Текст книги "Eighth Grave After Dark"

Автор книги: Darynda Jones

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Reyes walked up to us, and Cookie, suddenly self-conscious, tried to smooth down her hair. It was a bit like trying to tame a hurricane. He wrapped an arm around my waist and I leaned into him, reveled in his heat.

“Did you see him?”

When he finally tore his gaze off the door, he raised a brow in question.

“Mr. Wong. He’s here.”

The slight lifting of one corner of his mouth would suggest that he already knew.

“How long has he been here?”

“Since this morning. You didn’t feel it?”

“Feel what?”

“The shifting of energy.” He turned toward Mr. Wong, though we couldn’t see him from where we stood, as there was an adobe wall between us. “I just wonder what he’s doing here.”

“Me, too.”

“Me, three,” Cookie said, wringing her hands.

I took another look at her, and I couldn’t hold back any longer. I burst out giggling.

“What?” she asked, patting her hair. “I’m getting ready. What’s the big deal?”

I strode forward and gave her one of my larynx-crushing hugs. “You,” I said into her robe. “You are the big deal.”

“I think two of the three people standing here would argue with you on that,” she said, crushing my larynx back.

The door reopened. A frazzled Gemma tiptoed in and closed it behind her. My blond-haired sister was already sporting her wedding attire, a powder blue cocktail dress with matching ankle boots, only she’d added huge, dark sunglasses that didn’t make her look like an insect at all, and she’d gathered her bangs into a pointy ponytail. She’d always loved unicorns growing up, but this was taking it a bit far.

She stopped when she noticed us. “What are you doing?” she said in a hisslike whisper, and I could’ve sworn she slurred her words. “Cookie, you’re getting married in an hour and a half. What are you doing down here? In your robe? With your hair?” Horrified, she pointed at Cookie’s head. Then her demeanor changed. “Unless that’s how you’re wearing it, in which case, it’s so pretty. I love it. It looks really good on you.”

I laughed out loud and she slammed an index finger over her lips. “Shhhh,” she said, hushing me way longer than was necessary.

“Are you hungover?” I asked her softly, appalled. “How many drinks did you have?”

“I don’t know. I lost count at three. Or twelve. I’m just not certain.”

“What were you doing?” My astonishment knew no bounds. “Why would you drink that much when you knew we had a wedding the next day?”

“I was trying to keep up with Cookie.”

“Are you insane?”

She swayed back against the door and shushed me again.

“Cookie’s like a competitive connoisseur. The last guy who tried to outdrink her ended up in traction for a month.”

Cookie came to her own defense. “Only because a man named Jose Cuervo convinced him he could fly. Not my fault.”

But Gemma wasn’t listening. “What is up with your hair?”

“Gemma, she’s not wearing her hair like that.”

“Oh, thank God.” She placed a hand over her chest to still her racing heart. “I was worried. Okay, in, in, in.” She shooed us forward. “We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

I turned toward Reyes and raised a brow. “Some more than others,” I teased. He could go naked for all I cared, though I doubted Uncle Bob would appreciate that as much as us girls.

Reyes gave me a quick squeeze, then left us to it.

“Where’s Denise?” I asked. Not that I cared where my stepmother was, but I wanted to be prepared for her grand entrance. It always caused an unsettling sensation in my stomach.

“She’s out back, ordering the decorators around,” Gemma said.

“Sweet. Keeps her out of my hair.”

With a chastising sigh, Gemma placed her manicured hands on her hips. “Charley, you have to promise me, for Cookie and Uncle Bob’s sake, you will be nice to Mom today.”

“What?” I asked, incredulous that she would even say such a thing. That she would trust me so little.

Her expression didn’t change. I caved. She was going to be one of those stern mothers all the kids on the playground talked about as though she were something to be feared.

“Okay, whatever. I’ll be nice. At least until the wedding’s over. But once the rings are on the fingers, it’s every evil stepmother for herself.”

Gemma rolled her eyes. “You guys need group therapy so bad.”

“Oh, hell no,” I assured her. “I’ve had more than enough of that woman over the last eight months.”

Denise had been coming out to the convent several times a week. Each time, she had another excuse. She noticed we were out of dish soap or she wanted to make sure I was okay. She was apparently a pediatrics nurse when she’d first met my dad, and that gave her another reason to invade my much-loved privacy. To bombard me with questions about how I felt, my blood pressure, was I taking the vitamins she brought, did I have any swelling? She had never, in my entire existence, paid so much attention to me. I’d learned long ago to be wary of any attention she tossed my way. Everything she did had an ulterior motive. Perhaps without my dad around to give her a sounding board for all things horrid and bizarre about Charley Davidson, she had no one else to turn to. But I was hardly a good alternative.

