Mother of the Bride (11 page)

In the spill of light through the uncurtained French doors, he could see Cydney clearing the table. Gus let himself through the gate, crossed the yard and reached the patio just as she disappeared into the kitchen with the water goblets.

He waited by the picnic table until she came back, then stepped forward, tucking the roses behind him. He watched her fold the corners of the tablecloth toward the center of the table where Georgette had left her neat stack of napkins. She picked up the top one and wiped her nose, then her lashes, her head turned just enough that Gus could see the shimmer in her eyes. He didn't realize it was unshed tears until he'd raised his foot on the step, knocked, and she glanced up and saw him.

He'd come back to tell her she didn't know diddly-squat about him, not to trap her in another awkward moment and embarrass her. Part of him wanted to turn away and leave, the rest of him wanted to put his arms around her and comfort her. He smiled at her through the glass. She wiped her nose again, came to the door and opened it.

“Yes, Mr. Munroe?” Her voice sounded thick, like she had a cold. “Did you forget something?”

“Yes.” Gus held the roses out to her. “My manners.”

“Obbb,”
she said, on a sharp catch of breath.

No thank you, just that single, sucked-in syllable. She took the roses from him, gingerly, like he'd handed her a bouquet of poison ivy.

“If you don't like them,” Gus said, “I guess I could fall on them.”

She laughed, a bubbly warble that brought a fresh sheen of tears to her lashes. “Please don't. Peach roses are my favorite.”

“Is that why you're crying?”

“No.” She drew a shuddery breath that made the looped end of the jade necklace Gus still wanted to catch in his teeth
quiver in the hollow of her throat. “I'm crying because I miss Bebe already.”

“Cheer up. She'll be home at eleven-thirty.” “That's not what I mean.” She looked at the roses and traced a shiny green leaf with one fingertip. “She's getting married a week from Saturday and leaving forever. I'm sure that sounds silly to you. I'm not her mother and I'm crying because she's leaving home.”

“It doesn't sound silly at all. I feel the same way about Aldo.” She blinked up at him from the roses. “You do?” “I've been his guardian since he was four years old.” “Oh my.” She blinked again. “You were very young.” “Too young, really, but I had my aunt Phoebe. I couldn't have raised Aldo without her. She died five years ago and I still miss her.”

“I'm so sorry,” Cydney murmured, her eyebrows drawing together. Gus thought her sympathy was genuine. Everything about Cydney Parrish was genuine. Genuinely nice, genuinely sincere. And genuinely sexy, God help him, in her clingy little sweater set and neat black slacks. She traced the rose leaf again, then looked at him. “I have some coffee left. Would you like a cup?”

“Love one,” he said, and followed her inside. He stopped just inside the kitchen and watched her unwrap the roses, put them in a vase and fill it with water. There was a dishwasher built in under the microwave, but one side of the double, white porcelain sink was full of suds, the plates from dinner drying in a rack. Family heirloom, he guessed. Aunt Phoebe had hand-washed her china, a Blue Willow pattern she'd inherited from her mother. Gus hadn't eaten a meal served on china with flowers and candles since Aunt Phoebe died.

Five years. That's how long it had been since he'd stood in a kitchen smelling leftover chicken and warm coffee. Five years since he'd felt so at home in any place other than Tall Pines. No wonder Aldo defected. Good eats and hot chicks. Definitely plural, no matter what Bebe said.

“Please.” Cydney waved him toward a white, tile-topped
table with an oak Lazy Susan in the middle. “Would you like apiece of cake?”

“No thanks.” Gus took off his jacket, hung it on the back of the chair at the end of the table and sat down. “Any cookies left?”

“Macaroons?” She glanced at him over her shoulder, a thick white mug in each hand. “I think so.”

There were eight left in a ceramic teddy bear cookie jar. She put them on a plate and brought them to him with his coffee. Gus thanked her and ate one while she made herself a cup of tea. She brought it to the table with the roses, put the vase down next to the Lazy Susan and took the chair on his left.

“The roses are lovely. Thank you, Mr. Munroe.”

“Gus,” he said, sipping his coffee.

“I'm sorry I made such a fuss about Tall Pines.”

“Your concerns are valid, but I'm sure you won't have any trouble finding everything you need for the wedding in Branson.”

