Here Comes the Groom (5 page)

Her gaze darted left and two images were burned in her brain. Her reflected face, eyes furtive, hunted. And her would-be groom, naked to the waist, lean muscle rippling as he shrugged on a starched white shirt.

She was past. Jo tugged open the
Chronicle'
s door and took the stairs two at a time. Halfway up she stopped and leaned her forehead against the wall. “Why are you doing this to us
now?
” she whispered. And going public was tantamount to emotional blackmail. Jo continued up the stairs.

The newsroom was empty. Tomorrow's paper was done—Jo only had to sign off on it before delivering it to the printers—but still, 4:00 p.m. was early to close an issue. In her office, she dumped her bag on her desk then sank into her chair and leaned forward over the desk, head on her arms.
Loser's posture.
She sat up straight again, staring sightlessly at the screen.

She should be strategizing. Instead all she could think about was Dan's extraordinary behavior. Maybe she was overreacting—maybe he was simply pushing the joke to its absolute limit and everyone was in on it? Any minute now he'd appear with a grin and a gotcha. Yes, that was
it. Of course it was. She relaxed in her chair. There was no other rational explanation.

The phone rang. That was probably him now. “You got me—”

“It's Delwyn. I think I left my invoice book in the staff room. Can you check for me?”

“Sure.” Jo walked to the staff room and opened the door. Glimpsing red balloons imprinted with
Happy

Birthday,
she closed it again.

The door burst open and her beaming staff threw their arms high. “Surprise!”

 

“W
HERE'S MY INVITE?
I had the housekeeper check the mailbox twice.”

Jo's grip tightened on the phone, her delight at the birthday call dissipating.

“You're on a yacht in Vava'u—how the hell do you know about this?” Maybe her second-best friend wasn't on a family holiday in Tonga for six weeks. Maybe—

“Luke was reading the
Herald
online and saw it in the notices.”

“Hang on a minute.” Jo pulled up New Zealand's largest daily newspaper on the internet. “‘Daniel Jansen is delighted to announce his engagement to Jocelyn Swann.' I'll kill him.” She was starting to mean it.

“So you're not getting married?”

As she brought the former mayor of Beacon Bay up to speed, Jo's cell rang. Caller ID showed it was Nan. “Liz, I've gotta go, love to Luke… Hi, Nan, how lovely to talk to you.”

“Darling, did I forget that you're getting married?”
Jo rubbed her throbbing temples. “No, love, ignore the invitation. It's one of Dan's jokes.”

“Such a nice boy, Daniel.”

“That's one word for him.”

“My wedding dress might fit you with a little adjustment I think.” A former dressmaker, Nan had always been stylish, matching gloves, bag and shoes. Jo recalled this morning's mismatch of gardening hat and dressing gown with a pang of regret.

“Except it's a joke, Nan,” she reminded her patiently.

“Such a nice boy, Daniel.”

It was hopeless to persist when Rosemary was in one of her loops. And it didn't matter because in ten minutes she'd have forgotten. But other people wouldn't. “I'll see you tomorrow. Tell Polly I'll explain later.” Jo hung up and hauled the production manager out of the staff room where he was enjoying his third beer and made him design a last-minute ad for tomorrow's edition. Bold font. Big type. Dan would know there was no room for confusion on this, no room for hope. Or doubt.

“Jo Swann and Dan Jansen are not getting married. It was a joke, people!” A smiley emoticon should take the sting out of it.

Because it was so funny.

By the time Jo had deflected Kevin with an “I promise we'll discuss the CommLink meeting tomorrow,” and made it home from her impromptu birthday celebration, she had a throbbing headache.

Conscious of Polly's threat to check for lights on too early she left the curtains open and navigated the stairs by moonlight. A lanky shadow on the landing made her
gasp until she recognized the lampstand from the living room. Nan had been moving things again. Pushing it to one side—she was too tired to tidy up now—Jo went into her bedroom, stripped off her clothes, put on her dressing gown, then ran a bath. While it filled she sat on the rim and listening to the house creaking and groaning as the outside temperature dropped. Steam rose, invisible in the dark. It touched Jo's face with warm, sympathetic tendrils.

The doorbell rang, startling her. Wiping her eyes, she groped for the tap and turned it off. The bell rang again, a peal that echoed through the dark, silent house. Jo didn't move. Silence except for the steady drip of the tap. Finally, she heard footsteps retreating down the gravel path. Clutching her robe, she crept to her bedroom window, which provided a view of the front garden.

