire to have children. She dropped her gaze. “It's silly, I know.”

“You're not even thirty-two.”

“You're right,” she said.
Only thirty-one. It wasn't fair.
Jo started to cry, she couldn't help it. With an oath, Dan turned off the tap and pulled her into a hug.

“You're an idiot, Swannie,” he said roughly. “You've still got plenty of time.”

Jo cried harder.

“You'll be glad I turned you down when you sober up. And we'll forget about this.”

“Okay,” she sobbed. It was so good to be held by someone who actually cared about her.

“I'll find you a goddamn husband when I get home.”

“Okay.” It was easier to agree with him.

He gave her a shake. “Quit crying now.”

“Okay.” Jo made an effort and wiped her eyes with the corner of his shirt. “Um…Dan?” she sniffed. “Yeah, mate.”

“I'm going to be sick now.”

“Oh, great.”

Twelve months later

H
IS STALKER LEAPED OUT
of the moonless dark.

Only a panting yip seconds before front paws slammed into Dan's chest made him drop the knife in time. He caught the border collie in his arms, a furry mass of squirming, whining affection. “Goddamn it, Blue!”

Heart still climbing his throat, Dan dropped to his knees on the rough driveway leading to the farmhouse and tightened his hold. “Don't try and ambush a soldier.”
Especially not SAS.
A sloppy, rough tongue licked his unshaven jaw.

Even in the pitch dark, the New Zealand landscape smelled different from Afghanistan—pine and lush pasture instead of arid desert and rock. Life, not death.

Pushing the ecstatic animal away, Dan felt for his knife on the loose stones, then shoved it to the bottom of his backpack. It wasn't like him to get disoriented like this. Still crouching, he covered his face with his hands, breathing deeply.
Hey, folks, I accidentally killed the dog thinking he was al Qaeda, but otherwise I'm perfectly normal.

Blue rolled into him, knocking Dan onto his ass. Sharp stones digging through his worn jeans, he struggled to
see the dog and laughed. Still on his back, wriggling, the collie's jaw stretched wide in a canine grin.

“What the hell are you doing here anyway, eh, boy?” Leaning forward, he scratched Blue's exposed belly. “You're supposed to be living in town with the parents… Yeah, well, I'm happy to see you, too. Now go on.” He pushed the dog to its feet, rose to his own. “Lead the way home.” Blue tore off into the night.

Reshouldering his pack, Dan followed the faint sound of dislodged stones, the sonic trigger that had caused him to pull his knife in the first place. He'd forgotten the impenetrable blackness of a cloudy country night, the sense of total isolation. In early May there was a crispness to the air, the first breath of impending winter.

The moon broke through. There was enough light now to make out the dog's pricked ears as Blue waited for him to catch up. Farther up the track, the empty farmhouse came into view, white clapboard, corrugated iron roof, and a low-pitch verandah with pegs and shelves for wet weather gear and gum boots. No cow manure would ever be tracked through his mother's kitchen.

He could tell she didn't live here anymore, though. The porch needed sweeping and the doormat was caked in mud. This place was his now, at least until he decided whether to buy into the farm.

He slid his hand between the second and third step for the spare key, still on a hook under the porch. Some things didn't change. He found comfort in that. Unlocking the door he stepped inside.

“Move one inch, you thieving bastard,” said a gruff
voice, “and I'll pepper your ass with steel shot.” There was the sound of a double-barrel snapping shut.

Dan grinned. “Is that any way to welcome your first-born home?”

 

H
IS FATHER POURED THEM
both a whiskey to steady their nerves. “Creeping in at midnight.” Herman pushed the shot glass across the kitchen table, his thick gray hair tufted from sleep. “Who the hell do you think you are, Cinderella?”

“Hitchhikers take rides when they can.” Dan had been on operational deployment for six months in rugged, mountainous terrain. Given his haggard appearance, he considered himself lucky to have been picked up at all. “I had to walk the last five kilometers from the turnoff.”

“With that pack? You should have called me.”

It hadn't occurred to him; he was so used to self-sufficiency. And the backpack weighed a fraction of the twenty-plus pounds he usually carried. Picking up his whiskey, Dan looked curiously at his old man. “What are you doing here anyway? I thought you and Mom moved to town two months ago.” And it looked like it. The kitchen held only an old table and two mismatched chairs. One mug in the sink. A small fridge.

