In Your Dreams Page 16

  Funny how that worked. Denial, she believed it was called. Mom and Dad would be happy to spend several hours analyzing this for her later, should she mention it.

  This felt more like a funeral than a wedding. Maybe that was why she was here--to understand that Old Kevin, her Kevin, was truly dead now, New Kevin flexing on top of his grave.

  Her shoes hurt. Yes. Think about that. Maybe she'd have a blister. She almost hoped so.

  Naomi handed her bouquet to her maid of honor and reached for Kevin, and the guests sat down. There was a buzzing sound in Emmaline's ears.

  Then Jack leaned over and whispered, very, very softly, "I hate weddings."

  He kissed her temple, looking, she imagined, exactly like a fiance who couldn't wait to be at his own nuptials.

  Without turning her head, she cut her eyes to him. "Knock it off," she whispered as one of the bridesminions fluffed Naomi's dress. "You're giving my parents false hope."

  "You started it."

  "And stop whispering into my hair. You might chip a tooth, I've got so much crap sprayed in there."

  "I know," he whispered, sending a shiver down her side. "You smell like ethanol. I can feel my brain cells dying. You wearing those chicken cutlets today? Because the girls are looking fantastic."

  "Shut up, Jack." Her face was hot.

  "Is that any way to talk to the man you supposedly love?" Another kiss to her temple, a wink at her mother.

  "You'd make a wonderful prostitute," she whispered. His eyes were a distracting, magnificent blue.

  "I get that a lot." His mouth pulled up on one side, and the knot in Em's stomach loosened a little bit.

  "Good afternoon," said the justice of the peace, and six minutes later, Kevin and Naomi were husband and wife.

  *

  AT THE VERY FARTHEST table from the bride and groom, the mysterious Russians were cheerfully passing around a bottle of homemade vodka. And Em had thought she was being punished by being seated here! The contraband booze tasted like death, but Em added a healthy glug to her unsweetened, locally grown, fair trade, organic, farm-to-table cranberry juice (which also tasted like death), improving both beverages probably because her taste buds were committing suicide. Still, it was a very jolly table, more so with every passing minute.

  "Your hair ees very beautiful," said Uncle Vlad, the boob-starer from yesterday. He reached out to touch it, winced and withdrew his hand.

  "It's breakable," Em said. "But thank you."

  Uncle Vlad put his arm around her neck and hugged her, then refilled her glass, God bless him.

  Jack apparently had learned Russian in the navy and was chatting away, and it was good, it was fine, because for one, it was a stressful day. And for two, this flirty light stuff he was doing with her...it wasn't her thing. He kept putting his arm around her and murmuring compliments. It was making her very itchy and scratchy. And tingly.

  "How you doing?" he murmured. See? The tingle turned into a nearly painful buzz.

  "I'm good! Really good! Yes. Da." The one Russian word she knew. Well, that and vodka. Yes, vodka! What more did she really need?

  "Go easy on that drink," he advised. "That has to be around one hundred proof."

  "Roger that, Captain," she said. Hmm. Perhaps it had already taken effect.

  She took a bite of the brussels sprout souffle covered in faux cheese, shuddered and washed it down with another slug of cranberry vodka drink, which was becoming increasingly delicious.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," came the voice of the DJ, "please turn your attention to the dance floor, where Mr. and Mrs. Norman-Bates will have their first dance as husband and wife."

  "They're really hyphenating, huh?" Jack said.

  But Em wasn't paying attention, because once again, a familiar song was starting up.

  "Unforgettable" by good old Nat King Cole.

  So Kevin wasn't that original. Big deal.

  There went the last of the cranberry vodka. What were those drinks called? Cape Codders? Those Cape Codders knew what they were doing. Emmaline should visit posthaste. Have some clam chowder and drink some Cape Codders. Maybe meet some nice fisherman like, like...like Phil on Deadliest Catch. Wait. Wasn't he dead? Okay, then. It would have to be Sig.

  Kevin and Naomi were very good dancers, all spinny and coordinated and stuff. Smiling, too. Very happy-looking.

  Had Kevin really been so miserable when they were together? There had been times when he'd brood, but who didn't brood once in a while? He had seemed to love her so much. How did that--

  Stop thinking about this, the sober part of her brain ordered.

