Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4) (45 page)

              “Hello?” She had a pretty voice. He’d thought that earlier, when she called his name, but it was even pretty over the phone, which wasn’t always the case.

              “Whitney? It’s Kev.”

              She took a breath. “Hi.” And just that one word conveyed her disappointment in him.

              The spinning stars were making him sick, so he closed his eyes. Then he was shut off from the world, alone with Whitney’s voice, just as he had been back in the cell.

              “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was an asshole to you, and I shouldn’t have been.”

              He heard her sigh, and it struck him as a maternal sound, like when Maggie was put out with Aidan, but unable to withhold tenderness. “It wasn’t true, you know, what you said.”

              “I know.”

              “Addiction has nothing to do with being a bad person or a good person.”

              He swallowed hard, felt bile stirring in his belly and searching for his throat. “I know.”

              “You sound drunk.”

              “I’m very drunk.”

              “Kev.” Reprimanding.

              “I’m sorry about your brother, too,” he continued. “I don’t know that I ever said that, but I am. It’s awful what happened.”

              “Poor Jason. He struggled for a long time. He didn’t deserve this.” She paused, then: “You don’t deserve what’s happened to you either, Kev. You’re a good man.”

              “Oh, sweetheart.” His turn to sigh. “If only you knew. I’m not worth shit.”

              “Don’t say that.” A note of ferocity. “You…what you did for me…”

              She fell silent, and the moment spun into a lovely quiet, punctuated by her soft reproach.

              “Where are you?” she finally asked.

              “The clubhouse.”

              A beat. “Can I come see you?”

              He considered it for a second. Thought of her climbing up to sit on the table, taking his head in her lap; imagined he felt her small fingers sifting through his hair.

              But he said, “No, you should be with your family.” And more importantly, he didn’t need to bother her anymore.

              “Are you sure?”

              “I’m…” Unsure, terrified, in desperate need to feel human arms around him. “I’m sure.”

              “Okay.” How depressed she sounded. “Well don’t drink anymore. Okay?”

              “Okay.”

              She wasn’t ready to hang up, he could tell, but she said, “Good night.”

              “Night.”

              He disconnected the call, took firm hold of his dizziness, rolled off the table and went inside in search of whiskey.

Forty-One

Sam didn’t care about the ring. Not in a technical sense. Carats, cut, clarity, retail value – none of that meant a thing to her. The ring on her left hand was the most precious and beautiful thing she’d seen because Aidan had given it to her, and with it, his promise of forever. And with that, the slippery thread she’d been grabbing for, not even sure what it was. The night he proposed, she curled up beside him and slept deeply, so deeply, filled to the tips of her fingers and toes with a peace she thought must radiate through her skin.

              She had a feeling the women around her now didn’t care about the ring either, but they all asked to see it and oohed and ahhed appropriately.

              “So when’s the big day?” Mina asked as she untangled knotted strings of Christmas lights.

              The Lean Dogs women were gathered in the clubhouse common room, ranged around the massive tree Mercy had toted in from Home Depot a few hours ago. The men had wisely decided to leave them to the decorating and had been put in charge of watching the kids.

              “Oh, um…” Sam plucked another ornament – a tear-drop-shaped crystal piece that glittered when she spun it on its hanger – and frowned. “We haven’t really talked about it much. We were thinking, once we get the license, of heading up to the–”

              “Please don’t say courthouse,” Maggie interrupted. She stood by the tree, untangled lights in-hand, carefully stringing them onto the branches. “Has one woman in this room had a wedding that wasn’t at that damn courthouse?”

              “No,” Mina said.

              “That’s where we got hitched,” Nell said.

              “And us,” Ava chimed in.

              Emmie nodded. “Us too.”

              “And me,” Maggie said, rolling her eyes. “Seventeen and pregnant.”

              “We got married in a church,” Holly said, shyly.

              “Oh, that’s right. I was a witness.” Ava raised her hand. “It was really pretty.”

              Holly smiled, pleased, a little embarrassed. That was her way, Sam had learned. “It wasn’t much. But it was…it was sweet.”

              Sam caught Maggie’s wry expression, an echo of what they were all thinking but would never say: Only Holly could think there was anything sweet about Michael McCall.

