Jericho Point (21 page)

‘‘Idle curiosity,’’ I said. ‘‘Are you licensed to carry concealed?’’

The valet opened the door for me. ‘‘Good morning, ma’am.’’

Marc adjusted his sunglasses. ‘‘Yes. And what’s mine stays with me. Not in the glove compartment, where it would be worse than useless.’’ He opened his door and slipped into the coat before the valet could see the gun. His serene facade didn’t waver. ‘‘Brian warned me you’d get legal.’’

I climbed out into air that felt richer than down where I lived, and sunlight that landed soft and dappled on my arms. Marc came around the car.

‘‘Any objections I have aren’t legal; they’re visceral,’’ I said. ‘‘Packing at a marriage ceremony just seems out of line.’’

‘‘Really? The phrase ‘shotgun wedding’ has no resonance with you?’’

‘‘My parents should get so lucky.’’

They’d scream hallelujah at any event that involved me taking vows, period. Marriage, becoming a nun, joining a coven, whatever. We walked toward the entrance, past waist-high terra-cotta urns overflowing with orange bougainvillea.

Marc held the door for me. ‘‘In all seriousness, remember that no matter how bad things get today, you won’t, under any circumstances, be allowed to wrest the gun from my hands and shoot the bride.’’

I felt myself relaxing. Beneath his offhand manner, he radiated confidence.

‘‘How about if I just brandish it at her?’’ I said.

I went through the door. Inside the foyer the Italian-ate motif continued. A few members of the wedding party were there, chatting, waiting for directions. Across the room, at the foot of a curving marble staircase, I saw Jesse talking with two young men who had a Blackburn look to them. They were tall and rangy and had gregarious smiles.

Jesse was wearing his best black suit with a silver tie that highlighted his blue eyes, and he looked knock-me-flat handsome. He spotted me coming and, though he continued talking for a moment, his face smoothed with wonderment. He mouthed,
Wow
, and his cousins turned their heads and conversation ceased. They watched me walk toward them across the entryway, looking like they’d been stunned with a Taser. Slowly, thoroughly, Jesse smiled. It was an unguarded, spellbound, plain old lovestruck smile, and though I tried to give it that Grace Kelly cool, I knew I was smiling back.

And I couldn’t be sure that these were his cousins Hilarious and Sidesplitting, who thought it cute to crack wise with the crip jokes, but good chance they were. I walked straight up to Jesse and said, ‘‘Something knocked this crooked,’’ and, running my fingers around his silver tie, I leaned in and kissed him. I closed my eyes and felt his hands slide up my arms. I looked at him, smoothed the tie, and wiped a smudge of lipstick from his mouth with my thumb. His cousins hadn’t moved an eyelash.

Every woman should get such a moment once in her life.

He managed to get out the words
Evan
and
cousins
and
New York
. They pumped my hand like maniacs. Jesse gazed past my shoulder.

‘‘Marc?’’

‘‘Good morning.’’ He removed his sunglasses. ‘‘Brian couldn’t make it. I don’t want to step on toes—I’m just going to blend into the woodwork and keep an eye on Evan.’’

The cousins glanced at each other.

Jesse touched his forehead. ‘‘Sorry.’’ His smile had drifted. ‘‘Commander Marc Dupree, U.S. Navy.’’

With a flurry of noise, the bridal herd came through the entrance. Their girlish voices bounced off the atrium ceiling. Caroline led the pack, hair in curlers, bridal gown in a bag over her shoulder. She was surrounded by her mother and Patsy Blackburn and the other bridesmaids, who were giggling at a pitch that suggested they’d already been drinking mimosas.

Patsy wore stilettos and her ice-pink suit. She raised an eyebrow at me. ‘‘You’re here, and without handcuffs. Wonders never cease.’’

Caroline’s eyes widened. ‘‘Huh, the dress looks good on you. It isn’t too young at all.’’

I had the receipt from the bridal boutique in my purse. But Jesse was holding my hand, which kept me from stuffing it down her throat.

Then the swarm descended, dousing me with X chromosomes and perfume and champagne giggles. Had I been this fizzy straight out of college?

Patsy turned her gaze on Jesse. Her mouth contracted to a crimson marble, as if her girdle had suddenly shrunk. ‘‘I see I have no sway over you.’’

She thumbed his earring, tut-tutted, and clipped away. I gave him a what’s-with-that? glance. He leaned one hand on a push-rim, looking fatigued.

‘‘The earring isn’t the accessory she’s tweaked about. Forget it,’’ he said.