Herman started toying with his glass. “I wasn't happy leaving this place vacant—isolated the way it is—so I stay over weeknights. I'm still working on the farm every day with Rob. It's more convenient to sleep here.” The nineteen-year-old farm hand rented the old cottage at the other end of the property, and had been looking after the farm dogs since their move to town.

The amber liquid burned a path down Dan's throat,
warming all the cold places. “Town's only a fifteen-minute drive away. Hardly a commute. And Rob's only a few acres over.”

“Now you sound like your mother.” Herman went and got the whiskey bottle. “Anyway, it was only until you came home.”

“So I've been holding up your retirement plans?” He hadn't been home in almost a year, spending his leave with one of his younger twin sisters—Viv—in New York.

“Not my plans, son—hers. Personally I'm in no hurry to turn into an old dodderer.”

“At sixty-five? Hardly.” Herman Jansen was still a vital, handsome man, with a full head of hair, piercing blue eyes and a strong Dutch jaw. Popeye, as his three children affectionately referred to him. “Isn't retirement about having freedom? To travel, play golf…” Dan grinned. “Spend quality time with the grandkids.”

His father shuddered. Privately, Herman called Tilly, his granddaughter—offspring of the domesticated twin—Attila.

“I can rejoin the SAS,” Dan offered. “Mom need never know I was here.”

“Hell, no. I'd give up six farms to keep you home safe.” Herman stopped, cleared his throat, but his voice was gruff when he added, “Your aunt and uncle are still taking it very hard. When I think—”

“Dad.”

For a long moment they stared at each other, then Herman nodded and refilled their glasses. “All right, son,” he said. “All right.”

He'd been wrong; his father could look old. Dan
cleared his own throat. “How's this trial handover going to work?”

“I thought I should hold the reins for another few weeks…just until you settle in. And I promised Rob a holiday as soon as you came back.”

He wasn't fooled by his father's nonchalance. Giving up a farm you'd run for forty years wasn't something to be hurried. Neither was taking one over. “I was hoping you'd hang around. I'll need a refresher course.”

Though he'd made a point of keeping up with farming innovations, Dan had been off the land for thirteen years. Managing a 550-hectare property that ran over three thousand sheep and four hundred beef cattle wasn't a walk in the park.

If it had been, he wouldn't have been interested. “Be sides, you've got to make sure I'm competent, if Mom's going to be spending money renting villas in Tuscany.”

Herman gave a resigned grunt. “She's been making me take Italian lessons,” he grumbled. “
Accettate carte di credito?
Do you accept credit cards?”

Dan laughed.

“It's not funny, son. Back me up on a handover period or she'll have me on a plane before you can say
arrivederci.
”

“Relax, you've got at least twenty-four days. Mom won't go overseas before my wedding.”

“What?” His father nearly dropped his whiskey. “You're getting married? Danny, you making fun?”

Pulling an invitation out of his pack, Dan slid it across
the table. “Herman, I've never been more serious about anything in my life.” He knocked back his drink in one burning gulp.

 

E
VERY MORNING FOR THE
past year when Jo woke up she sang the same silly tune under her breath. “I'm A-live, A-wake, A-lert, Enthussss-iass-tic.”

The friend's preschooler who'd taught her the song performed it with matching actions. “I'm a-live—” tap head “—a-wake—” tap eyes “—a-lert—” tap shoulders “—enthusss-iass-tic!” big star jump.

On a bad day Jo forced herself to do the actions; lately she'd simply sung it under her breath. Today, her thirty-third birthday, she ditched the song altogether and set her watch for an extra five minutes in bed.

It wasn't a bed that invited a lie-in, being narrow and single with a fluorescent lime-green duvet cover that didn't just draw the eye but imploded it. Ten months ago when Jo first moved back to the house she'd grown up in, she'd brought her own double bed and dumped her laminated school certificates and surf lifesaving medals in the bedside drawer. Her grandmother had gotten agitated so Jo returned everything to the way it was. Fortunately Nan hadn't noticed the New Kids on the Block poster still missing from the wardrobe door.

A shaft of sun striped the edge of her pillow; she laid her hand on it. In late autumn it had little heat but it didn't matter. For the first time in months she saw light at the end of the tunnel, saw solutions and possibilities. She saw her old self. On a surge of optimism Jo stretched
her arms over her head, relishing the pull of joints and muscle. I'm back, she thought.

Her watch beeped. Flinging off the blankets she got up and padded across the hall to the old-fashioned bathroom. With a longing look at the claw-foot bath, she settled for a quick shower in the tiny stall installed after Nan had flooded the bathroom for the second time.