              “Except for Holly,” Maggie said, “we all got married in that Knoxville courthouse. So.” Her eyes came to Sam, bright with something like mischief. “I say it’s time we had a real biker wedding. Really do it up right.”

              “That’s not necessary,” Sam said, “I don’t want to make a fuss, or put anyone out.”

              But every old lady in the room was now looking at her, alert with interest.

              “What makes a wedding a ‘real biker wedding’?” Emmie asked.

              “It’s a regular wedding,” Maggie said, “plus cuts and a whole lotta engine revving.”

              “Do y’all remember Boone and Rita’s wedding in Little Rock?” Nell asked.

              “I was, what, six?” Ava asked.

              Maggie nodded. “Yep. God, that was a party. The next day, the prospects had to scrape half the New York chapter up off the pavement with shovels.”

              Maggie and Nell shared a laugh, remembering.

              Ava said, “Her dress was huge.” She mimed a veil and train. “I mean, I swear Hostess made it.”

              “That was two chapters coming together,” Maggie explained, for those of them who hadn’t been there. “Rita’s old man used to be the Arkansas sergeant, and after he died, she got hooked up with Boone, who transferred down from New York. It was the biggest damn wedding I’ve ever seen.”

              “Um,” Sam said, swallowing, “no offense, but I don’t like the sound of a ‘big damn wedding.’”

              “It won’t be like that,” Maggie said, waving off her concern. “Just us local folks.”

              Emmie jerked upright, eyes springing wide, unspooled ribbon in her hands. “We can have it at the farm. There’s plenty of room. No rental fee.” She grinned. “We’d waive it for you guys.”

              “Gee, thanks.”

              “You already have bridesmaids,” Mina said with a sweet smile and a game show arm flourish, indicating herself and the others.

              Ava said, “I think it would be a good mood-boost for everybody. I’ll be the first one to dismiss weddings. But I got married in a hectic rush, as we were fleeing town.” She smiled. “It’d be kind of nice to take our time and celebrate you guys.”

              “Say ‘yes,’” Maggie urged. “You know you want to.”

              What else
could
she say? “Okay. Yes.”

January

Forty-Two

“Mr. Teague, is there something you’d like to share with the class?” Ms. Beardsley asked. Anyone who had Ms. Beardsley for Bio and knew her hatred for interruptions could have seen her face growing purple now and wisely ducked beneath his desk, silent as a church mouse.

              Anyone but Aidan Teague.

              From her vantage point against the classroom’s far wall, Sam watched him sigh and roll his eyes at Amy Sharp who sat behind him. “For real?” he asked. “Mr. Teague is my old man.”

              Amy giggled and tried to suppress it with her hand, eyes delighted and nervous.

              Aidan turned back around in his chair and then slid down into it, lazy and insolent. “S’up?”

              The other kids joined in Amy’s giggles. One of the boys said, “Dude!”

              Ms. Beardsley pressed her lips into disappearance and raised herself up to her full five foot height, giant bosom heaving. Sam had never met anyone outside of old book heroines who had a “bosom,” but Ms. Beardsley was the real-life exception.

              “What did you just say?” she snapped.

              “I said,” Aidan answered, sighing again, “S’up?”

              “
Mr. Teague
–”

              “Aw, save it.”             

             
Here it comes
, Sam thought.
He’s done it yet again
.

              “
Detention
!”

~*~

Sam opened her eyes and blinked as white January sun streamed into the window and into her face. Of all the memories she had of her fiancé, that was the one her mind had chosen to conjure just now, as she sat in front of a mirror and let Mina expertly apply her makeup. She smiled as she recalled Ms. Beardsley’s fury, and Aidan’s nonchalant shrugging-off of the punishment. She’d loved him with a schoolgirl stupidity then, knowing what a fool he was, not even sure she could change him, just wanting the chance to get close.

              Now, she knew the man who dwelled beneath the brat. The man who’d come to the surface. She never could have imagined this day…Well, that wasn’t true. She just hadn’t thought she could actually
live it
.

              It was her wedding day.

              “What?” Mina asked, smiling back, as she withdrew the brush she’d been using.

              “Just remembering something,” Sam said. She took in a deep, trembling breath as she slid back into the present. “How are we doing on time?”

              “Right on time,” Mina assured. “Now close your eyes so I can do the shadow.”