“She’s lonely, Charley.” Gemma’s expression turned sympathetic.

“Well, let her go be lonely at your house.”

“I work. I can’t very well have her hanging out at my office all day, scaring my clients away.”

“So she has to come here and scare all the dead people away instead? I have clients, too.”

“She’s hurting right now.”

“I know, I can feel it. The sadness. Every time she comes over, all I can think about is Dad, and it breaks my heart all over again. As long as she keeps coming over, I can’t heal.”

“Charley, maybe she needs to heal, too.”

“I’m sure she does. I just don’t care.”

“You can’t mean that.”

“You can’t be serious. After everything she’s put me through, you would still defend her?”

“Maybe she needs your forgiveness. She knows what she did was wrong.”

“What she did?” I asked, growing more annoyed by the second. “You say that as though there was only a single transgression. She did everything wrong, Gem.”

While Denise took to Gemma like a duck takes to à l’orange, she’d never quite bonded with me, if the menacing scowls and the constant digs were any indication. Any mother—step or otherwise—who tries to get her daughter committed to a psych ward because she’s a little different from the other kids at the park doesn’t deserve that daughter’s love. But I’d tried. For years, I’d tried to be more like Gemma so our stepmother would like me. I once studied for two days for a spelling test just so I could get an A on a paper that would sit next to Gemma’s on the refrigerator. I was so proud when I’d succeeded that I ran all the way from the bus stop to show it to her, and I fell on the way, but I made it home relatively unscathed. Denise took the paper with the bright red A on it out of my hands, gave it a quick glance, then sent me to my room without dinner for ripping my backpack when I fell.

That night, when I snuck out of my room to get a spoonful of peanut butter, I found the test wadded up in the trash. About three seconds later, I had an epiphany: There would be no winning her over. Denise despised me. Period. It’s hard when the only mother a girl has ever known despises her. To learn that at age seven was quite the blow to the ego. I took the test back to my room, smoothed it out the best I could, and pinned it to a corkboard where I kept pictures my dad had taken of my real mom while she was pregnant with me. Before she died giving birth to me. They served as a reminder. Anytime I tried to gain Denise’s approval, I looked at that crinkled A and rethought my objectives. The way I saw it, my acceptance of Denise’s indifference saved a lot of heartache for me and a lot of disappointment for her.

“And she knows that,” Gemma pleaded. “She knows she did everything wrong. What she doesn’t know is how to talk to you about it. How to apologize. You make it so difficult.”

“I make it difficult?” I asked, astonished.

“Charley,” Gemma said, using her clinical voice, soft and nonjudgmental, “until we talk about it, until we sit down and really delve deep into our pasts, none of this is going to be resolved.”

What Gemma so often forgot was that no matter how soft and nonjudgmental her voice was, I could feel the emotions raging beneath her calm exterior. We’d been having this same conversation for weeks. No, months. And I could feel her frustration. Now that Denise was open to the idea, Gemma wanted us to bond. To be besties and go shopping together.

I’d rather walk into a den of hellhounds.

“You mean if we don’t have a long heart-to-heart, issues that have gone unresolved for decades will continue to be unresolved?” I asked, feigning horror at the thought before lifting one shoulder in an apathetic shrug. “Works for me.” I turned and climbed the stairs, effectively ending the conversation.

I heard Gemma release a sad sigh.

3

CREMATION OF THE BODY IS FINAL.

–SIGN IN FUNERAL HOME

I decided to finish getting dressed in the bathroom while Cookie and Amber put on their final touches in the bedroom. Walking down the narrow hall, I felt the history of the place leach out of the walls. The wood slats creaked beneath my weight, and I could just imagine what it would have been like being a nun here two hundred years ago. Well, not a nun, but a person, interacting with the Native Americans, watching their children play, growing food in the gardens below. What a rewarding life they must have led. And they were brave, the women of the frontier, whether a nun, a native, or a homesteader.

Yet their lives must have been so hard, especially without cell reception. I balked at the challenge of having only one bathroom on the entire floor. Every room had a sink and mirror, but when you had to go, you had to go. Thankfully, Reyes had added central heat and cooling, but I feared him changing the tone of the place, its historical feel, so we hadn’t upgraded too much. We kept the rooms upstairs small and sparse, with stoves in each one. Even though they were no longer used, they still worked and could heat the tiny rooms quite nicely. We also kept the downstairs almost all original, patching the walls here and there and fixing the flooring. The former convent would make a great restaurant and B and B for the right owner, but it needed to be registered with the Historical Society to preserve its richness.

