Say Yes to the Death (26 page)

“It's time I did the right thing,” the senator said, raising his voice, “and it's about time I stood up to you, Les. I don't want the Oval Office nearly as much as you do. It's not worth it.” His voice broke. “It's not worth killing for.”

“You're a fool, Vernon,” Lester told him and spit at the floor. “You stay and wait for the cops. You explain it all away and see if they buy your bullshit. I'm getting the hell out,” he said. Then he stomped across the den and threw open the door.

When he was gone, the senator drew in a deep breath and let it out.

“I'm sorry, Cissy, so damned sorry,” he said, and he went to my mother, crouching low beside her chair. He pulled out a penknife and began to cut the duct tape that bound her ankles.

“Thank you, Vernon,” my mother said, looking over at me with tears in her eyes. “Andrea, are you all right?” she asked.

“Um-­hum,” was all I could croak with the tape on my mouth.

I heard the wail of sirens getting louder, and I realized the senator hadn't lied. He'd called the cops, and just in time. Or perhaps Stephen had done it, but I didn't care which.

Oh, yes, there were more than a few good guys left in the world, I thought as Vernon Ryan crouched beside me, sawing the duct tape with his penknife to set me free.

At the moment I knew of three.

Chapter 32

N
ot twenty-­four hours after Lester Dickens had been arrested for murder and attempted murder—­along with several members of his goon squad—­Senator Ryan called a press conference and announced his retirement from politics.

It didn't look like Shelby was leaving him, though. Mother had talked to her, and Shelby claimed they were going overseas for a much needed vacation and they weren't saying where. “They have to get away from the press if they're going to work things out,” Cissy explained, and I couldn't blame them.

I understood about working things out. Malone had been pretty pissed at me when he found out what Mother and I had done. “You could have gotten yourselves killed. How could you do something so reckless? Why didn't you call me first so I could talk you out of it,” he'd ranted, saying plenty of things I'd already said to myself.

Reminding him that Stephen had been along for the ride—­heck, he'd driven—­and had called the police once we'd gone inside hadn't seemed to help, at least not for the first few days after.

But once Vernon Ryan had spilled his guts to the police and a warrant was issued for Lester Dickens's arrest, along with a few of his henchmen, Brian eased up on me.

He even apologized for not taking me seriously when I'd suggested that Lester Dickens had been involved in Olivia's death.

But no apologies were necessary, not once I knew Millie was off the hook. Mother even threw a dinner party to celebrate (only she had the beef Wellington catered).

It was good to see Millie so happy and talking about opening up that restaurant for real. “Your mother wants to invest, can you believe?” she'd confessed, and I told her that I'd be pleased as punch to contribute to such a worthy cause, too.

“Only if you let me bake the cake for your wedding,” she'd told me with tears in her eyes. “And it's on the house.”

“I'll let you know,” I promised, “when we set the wedding date.”

Millie had glanced from me to Mother, a puzzled look in her eyes. “But I thought Cissy said October sixteenth . . .”

I'd assured Millie that date wasn't for real, that it had just been a part of the ruse Mother and I used when we were snooping.

Only I'd begun to realize that maybe my mother didn't think it was a joke. Particularly when, the very next day, the doorbell rang and who should I find on my doorstep but the wedding planner.

“Ta-­da!” Terra Smith held out a garment bag emblazoned with
Draco
in gold. The bag was far bigger than she was. I could barely see her two-­toned head behind it.

“What is that?” I asked, reluctant to let her in after all the trouble she'd caused. I couldn't even believe she had the nerve to show up at my place. “Is it a peace offering? If that's the case, you should have brought a puppy.”

“No, it's your dress, silly,” she told me and pushed her way inside.

“It can't be mine,” I insisted as I closed the door and followed her in. “I didn't order a dress. There must have been some mistake.”

“Ah, but it is yours,” she insisted and deposited the puffy bag on my sofa. The zipper made a
zzzzz
,
as she tugged it open. “Your mother picked it out from Draco's fall collection. She said it's exactly what you would have wanted, so it's been bought and paid for. We used measurements Cissy had left over from the deb dress you never wore, and we added about an inch or so to account for gaining a few pounds through the years. Don't worry,” she added when she saw my horrified expression, “if it doesn't fit perfectly, we've still got time for alterations.”

