Honey Moon (28 page)

"The hotel's not that far away, Dash. We can stop here first."

Dash gave her his steeliest glare.

Meredith gazed at Honey, resentment oozing from every pore. "That's a wonderful idea," she said stiffly.

Dash, however, didn't think it was a wonderful idea at all, and as they drove to the hotel he told Honey

he had no intention of going to Meredith's prayer meeting. "I love my daughter, but she's crazy when it comes to religion."

"Then I'll go by myself," she retorted stubbornly.

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

Honey dressed for the wedding in the gown that she had once considered wearing to the ranch, a delicately beaded silvery-blue sheath the exact color of her eyes. She fluffed her hair and clipped crystal clusters to her ears, but even though the mirror told her that she looked almost beautiful, she wasn't reassured. When Dash saw her, he would find something to criticize. The neck would be too low, the skirt too tight, her jewelry too flashy.

Dash had made arrangements to hitch a ride to the church with one of Josh's ushers, so she returned to the house by herself, hoping she wouldn't regret the impulse that had led her to accept Meredith's invitation. Meredith's face fell when she realized that Honey had come alone.

"Sorry," Honey said. "I guess your father isn't much for prayer meetings."

Honey could almost see Meredith's internal struggle as she tried to reconcile her obvious dislike of Honey with her need to evangelize. She wasn't too surprised when evangelism won.

Meredith led her into a living room that looked as it had just come out of plastic wrappers and gestured toward the velour sofa. As they took seats at opposite ends, Honey experienced an almost irresistible urge to delve into her handbag for lipstick and mascara. Meredith's lack of cosmetics combined with her dowdy polyester print dress made her much homelier than she needed to be.

Honey began to understand what Liz Castleberry had gone through with her.

Meredith spoke stiffly. "Are you saved, Miss Moon?"

Honey had always rather enjoyed theological discussions and she gave the question serious consideration. "That's not an easy question to answer. And please call me Honey."

"Have you given yourself to the Lord?"

She remembered that long-ago spring when she had prayed to Walt Disney. "I suppose it depends. I consider myself a spiritual person, Meredith, but my theology isn't all that orthodox. I guess I'm a searcher."

"Doubts come from the devil," Meredith said harshly. "If you live in faith, there's no need to question."

"I have to question. It's my nature."

"Then you'll go to hell."

"I don't want to offend you, Meredith, but I don't think anyone has the right to pass judgment on somebody else's salvation."

But Meredith refused to back down, and Honey gave up all hope of a stimulating discussion. For the next half hour, Meredith quoted scripture and prayed over her. Honey's headache returned, but after a while, everything about Meredith softened. She prayed fervently, her face infused with joy, a young woman blissed out on Jesus.

* * *

"Smile, Randy. Everybody's watching us, dammit."

"They want to see if I'm gonna body-slam you to the dance floor."

The cloying scent of Wanda's hair spray was making Dash's stomach go crazy.

He sidestepped to avoid another couple and told himself he didn't need a drink.

Wanda winced. "You stepped on my goddamn foot. Watch yourself, will you?

God, you're a terrible dancer."

"You're the one who wanted to put on a show. You had to let all your friends see how well you've managed your ex-husband. Got him dancing with you, eating right out of your hand like a tame little puppy dog."

The stiff social smile never left her face. "I hate it when you're like this. At your own son's wedding. You are so mean, Randy Coogan. You've always been a mean, cold-hearted, lying, cheating bastard."

"You're never going to let it go, are you? We've been divorced for nearly twenty years, but you still want my last drop of blood."

"That's the only thing besides tits all your ex-wives have in common."

Honey swept past with Josh's best man, and the wedding photographer snapped her picture. Dash figured it would show up in one of the tabloids sooner or later. Several times during the fall photographers had caught her when she looked a lot older than seventeen. Instead of questioning her age, they ran the photos with captions like "Child star growing up too fast" or "Honey Jane Moon out past her bedtime."