Another small renovation we did was add a working bathtub and separate shower in each of the two bathrooms, one upstairs and one down. Though not so fancy as George—that is, the stone shower in Reyes’s apartment—the bathrooms had really come along, compared to the originals. While they’d been updated back in the 1940s, plumbing had improved by leaps and bounds since then.

I knocked softly on the bathroom door and, receiving no answer, opened it. A burst of steam hit me in the face, and I could only pray the glitter wouldn’t melt off my face. Or melt my face off. Either way. I swiped at the steam and walked in on a half-naked slave demon as he was wrapping a towel at his waist.

“Osh,” I said, covering my eyes. “I knocked. What the hell?”

A wicked grin spread across his handsome face. I knew this only because my fingers were accidentally open. It wasn’t my fault I could see him in the almost-buff. While he looked nineteen, he was centuries old. Older than Reyes, actually. But somehow that knowledge didn’t make me feel less perverted every time I took in his slim, muscular form. Created a slave in hell—or a Daeva, as they were called—he had lived a hard life. I couldn’t imagine what he’d gone through. To be a slave was one thing. To be in hell was one thing. But to be a slave in hell? The concept boggled my mind.

Why did they need slaves in hell anyway? What exactly did they do? The only inkling of their duties I had was that some of them were, for lack of a better phrase, pressed into service, forced to fight in the demon army. I first met Osh while he was trying to win souls in a card game. He’d won one from a client, which I wanted him to return. But that’s what he did. He supped on human souls. Fortunately, I’d convinced him to sup only on the souls of humans who did not deserve them, like murderers, drug dealers, child molesters, and lobbyists.

But that’s where I’d first learned that Osh, or Osh’ekiel as he was called down under, escaped from hell centuries before Reyes did. In fact, he was the only Daeva to escape from hell, and though Reyes didn’t trust him at first as much as I did, he’d grown to depend on him for Beep’s sake. The demon did seem to have Beep’s best interest at heart.

Reyes had once told me that the major difference between Osh in hell and Osh on earth was that his scars were not visible in his human form.

It made my heart ache for him. Normally. Not today, though.

Osh looked me up and down, a wolfish grin softening his youthful face. “I heard you. I was just getting kind of lonely. Figured I could use some company in here.”

After giving up the pretense of purity, I lowered my hand and rolled my eyes. “Please. Like you could handle this.” I hitched a thumb over my shoulder. “Scoot. I need to finish getting ready.”

“I need to shave,” he volleyed.

“You can shave in your room.”

“My room is the size of a broom closet.”

“So is mine. You didn’t have to move out here, you know. You could’ve stayed in your posh house in the city.” We’d secretly put him in a broom closet, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

“And leave you guys to fend off the hounds of hell without me? No way. But, yeah,” he said, giving his head a shake, “this place is weird.” Water droplets flew off his shoulder-length black hair and onto my face.

I pursed my lips as though that would faze him. “I agree. It’s a good thing I was never a nun in the 1800s.”

His grin reappeared in full force. “Somehow I don’t think, even if you’d been born in the 1800s, you would’ve become a nun.”

He had a point. I shooed him out and turned to the mirror to freshen my makeup, but as the steam cleared out of the room, I saw something unexpected. Names carved into the walls behind me.

Horrified, I looked up as though I could see into the attic. “Rocket!” I shouted, stomping my bare foot.

He appeared instantly. Rocket had died sometime in the 1950s. He was big, over six feet, and cuddly. He always reminded me of a giant bear I’d had as a child.

“What are you doing? I told you, you can’t write the names on the walls anywhere but in the attic.” Reyes and I had added extra Sheetrock up there so Rocket didn’t damage the original structure.

“But, Miss Charlotte, I’m running out of room up there.”

“Well, you’re just going to have to go over the names that you already have. Think layers. Like you did at the asylum.”

“Fine, Miss Charlotte, but I’m going to scratch through the paper. Nurse Hobbs doesn’t like it when I do that.”