Good Lord. I nearly asked if she was kidding, but I could tell that she wasn't. I was about to say,
Well, you'll have to return it,
when Terra opened her mouth again.

“Cissy also had me book the Highland Park Presbyterian Church for your ceremony, and we're set with the Dallas Country Club for the reception. It'll be a sit-­down dinner, of course. And Uncle Jas is doing the flowers—­”

“Of course,” I repeated, though barely any sound emerged. My mouth was drier than the Mojave Desert. “I thought Cissy didn't like you.”

“We made up.” She shrugged. “Okay, I think she just really wanted the dress and Draco wouldn't give it to her unless she used me.”

“Ah-­ha.” Now that made sense.

“Anyway, everything's set for October sixteenth, just like you'd planned,” she said, and she pulled the gown from the bag.

“But October sixteenth was just for show,” I tried to say, only my protest was lost in the swish and swoosh of endless yards of fabric.

For a brief instant my heart pitter-­pattered, and I had hopes I might see the delicate dress that the model had worn with bare feet and daisies. It would have been lovely to think that Cissy had actually listened to me and paid attention to my feelings.

But that pitter-­patter soon turned to a clunk.

“So,” Terra said and held the gown up before her, “what do you think?”

It wasn't the ethereal dress that had floated across the runway. It was the finale gown, or at least a toned-­down version of it, all flounces and poofs with a train that required at least a dozen doves to carry it.

Lord have mercy.

I wet my lips. “So Cissy has everything worked out down to the appetizers, does she?”

“Yep, you don't have to lift a finger,” Terra said and looked around for a hook to hang the dress. She ended up catching the hanger over the top of my TV armoire. “Just enjoy being a bride,” she rattled on as she backtracked toward the door. “You're good to go. I've got all the details covered. All you have to do is show up at the church!” she remarked with a wave and a “Ta-­ta!”

Then she was gone.

I stared at the Princess Di gown that filled my tiny living room, and I felt surprised and confused and ticked off all at once.

Okay, ticked off most of all.

So I was getting married on October sixteenth, was I?

Funny, how the bride was the last to know.

I felt my blood pressure rising, and I tipped my head to the heavens, doing my best Captain Kirk impression—­or was it my Olivia La Belle impression?—­as I hollered,
“Muuuuther!”

I felt wrath all right, and I curled my fingers to fists. Bravo, Cissy, I thought. She'd turned me back into my insecure eighteen-­year-­old self, reliving the horror at getting railroaded into a cotillion.

It was what I'd feared most, and it had happened.

Cissy had planned my wedding without me, and it was everything she wanted and nothing that I wanted. It was my debutante ball all over again.

Déjà poo.

Only I was a grown woman now. I could do as I pleased. I just had to find a way to stay true to myself without Breaking My Mother's Heart, Part Deux.

And I thought I knew just how to do it.

Epilogue

October 16

2:00
P.M.

Wedding Day

I
put the phone to my ear as it dialed Cissy's cell, and I waited through one ring and then two.

She picked up with a breathless-­sounding, “Andrea?”
Stay strong,
I told myself. Giving in was not an option, even though I cringed as she asked, “Where the devil are you?”

I glanced at Malone, seated in the chair right beside me. He squeezed my shoulder and whispered, “You can do this. Go on.”

“I'm at Love,” I told her bluntly.

“You're in love? Well, of course, you are,” she said, and I caught the strains of a string quartet in the background and the noisy hum of voices. “Do you know there are four hundred people waiting inside the church for you to appear?”

I steeled myself and blurted out, “I'm at Love Field, Mother. I'm not coming. So I'm not going to make it to the church on time or late even . . .” I paused, and Malone squeezed my arm again, urging me on. “I told you to leave the wedding up to me and Brian, and you couldn't do it.”

“But I sent a car for you,” she insisted. “You should have been here an hour ago.”

“We took a cab to the airport,” I said, and my pulse bounced around like a pinball. “We're waiting on our flight.”

“What flight?”

“We're eloping,” I confessed, holding the phone away from my ear as she cried, “Nooooo!”