Dash's jaw tightened. For somebody who didn't know how to dance, Honey had been doing a good job

of it for almost four hours. And that wasn't all she was doing. More than a few times, he'd seen her reaching for a champagne glass.

All evening there had been something wild about her that he didn't like—the way she tossed her head, the throaty laughter that seemed to be coming from a woman instead of a kid. He tried to tell himself that he was just imagining the way all the men were looking at her. After all, she wasn't the most beautiful woman there, not even in that sparkly blue dress that fit too damn tight over her butt. She was cute, no doubt about it, but she was too little and baby-faced to be beautiful. He liked women who looked like women. Hell, there were lots of women who were prettier than Honey.

Still, he couldn't deny that there was something about her that might attract a certain type of man. The type who might like baby-faced little girls more than twenty years too young for them.

A voice that hadn't bothered him since the night of Liz's party when he'd caught Honey kissing that boy began to whisper to him.
A drink will make you forget
about her. You don't need her when you can have me.
It was the siren's voice, the deceiving voice all drunks carry around inside them.
I can make you feel
better. I can take away the pain.

Wanda's words jabbed at him like her mascara-spiked eyelashes. "I don't know how you could bring her here and humiliate your own flesh and blood.

Everybody's acting like Honey's your real daughter. Poor Meredith's been on the verge of tears all night."

Wanda called out a cheery greeting to one of the guests and then lowered her voice to a vindictive hiss.

"I suppose I should be grateful that the people here don't know you as well as I do. I can see what's

going on in your mind, and it makes me sick. How can you look at yourself in the mirror? She's younger than your own daughter."

He caught the enticing scent of the bourbon she had been drinking cutting through her hair spray, and his mouth went dry. "There's nothing going on in my mind—not like you mean—so just you get your own mind out of the gutter."

Her hand clamped his, trying to hurt. "Don't bullshit me, Randy. You might be able to fool everybody else here, but you can't fool me. I've seen the way you look at her when you think nobody's watching. And I'll tell you this, mister. It curdles my stomach. They're all cooing about how cute she is and how sweet it is that you act like father and daughter in real life. But that's not the way it is between you two

at all."

"Now that's where you're wrong," he sneered. "It's just like that between us.

Exactly. I've practically

been raising that girl."

"Bullshit," she hissed through her frozen smile. "You make my skin crawl."

He'd had all he could take. He spotted Edward approaching with the bride in his arms and stepped in

front of them. "The night's almost over, Edward, and I haven't had a chance to dance with my new daughter-in-law."

Wanda glared at him, but there were too many people around for her to dig in.

The women changed places. Josh's new wife, Cynthia, was a pretty, vivacious blonde with blue eyes and big teeth. As he

drew her close, he caught the scent of a new brand of hair spray.

"Did Josh tell you about his job, Father Coogan?" she asked as they took their first steps.

He winced at her form of address. "Why, yes. He did mention it." The netting on her headpiece poked dangerously near his eye, and he drew back his head.

He felt as if he had been at the mercy of women with sharp points and razor edges all night. Honey whipped by in a soft cloud of champagne bubbles, laughing and dancing for all she was worth.

Forget about her, the siren whispered. Let me soothe you. I'm smooth and soft,
and I go down easy.

". .. Fagan Can is an important company, but you know Josh. Sometimes he needs a little push, so I told him when he was interviewing, I said, 'Now, Josh, you go in there and you look those men right in the eye and let them know you mean business.'" She winked. "The company's giving him a corner office."

"So I understand."

"An office with"—she lowered her voice to a stage whisper—"two windows."

The dance was endless. She chattered on about corner offices, china patterns, and tennis lessons. The ballad finally drew to a close, and she bustled off to claim her new husband. Josh sprang to her side, gazing at her earnestly to make certain he hadn't committed some unknown offense.

Congratulations, son,
Dash thought sadly.
You managed to marry your mother,
after all.

He had to have a drink.

