'Til Grits Do Us Part (22 page)

“For pity's sake, Shiloh! I've repeated myself ten times! Are you going with straps for the dress or not? I personally think you're too waifish for strapless, and you don't have enough up top to fill it out either, if you get my drift. So I'd recommend…”

There—my purse. Barely visible in the shadows under one of the folding chairs. I blew out my breath in relief and snaked through the narrow row. I loved that purse—a juicy strawberry-pink leather Kate Spade leftover from my big-spending days in Japan. I looped it over my shoulder, cut the lights, and headed back into the lobby, feeling suddenly exhausted. No wonder. My watch pointed to quarter after ten.

And talking to Ashley used up any energy I had left.

I waded through the remaining people in the lobby and pushed the metal door handle with my hip, the metal hinges groaning with the familiar squeaking sound I remembered from my childhood.

“Here's the thing, Ashley. I want our wedding to be simple. Not a lot of fuss, okay?” I headed down the concrete steps in front of the school. “I've told you our budget's small. Dad hasn't offered to help. So I'm not having designer dresses and famous caterers.”

“You're not getting married in New York, are you?”

“No. Who do I know from New York anymore?” I switched my stuff to my other arm, phone under my chin as I made my way down the steps. “I'll probably invite a few people, but that's it.”

“Really? That's perfect then!” Ashley giggled with excitement. “We'll have your wedding in Chicago, just like I wanted to begin with.”

“You…you wanted what?”

“I knew you wouldn't get married in small-town Virginia, but I wasn't sure about New York. So Chicago it is! In fact, I've already done a bit of nosing around for you.”

“Chicago?” I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the windows of a car pulled up at the curb: My hair pulled back in a messy bun. Red sweater cinched over a floral blouse with a skinny black patent leather belt. And my mouth hanging open at Ashley's utter absurdities.

Everything bathed in dull lights, illuminating shrubs and the brick school front.

“Of course! We'll do it at Millennium Park with the fountains that spit water. I've already checked the availability list, and you'll just have to move your wedding back about two months. Your fiancé's family won't care, will they?”

I dropped my purse. Right there on the sidewalk. I swiped for the strap in the boxwood-scented night air, fuming, while Ashley rambled on about the modern art in the park we could use in the photos, except for this gruesome pig-shaped thing, and about a really good hot-dog stand out front.

“Ashley. Chicago? You can't be serious. Nobody but you and Wade would be able to come!”

“Well, do you want something nice, or do you want a lot of people?” Her tone cut, bossy, the way I remembered—in nightmares, usually—from our few growing-up years together. “You just don't know anything about weddings, Shiloh. Face it. You need help.”

“I know I do, but Becky said—”

“I'll start by sending you a copy of our wedding vows.” Ashley cleared her throat crisply. “And you're lucky I had my bouquet preserved. Since you seem incapable of coming up with your own ideas, I'll allow you to copy it. Our colors were china blue and off-white, which won't look so great on you, but…oh well. So what's the budget? I want numbers.”

My mouth still hung open. “Ashley, I appreciate your offers, but—”

“My advice: get a real photographer and toss the Asian theme. If we leave it up to you, we'll have squid on the buffet. Or those nasty Japanese fish things you're always crunching.”

Ashley didn't wait for me to reply. “I've already called a seamstress in Falls Church—it's close enough, right?—and she can sew a wedding dress that'll make you look a little less…hmm…boyish, let's say. And I'll want a distinctive matron-of-honor dress, since I'll be virtually responsible for your entire wedding, and…”

Boyish?!

“Falls Church?” I cried. “It's nowhere near Staunton!”

“Closer than Chicago. Unless you want it done here when you come. My friends and I can be the bridesmaids, since your guest list sounds pretty short, and I've already picked out these cool turquoise dresses for us that'll—”

“I'm not getting married in Chicago!” I hollered, stopping in my tracks.

My voice echoed off the lonely parking lot and long brick school building, shrouded by silver maples around the edges. Only a few cars pulled out of the exit and into a dreary side street.

I threw my head back and took a long, deep breath of fresh night air, wishing I could scream and hurl the phone a mile away.

Finally Ashley spoke, her voice like ice. “Fine. Have everything
your
way. I thought you needed help, and I offered. But forget it.”

I shook my head and plodded toward my car in too-tight, pinching heels. One of the giant lights in the parking lot was out, like the black gap of a missing tooth.

“We're supposed to be family, you know,” Ashley said in clipped tones. “You said so yourself in that ridiculous letter you sent a few months ago. Or have you changed your mind about that, too?”

“Family?” I repeated incredulously, walking faster. Ashley and Dad hadn't been close to me in years—until Mom died, and suddenly they were all I had left. But to tell the truth, I didn't know how to “be” family. I tried, but it still felt like mincing forward in Japanese
geta
sandals: clumsy, off-balance, and about to fall on my head any second.

“It's not that I don't want your help, Ashley,” I managed, trying again. “I appreciate it. I really do. I'm…happy you're going to be a bridesmaid.” The last sentence wasn't exactly true, but I squeezed it out through clenched teeth, giving a last clumsy attempt at grace. “But I want to make some of my own plans, too.”

“Go ahead. Do what you want. You always were selfish and independent.”

That did it. I blew out my breath, fuming. “You know what? This is exactly what I told Becky would happen. And I was right. She can feed her ‘people ain't what you think' speeches to her hound.”

“How dare you blab about me to your silly redneck friends!” Ashley bellowed.

“Becky isn't silly!” I raised my voice. “She's one of my best friends! And I want you to come to our wedding, but not like this!” My fingers shook, cold, on the cell phone. “Always fighting. You always bossing me around.”

