Mother of the Bride (33 page)

Cydney stood at the island smearing bagels with cream cheese. In his shirt and a bright nimbus of sunlight that made her hair shimmer.

“Well, hi.” She gave a puzzled little laugh as he pushed through the swinging door. “What are you doing?”

Yeah, Munroe,
his inner voice asked.
What
are
you doing?

“Having the time of my life.” Gus slid his folded arms on the island, leaned across the counter and kissed her. “How 'bout you?”

She licked cream cheese off her finger and tilted her head at him. “Beats croquet.”

Gus laughed. “Keep me humble.” He plucked a red grape out of the bowl beside Cydney and tossed it in his mouth. “Where did all the food in my fridge come from?”

“My mother brought some of it. I suspect she bought the rest of it after the Auto Club fixed the flat on Herb's Cadillac. Why?”

“Just wondering about the maraschino cherries. Our timetable has gone to hell. Elvin 11 be here shortly to pull the tree off your truck.”

“That'll take—what? An hour?”

“Minimum. Maybe two.” He pulled another grape and ate it.

“Last night's five plus two is seven. Two hours to pull the tree off my truck. Twenty-four hours minus seven leaves seventeen more times in eighteen hours.” She bit into half a bagel, chewed and swallowed. “Pretty tight. Think you can doit?”

“Might could kill me, as Elvin would say, but what a way to go.”

“I wonder if my mother bought oysters?”

They laughed, bumping noses over the island. Gus licked cream cheese from the corner of her mouth. Cydney stuffed the rest of the bagel in his mouth and slid him the red mug of
steaming coffee next to the fruit bowl. When he finished she handed him a napkin.

“We should get dressed before Elvin shows up.” Gus picked her up and sat her on the island. “But first, I want to dance.”

“Listen, bub.” She let him wrap her legs around his waist and lift her, holding her raised right hand in his left. “If this is the pace you intend to keep on half a bagel and two grapes, you will kill yourself.”

“I don't mean that kind of dance.” Gus swung her around and waltzed her across the kitchen.

Cydney laughed, clutched his bare shoulder and pushed the swinging door open. “Why are you carrying me everywhere we go?”

“'Cause you're little and cute and I can.” Gus stopped next to the living room fireplace, holding her at eye level with his stereo and CD collection on the shelves built into its stone face. “I don't have any Streisand. Pick something else.”

“Oh no.” She shook her head. “This is obviously your fantasy, to dance around the living room in your shorts, so you pick.”

“I've only got two hands, Cydney, and this isn't a fantasy. I'm having fun and I'm happy.” And he was, Gus realized. Happier than he'd been in—hell, he couldn't remember. “C'mon. Pick something.”

She pursed her lips, ran a finger along a row of CDs, sighed and flipped on the radio. An FM station and the Four Seasons belting out the redigitized version of “Oh What a Night” blared out of the speakers.

“This is peppy.” She smiled and snapped her fingers in time with the beat. “And apropos.”

Gus laughed and put her down, snatched the remote and kicked up the volume. Frankie Vallee's falsetto soared across the living room, hummed in his bones and made his heart swell watching Cydney boogie away from him backwards, shoulders wiggling and fingers popping.

“C'mon!” she shouted over the Mach 2 music rattling the glass wall. “You're the one who wanted to dance!”

Gus held the remote to his chest, raised his left hand and did a bebop little cha-cha to catch up with her. She laughed, her eyes shining at him over her shoulder as she twirled away, her arms swaying over her head. He caught her wrists and lowered her arms, held them out straight and danced along on her left like they were line dancing.

Cydney hooked his right arm around her, bumped his hip and grinned and did a Rockettes leg-kick. He tripped, kicked the wrong foot and knocked her off rhythm. Off balance, too, but he caught her and held her, both of them kicking in opposite directions, hopping in a one-legged circle toward the foyer and laughing—

Until Cydney's eyes flashed up and she gasped, a stricken, openmouthed stare on her face. She jerked to a stop, tripping Gus and swinging him around toward the foyer, where Fletcher Parrish stood. One hand on his hip, holding his brown leather trench coat open against a pair of taupe Armani slacks and a striped Boudini sweater.

