One Fool At Least (24 page)

Jack took me on two more glorious days of sightseeing. We drove on Eternity Road, right up into the Cat’s Teeth, which was terrifying and exhilarating; there might be no more miraculous view on earth, but one basically has to defy death to see it, as the road is right on the edge of a precipice, and it’s a long way down. Jack had the audacity, once, to try to adjust the radio while he was driving, but I screamed so loudly and at such a high pitch that he didn’t try it again.

Twenty minutes later, when he dared to speak to me, he said, “Good thing you’re not driving with my dad. He used to fill his pipe in his lap and drive with his knees.”

“On this road?” I asked, still in a pitch high enough to draw the dogs of Montana.

Jack shrugged. “On any road. But this one, yeah.”

“And your mother was okay with that?” I demanded.

“No.” Jack grinned at the memory. “Not at all.”

*

On the last day of our honeymoon Damian Wilde drove up to our cabin. Jack, luckily, was out in back, picking some wildflowers for me. I went out alone to see what the man wanted. I could only imagine what was going through his inscrutable mind; he and his son both were mysteries to me.

“Hello,” I said, walking toward him on my new cast. I felt a new confidence, knowing my foot was almost mine again, and that I was no longer a stranger to this place.

“Hello, Madeline,” he said. He took off the hat he was wearing—a full-fledged cowboy affair. “I wanted to see you before you left town.”

“Well, you’ve just made it,” I said lightly. “I leave tomorrow.”

“I wanted to say—” he scratched his head and stared at his feet for a moment. Damian Wilde was at a loss for words. “I wanted to say—that I hope your trip was not as terrible as some people are saying, I mean—”

I felt odd. Was I supposed to forgive this man for what he had done? And yet, standing in the bigness of that scenery, I couldn’t seem to summon up any anger. “I understand you were very worried about your son. You’d lost one and didn’t want to lose another. That doesn’t excuse what you did, but I know you’re not an evil person.”

Wilde smiled at me. “Most women won’t even admit that much.” I sensed that he was relieved. Maybe he thought I’d punch him in the nose again.

“Well,” Wilde said, suddenly brisk. “I want to give you something.” He went to his posh car, some long sleek black thing, and opened the passenger door. He emerged with a gargantuan bouquet of roses, roses of all colors, like a fragrant rainbow. Tucked in between were Montana lupine and larkspur, along with baby’s breath dyed the palest shade of lavender. The flowers must have cost a thousand dollars.

He handed it to me, and, weak woman that I am, I took them, even eagerly, along with an envelope that he handed me separately. “Wow,” I said.

“I wish you a happy marriage,” he told me seriously, and laughter bubbled in my throat. “You and your husband both.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I understand you won’t be pressing charges against—”

“No,” I said. “I won’t pursue it.”

Our eyes met and I waited until I saw the regret in his before I looked down at my flowers. “They’re lovely,” I said.

“And so are you, Mrs. Shea,” Damian Wilde told me. He held out his hand, and I shook it, and then he drove away.

Jack appeared with a lovely mountain bouquet, and looked crestfallen when he saw what I held in my hand. “This is for my mother,” I said. “I have no interest in any flowers except the ones you’re holding. You picked them for me, and they are my favorite blooms in the world.”

We went inside together, where I put all the flowers in water, although I left my mother’s roses in their bundle. I wondered how badly airport security would damage them searching for hidden weapons. It was only later that evening that Jack read the little card and saw the attached gift. “He says he hopes that all of our dreams come true,” Jack said dryly. Then his eyebrows shot up. “And he’s given us 20,000 dollars in traveler’s cheques.”

I hooted. “Oh my gosh! We have ourselves some blood money. Let’s spend it all, Jack! Every last cent.”

“Oh, we will,” my husband said. He pushed Wilde’s flowers away, but tucked the money carefully into my purse.

I’d like to
say that my journey home was less stressful than the flight to Montana. This time, though, I’d opted not to sedate myself, and I didn’t fall asleep, so I still endured a white-knuckled flight which included some turbulence. Jack told me that I was courageous, that it took great fortitude, blah blah. I was just glad I made it alive, and I wobbled into O’Hare airport, laden with our carry-on bags and Wilde’s roses, and Jack claimed our bags while I leaned against the wall, enjoying the solid earth.

We emerged from baggage claim to see a familiar group of people heading toward us. My parents led the way, and my brothers hung behind, looking nervous but also a bit angry. “Uh-oh,” I said to Jack, who set down the bags.

“Hey, Delia, Karl,” Jack said warmly to my parents.

My mother stared only at me; her face was white and pinched with stress, and her anger was obviously at war with her relief at seeing me alive. “Madeline Rose Mann,” she said in her best mothery voice. “I believe you have some things to tell me about your honeymoon.”

I didn’t even bother to glare at Fritz and Gerhard. Who knew what sorts of torture they’d been forced to endure? My mother might even have withheld food from them if she thought they had information that she did not.

I handed the flowers to Jack, walked to my mother and hugged her tightly. “I love you, Mom,” I said. I stepped back and included the men in my gaze. “I love you all. And Jack and I will be happy to tell you whatever you want to know, but it has to be at our apartment, and I have to take a shower and get in pajamas and maybe even eat some chocolate. And then I’ll be ready to talk.”

Jack nodded. “We’re looking forward to seeing our own little place again.”

My mother agreed, slightly mollified. I handed her the huge sheaf of roses that Jack had been concealing, but not very well. “These are for you,” I said. “A little bit of Montana.”

“They’re lovely!” my mother said. “You’ll have to take us there some time.”

Jack and I exchanged a glance and began to laugh, long and loud, our voices echoing down the halls of the airport and into the night air. We were still smiling, or maybe we were smiling again, when we drove into Webley and back to The Old School.

The End

JULIA BUCKLEY's work has earned praise from
Crimespree
,
Kirkus
, and
The Library Journal
. This is the third Madeline Mann mystery; Julia's other series, the Teddy Thurber mysteries, begins with
The Ghosts of Lovely Women
. She is a member of Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, and Romance Writers of America. She blogs at Mysterious Musings and Poe's Deadly Daughters.

Julia lives in Chicago with her husband and two sons. Like her character Teddy Thurber, she is a bibliophile who teaches English.