Caroline looked at Marc and broke off the giggles. ‘‘Excuse me, we haven’t met.’’

Jesse said, ‘‘This is Evan’s Secret Service agent.’’

It was going to be a long day.

‘‘Back, back, no, behind Kristi, come on, we’re doing this by height. Jesus, Caitlin, did you comb your hair with a Weedwacker? It’s too tall for this.’’

Did I call Caroline an espresso bean? I meant machine gun, set on autofire.

She snapped her fingers at me. ‘‘Evan, you’re between Lou-Lou and Kelli. Come
on
, ladies.’’

Her gown was cinched around her with Elizabethan severity. Stick a pin in her, she would have popped and flown around the hallway like a deflating balloon. We were lined up outside the Pavilion Room at the Cold Springs clubhouse, waiting to go in. I could hear music inside, something baroque played on piano and violin.

The girl behind me, Lou-Lou, an ample blonde with a thick New York accent, leaned in and murmured, ‘‘He’s gorgeous.’’

‘‘Who?’’

‘‘Your Secret Service agent.’’

My headache was returning.

‘‘Do you work at the White House?’’ she said.

Caroline stalked around us. ‘‘Kelli, chin up. Up.’’

She was biting her nails. Either that or she was eating the bouquet. Her father milled nearby. We were at T-MINUS two minutes and counting.

‘‘Hey, there. Don’t start without me.’’

P.J. came sauntering toward us, smiling brilliantly, waving to Caroline. He wore a well-cut charcoal suit, and my first thought was,
All grown up
. Sinsa Jimson was on his arm.

The bridesmaids, the bride, and her father did a double take. The slinkiness factor had jumped by a significant digit. Sinsa wore an iridescent dress that swirled as she walked. The fabric must have been a nanotechnology experiment, because it was submicroscopic. I’m talking uncertainty-principle small. But bare skin was the point of the outfit, and hers was bronzed and smooth, a perfect playing field for her jewelry. An ornate ruby cross hung between her breasts. Her Egyptian hair streamed across her shoulders. The father of the bride, I thought, was about to step on his tongue.

P.J. smiled with such goofball happiness that I almost felt touched. He squeezed Caroline’s arm.

Sinsa passed by, greeting me with those sleepy eyes. ‘‘Hello, Deadly.’’

‘‘Hello, Inside Job.’’

P.J. pulled her along into the Pavilion Room, but her gaze lingered on me.

Caroline leaned toward us. ‘‘Do you know who that was? That’s Ricky Jimson’s daughter. From Jimsonweed.’’

The replies came as a crème de menthe chorus. ‘‘Oh, my God.’’

‘‘At
my
wedding.’’ She beamed. ‘‘That’s going to be in the newspaper.’’

She stopped, and her eyes went round. She was staring at my dress. ‘‘Holy shit, what’s that stain?’’

With that, the music inside paused and the pianist struck up a new tune. Caroline glared at me. Her father said, ‘‘This is it, sweetheart,’’ and urged us forward.

We processed through the door. The Pavilion Room gushed with gardenias and pink roses. From the corner of my eye I saw Marc standing at parade rest by the back wall. I clutched my little bridesmaid’s bouquet as if it were a grenade. Mention the stain again, the bride’s side gets it. I’ll pull the pin, I swear.

I paced, paced, at an even tempo, up the aisle. The other bridesmaids were doing a cagey two-step. Damn Toby Price for making me miss the rehearsal. The bridesmaids’ shimmy had a sort of Motown groove, and now that I listened, the tune the violinist was playing sounded like ‘‘Chain of Fools.’’
Chai-chai-chain . . .
Over the heads of the girls ahead of me, I saw the judge, dignified in his black robe. And David, bedazzled and terrified.
Chai-chai-chain . . .

Jesse was down the line from him. Well, the groomsmen weren’t going by height, because Jesse was taller than all of them. You just couldn’t tell because he was sitting down. I lost the Motown beat. This explained Patsy’s tiff. Jesse was standing up for his cousin—without standing up. She thought he looked out of place. Sheesh. It didn’t bother him a bit, or David, but was driving her bananas. Was she embarrassed by him? Embarrassed for him?
Chai-chai-chai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ain
. . . I listened for the beat, and braked to keep from running into Kelli. Kristi. Bambi?

Jesse gave me a bemused smile.

At the end of the aisle we fanned out and took our places. Jesse tossed his head, chasing his hair from his eyes. People forgot his height, how physically imposing he was. And there were times, I knew, when he missed being tall. But walking with the crutches took all his focus and energy. It tied up his hands and kept him from going very far. The paradox of his life was that the crutches could put him back on his feet, but the wheelchair gave him freedom.