Holding a bunch of white lilies, Dan stood under a bright moon. She froze but he'd caught her movement and lifted his face. Across the garden they stared at each other.

He'd changed into a white shirt and his broad shoulders were accentuated under the moon, which also bladed his cheekbones and shadowed his deep-set eyes. But Jo read his lips.

“Let me in.”

Her heart started pumping so hard she struggled to breathe. She shook her head.

Dan assessed a route. She could read his thoughts. Swing up onto the pergola; walk along it to her window. Jo caught the sill for support as his gaze returned to hers, unblinking. Intent.

“No!” Through her panic, she found the fierceness
she needed. The anger that her best friend was putting them through this when she was finally bringing some control back to her life.

Jerking the drapes together, she fumbled for the catch on the window and locked it. Counted one minute down, then two. Sucking in a fortifying breath she peeked again, half expecting to see Dan crouched on her windowsill. But there were only lilies propped against the gate. Bridal white in the moonlight.

Closing the drapes, Jo hugged herself as she returned to the bathroom and switched on the light. In the mirror her eyes were huge…shocked. He was really serious about this? Maybe she should tell him the truth behind that pass…

“Do you want his pity?”

No. God, no. Unthinkable. She hadn't protected her secret so carefully to reveal it now. She'd only panicked because she'd been caught unprepared.

Untying her robe, Jo shrugged it off her shoulders. Her gaze lowered over her naked body, then she turned and stepped into the hot, steamy water, leaned back and closed her eyes.

In company with the real Jo, his best friend, he'd soon come to his senses. He had to.

A
HAWK SWOOPED OVER
the pasture, its silhouette faint against the grass in the dawn light. Dan turned off the hurricane lamp he'd been using to illuminate his fencing work and stretched his back, his gaze following the predator as it crested a hill with one lazy flap then disappeared into the rising sun.

He returned his attention to tightening the wire with the strainer then tied it off and surveyed the seven-wire fence. All he had to do was add wooden battens for bracing and this stretch was done. Straightening his back, he took a break.

Amazing what insomnia could achieve. For the past two nights he'd risen around four and gone fencing, rigging up lighting to help him do it.

Fortunately there was more than enough maintenance work to absorb his restless energy.

The sky lightened to lavender-blue. It was going to be a beautiful morning. On impulse he started up the hill for a better view of the sunrise, attracting the attention of the steers in the next paddock, which trotted over to the fence. They were yearlings, curious and still skittish. One spooked and bolted and the rest thundered along behind, stopping in confusion three hundred meters away, their breath steaming clouds in the growing light.

Untying the woolen bush jacket from his waist, Dan
pulled it on as he climbed, tempted to use his cell to call Jo.
Come watch the sunrise with me.
Except that would only confirm his craziness in her eyes. He thought of her fury the other night, when he'd gone visiting with flowers in the moonlight. Better give her one more day to cool off.

A breeze came up, carrying the malodorous stench of semi-rotted grass. Silage. Dan grinned. Not such a romantic setting after all. Reaching the crest, he stripped off his sweaty fencing gloves as the sunrise slowly illuminated the rolling pasture. Sheep dotted the steeper sections while mobs of bulls—small groups of thirty animals—populated the flat, separated by electric fences.

It had rained overnight, swelling the stream which now ran muddy and fast through the property. He traced it back to its source, a spring-formed lake surrounded by marshland and bog, thick with reeds and waterfowl. Duck-shooting season started this weekend, he thought. Mist rose in patches off the dew-soaked grass, spiraling lazily toward the sun.

How many times had he imagined this view in the harsh, throat-scratching desert? This stillness. Dan closed his eyes. But even with his ears attuned to the minutiae of country noises—the soft snort of cattle, the birdsong, the faint throb of a tractor engine—peace eluded him.

I should have been there.

He opened his eyes, simultaneously closing his mind to the images that haunted him. Below, his father was a tiny figure on the tractor as he hauled silage into the northwest paddock, half a dozen working dogs running
behind him. That was another job ahead. Getting the dogs to change loyalties. Giving up on serenity, Dan returned to stapling fence battens.

