Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4) (46 page)

              The word
suicide
drifted on the air between them, but neither of them would dare speak it.

              “I know,” Aidan repeated.

              He found Tango in the industrial-sized kitchen, half-f bottle of Smirnoff in one hand, bloodshot eyes lazily tracking the movements of the caterers. Aidan waited until the two aproned women had left the room – back to the van to drag in more of something, probably – before he drew up alongside his best friend and extended a hand for the bottle.

              “Can I have some?”

              Tango regarded him a beat too long before finally passing over the vodka.

              “Thanks.” Aidan turned around and poured all of it down the sink.

              “What the fuck?!” Tango lunged for him, clawing toward the bottle, movements clumsy.

              It was no effort to hold him back. “It’s for your own good.”

              His laugh was dark and ugly. “You really wanna go there? You of all people?”

              Months before, that would have cut deep, and Aidan would have lashed out in response. Now it glanced off him. “Kev,” he said firmly, “we’re not talking about me.” When his friend glared at him, he gave him an even stare back. “You’re done for today.”

              “Afraid I’ll fall down in the middle of your wedding?”

              “Give a shit if you do. It’ll give us something to talk about. No.” He set the empty bottle on the counter and closed the distance between them, noting the way Tango shrank back. “I’m worried about you.”

              Emotion flashed through Tango’s eyes, further paled his face. He turned away, but Aidan caught him by the shoulder.

              “No. Come sit down.” He urged his friend to one of the stools around the island. Tango dragged his toes, but complied. “I’m gonna make you some coffee.”

              “I don’t–”

              “Shut up. I’m making coffee.”

              Tango heaved a breath and folded his arms on the counter, slumping forward, gaze unfocused. He looked even worse when he gave up fighting. Shit.

              Walsh and Emmie had one of those fancy-ass coffee makers that required NASA training to operate. After a full minute of staring at the thing, Aidan ventured into the pantry and found tea bags. Boiling water he could manage. He filled a sauce pot and put it on the stove, turned and faced Tango, who looked like he might have fallen asleep.

              He hadn’t, though. Aidan could see his eyelashes flickering.

              “You can talk about it, you know.”

              Tango’s head lifted, gaze narrowed and cautious. “Talk about what?” But he knew; his face revealed that he did.

              “You probably don’t want to unpack it all, but if it would make it easier to take if you walked through it all–”

              “No. I can’t.”

              Aidan nodded. “I get that. I do. But how are you gonna move past it?”

              Tango shrugged. “I don’t guess I’m going to.”

              The water was ready. Aidan poured some into a mug – slopping a good bit onto the counter – and added the tea bags to steep.

              “No peppermint,” he said as he set it in front of Tango. “But it’s still tea.” He offered a quick smile. “Maybe it’ll help.”

              Tango wrapped both hands around the mug and stared at its contents for a long time, as the water began to darken. Finally, he lifted his head. “You’re different, brother.” A raw voice, quaking and vulnerable.

              “I…” Aidan groped for what to say.

              “In a good way,” Tango assured. “Much better.” He twitched a small smile.

              It wasn’t an insult or even a compliment, but an observation. A deep one, coming from a place of long-held friendship.

              It filled him with a great sadness, to see Tango in this shape. Mercy was right; they were going to have to do something, and fast, or they’d lose their fragile hold on him.

              “You could be different too,” Aidan said, and meant it to be encouraging.

              Tango raised his mug to his lips. “I don’t think I have it in me.”

~*~

The dress was simple, fluted, and cream, with sheer lace sleeves down to the wrist. Tasteful and elegant, and a steal too, since she’d bought it off the rack. It came with a headband adorned with seed pearls and small white roses. Sam wore it standing in front of Emmie’s floor-length mirror and didn’t recognize herself.

              In the reflection, she saw Helen move in close to stand beside her. Her mother was teary-eyed, but beaming, face radiating nothing less than maternal joy. “You look absolutely beautiful, sweetheart.”

              “I wish Dad was here,” Sam murmured, because suddenly, there was a lump in her throat and it hurt to swallow.

              “I do too.”

              Sam watched herself smile in the mirror, a sad smile. “Although, Dad would probably hate that I’m marrying a biker.”

              Helen breathed a laugh. “I don’t know if he would or not.”

              “That’s comforting,” Sam said with a snort.

              “Your father would want you to be loved, and happy, and to make your own decisions.” Her brows plucked with worry. “This is a big decision, Sam. Aidan. His child.”

              God, was it ever.

              “But I know you,” Helen said, voice firm. “And I know you love Aidan, and so I’ve never had any doubts about the kind of man he is. Because of you.”

             
Because of me
, Sam echoed in her thoughts. No pressure, right?

              But it didn’t feel like a burden had been laid across her. It had never been that way with Aidan.

              “I didn’t change him, Mom,” she said, quietly. “He just didn’t know what he was capable of.”

              “Oh, jeez,” Erin said, rolling her eyes as she came up on Sam’s other side. “You guys are so cheesy. Barf.”

              Sam checked her smile and glanced over at her sister. “You don’t like weddings?”

              “I don’t like cheese.” She made a comical face.

              “Well, you look really pretty in your dress.”

              She might not have appreciated the finer points of sap, but Erin couldn’t resist preening when the chance presented itself. Her expression changed to one of satisfaction as she smoothed a hand down the bodice of her red dress. “I
do
like it,” she admitted. “You actually picked out something that looks good.”