Nurse Hobbs must have been a nurse at the asylum where Rocket had grown up. From what I could gather over the years, which wasn’t much, Rocket had been committed to an asylum when he was very young. He’d probably had his gift even when he was alive. He knew the names of every human ever to exist who’d passed away, and he made it his personal goal to document them all. I couldn’t imagine what his parents must have thought when he was a kid as he wrote name after name of those who’d passed on anything he could find. Back then, having him institutionalized would have been the norm.

I grinned at his analogy. Anyone who thought of walls as paper needed to get out more. “We’ll get new paper. It’s okay.”

Rocket had moved in shortly after we did. He’d had something to tell me one day that was apparently of vital importance. It involved a kitten that had wandered onto the property and got stuck in the asylum. It had likely been abandoned by its mother and Blue, his five-year-old sister whom I rarely saw, was very worried about it. So part of Cookie’s job for a couple of days was to go search for the kitten at the asylum and bring it to the convent, because by then Rocket had moved in. He said Blue had moved in, too, but I had yet to see her here. Of course, in all the years I’d been going to visit Rocket in the asylum, I’d seen her only three times. She was painfully shy. But I also knew that where Rocket went, Blue was sure to follow.

Unfortunately, so was a sassy little girl named Strawberry. I called her that because she’d drowned when she was nine in Strawberry Shortcake pajamas. She had long blond hair and bright blue eyes and a bluish tint to her pouty mouth, evidence of her cause of death.

She appeared in front of me, hands on hips, glare firmly in place. “Why are you yelling at Rocket? You’re scaring Blue.”

“Rocket is writing names where he shouldn’t. It’s against the rules. No breaking rules—right, Rocket?”

He hung his head in utter shame. “No breaking rules. Right, Miss Charlotte.”

“Okay, no more names except in the attic. Is that a deal?”

“Deal.”

Rocket disappeared, but Strawberry unfortunately did not. I’d gotten to know Strawberry through a mutual acquaintance. She was the departed sister of a cop I knew: Officer Taft. I’d told him that Strawberry moved in with us some time back, so he’d come to the convent a few times to visit her. Not that he could see her, but I was a decent interpreter.

After Strawberry got the glare out of her system, she looked at my face and did a 180. Her huge eyes rounded in awe. “You’re sparkling,” she said, reaching up.

I kneeled down to let her touch my face, her hand icy against my skin as she patted my cheek.

“You’re like a fairy princess.”

Utterly flattered, I said, “Thank you.”

“You’re not as pretty as one or anything. And you’re really fat. But you sparkle like one.”

I forced my smile to remain steady in the heat of battle. Never retreat. Never surrender. “Thank you again,” I said through clenched teeth.

“You’re welcome.”

“Hey, is Jessica back?” Jessica was my former BFF from high school who’d decided to make my life a living hell by moving in with me when Rocket, Blue, and Strawberry did. But I hadn’t seen much of her lately.

“No, she’s been staying with her sister a lot.”

“Oh. I hope everything is okay.”

“It is. I think she’s scared of the dogs outside.”

“Right. Can’t blame her there.”

“Okay, well, Blue and I are going to play with Sheets.”

“Awesome. Are you going to drape them over you and play ghost? It’s really appropriate.”

“No, Sheets,” she said, her indignation over my ignorance exasperating her. “The kitten.”

“Oh, of course. Sounds like a plan.” Then, before she could disappear on me, I asked, “Why ‘Sheets’? He’s black.”

“Because he’s shiny and black, like David’s sheets.”

Ah, her brother, David—aka Officer Taft—had shiny black sheets. That was so much more information than I needed today. “Gotcha. Well, have fun.”

“Okay.” She popped back out, leaving me to my own devices. Probably not a good idea. After all, I had glitter on my face.

*   *   *

Guests started arriving soon after Amber and I finished getting dressed. Amber looked adorable, her hair piled high on her head and sprinkled with tiny bronze butterflies. She was also over the moon that Uncle Bob had showed up. Not because he showed up to marry her mother, but because he’d brought Quentin—the Quentin—with him.

Quentin Rutherford was a kid we essentially adopted when he’d been possessed by a demon. He’d been possessed because he could see into the supernatural realm, and at the time, the demon was after me. It had used Quentin as a guide, following my light, the light he could see. Once we’d rid him of said demon, we found out he’d been born deaf. Because he had no family to speak of, we, along with the Sisters of the Immaculate Cross, had adopted Quentin. And it didn’t take long for Amber to appreciate that fact. According to the extremely detailed report she gave us, he was dressed to the nines. I was excited to see him myself.