~*~

“Those go over there,” Emmie directed, using her walkie-talkie to signal the hangaround who was lugging a big stainless steel tub of white roses into the arena. Walsh smiled as he watched her being the competent, in-control queen of her equine domain, her long down instructing jacket worn over her bridesmaid dress, her hair already done up in fancy pins and bobbies he knew he’d spend whole minutes disentangling from her blonde curls later.

              “Yes, ma’am,” the hangaround – Walsh thought his name was Jim – said and hurried to follow orders. Walsh approved; the smart hangarounds realized that the women were just as important when it came to sucking up and jumping to.

              Emmie spoke into her walkie-talkie: “Are the drinks here yet?”

              Walsh walked up behind her, steps silent over the sand, and framed her narrow waist with his hands. Through the thick layer of her jacket, he felt her relax immediately into his grip. She knew it was him, even through a padding of goose down.

              She twisted her head around to look at him. “What do you think?” She gestured to the arena.

              The sand footing had been scraped free of hoofprints and smoothed flat with a tractor attachment. A white carpet had been rolled down to serve as aisle, flanked by white wooden chairs, all of it leading up to the plywood dais he and Shane had made. The structure had been covered over with more of the white carpeting, and a small arbor situated as backdrop, decorated with white roses and thick fir branch swags.

              “Lovely.”

              She pursed her lips, a wry smile. “You’re just saying that, aren’t you?”

              “No. It
is
lovely.” He shrugged. “If you care about that sort of thing.”

              She laughed.

              A thought occurred to him, an unpleasant one. “You don’t wish you’d had something like this, do you?” he asked, studying her face for hidden longings. There wasn’t much he could do to rectify what had already happened. And she seemed too practical to insist on a ceremony just for the pomp and finery. But he had to ask; he was her husband, after all, and he couldn’t take her happiness for granted.

              Emotion moved in her eyes, but not sadness or regret. “No,” she said, “I don’t wish I’d had a big wedding.”

              “Maybe one you actually liked, though?”

              She smiled, softly. “It started out rough. But by the wedding night, I think it was going pretty well.”

              “Yeah.” He returned her smile.

              “Besides.” She made a face and tugged at the strapless bodice of her red dress. “I might get fancied up for someone else, but I never would have done it for myself.”

              Then, seeming to remember how busy she was, she consulted the crumpled paper list in her hand. “Oh shit. The bouquets.” Her eyes snapped up to his, now filled with determination. “And you’re supposed to be getting ready.”

              And she thought there was a chance she wouldn’t be a good mother. Unthinkable.

~*~

Maggie lifted the hem of her skirt and left the dusty path, stepping toward the crabapple trees decked out with lanterns. Finished having her hair and makeup done, she’d gone to the arena to find that Emmie had the ceremony space well in hand, things progressing smoothly there. She decided to check in with Holly and the lighting crew.

              Holly, puffy coat over her red bridesmaid dress, watched several hangarounds place the lanterns on branches. “A little to the left, I think. We don’t want them too close together. There.”

              Maggie drew up beside her. “How’s it going?”

              “Good.” Holly sounded a little out of breath with nerves, but that was usual. What was a little out of character, though, was the way she looked over, gaze almost assessing. “How are you?”

              Maggie blinked, surprised. “I’m fine.”

              “I don’t know if anyone ever gets mother-of-the-groom jitters, but I wanted to ask. Make sure, you know.” Sweet smile. “In case you needed anything.”

              “Well…no, I’m fine,” Maggie repeated, not sure what to think. “But thanks for asking.”

              “You’re very proud of Aidan, I know.”

              She smiled, knowing
exactly
what to think of
that
. “Very.”

              Seeing that all was well with the lanterns, she excused herself and stepped into the tent where the reception would take place. Lots of tables, lots of liquor, beer and wine ready behind the makeshift bar. Ratchet was going to DJ, and he had a station set up at the far end. She, Mina and Ava had set up this area earlier, the little personal touches the rental company hadn’t provided: centerpieces, potted ferns for ambiance, the photos lined up on the waiting buffet tables. They caught her eye now, the old family pictures in their silver frames, and she moved across the grass floor to get to them.

              She’d set them out herself, so the images were no surprise…but for some reason, it felt like she was seeing them for the first time.