              “Erin,” Helen scolded.

              But when Erin’s head lifted, there were tears standing in her bright, makeup-free eyes. “I kinda can’t believe you’re really getting married.”

              “Me either,” Sam admitted.

              And then, to her shock, her little sister stepped in close and hugged her. “I’m glad,” Erin whispered. “You deserve it.”

~*~

The best man was bleary-eyed, but in position, and Mercy was standing beside him in case he decided to pass out. Emmie and Holly assured him that every last detail was taken care of, and they were all set to go. The guests were being seated; Stella spotted him where he stood by the arena rail and waved at him with the fringed end of her red scarf. He waved back.

              “Sweatin’ bullets yet?” Ghost asked, materializing beside him. These days, he marched through life with a typical president’s blustering, but sometimes, the man slipped back into his original skin, that of the specter who could sneak up on anyone.

              Aidan turned to his father. They were both dressed in black button-ups with thermal underlayers, their cuts buffed with oil. Maggie had declared them “mirror images” earlier. So Aidan guessed he was staring at his future self – however exact a replica that might turn out to be.

              “Nah,” he said. “Why does everybody keep asking me that?” RJ had gone so far as to say, “I don’t pray, but I’m gonna pray for you, man.”

              “It’s just the shit people say. We gotta give you a hard time, you know that.” Ghost’s eyes tracked over him, assessing. “You
are
calm, aren’t you?”

              “This is the smartest thing I’ve ever done,” Aidan said. He tried to smile, but it was thin.

              Ghost studied him a long moment, then glanced up the hill toward the house, where the women had gone for one last gathering before the bride came down. “Your Sam,” he said, voice edged with faraway emotions of memory, a little nostalgic. “She’s nothing like your mother.” His gaze came to Aidan, and gave him the strong sense that his father was trying to convey something to him, non-verbally. Something urgent; something he
needed
Aidan to understand.

              “You know,” Aidan said, “I don’t have any actual memories of Mom.”

              “You don’t?”

              “I remember the day she left,” he said, recalling the slant of late winter sun through the windows, turning the dust motes into swarms of fireflies. “I remember she wasn’t crying.” He’d thought that strange, for some reason, her with the American Tourister luggage set all stacked up by the door as the cabbie came to fetch them. She’d been in high heels and her mother’s diamonds and she’d looked down at him with the driest, coldest eyes. “She said, ‘You’re better off with him. You’re his kind.’ That was the last thing she said to me, and we didn’t speak again until ten years later.” She’d shown up on the day he should have graduated high school, appalled to learn he’d dropped out.

              “But I don’t remember anything else about growing up with her,” he continued. “I almost think my mind just wiped her out.”

              “Self-preservation,” Ghost said wryly. “You’re not missing much. She was a shit mom. Always at the salon. She woulda turned you into a total pussy if she’d stuck around.”

              They shared a chuckle and matching grins.

              “Thank God for Mags,” Aidan said.

              “Thank God,” Ghost agreed.

              “Dad?” Aidan said, struck with a sudden, intense curiosity.

              “Yeah?”

              “Were you scared when you found out Ava was gonna be a girl?”

              “Shitless,” Ghost assured, nodding. “Having a girl’s different; all you see is every dangerous thing, and all you expect is pink tutus and tea parties.” He smiled. “But then you realize they’re people too, and then you realize they’re damn tougher than you are. Mama died when I was little,” he said, voice going soft, “and then Olivia was everything I’d been told to expect – shallow, vain, vicious. Mags showed me what a strong woman looks like. And then so did your sister.” He put a hand on Aidan’s shoulder and squeezed. “Sam’s strong, and smart. She’ll handle all the shit you can’t. And don’t make the mistake I did,” he added, “and treat your little girl like she doesn’t know her own mind. Save yourself five years of grief, yeah?”

              Aidan nodded. “Yeah.”

~*~

There would be many moments in Aidan’s life that awed and humbled him, left him feeling small and reverent. Joyous moments, tragic ones. But as an old man, he would tell his children that the moment of total and complete sea change – the moment that laid the groundwork for all the others, for all gorgeous sights – was the moment their mother walked down the aisle toward him. In a converted riding arena, watched by the only family that mattered to him, under a cold and brilliant January sky, Samantha Walton walked arm-in-arm with her mother toward him.

              Her dress was simple, classy, and beautiful.

              Her face, and her trembling, tearful smile ten times so.

              All of it seemed detached, like something out of a dream sequence. Up until Helen stepped back and Sam’s hand slid into his. Her skin was warm, its texture familiar and soothing. She took her place in front of him, and as the minister welcomed their dearly beloved, she whispered, “Before it gets formal, I just wanted to tell you how very much I love you.” Her eyes glittered with unshed tears and her hand tightened on his.

              He squeezed back. “You saved my life, you know that?”

              And the ceremony began.

~*~

Ava wasn’t one for weddings, but this one she allowed herself to thoroughly enjoy. It was lovely, the afternoon melting into evening at Briar Hall, hangarounds lighting the candles in the hanging lanterns. The tent had that whole winter wonderland vibe going and Ratchet was an excellent DJ.

              Her brother had married one of her best friends, and for the moment, all was right with the world.

              Ava drained the last sip of her wine and set the glass down on the table, swaying slightly to the rhythm of “Simple Man.”