We changed into our dresses while Hildie finished Cookie’s hair. I ran to get our bouquets and check on everything while strategically managing to avoid my stepmother. The guests were in the back, where we’d set up several rows of white chairs. But knowing my sister, the whole affair would be absolutely lovely. At least she got to plan one wedding, since mine didn’t turn out quite as expected. It became an impromptu thing in a hospital room, and all Gemma’s hard work had been for naught. Now she got to start from scratch with a brand-new venue and a fresh set of victims.

When I got back to the room, Amber and I watched as guests got out of their cars. Gemma’s former client and current boyfriend, Wyatt, pulled up, as well as Ubie’s boss, Captain Eckert, a few detectives I’d seen around and Strawberry’s brother, Officer Taft. Garrett Swopes, a colleague, showed next, looking rather delicious in a charcoal coat and tie. Amador, Bianca, and the kids showed up. They’d been coming out on a regular basis to see Reyes, and we’d had several amazing cookouts as a result. In the process, Cookie had grown quite fond of them, inviting them to the wedding. Their seven-year-old daughter, Ashley, would be the flower girl and five-year-old Stephen the ring bearer. I watched as a few other people I didn’t recognize got out and walked around back to the makeshift chapel. Several were young girls between the ages of nineteen and twenty-three. Cookie said she had several second cousins. With the stunning array of men who were to attend the wedding, the cousins were sure to have fun.

I relayed to Cookie all the information I could about the guests showing up to set her at ease. She was nervous enough as it was. I’d assumed her knowing that people were showing up would calm her nerves. Instead it made her even more nervous. Go figure.

“Well,” she said at last, standing behind me.

I turned and was stunned speechless. Cookie looked incredible. Her short, dark locks had been swept back and made to look like she had an intricate French braid. Just like Amber and me, she, too, wore tiny bronze butterflies in her hair to match our cinnamon dresses. But her dress was a creamy ivory wrap sprinkled with pearls. Her makeup was simple yet dramatic. She was breathtaking.

“Cookie,” I said, unable to tear my gaze away from her. “You look magnificent. You look like a movie star from the ’40s. You are utterly elegant.”

She laughed softly, the act easing some of the tension from her shoulders. “Do you think Robert will like it?”

“Please,” I said, astounded she had to ask. “Uncle Bob is going to trip over his own tongue when he gets a load of you.”

She crinkled her nose and giggled like a schoolgirl.

“Mom,” Amber said as she stared in awe. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. You’re gorgeous.”

Amber dropped her gaze and kicked an invisible layer of dirt bashfully.

“Are we really doing this?” Cookie asked me.

“Hon, if we don’t do this, I think that man of yours is going to kidnap you and take you to Mexico. Or Vegas. Or Romania. You two are getting married one way or another.”

She dropped her gaze. “I’m sorry we’re getting married now of all times.”

“What?” I asked, my voice an octave too high. “What are you talking about?”

“I just, I don’t want to take away from the birth of your first child. This is such a special time for you.”

“Cookie Marie Kowalski, how dare you even think such a thing.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I am that my uncle will disown me if I don’t make certain you walk up that aisle in the next few minutes.”

She laughed and hugged me. Amber joined us in a three-way just as Gemma walked into the room. My sister stood taken aback, a hand placed gently over her mouth for a solid thirty seconds before she shook out of her stupor and waved us forward. Thick droplets glistened between her lashes as she rushed us out of the room and down the stairs. We met Bianca and the kids at the bottom. Ashley’s dress was a smaller version of Amber’s. Her curls were also piled high on her head with tiny bronze butterflies inhabiting the thick mass. Stephen looked dapper in a black tux and bow tie to match the men’s. After Bianca explained their roles again, she went to sit with her husband, Amador, as Gemma escorted us to the back door, where we would step onto the strip of green turf that led to the altar.

Ashley kept twirling in her dress, leaving petals in her wake, while Stephen fidgeted with his tie.

“We’d better do this before we lose them,” I said.

Gemma gave us all quick hugs, then went to join Wyatt.

We all took deep breaths as the wedding music started. We sent Stephen down the aisle first, carrying the pillow with the quintessential promise rings. Ashley was next, dropping amber rose petals as she waved and posed for pictures.

I turned to Cookie, forcing myself not to cry. Not yet. There was a time and a place for tears at a wedding, and this was neither. But I couldn’t help it. I leaned in and gave her one more colossal hug as a tear escaped despite my best efforts. I gave Amber a quick peck on the cheek, turned, and walked down the aisle.