He wasn't sure of any such thing, but he smiled and bit into another cookie. He hoped the Parrish women would have a hell of a time finding candles and flowers and a decent caterer. All the better to foul things up, make everybody take a deep breath and a good long look at what they were doing.

What are you doing, Munroe?
his inner voice asked.
Lusting after Cydney Vanish while you lie to her through your teeth? Nice. Very nice. I'm ashamed to be your conscience.

“Yeah? Well, get over it,” Gus mumbled around a mouthful of macaroon.

Cydney's spine stiffened. “Get over what?”

Gus held up his index finger, thinking fast while he chewed, and took a swallow of coffee. “Your reluctance to come to Tall Pines.”

“I suppose I should explain that.” She put her spoon down and looked him square in the eye. “I said some things I shouldn't have to Aldo, last night while Bebe was in X ray. I was angry and upset. I told him you were rude and arrogant and I hoped I'd never see you again.”

“Rude and arrogant,” Gus repeated, heartened by the glint
he saw in her eyes. This was more like it. This was the little spitfire who'd told him to shove Artie's will, not the put-upon little doormat who'd caved in to Georgette. “You don't think I was pompous and pushy?”

“Well,” she said, smiling. “I suppose you were a
little
pushy.”

“I was a lot pushy. If I'd been you, I would've thrown me out.”

“You asked for a punch in the nose.”

“I asked for a good, swift kick. You suggested the punch.”

“I never dreamed Bebe would hit you.”

“Neither did I.”

“I'm glad you came back, Mr. Munroe.” She went to the wall phone by the microwave, came back with a pad of paper and a ballpoint pen and sat down. “There are some things we need to talk about.”

“Gus,” he said. “Like what?”

“Will the great room really hold a hundred people?”

“I'd say so, easy.”

“Do you know the dimensions?”

“Really long by really wide.”

“Is it longer than it is wide?” She laid her hands on the table in the shape of a rectangle, then a square. “Or wider than it is long?”

“Longer than it is wide.” It was an excuse to touch her, so Gus did, took her small wrists in his hands and drew hers farther apart. He felt her tremble, or thought he did, but she slipped her hands free too quickly to tell and bent her head over her notepad.

“Like this?” she asked, sketching a long, wide room.

“That's it. There's a dais at this end that runs the width of the windows. Three steps up to it,” Gus said, pointing with his finger. “The fireplace is on this wall.”

“Where's the door? Here?” She drew a doorway at the opposite end of the room, tucked a curl of silver-blond hair behind her ear and turned the pad toward him.

Gus reached for his glasses, realized he'd left them in the car and leaned close enough to notice the jade drop earring
pierced through her lobe. Oh God. More beads and delectable, peach-kissed skin to nibble.

“Perfect,” he said.

“We'll put the minister on the dais, and if they're wide enough to stand on, Bebe and Aldo on the steps. You said the floor is hardwood, so we'll need a runner for Bebe when she comes down the aisle.” She wrote “runner” in the corner of the page, then drew one down the center of the room with little rows of X's on each side. “And chairs.” She wrote that in the corner and looked up at Gus. “What direction do the windows face?”

“Southeast overlooking the lake.”

“Draperies?”

“Nope.”

“Morning sun.” She jotted “3”—slash—”4
P.M.”
and a question mark in the top corner. “We'll want an afternoon ceremony.”

“We will? Why?”

“Because the room will be flooded with sunlight in the morning.”

“Maybe Aldo and Bebe want to get married in sunglasses.”

She frowned at him. “Maybe they don't.”

“Why don't you ask them?”

“Of course I'll ask them. I'm merely making notes for Bebe and a list of things we need.”

“Looks to me like you're planning the wedding.”

“Someone has to get started on the preparations.”

“How 'bout the bride and groom?”

“They're not here at the moment.”

“That's my point. Aldo and Bebe want to get married a week from Saturday, but you're the one sitting here making notes and sketches while they're out cruising in the Jag.”

“Cruising is what kids do for fun these days, Mr. Munroe.”

“Kids,
Miss Parrish. Responsible young adults park their butts at the kitchen table and plan their own wedding.”

“Oh, I see.” She slapped her pen down, grabbed the cookie plate and marched it to the counter next to the refrigerator.
“We're back to Bebe and Aldo aren't mature enough to get married.”