  Angela waved to her, a sympathetic smile on her beautiful face.

  The song ended; Em applauded dutifully. Cake-cutting time, maybe a dance with her dad, then beddy-bye. She was almost home free. And when she got back, she'd send Jack a big case of...well, something...and thank him for being the best sport ever.

  There wasn't even dessert to look forward to. Naomi had announced with great pride that, like the dinner, the cake was gluten-, dairy-and sugar-free. Brown rice cake with prunes. She wasn't even kidding. The icing had beet juice in it. Beet juice, for the love of God!

  "And now the bride and groom would like to invite their wedding guests to share a special memory of the two of them."

  "Oh, fun," Jack murmured. The Russians muttered darkly, and the vodka was again passed around. Em smiled and shook her head, but Uncle Vlad ignored her and filled her glass halfway.

  "Don't drink that," Jack advised. "I'm getting liver failure just looking at it."

  "I may need it," Em said. "To share my superspecial memories."

  "If I said let's make new memories, would you hit me?"

  "I would. Yes. And don't forget, I brought my gun."

  He smiled. That was something, that smile. "Show-off."

  The best man, someone Em had never met, was first to share. "The second I saw them together," he said, "I knew it was the real thing. I mean, Naomi was screaming at him not to quit. And Kevin, he's benching like three hundred as it was. Right, bro? Anyways, it's times like that when you really know you've got a winner, dude--can I just say?"

  "Beautiful story," Jack murmured. "And loosen up, okay? We're in love. Stop grinding your teeth."

  "Right. Got it."

  She unclenched her jaw and cracked her knuckles. Maybe she could flirt back if she gave it a shot. Then again, it was just that kind of thing that had her believing she was a fantastic dancer last year at the Bitter Betrayeds' Christmas party. The footage from Shelayne's phone had proved otherwise.

  The special memories sharing was more of the same. The marathon when Kevin had to crawl across the finish line just after he lost control of his bowels. The difficult time when Naomi had ruptured her Achilles tendon and could only run seven miles a day. The hilarious time when they were doing an Ironman race and Naomi's bike had crashed, her shoulder dislocated, and God bless her! She'd just rammed it back into place on a convenient tree, got back on the bike and caught up to Kevin, who of course hadn't stopped because it was "emotionally important" for him to give this race his all, and of course Naomi understood and supported this.

  "I don't know," Em murmured. "I think I'd want someone to stop and call an ambulance for me."

  "I would do that," Jack said. "And I'd tell the paramedics to give you extra painkillers."

  "And to think I didn't want to get married." Aha! She could flirt!

  He winked. Her knees quivered.

  Then came Colleen's turn. She tried gamely to pass, but Naomi was grinning ferociously, so Coll took the mike and sighed. "Well, Kevin and Naomi...um, near, far, wherever you are, I believe the heart will go on." She handed the microphone back to the DJ and stole a mysterious lump of something from Connor's plate.

  Connor was not spared the microphone, either. "Good luck," he said.

  The DJ reclaimed the mike and headed for the back of the room. "Who else would like to share? You, miss?"

  More vodka? Yes,
I'd love some, she thought, snagging the bottle from the weird uncle, who smiled approvingly at her cutlet-enhanced breasts.

  Even worse, her mother popped into an empty chair at their table. "How are you? Don't repress your grief. Let it out, honey. And why are you drinking? Isn't it bad for the baby?"

  "Hi, Mom. How are you? There's no baby."

  "Enjoying your dinner, Dr. Neal?" Jack asked, and Mom murmured that yes, she was, then turned to look back at Em.

  Her mother's eyes were worried. That was the sucker punch. Mom meant well. She tried. Em knew she was loved, despite her parents being pretty clueless...when it came to her, anyway. They were better with Angela.

  "I'm so glad you have Jack," Mom whispered. "Even though I was upset that you didn't want to share that with me earlier, I'm glad. It was so hard to see you heartbroken."

  Shit. Lying sucked. She looked away from her mom.

  The DJ was at their table. "Do you have a special memory of Naomi and Kevin?" the DJ asked the tiny shrunken Russian grandmother.

  "Kogda uzhin?" the grandmother said.

  "When is dinner," Jack translated into Em's stiff hair. "Poor thing doesn't realize this was dinner."