I had it all planned. I was going to stare straight ahead. I was going to concentrate on my breathing. I was going to focus on not tripping. And it was all going according to plan. I looked at my uncle as he stood waiting for his bride. He looked amazing. Hair and mustache neatly trimmed. Black tux. White shirt. Crisp bow tie. The fact that he looked uncomfortable made me crack a minuscule smile, but I managed to keep my composure as I kept walking, kept breathing, and kept the tears at bay.

Then it happened. My eyes landed on Reyes Alexander Farrow. My uncle’s best man, standing in the same black tux, starched white shirt, and black bow tie that my uncle wore. But they seemed worlds apart. Reyes looked like he was born for the finer things in life. His hair had been trimmed since that morning. How any man could look just as sexy in a dirty T-shirt and ragged jeans as he did in a formal tux and bow tie was beyond my immediate comprehension. But the pièce de résistance was simply Reyes himself. His wide shoulders, powerful even beneath the layers of tailored clothing. His face startlingly handsome. His jaw strong, his mouth sculpted to perfection. His thick dark lashes casting minute shadows across his cheeks. And his hair. It was shorter now, but thick dark curls still hung over his forehead. Curled around his ears. He looked like a supermodel. Something exotic and rare. Something not of this world.

One corner of his full mouth tipped up as he watched me watch him. Then the slightest arching of his left brow, and my knees almost gave beneath me. I had never seen anything so beautiful in all my life.

Then I heard a whisper beside me. I looked to my left. Denise sat glaring at me while Gemma’s eyes were wide with panic. My heart sped up. My eyes widened to match hers. I was suddenly panicking, too, only I had no idea why. She nodded toward the front, and I realized I had stopped. The moment my gaze landed on Reyes, I had stopped.

I quickly stared straight ahead, squared my shoulders, and continued down the aisle, wondering if anyone noticed the five-minute pause in the procession. Hopefully not. And if they did, I had a kid fermenting in my belly. I could chalk it up to Beep. But my cheeks burned either way.

I thought Reyes might laugh at me. Or at the very least, find my faux pas amusing, but when I looked over at him again, he was not laughing. He was not even smiling. He had darkened again, his expression almost dangerous as he took me in. He could feel my reaction to him and I, in turn, could feel his reaction to me. How he could have such a reaction with me looking like the Pillsbury Doughboy astonished me. He was kinky. I’d take it.

Once I got to the front, I stepped aside and turned, waiting for the gorgeous bride. The “Wedding March” began to play through the speakers and everyone stood as Cookie and Amber stepped out into the light of the warm fall afternoon. They strolled to the front slowly, taking their time, letting people snap pictures and whisper words of praise.

But my attention had turned to Uncle Bob, and I wished I’d thought to have someone record him, because his reaction to Cookie was worth all the coffee in Albuquerque. No, New Mexico. No! The world!

He sucked in a sharp breath of air at the sight of her, his mouth slightly open, his expression reflecting all the amazement and doubt that was so Uncle Bob. I could tell right then and there he wondered what she saw in him. And I wanted to tell him: That. That humbleness. That appreciation of her. That love for both her and Amber. No, not just love. Respect. He respected her. He respected Amber. He was truly grateful for them both. There was no greater gift.

When they reached the front, the minister raised his hands and gestured for everyone to sit. After the guests settled, he asked, “Who gives this woman to be married to this man?”

Amber spoke, her voice quivering only a little. “I, her daughter, Amber Kowalski.”

She turned to Cookie, her blue eyes shimmering. She gave her a quick hug, then took Cookie’s hand and placed it gently into Uncle Bob’s, giving him permission to marry her mother. There was no higher honor. The happiness ricocheting inside me for my cantankerous uncle knew no bounds.

The minister smiled his approval, and I nodded to Quentin, who was sitting in the front row. He stood, took Amber’s arm into his, and led her to her seat. The whole exchange was formal and sweet and reverent, and once again I fought with every ounce of strength I had to hold back the floodtide threatening to erupt within me.

The minister went through the vows quickly, garnering an “I will” from both the bride and the groom. And while it wasn’t easy for me to take my eyes off the beautiful couple in front of me, I simply could not keep from staring at my husband. I had never seen anything so stunning. His dark skin in stark contrast to the white stiff collar beneath his jaw. His fresh haircut. His cleanly shaven jaw. Although I loved the scruffy Reyes more than pumpkin pie with whipped cream, this one was breathtaking. He was like Tarzan, Clark Kent, and James Bond all rolled into one. I half expected an Aston Martin to be sitting in our drive.