Ob shit,
said Gus' inner voice.

A dazzle of sun-kissed snow poured through the wide-open front doors behind Parrish, lighting his lion's mane of white hair. Only his eyebrows—Cydney's eyebrows, Gus realized— were still dark as sin.

He felt her shiver in the cold draft of air snaking around their ankles, pulled her protectively against his chest and cupped her shoulders, pressed the remote and turned off the music.

“Urn—hi, Dad,” she said, plucking at her hair.

“Cydney.” He nodded to her, tapping the wool tweed fedora in his hand against his knee, and lifted his piercing, amber-brown eyes to Gus. “And you—
Munroe.
What the hell are you doing with my daughter?”

chapter

twenty-three

“She's not your daughter anymore,
Parrish
,” Gus shot back, giving Cydney's shoulders a trust-me-babe squeeze. “She's my fiancee.”

“What?”
Cydney and her father shouted at the same time.

He doubted Parrish heard her. He didn't even look at her. He was glaring at Gus, the defiler, and his face was turning purple.

“Fletch!” A petulant, heavily accented voice—female and French, Gus thought—called from outside. “Help me with this damn bag!”

“Stay—right—there!” Parrish punctuated each word he snarled at Gus with a poke of his hat and swung back out the door.

“Hey!” Gus went after him, heading straight for the frozen tundra outside the door in his underwear. “Who the hell d'you think you are?”

“Whoa, wait!” He felt Cydney's hand on his arm and let her pull him around. She looked like she'd been pole-axed. Her face was pale, her eyes huge. “What are you doing? I'm not your fiancee.”

“I apologize for that. But he's your father and for five crazy seconds I thought I could save face for you.” Gus scowled at the open door, so angry he could see red spots pulsing at the corners of his vision. “Now I just want to knock his teeth out.”

“He's not worth it. He left my mother the second his accountant told him he was rich enough. He dumped us”—There was that word again, Gus noticed—”because we cramped his style. I don't care what my father thinks of me or how I live my life.”

“Well hell. I thought I was helping.”

“I know you did.” Tears spiked her lashes, but she drew a breath and gave him a plucky smile. “And I appreciate the gesture.”

Gus wasn't happy anymore. He was pissed. He wanted to punch Parrish for putting tears in Cydney's eyes. Last time he'd hit somebody he was twelve. He'd lost his temper and popped Artie, who'd proceeded to clean up the floor with him.

“I'll tell your father the truth if that's what you want.”

“I think Gwen convinced him to come. When she called last night she said, ‘I talked to Dad and he told me to tell you—’ That's when the connection broke. I think this is what she meant to say.”

“Want me to tell him to hit the road?”

“Oh
do
I, but it would only start a war.”

“Tell me what you want and I'll do it.”

“I want to keep the peace. So do you think we could pretend for a few days, then fake a big fight and break up?”

“In a few days, babe, my house will be full of your loony family. I don't think we'll have to fake a big fight.”

It was the pattern, and just thinking about it made Gus steam.

“Thanks.” Cydney hugged him, leaned her chin on his chest and wiggled her eyebrows. “Think how cool this will sound in my memoirs.”

“You're adorable.” He kissed her. “And you're freezing.” He started toward the door to shut it. “Was your old man born in a barn?”

“No,
Munroe.”
Parrish stepped inside, stopped and glowered at him. “I was born in Chicago.”

He held a makeup case the size of a small safe in his left hand. On his right arm leaned a gorgeous brunette, swathed in sable. She looked to be about twenty and nearly as tall as Elvin, which meant she soared like a sequoia over Parrish. She smiled at Gus' blue silk boxers, raised her green cat's eyes and licked her lip. Oh yeah. She was French.

“Shut the door.” Gus turned away, swiped one of Aunt
Phoebe's afghans off the closest couch, draped it around Cydney and laid his hands on her shoulders. “Preferably on your way out.”

“I was invited here,
Munroe.”
Parrish dropped the makeup case and came down the foyer steps. “To give my granddaughter away.”

“Not by me you weren't.” Gus tried to lift his hands off Cydney's shoulders, but she grabbed them and held on. “Shut the door.”