“They aren't mature enough.” Gus followed her to the counter and spread his left hand on the butcher-block top beside her. “The fact that you're here and they're not proves it. And if you think they're out cruising, then you've forgotten what's it like to be young and in lust.”

“Bebe and Aldo are
in love,”
she said hotly, glaring at him as she upended the plate over the teddy bear.

“Aldo and Bebe are
in lust.”
Gus snatched a macaroon before they all spilled into the jar. “They can't keep their hands off each other.”

She clapped the head on the teddy bear and turned to face him. “That's part of being in love, Mr. Munroe.”

“Part of being in love, yes. But lust all by itself is a poor foundation for marriage.”

“I agree. But I'm not sure you know the difference.”

“Between love and lust? Sure I do.”

“I wouldn't take it to court if I were you.”

“I don't have to take it to court. I can prove it right here.”

“Can you?” She raised an eyebrow and her chin an
oh-really
notch. “I'd like to see that.”

“Then keep your eyes open,” he said, and kissed her.

Hard and swift, like he'd been aching to all night, expecting her to push him away and ready to release her the second she did, but her lips parted—stunning him and thrilling him— drawing him deep into the Earl Grey-flavored sweetness of her mouth. Gus groaned and lifted her, pressed himself between her legs and swung her onto the counter.

Her mouth softened, her knees hooked his waist and pulled him into the V of her thighs. He bent his head to her throat, caught her jade necklace in his teeth and nibbled, felt her quiver, sucked the beat leaping in the hollow of her throat. He felt the catch in her breath, the moan that shivered through her.

She pressed hot, tiny kisses to his forehead, slid her tongue into his ear and lit him up like a just-struck match. Gus pulled her off the counter, light and yielding in his cupped hands, her
eyes half-shut and dazed. He turned toward the hallway he'd seen her disappear into last night and whispered raggedly in her ear, “Where's your bedroom?”

Her eyes flew open, her arms shot out and her fingers caught the door frame.
“What?”

“Your bedroom, sweetheart. Where is it?”

“I'm not your sweetheart, Mr. Munroe, which proves you don't know the difference between love and lust. Now please put me down.”

“I think I proved it perfectly.” Gus eased her to the floor, scrambling for a way to save face, to soothe the hurt and reproach simmering in her almond eyes. “You and I are sexually mature adults. We can enjoy lust and not confuse it with love. When I was Aldo's age I fell in love with every girl who tripped my hormones. And that was every girl I laid eyes on in the course of a day.”

“Oh. Well.” She lowered her eyes and smoothed her sweater, her cheeks flushed, a pulse beat still jumping in her throat. “Then I guess you proved your point, Mr. Munroe.”

“Gus,” he said, and sighed with relief. Saved again by desperation.

The phone rang. Gus stepped out of the way and Cydney ducked past him to answer it. “Hello?” she said, tucking the receiver beneath her chin. “Dad. What are you doing up?” She glanced at the clock on the microwave. “It's almost three in the morning in Cannes.” Then she winced and held the receiver at arm's length. “Don't yell at me! I can't hear you when you yell!”

Gus bristled at the bellow he could hear clear across the kitchen. He wanted to grab the receiver from Cydney and slam it in Fletcher Parrish's ear, but stepped into the living room to give her some privacy.

“That's the most selfish thing I've ever heard, Dad. This is Bebe's life and Bebe's choice.” Gus backed up a step, drawn by Cydney's furious hiss as she tried to keep her voice down. “No one has betrayed you, least of all Bebe. She fell in love with a sweet, funny, wonderful boy.”

He heard Cydney's voice break, decided to hell with privacy, and wheeled back into the kitchen. She looked up at him, an angry glitter in her eyes, and nodded at him to stay.

“I won't discuss this.” She listened a moment, her jaw clenched. “First, I don't want to. Second, the no-talent pretty boy is standing in my kitchen.” She broke the connection with two fingers, banged the receiver down on the counter next to the microwave and turned to face him. “My father called you that. I apologize for repeating it.”

“I've been called worse by book critics.” Gus crossed his arms and his ankles and leaned against the counter. Any closer and he doubted he could keep his hands off her. “At least your father said I was pretty.”

She laughed, but it was shaky. So was she, the pulse in her throat still jumping. Lust and temper pumped a lot of adrenaline.

“You'd feel better if you hit something. But please,” Gus covered his nose with his hand, “not me.”