One of Cynthia's bridesmaids passed by and he grabbed her. She giggled at the honor of dancing with

the legendary Dash Coogan, but he barely noticed because the siren's voice had grown more insistent,

and he could feel all his years of sobriety slipping away.

Come to me, lover. I'm all the woman you need. I'll purr and I'll coo and I'll
make you forget about Honey.

Honey swept by and shot him a hostile glare. Raucous, drunken laughter swirled around him, and the clatter of ice cubes was amplified in his head until it formed a crazed percussion to the music.

He hated to dance, but he moved from one bridesmaid to the next, afraid that if he stopped, the siren would claim him. The evening groaned on, and the bride and groom left. Before long, the guests began to depart. The seductive smell of liquor filled his lungs—wine, scotch, and whiskey overpowering the scents of food and flowers.

Just have one,
the siren whispered.
One won't hurt.

As the band finished its final set, the voice of the siren had grown so loud he wanted to clamp his hands over his ears. If he left the dance floor, he knew he would be lost.

"We haven't had a chance to talk, Daddy. Let's go talk."

He jumped as Meredith appeared from nowhere. His tongue felt cumbersome, and he was afraid she would notice he was sweating.

"We—we haven't danced, Merry. The evening's almost over and I haven't danced with my best girl."

She looked at him strangely. "The band's packing up. Besides, I told you earlier, Daddy. I don't believe

in dancing."

"I forgot."

He had no choice but to follow her to one of the empty tables near the dance floor. Abandoned wineglasses and tumblers with amber residues floating in their bottoms sat on the linen tablecloths. They multiplied in front of his eyes until there seemed to be a battalion of them spread before him, like enemy soldiers on the march.

She pulled her skirt down over her knees as she took the seat next to him. "Stay at the house tonight, Daddy. You can have my room. Please. I hardly ever get to see you."

His fingertips brushed against a glass with an inch of precious watered-down liquor in the bottom. "I—I don't think that's a good idea. Your mama and I don't do too well when we're cooped up together."

"I'll keep her away from you. I promise."

"Not this time."

Pick me up, lover. Just one little sip and you'll forget all about her.

Her voice hardened. "It's Honey, isn't it? You've got plenty of time to spend with her, but not with me. You think she's perfect—a chip right off the old block. She talks like you. She even drinks like you. It's too bad she's not your daughter instead of me."

The glass burned his fingers. "Don't be childish. This doesn't have anything to do with Honey."

"Then spend some time with me tomorrow morning."

The world was reduced to the shimmering liquid in the glass before him and the agonizing need that pounded in his skull. "I'd love to spend time with you, Merry. I just don't want to do it praying."

Her voice broke. "You have to accept the Lord, Daddy, if you're going to have life eternal. I pray for

you all the time. I tremble for you, Daddy. I don't want you to end up in hell."

"Hell's relative," he said harshly.

Gotcha!

His fingers clamped around the glass. It fit into his palm like a million old memories. Sweat broke out on his forehead as the siren gobbled him up. He couldn't stop himself, and he raised his head, ready to lift the tumbler to his lips, but before it got there, he spotted Honey on the other side of the nearly deserted room.

She was standing by the windows with a young stud smeared all over her like baby oil. His beautiful little Honey with the sassy mouth and big heart wasn't doing one thing to get away from him, just smearing herself closer and rubbing against him.

Meredith began to pray.

He shot up from the chair, knocking over the glass.

"Daddy!"

He barely heard her as he stalked across the room. The walls spun around him.

His shirt clung to his chest beneath his jacket.

Come back!
the siren wailed.
Don't go to her! I'm the one who'll never leave
you! Only me!

When he reached Honey's side, he didn't ask permission or beg anyone's pardon. With one hard yank, he pulled her away from the slimy bastard who was trying to dry-hump her right there in front of everybody and hauled her toward the door.

She made a small gasp, but he didn't give a shit if he hurt her. He didn't give a shit about anything except getting Honey away and putting an end to the jealousy that was eating him up.