The music paused. The pianist broke into ‘‘The Ride of the Valkyries.’’ I mean, ‘‘Here Comes the Bride.’’ Caroline launched down the aisle. Three hundred guests stood up. Women dabbed their eyes. Caroline approached, and her father kissed her cheek, and David smiled. Funny, he looked happy about being fitted with the nose ring.

The judge gave them a sentimental smile and began. I gazed at Jesse. He took his time gazing back, giving me a wry look. He was good at that look. It was shorthand for,
What about us, Delaney?

The judge was efficient. For better or worse? Check. Richer or poorer? Check. Till death, cellulite, monster truck rallies, the pool boy, or Internet porn do you part? Check. He pronounced them, and Caroline lifted her veil to seal the deal.

I had tears in my eyes.

I wiped them away, trying not to smear my makeup. It’s a terrible secret of mine. I always cry at weddings. And when they play ‘‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’’ And at the end of
Armageddon,
when Bruce Willis nukes the comet. The guests were applauding. Jesse was staring at me, baffled.

The ballroom faced gardens and the swimming pool, with the mountains forest green beyond. Light gleamed through the windows. It illuminated the beads on Caroline’s wedding dress and the adoration on David’s face. They stood with their parents on the dance floor, greeting guests coming through the receiving line. I caught up with Jesse at the buffet table, where a cornucopia poured out around an ice sculpture of two leaping dolphins.

‘‘Coming down with a cold?’’ he said. ‘‘You looked sniffly back there.’’

‘‘Recessive gene. It causes nuptial dementia.’’ I hesitated, and decided to bring it up. ‘‘Your mom wanted you to park your ride and walk to the ceremony, didn’t she?’’

‘‘The photos would have looked so much more . . . well. Like she wishes things were. Ah, never mind, they can doctor them, like the Kremlin used to do. Besides, Mom and Dad were already fuming at me.’’

‘‘Over P.J.’s bail?’’

‘‘And that I didn’t leap to defend him.’’

My cheeks felt warm.
But you’re defending Evan
, his parents would have said.

‘‘Did you get a load of his date?’’ I looked around the room but didn’t see him; just Keith and Patsy at the bar.

‘‘Sinsa. He’s begging for trouble.’’ He made a face. ‘‘I’ll talk to him.’’

His hair was falling in his eyes again. He tossed his head but it did no good. I brushed it clear with my fingertips. A crazy thought rushed toward my lips. I’m going to catch the bouquet. Period. If I have to lob grenades at every other woman here.

‘‘Evan.’’

Marc’s bass voice rolled over us. He strode up, his face alert, eyes scanning the room. ‘‘What’s the schedule like from this point? Food, cake, dancing . . . figure we need to be out of here by two, and it’s noon now.’’

‘‘I’m just going with the flow. Jess, is there a schedule?’’

‘‘You didn’t get the Eyes Only briefing papers?’’ he said.

‘‘Missed that,’’ Marc said. ‘‘But seriously.’’

‘‘Limbo competition at four, bridesmaids falling into the pool at five. Sorry you’ll be gone.’’

Someone called Jesse’s name. Across the room, David and the other groomsmen were gathering with the photographer, waving him over.

‘‘Excuse me,’’ Jesse said. ‘‘The politburo’s assembling for photos.’’

He headed off. I watched him, saying nothing. Marc put a hand on my back.

‘‘Everything all right?’’ he said.

‘‘Dandy. I need a drink.’’

The room was filling with guests, the conversational temperature rising. The rest of the bridesmaids were huddling in a pack that giggled and lurched its way around the room. I headed to the bar.

‘‘Champagne,’’ I told the bartender.

P.J. and Sinsa strolled up next to me. Their eyes were bright for each other, their hands loose and familiar. She whispered in his ear and he flushed.

‘‘Two vodka tonics,’’ he said, and smiled at me. ‘‘Having fun?’’

If Sinsa had a cold drink wearing that dress, she’d get hypothermia. She leaned on the bar and tilted her head toward me.

‘‘Your date’s hot.’’

I took the champagne from the bartender. ‘‘Marc’s not my date.’’

‘‘Then why is he scaring off every man who comes within ten feet of you?’’

From a bowl on the bar she took a green olive on a toothpick. She put it to her lips and sucked the pimiento out. P.J.’s trousers were about to spontaneously combust. She turned away from him.