  "Great!" the DJ said, handing the microphone to the boob-watching uncle. "And you?"

  "Many years ago, when I come to United States," Uncle Vlad began, "I say, here is country of opportunity and money! Ha-ha! And my little niece, she is living dream! Za vas, Naomi!" He tossed back a shot.

  "Excellent!" the DJ said. "And you, sir!" He shoved the mike into Jack's hand.

  "Well, I don't know either Kevin or Naomi that well," he said, "but I can only hope they're as happy as Emmaline and I are."

  Mom beamed. Squeezed Jack's arm.

  Em took a deep breath. "We're not really engaged, Mom," she said. "I lied about that. I'm sorry."

  Jack closed his eyes.

  There was a collective murmur.

  Ah. Seemed like the microphone might've picked that up. Shit and vodka, her luck really sucked these days.

  "I knew that," Mom said hastily. "It's fine. I've always known you're gay, honey. Are you really pregnant, though? Is Jack the father, or was it artificial insem--"

  "Nope. Not pregnant. And still not gay."

  "Okay!" chortled the DJ, looking slightly panic-stricken. "Uh, would you care to share a special memory?"

  Why not? Emmaline took the mike, stood up with hardly a wobble and looked toward the head table.

  Kevin sat with his arm around Naomi, but he was leaning forward slightly, his head tilted a little to one side. Was that sympathy in his eyes? Understanding?

  "Right," she said. "Um, I guess everyone knows that Kevin and I used to be together. We were...we were friends. Right from when we first met in eighth grade. Right, Kevin?"

  He smiled in response. The Old Kevin smile.

  The vodka whispered that not only was she an amazing dancer, but Kevin was finally listening, too. For the first time in years, maybe for the first time since he'd met Naomi. All of a sudden, it seemed as if that lovely, sensitive boy was here again.

  God, she'd loved him back then.

  "When I knew Kevin, he was--" the kindest, funniest person I'd ever met.

  But no. Her words slammed to a halt. Her tongue was behind her teeth, trying to make the th sound, but nothing was happening. Her throat muscles seized and lurched, but nothing happened.

  The stutter.

  It rose up and wrapped its hot bony fingers around her vocal cords, strangling her words. No sounds came out now. Nothing. Now, she'd just be the stuttering, maybe-gay, not-engaged, not-pregnant former fiancee who was so pathetic that she'd come to this Wedding of the Damned.

  "He w-was-- He w-was th-the m-mo--"

  Kevin looked away. Naomi smirked. Of course she did. It was her resting expression. And Lyric Adams, who was sitting a few tables away with a much older man, had her phone out, her thumbs flying away as she snickered.

  Jack took her free hand.

  She took it back. She didn't want pity. Hell to the no power.

  Think British, she commanded herself. Think Harry Potter or Tom Barlow or Colin Firth or--

  "Okay!" the DJ said, taking the microphone back and moving to another table. "How about you, mother of the bride? You must want to share a special memory!"

  Emmaline sat down.

  "You okay?" Jack asked.

  "You lied to us?" Mom asked. "Emmaline, this is just...just... It's practically pathological! Why on earth would you--"

  "Dr. Neal," Jack said, "I think you understand that Emmaline is in a tough--"

  "No, Jack. M-Mom, I'm sorry. I r-r-really am." Her heart sank as the words struggled to get out. She pictured the stutter leaning against a doorway, wheezing its dry, whispery laugh. Hahaha. Got you again.

  "I think you need time to process your feelings," Mom said, a world of hurt in her voice. "See you later."

  Who could blame her?

  Finally, the speeches were done, though she'd stopped listening. The music started again, and Em sat there like a lump.

  Jack took her hand. "Let's dance," he said, and she complied. Angela was fending off the best man, but she shot Em a sweet smile, flawlessly conveying camaraderie and humor with no disappointment or blame whatsoever. Somehow, it made her feel worse.

  It was a slow song, something by John Mayer, and Jack pulled her close. It might've been sexy, if she hadn't felt like a slab of oak.

  "Hang in there," he murmured against her hair. His chin made a crackling sound as it broke through some of the hair spray. She would've answered if she wasn't terrified of either stuttering or crying.

  "I have to say, I'm a little disappointed you called off our engagement," he said, looking down at her with a smile. "I was hoping for a bachelor party at a strip club."