              Aidan at sixteen, with his first bike, smiling like a loon. Aidan at eighteen, a forced Christmas photo in front of the tree with Ava, him looking too cool and sullen for the holiday. Aidan at eight, standing beside an awkward-looking Ghost at the park.

              She remembered that day vividly; it unfolded in her mind, creases still sharp, colors still bright. One of their first outings as a threesome, with little skinny, curly-headed Aidan in tow. Maggie had been the one to suggest the park; they’d stopped on the way and bought a plastic whiffle bat and ball. The grass had been springy underfoot; it had smelled damp and green as Maggie slid across it, rolling over twice, laughing, before Ghost declared her out and now relegated to pitching duty.

              Maggie recalled with perfect clarity the transformation in Aidan that day, from solemn and uncertain to beaming and laughing. She’d loved Ghost already – for all his lack of charm – but that was the day she’d fallen in love with his precious little boy, the bright notes of his laughter, his bubbling excitement over the game. She’d urged father and son to stand together, so she could snap a photo. She remembered Ghost as he appeared now in the eight-by-ten in her hands: uncertain of his effect on the boy, awkward in the way he dropped a hand on Aidan’s shoulder. A man who had no idea how to be a good father. And Aidan, a child without a clue how to teach his old man the ropes of tenderness and patience.

              She didn’t realize there were tears in her eyes until she was forced to dab at them. She set the frame back on the table, pulling in a deep breath. Ava was her baby, her blood, the child she’d carried in her womb and nursed at her breast. But Ava had been strong from the first, always so sure of herself. Aidan had been the one who needed her most.

              “It doesn’t seem real, does it?” a voice said behind her, and she turned, startled, to find Sam’s mother, Helen.

              Helen was dressed in a modest champagne-colored dress with matching jacket, a pea coat over it for warmth. Mina had done her hair in a conservative, tasteful style. Her eyes looked red and watery already.

              She took a deep breath, her smile trembling, narrow shoulders lifting. “She’s been this grown up, responsible, contributing adult for so long now, but, for some reason, I woke up this morning and it didn’t seem like my little girl could possibly be old enough to get married.”

              Maggie nodded. “I know the feeling. Well – I felt it with Ava. With Aidan? He hasn’t been all that grown up, responsible, or capable of contributing for very long.” She chuckled. “Not to freak you out or anything.”

              Helen shook her head. “I’m not worried about that. Aidan loves Sam, and a man can do great things when he’s motivated by love.”

              Maggie grinned. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

~*~

He could smoke them, and he always made a manly show of it, but Aidan didn’t like cigars. He took a hard puff on the one in his mouth and was grateful to exhale.

              Beside him at the deck rail, Mercy seemed to be enjoying each drag, holding it for long moments. “You nervous?”

              “Nah.” Which wasn’t a total lie. “At least, not about today.”

              Mercy made a knowing sound in his throat. “The wedding’s just a party. It’s being a husband every day that’s the hard part.”

              “Yeah. Were you nervous?”

              “No.”

              Aidan rolled his eyes. “That makes me feel better.”

              “You want me to lie?” Mercy’s black brows jumped, grin teasing at one corner of his mouth. Growing more serious: “There wasn’t anything I wanted more in the world than Ava. Lots of shit makes me nervous, but not being married.”

              “You enjoy it, don’t you?”

              “What’s that?”

              “Making the rest of us look like unromantic assholes.”

              Mercy chuckled. “Yeah. I kinda do.” But he added, “I think it’s probably normal. Maybe if you’re nervous, you’re less likely to fuck everything up.” He gave Aidan a companionable bump with his shoulder – which was a bit like being bumped by a truck.

              Aidan took another drag on his cigar, grimacing. “Yeah.”

              “Speaking of fucking things up…” Mercy put his back to the rail and surveyed the sprawling deck and back of the stone house. “Where’s your best man?”

              He grimaced again. “Last I saw, he was in the kitchen.” Probably looking for Walsh’s vodka stash.

              “We’re gonna have to do something about him,” Mercy said, almost to himself.

              “I know.” Aidan ground his cigar out in the glass ashtray on the rail and headed for the door that led inside. “I’ll go see if he’s about ready.”

              “No,” Mercy said, pulling him up short. “I don’t just mean about now.” He gave Aidan a meaningful look. “He’s in bad danger of slipping away.” From the club, from his friends, his makeshift family. And slipping into nothing good, Aidan knew.