Herman might be sleeping in town but his waking hours were all on the farm. To help Dan while the farm-hand was on holiday, he told Pat when she tried to finalize travel itineraries. To free you up to organize the wedding, he'd tell his son. But for all his talk of a succession plan, his father seemed reluctant to implement one. Still, Dan preferred Herman's company to being alone. What if Jo didn't come around?

He rammed the batten in place. No, defeat wasn't an option. Dan lost himself in physical labor. When he'd finished the sun was high and his stomach rumbled. Returning to the ATV—the quad bike that handled the farm's varied terrain—he saw a curl of smoke rising from the direction of the homestead.

Only Mom would light the fire during the day, Herman being too economical and Dan too inured to climate to bother. The quad rattled over the main track and he made a mental note to discuss regrading with his father.

Go faster, Danny.
Steve's voice came to him, vibrating with a child's excitement. C'mon, chicken.
Uncle Herman doesn't need to know.
His older cousin could always tease him into being recklesss.
Let's see if we can get some air on this thing.

Dan smiled in the chill morning. Oh, yeah, they got air all right. Only luck had saved them from being hurt. But nothing had saved them from Herman's wrath when he saw the damage to the ATV. They'd spent a week cut ting wood for that one.

His vision blurred. He blinked hard.

Two of the five of them dead and, eleven months later, two survivors still in bad shape. Ross was rehabilitating from horrific injuries; Nate had left the service and was roaming the States.

A tooth abscess had saved Dan from the ambush. He'd been at the dentist when the news came through. His gum numb with novocaine, he'd run to join the retrieval team. The pain of a half-drilled tooth kicked in as the anesthetic wore off but he'd welcomed it. Blazing twisted scraps were all that remained of the vehicle. Of Steve.

Lee had been missing and Nate crouched behind meager cover, holding off the enemy with Ross bloody and unconscious at his feet. Later, Dan had to peel a dazed Nate's fingers from his weapon. He'd seen that look before, knew what it meant. Some experiences took a man past a point he couldn't go…because if he did, he couldn't serve.

His knuckles whitened on the ATV's handles.

Lee had been found the next day…what was left of him. His body had been packed with explosives and detonated in the desert. Unidentifiable except by eyewitness accounts and an engagement ring he'd intended to give his girlfiend on his return.

I should have been there.

Maybe he could have done something…changed some thing. Though everyone and logic told him otherwise he couldn't shake these pointless, debilitating thoughts that still shadowed him like buzzards.

Dan had always been robust, whether through a gift of genes or an inborn balance. Whatever it was, psychological tests said he had it. The ability to endure. With
an effort, he loosened his grip on the handles, dropped the throttle. The only way through this was holding on to the person who always grounded him.

Everything came back to Jo.

 

H
IS MOM'S
N
ISSAN WAS
parked by the farmhouse, a mattress on the roof rack. Dan had asked to borrow one until he could go shopping for furniture with Jo.

“Always the optimist, Danny,” Steve used to say to him.

“Damn right.”

He'd refused to sleep even one night on the lumpy double bed his dad had been using. Drawing abreast of the car he saw the mattress was a single and laughed. Well, if she thought a single mattress would stop her baby boy from having sex with his intended, assuming Dan could get Jo there, she was dreaming.

To hell with it. He'd make time to buy a king-size tomorrow.

He found Pat stuck in the doorway wrestling with an armchair as big as she was.

“What are you doing moving that on your own?”

“I can manage,” she insisted, but massaged her lower back after he took the chair off her. Small and slender with a swing of shoulder-length hair only lightly threaded with gray, Pat Jansen bore a close resemblance to Diane Keaton. “I only brought one comfortable chair,” she added, “so make sure you get it.”

Dan maneuvered the wide-bodied chair through the doorway. “Okay, we're alone. Tell me what's going on with you and Dad?” There had always been stressful undercurrents in his parents' marriage but they seemed
to have turned into whitewater, at least on Mom's part. Like his son, Herman kept his troubles to himself.

She caught a falling cushion as he plonked the chair next to the fireplace. “Nothing.” She'd cleaned the house. Lemon polish scented the air and there weren't as many dust motes in the sunlight streaming through the window. “At least nothing for you to worry about.” A small coffee table sat like an island in the middle of the empty room. The dog slunk out from under it, looking guilty for being caught inside.

“It's okay, boy.” Dan fondled his ears. “You're retired now, too, remember?”