Her usually smooth-­as-­silk voice shook like a rattle. “You can't do this to me, Andrea! You ran away from your deb ball. You can't run away from your wedding, too!”

Oh, couldn't I?

“I didn't want a big wedding any more than I wanted to debut,” I reminded her, refusing to let myself feel awful, or like I'd abandoned her. This wedding was her Frankenstein's monster, not mine. “It's what you wanted, Mother. This was all for you, not for me.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Cissy said tearfully. “There are four hundred people filling the pews, glancing at their watches and whispering about why the bride is late—­”

“Get married,” I told her, because it seemed the most logical thing in the world. “You're engaged to Stephen. You wanted this wedding. So now you can have it, everything you've always dreamed of. Don't think about it. Just do it.”

Her reply was a miffed-­sounding, “Andrea, you stop this nonsense and get back here right this minute! I was in labor with you for twelve hours while your father passed out cigars in the hospital lobby. It was too late for an epidural, and I didn't take so much as an aspirin. I have never been in such pain in my life,” she said, starting in on the tired, old spiel that was supposed to make me drop everything—­a spiel I had memorized—­and I looked at Brian, shaking my head.

“Now boarding, United Airlines Flight 1459 to Las Vegas,” I heard over the loudspeaker, and Malone tapped my hand as he got to his feet.

“Mother, I've got to go,” I interrupted her tirade. “I love you very much. Have a wonderful ceremony, okay?” I said in a rush. “And don't forget to email pictures!”

Then I hung up.

I sucked in a deep breath, my emotions bittersweet.

“Can you do this?” Brian asked. “Will you be okay?”

“I'll be fine.” I nodded. “But I don't know about Cissy.”

Brian must have seen my legs wobble as I got up to stand in line to board, as he took my carry-­on bag from me. Then he leaned over to whisper, “Good-­bye, Dallas, and, hello, Vegas. Pastor Elvis, here we come!”

I kissed him hard.

God, I loved that man.

 

“As God is my witness, I will not let ten thousand dendrobium orchids and four hundred plates of coq au vin go to waste,” Cissy said under her breath, and she snatched the bridal bouquet from Terra Smith's hands. Grabbing her tuxedo-­clad beau, she whispered, “Plans have changed, darlin'. It looks like Andrea isn't coming.”

“Andy's not coming?” Stephen's wide brow wrinkled and he scratched his faded ginger hair. “What the hell's going on? Where is she?”

Cissy sighed. How could she possibly explain that phone call from Andrea, who had clearly gone insane? There were no words. And worst of all, perhaps Andy was right.

“Cecelia?” Stephen said softly.

“I screwed up,” she whispered and frowned. Maybe she'd overstepped her bounds the tiniest bit. But she had done it all with the very best intentions. Every detail had been planned with love and affection. She only wanted the best for her child. Couldn't Andrea see that?

“Sweetheart, talk to me,” Stephen pleaded.

Cissy bit her lip. “You know how we'd discussed going to Paris to marry, and I'd wear my lovely cream silk Valentino suit?”

“Yes?”

“Well, scrub that. We're getting married now.”

“We are?” Stephen looked at her as if she'd gone as mad as Andrea; although, oddly enough, she had never felt saner.

“You love me, don't you?” Cissy asked him, because that was all she needed to know.

“I do,” he said, “more than anything in the world.”

“You said ‘I do,'
” she remarked with a smile. “Those were exactly the words I wanted to hear. Just say them one more time when the minister asks, and we'll pull this thing off without a hitch.”

“I do,” he said again, as though practicing to get it right. Then he gave her his arm and quietly sang, “Here comes the bride.”

“Oh, you!” Cissy scolded, but her heart swelled in her chest.

“Mrs. Kendricks?”

Terra Smith stood by the vestibule doors, looking hesitant, and Cissy nodded. As if reading her mind, the girl pulled the doors wide, and Cissy heard the string quartet begin to play the Wedding March for real.

She gripped Stephen's arm tightly with one hand and the bouquet with the other. “Let's do this,” she said, and she took a deep breath.

He squeezed her hand and replied, “Yes, let's.”

Cissy held her head high and smiled at Stephen. As the wedding guests rose from their seats and four hundred pairs of curious eyes turned upon them, they began to walk down the aisle together.