I paused to catch my breath. “I want you to be in my life, Ashley. I miss family. But this isn't working.”

“Not working? You're the one who's always overreacting. Just like Ellen.” She huffed out her angry breath. “She never gave Dad any peace.”

“Okay. I'm done.” I clenched my teeth together, my blood beating in my ears.

“Fine. Whatever.”

I clicked off my cell phone then unzipped my purse and dug for my keys, sifting through lipstick and pens. Chewable aspirin for those moments when the story, or quite often the subject, gave me a headache. In fact, now seemed like a good time for some.

But no keys.

I groaned out loud, tipping the opening of the purse toward the nearest floodlight and sorting through everything piece by piece. Shaking my purse to hear the jingle. Again, no.

Great. Shiloh P. Jacobs strikes again. How on earth had I possibly managed to bungle this one?

I rolled my knuckles against my forehead, wishing I was home in bed. At the office, even. Anywhere but stranded in an elementary school parking lot in the middle of redneck nowhere, Ashley's words still grating in my ear.

But with no keys, there'd be no drive home, unless I hopped in Adam's truck when he arrived and left my car in Waynesboro.

I sighed and headed back toward the entrance of the school.

It took me a good twenty minutes of crawling around on my hands and knees to find my keys. They'd apparently fallen through a gap in my not-quite-closed purse zipper, slid through the seat cushion, and fallen on the floor—where they promptly got kicked six rows behind and wedged next to one of the thick metal feet that attached the chair to the floor.

Man, do I have the worst luck!

I brushed off my black skirt and tights and clumsily got to my feet then slid out the row of folding chairs and finally the auditorium. Hoping I'd never have to see that stage and rippled velvet curtain again. I'd had enough of Waynesboro Elementary School for one night.

By the time I got out to the lobby, the school building had hushed to an eerie silence. The doors still opened though, and overhead lights burned at the entrance.

“Lockin' up,” said the man at the door impatiently, checking his watch and smoking.

“I'm waiting for somebody.” I reached again for my cell phone, sending a quick text to Adam to hurry. “What am I supposed to do, wait in my car?”

“Reckon.” His smoke breath made me cough. “Or over at the gas station if it's still open.”

“Thanks for your consideration,” I said sarcastically, snapping my cell phone shut. No way I'd sit around in some empty parking lot after the notes and roses—or hang around with Mr. Creep-o with the elementary school keys. I'd just dump my stuff in the car and head over to the Texaco station and text Adam on the way.

Good thing this is rural Virginia, not Brooklyn
, I thought, clicking over to my car in my heels. Once I'd left my wallet on the hood at a busy local restaurant for two hours while I interviewed the proprietor and staff, and nobody touched it except the woman who turned it in (intact) to the manager.

I stuck my keys in the lock and reached for the door handle.

And there behind me in the car window, framed by the reflection of a thin, sliver-shaped moon, loomed the dark silhouette of a man's head and shoulders.

Just inches behind my own.

I
whirled around, but before I could make a complete turn, he'd slammed me into the car, wrapping an arm around my neck. My keys splatted across the asphalt.

I clawed at him, turning my head enough to sink my teeth into a thick bicep, but he shook me loose and started dragging me away from the car. Fingers from his other hand clamped across my mouth.

And in a liquid second, a sensation of ice slipped across my throat in a fine line. Cold and sharp, pressing into the tender flesh just above my collarbone. I felt my pulse throb against it, pinching painfully.

A knife. The guy's got a knife
. The thought jumped into my stunned brain like the memory of a whole frozen groundhog in Tim's freezer—hovering just one step above ludicrous. Where was this anyway? Hickville, Waynesboro? Where people spat tobacco out their truck windows at stoplights?

I reached for the car door and tried to hang on, but felt my balance shift and then falter.

The knife dug deeper into my throat, making me cry out, and my knees crumpled as a rush of real panic set in.

He was pulling me—dragging me—and my fingers slipped off the car door and into nothingness, clutching at the thick arm he'd forced under my chin. I dug in my nails, but he swatted me away.

I stumbled, one spindly Jimmy Choo heel sliding on the asphalt, and gasped for air. The seam under the arm of my floral silk blouse ripped as I twisted against his chest and struggled for my footing, my hair falling down over my face and tangling in his fingers.

He removed the knife just long enough to yank hard on my purse.

The strap tugged sharply against my arm, making me yelp, until I managed to loosen my arm and let it slip partially off.

Air. I need air
. I pounded him with my elbow as he tightened his chokehold, but he only yanked my arm harder, making me double over. Slashing the purse strap with his knife, he tore it from me.

The whine of a car engine rumbled in my ears, sounding far away and distant like I was hearing it from inside a cave, cotton in my ears.

The knife dropped with a startling clatter on the pitted asphalt.

I tried unsuccessfully to kick it under my car and out of reach and finally managed to suck in a shallow, jagged breath. At the same time I whacked him full in the face with my fist. Feeling the thick black material of a ski cap. I ripped at it with adrenaline-shaky fingers, hoping to unmask him, just as two impossible beams of yellow light sliced through the parking lot.

The whine of an engine jerking into P
ARK
—the slam of a car door—and footsteps running, coming closer. Just as I lost my balance and tumbled down.

A familiar voice, a shout! And the sound of my own gasping lungfuls of air while my assailant abruptly fled, his panicked footsteps rustling bushes in the thin woods at the edge of the school yard. Disappearing into a dingy alley.

Wait a second—my purse
. I patted my empty shoulder.
He got my purse
. WITH MOM'S PECAN PIE TUCKED IN THE POCKET.