He knew Pat was waiting for a follow-up question. It was always this way with Mom. You had to work to find out what was wrong. Except playing chicken with his resistant bride would require nerves of steel. He couldn't afford to get embroiled in his parents' marital issues. Anyway, empathy was a girl thing; better Mom phoned one of the twins—Merry in Auckland or Viv in New York. On second thought, not Viv.

Pat gave up waiting and surveyed the sparsely furnished room. “We've got to make this place welcoming enough for you to stay. I'll bring the spare couch next visit.”

“Of course I'm staying. I'm getting married, remember?”

“Honey, I have bad news.” If it was bad, why did she sound so relieved? “Come look at this.” In the kitchen, Pat pointed to a quarter-page ad in the
Chronicle.
“Jo Swann and Dan Jansen are not getting married. It was a joke, people!
”

Dan grinned at the smilie emoticon.

“You're taking this very well,” his mother said uneasily. She knew that grin.

He took out his cell, checking the paper's index for the direct line to sales.

“Hi…Delwyn, it's Dan. Yeah, well, don't be sorry. No, my feelings aren't hurt. Listen, how much is an ad in your paper, same size?” As he told the rep what he wanted, his mother started unpacking the cutlery from a cardboard box on the kitchen counter. Dan had to raise his voice above the clatter to finish the call. “I'm happy to pay a premium for the front page… See you later, then.”

When he'd rung off, he leaned against the counter top. “Okay, Mom, spit it out. Why don't you approve?”

His mother had always been ambivalent about Jo, often reading his friend's assertiveness as aggression and her frankness as rudeness. She didn't understand that her son found these qualities refreshing precisely because he'd been brought up by Jo's opposite.

Tight-lipped martyrdom and “guess what I'm feeling”—these were things to cower men, not a woman comfortable asking for what she wanted.

“It's not about whether
I
approve.” Opening the oven, Pat pulled out a bacon-and-egg pie. On the bottom shelf Dan saw a batch of rising scones. “Though I think your approach is all wrong.”

“There's method in my madness.”

Pat frowned.

Damn, wrong word. She already had doubts about his mental health.

“She can be so…forceful, Danny. I'm worried she'll try and run your life.”

Dan hid a smile. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. His mom had wanted him to be a lawyer, something civilized. But Jo had always understood his need to test himself. Like he understood hers. And unlike every other female in his life, his best friend never asked for more than he was prepared to give. “I've made up my mind, Mom.”

“Fine, let's change the subject.” Sighing, Pat began slicing the pie. “I talked to Ellie this morning.” Steve's mother.

Turning away, Dan plugged in the kettle.

“She's hoping you'll find time to visit when you've settled in.” Steve's parents lived an hour south.

Herman understood no-go zones but his mother was a different story. “It's on my list.”

“They're all worried about Lewis,” she persisted.

His godson? Dan looked over. “What's wrong with him?”

“He's getting stomachaches…off school a lot. The doctor can't find anything wrong with him. Says it's growing pains.”

His own gut knotted, as it always did thinking about his cousin's widow, Claire, and their son. She'd insisted there was nothing he could do for her and turned down money when Dan, Ross and Nate offered it. “He is thirteen.”

“Ellie says he's withdrawn and only wants to sit on the PlayStation all day.”

That wasn't the kid Dan remembered. The kid who wanted to be outside doing boy stuff with his dad. He said gruffly, “He lost his father this year, Mom. It's going to take time to adjust.”

“Well, have you phoned Claire lately?” Taking some mugs off the draining board, Dan considered his reply. Since the funeral, he'd made a point of calling Claire every month. But the conversations were stilted. Both of them pretending to be doing better than they were. Lately, he'd spun the calls out to every six weeks.

“I'm about due,” he admitted. The kettle boiled and switched off. His mother pulled a silver teapot out of one of the boxes in the kitchen. He felt himself suddenly suffocating. “Mom, I don't need all this stuff.”

“Teabags in mugs is for camping.”

Dan wished he were back in the wilderness. “Sit down,” he said. “Let me wait on you for a change.” He parked her in a chair, then finished making the tea, plating up pie and buttering scones. He'd missed her cooking, if not her concern.

“And you haven't sent Steve's parents or Claire invitations to your wedding. That must mean you're not sure about marrying Jo.”