Parrish swept his arm toward the steps. “Your house, your door.”

“You left it open.”

“I'm not your servant.”

“You're number three on the
Times
List. I'm number one.”

“You no-talent pretty boy!”
Parrish roared, and lunged at him.

Cydney threw herself straight at his oncoming left fist. Gus' heart clutched and he grabbed for her, knowing he wouldn't reach her before the punch, but she ducked it—he had a feeling she'd done this before—and pushed her hands against her father's chest.

“Stop it, Dad. No fights.”

“I'm not going to fight him. I'm going to knock him out.”

“Oh, Fletch.” The brunette rolled her eyes, her lips pursed in a bored pout. “Always must you do this?”

“Be quiet, Domino. Get out of my way, Cydney.”

“I'm not moving, Dad. But you are, to a motel, if you don't stop.”

“You're taking his side.”

“Of course I am. He's my fiance.”

“In a pig's eye,” Parrish sneered.

The spots swimming at the corners of Gus' eyes popped and spread a red haze across his vision. He drew back his right fist and slugged Parrish. His idol, Cydney's father. A man almost twice his age and half his size. Aimed the punch over Cydney's right shoulder and drove it into his chin. Two knuckles crunched and pain seared up his hand.

Parrish's head snapped and he hit the floor on his Armani-clad ass, blood spurting from his split lip.

“What are you
doing
?” Cydney shrieked at Gus, glaring at him as she dropped to her heels, fished a monogrammed blue linen handkerchief out of her father's trench coat pocket and pressed it to his lip. “This is not keeping the peace!”

“Sure ain't, Miss Parrish,” Elvin said soberly. “That's my job.”

She shot to her feet and stared at the Sheriff, standing just inside the still-open door, his huge frame draped with enough luggage to bring down an elephant. All of it calfskin with gold edges, probably Gucci.

It was Sunday so Elvin wasn't in uniform. He had a John Deere cap pushed back on his glossy black hair, wore a gray ribbed thermal shirt and a quilted, wool plaid jacket. Heavy denim work jeans, starched and ironed. He looked like a big, slow-witted rube, which he wasn't.

“Put those bags down, Elvin.” Gus shook his throbbing hand. “You're not a porter.”

“Just bein' neighborly.” He gave the door a boot to shut it.

“I thought he was the hired man,” Parrish said to Cydney.

“No, Dad. This is the Sheriff of Crooked Possum.”

“Sheriff? Great! Hey—Barney Fife!” Parrish waved his handkerchief. “Get over here and arrest this hack for assault.”

“I'd rather be a hack,” Gus said, “than a has-been.”

“Has-been!”
Parrish tried to stand up, but couldn't get any traction from his slick-soled Italian loafers on the bare pine floor. “I'll show you has-been!”

“That's enough.” Elvin raised an arm that probably had a hundred pounds of luggage hanging on it and pointed at Parrish, then touched the brim of his cap to Domino. “Where would you like your bags, ma'am?”

“You.” She waved a vague, inch-long pink fingernail. “Cindy.”

“Cydney,”
she and Gus said together.

“My room. Where is it?”

“At the Y'all Come Inn,” Gus snapped the name of Crooked
Possum's only motel. “You'll love it. Very private. Only two guestrooms.”

Built upstairs over Roylee Boyce's garage.

“Gus,” Cydney said. Please, her eyes begged. I want peace, not war. “The room next to mine will be fine for Dad and Domino.”

“Oh no-no-no.” Domino waved her pink nail again. “Fletch and I we do not share in the same room.”

Well now. Gus grinned. This was getting fun again. He glanced at Parrish, elbows bent on his raised knees, his handkerchief over his eyes.

Cydney blinked, but said smoothly, “How Continental. You take the room next to mine, Domino, and we'll put Dad somewhere else.”

“How 'bout the garage?” Gus muttered.

“This way, Sheriff.” As gracefully as if she were wearing taffeta and diamonds instead of his blue shirt and nothing else, Cydney gestured toward the gallery and turned to lead the way, kicking the afghan aside and elbowing Gus. “Peace,” she said under her breath. “I mean it.”