She was towel-drying her hair when the handle rattled on the door. Jo just had time to reposition the towel before her eighty-five-year old grandmother bowled in, dressed in a red quilted dressing gown, her best pearls and a gardening hat.

“Good morning, Nan! Remember we knock first?”
My fault for forgetting to lock the door.

“I used to change your diapers. Now, what did I come in here for?” Rosemary tapped her frowning forehead with soft, wrinkled fingers.

“To wish me happy birthday, but I'll be out in a minute.” Gently she turned her grandmother toward the door.

“Oh, yes, I'm making boiled eggs for your breakfast.”

Uh-oh.
“I'll be right down.” Jo scrambled into the suit she'd laid out for her meeting today—tailored gray trousers and jacket, teamed with a feminine ruffle-front shirt in pale apricot chiffon and matching shoes, higher than she normally wore. Hastily finger-combing her short auburn curls she hurried downstairs to the kitchen, which, at the back of the house, overlooked an autumn-shabby vegetable garden and orchard.

Nan was spooning coffee into the teapot. “Sit down, darling, everything's under control.”

“Excellent.” Turning off the glowing stove element, Jo kissed Rosemary's wrinkled cheek. “But I need a teaspoon for my boiled egg.” When her grandmother turned to find one, she rinsed the coffee out of the teapot, dropped in a couple of teabags and added the boiling water.

Nan paused in the midst of opening drawers. “What am I looking for, again?”

“A teaspoon.”

“Oh, yes, here you are.” Nan shooed her toward the table. “Now go eat before it gets cold.”

The egg sat in a rooster eggcup on a fine bone-china plate beside a loaf of bread still in the bag. Tentatively, Jo fractured the shell. Transparent egg white seeped through the crack. “Nan, I forgot the milk.”

En route to the table, Rosemary turned back to the fridge. Quickly Jo opened the cracked shell, dumped the raw egg into a paper napkin and folded it over, then replaced the shell in the eggcup.

Head in the depths of the fridge, Rosemary called. “What am I looking for?”

“The milk.”

Retrieving the carton, her grandmother joined her. “Goodness, you were hungry.”

Jo poured the tea. “So, what's in your diary to day?”

Nan pulled it from the pocket of her dressing gown. “Now,” she patted her gardening hat, “where are my glasses?”

“I'll find them.” Jo searched the most likely places first.

“They're hardly going to be in the oven, dear,” said Rosemary, amused.

“Of course not. I don't know where my head's at this morning.” Jo found them in the breadbox.

Nan put them on, looping the silver chain around her neck, and peered at the diary that reminded her where she was in place and time. “Alec and Elaine for morning tea. And Polly's coming…you know, Jocelyn, I really think you should speak to that girl, she does so little housework.”

“Well, she's more of a companion than a cleaning lady.”

But Rosemary wasn't paying attention. Head tilted, she listened to something Jo couldn't hear with an intent expression. “I think you'll have to wake your grandfather.”

Reaching across the table, Jo took her grandmother's hand. “Pops passed away years ago.”

“What?” Breaking Jo's hold, Rosemary pulled her dressing gown closer. “He had a stroke at work…. Yes, I remember now….” Behind the glasses, her eyes were suddenly sharp. “I'm in the kitchen,” she said deliberately, “eating breakfast with my granddaughter.” Her gaze fixed on the calendar, the date decorated with bright stars. “It's May 2, Jocelyn's birthday…darling, why didn't you remind me? Today she's…”

“Thirty-three,” Jo prompted.

“So old!” Rosemary exclaimed. “What does that make me…? No, don't tell me. Some things
are
better forgotten.” She picked up her diary and read it, lips moving silently. Early in her illness Nan had written in it religiously. Now it was usually Polly or Jo who filled
in the details. “Oh, good. I bought you a birthday present.” Relief smoothed the angular planes of her face and softened the blue-gray eyes Jo had inherited. “It's in the dresser drawer.”

Jo fetched the small box and opened it. A pair of diamond earrings.

“Oh, Nan, they're beautiful.”

Her grandmother removed her glasses, letting them fall on the chain. “Polly helped me choose them. You know, Jocelyn, I really think you should speak to that girl, she does so little housework.”

The “girl” came into the kitchen at that moment, a large, round woman in her fifties, with the no-nonsense briskness of her former profession as a charge nurse. Pocketing her key, she looked at the teapot. “Tea hot? I'm gasping.”