  Thank you, Jack, for being a perfect date and the nicest guy in the world and also gorgeous. Thanks for not making me feel worse than I already do. Instead, she just tried to smile and shifted her eyes to his shoulder. He held her a little closer, and she had to bite her lip hard.

  By tomorrow night, she'd be home again in her snug little house, with her good puppy and her excellent job. Levi wouldn't ask how the wedding was because he wasn't that kind of boss, and Em would ask Everett if he wanted her to cover a couple of his shifts, which he always did. She'd meet with her at-risk teenagers and go to her crisis negotiations class and have a night with the Bitter Betrayeds and by then, she'd have had time to spin this weekend into a good story.

  Then her dad tapped him on the shoulder. "Mind if I dance with my firstborn?" he asked.

  "Not at all, sir," Jack said, stepping aside.

  So she danced with her father, breathing in his comforting Dad-smell.

  "You must be experiencing some powerful feelings right now," he said.

  "Mmm," she managed, hating the stutter even more because it made her unable to talk to her father, who did love her in his weird psychoanalyst way. He kissed her forehead, and Em swallowed and gave him a squeeze.

  The slow song ended. "I'd better go dance with Angela," Dad said. "That best man isn't taking the hint." Em nodded, kissed him on the cheek and watched him go.

  She'd have to come back and visit her parents to make up for lying to them. She'd call them tomorrow. Angela, too.

  Jack didn't seem to be nearby, or at their table in the back, and people were giving her those embarrassed sliding glances. She grabbed her purse and walked out of the ballroom, smiling at whoever made eye contact (not that many) and grabbed the nearest parking attendant. She wasn't about to drive, not after two (or possibly three) zillion-proof vodka drinks. "I need a favor," she said, handing him a hundred-dollar bill. "Would you drive me into town?"

  "Sure," he said, pocketing the bill. "Where do want to go?"

  "You know Nance's diner?"

  He smiled. "I absolutely do. You hungry?"

  She folded her arms. "You have no idea."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  JACK CO
ULD SWEAR he smelled bacon.

  He was back in his room; Em had ditched him at the wedding, leaving him to hear about Naomi's grandmother's colonoscopy last year, which sounded even more horrific in Russian. All those guttural sounds.

  He was a little worried. Emmaline hadn't answered when he knocked. Hadn't responded to his text, either. She wouldn't have driven; she was a cop and knew better than most that drinking and driving didn't go together.

  As Josh Deiner would now understand, if he wasn't brain-dead.

  For a second, Jack could swear he felt the lake water close over his head. The car seemed so far away, lying there on the bottom of the lake. All that cold and darkness.

  No. No, thanks. He dragged his mind from the memory of that cold, that grim darkness. He was here in California, where it was now fully dark, a half-moon rising over the Pacific. Fifty-five degrees, maybe. If there was a reason to live in California, it was the weather. And San Francisco, a place Jack had visited a few times. Also, California wine country. Flippin' gorgeous.

  Good. He was thinking about other things. He packed his stuff, since they had an early flight, and changed out of his suit into jeans and a T-shirt.

  His phone chirped. Mrs. Johnson, of all people, texting him. Jackie, dear, you are terribly missed. When are you leaving California and coming home? Your father longs to see you.

  He had several other texts, too. All three sisters, wondering how the wedding was going. One from Ned, asking if he wanted to go out for a beer, then another saying he forgot he was away. Two from Abby, asking for help with a chemistry project when he got back. One from Goggy that said WJY sek to DDjk. Goggy had just gotten a smartphone and, much to the chagrin of the entire family, complained about the tiny keys and had yet to understand AutoCorrect. That or she'd just had a stroke.

  There were five texts and two phone calls from Hadley.

  He answered Abby and Mrs. J., told Goggy to stop trying to text until Ned showed her how and ignored Hadley.

  He really wished she'd leave town. Honor had told him that she'd moved into the Opera House apartment building. That wasn't a good sign.

  He heard a sound from Emmaline's room. So she was in there after all.

  That had been hard, seeing her flail today. Not being able to make her feel better.

  He knocked on the door that separated their rooms. "I hear you, Neal. Open up or I'm calling the front desk and telling them you're a suicide risk."