Out of Town Bride

“Are you okay?” he asked. He had this uncanny ability to know whenever she stirred at night. He always noticed when lights went on or if anyone made the slightest noise. She wondered if he ever slept or if he sat up all night, ever vigilant.

“I got hungry,” she answered. “I don’t think that’s any reason to call out the National Guard.” She immediately felt guilty for sniping at him, though. “Sorry. It’s been a rough few days. You want some macaroni and cheese?”

“Sure.” He went to the fridge and poured himself some milk. Without asking, he pulled out a bottle of her favorite cherry-flavored mineral water, uncapped it and set it out for her.

He knew her so well, probably better than her own mother did. And it irked her. She’d actually been looking forward to escaping his knowing eyes once she was married. Now that wasn’t going to happen. She saw herself in twenty years, thirty years, fifty, still single, still living in Muffy’s house, McPhee still watching over her with his eagle eyes. Still waiting for those few moments when he could escape her and go to whatever girlfriend he would undoubtedly have. He’d probably still be shadowing her every move when they were both in the nursing home. Gawd, what a depressing thought.

“I called the hospital,” she said. “Mother’s doing better. She drank some water and told the nurses not to call me.”

“Already back to her bossy self, huh?” But McPhee’s smile was of pure relief. She didn’t blame him. Muffy was a kind employer, if a tad inflexible. She paid her staff far more than the going rate to inspire their loyalty, and it worked.

But McPhee was genuinely fond of Muffy, too. As hard as Sonya was on McPhee, she knew he wasn’t completely self-serving.

When the microwave dinged, Sonya took out the dish and scooped generous portions onto white, bone-china plates with gold rims, the only kind Muffy would have in her house. She had a thing against plastic and thought stoneware was almost as bad. Sonya and McPhee sat at the kitchen table and ate with monogrammed sterling forks.

“Mmm, I love this stuff,” McPhee said.

“We better enjoy it while we can. I imagine we’ll see some changes around here when Muffy gets home. Matilda and Eric will have to prepare heart-healthy meals.”

“Matilda will screech like a banshee over that,” McPhee said.

“She’ll have to get used to it. I’ve been telling Mother for years that her diet is impossibly unhealthy. She’ll have to listen to me now.”

“Muffy never listens to anyone.”

Sonya sighed. “I know. She has her ideas about the way things should be, and nothing’s going to change them.” Certainly not Sonya, whose opinions Muffy had always considered superfluous. Muffy knew what was best, and that was that.

“Maybe if we join forces?” McPhee suggested. “Two against one.”

Sonya laughed harshly. “That would be a first. We haven’t agreed on anything since…well, since we were children.”

Since that night at the sorority party, she’d almost said. Sonya’s skin prickled at the memory, still vivid after all these years.

“I think if we present a united front,” McPhee said, “Muffy will have to pay attention.”

“Since when do you call her Muffy, anyway?”

He shrugged. “I don’t, not to her face. Just to you.”

“To irritate me.”

He didn’t deny it, just flashed that inscrutable half smile of his that drove her crazy. “Don’t worry, you’ll be rid of me soon. You haven’t officially postponed the wedding, have you?”

“No.” Another wave of guilt washed over her. But she could hardly announce she was going to call off the wedding when Muffy was still so ill. “Mother said to wait and see how she did after the surgery. Are you counting the days?”

“Only forty-nine days to go.”

She tried to hide her surprise. She’d only been kidding about counting the days. Was he that unhappy? He often aggravated her, but she wasn’t miserable with their arrangement. “Just what are you planning to do with your newfound freedom? I assume Muffy has another job for you.”

McPhee shook his head. “I’ve already applied and been accepted at the Harris County Sheriff’s Department.”

This was news to Sonya, and it shook her to the core. She had a hard time visualizing this house, this estate, without John-Michael as a constant fixture. “What about your dad?”

“Dad’s on the wagon.”

“Yes, but for how long?”

McPhee pushed his plate away without finishing, alerting Sonya to the fact that she’d ticked him off. He always cleaned his plate. “I’ve spent ten years as a virtual prisoner,” he said, “to my father, to Muffy and to you. That’s long enough. If my father does something crazy and gets himself fired, I’ll deal with it. But I’m not going to let the fear of that stop me from living. Not anymore.”

Sonya hadn’t heard much past the word “prisoner.” “If conditions are so wretched here, why didn’t you quit?” she challenged him.

“You don’t think I’ve tried? But your mother made it pretty clear. If I left, Jock had to go, too. I couldn’t do that to him. He has nowhere else to go.”

“How are things different now?”

“Your mother is being a bit more flexible, now that your future is secured and my dad’s behaving himself. I think he finally understands the consequences if he messes up again. Maybe he won’t this time.”

Sonya wanted to believe that Jock McPhee’s drinking days were over, but she found it difficult. She recalled all too well the sort of mayhem that ensued when Jock went on a bender. Once he’d driven the riding lawnmower right through the living room window and into the middle of one of Muffy’s tea parties. Another time he’d gotten a chainsaw and lopped off half of an ancient oak tree because he was tired of fishing its leaves out of the pool; he’d nearly chopped off one of his arms, as well.

Muffy should have fired Jock long ago, but she had such a soft heart she couldn’t do it. Besides, when Jock was sober, he was the best gardener in all of Houston and a very nice person. Sonya, as well, had always had a soft spot for Jock. He’d been especially kind to her when she was grieving over her father’s death.

So had McPhee. The teenage boy who’d had no use for a ten-year-old girl had suddenly stopped tormenting her. He’d started showing her small kindnesses, offering to drive her to visit friends if Tim was busy, playing volleyball with her in the pool.

That was when she’d first fallen in love with him.

Oh, hell, she didn’t want to think about that now. “Well, I wish you luck in your new career. And I’m sorry we’ve made your life so unpleasant.”

“No, you’re not,” he said with a little grin. “You did it on purpose. You’ve resented me watching your every move as much as I’ve resented having to play nursemaid to a spoiled debutante.”

Sonya laid down her fork. “Boy, you’re really taking the gloves off.”

“I feel a certain recklessness, knowing I’ll soon be free.”

“Now is not the time for me to find out you hate me,” she said. “I have enough to deal with.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You just think I’m spoiled.”

“Anyone who doesn’t have to work for a living is spoiled. It’s not your fault you were born with so much money.”

Sonya wanted to continue the argument. Unfortunately, she knew he was right. She’d never wanted for anything in her life, something she’d taken for granted. Did that make her spoiled?

Without a good comeback, she returned her attention to her macaroni and cheese, hoping he would go away.

He did. He rinsed his plate, put it in the dishwasher and left the kitchen without another word.

Sonya felt guilty, though she didn’t know why. McPhee was such a thorn in her side, always lurking, nosy about everything she did, every person she saw. But she’d known for a long time that being her bodyguard wasn’t his dream job. It was boring. He’d never once had to protect her from anything more threatening than a pushy salesman. Yet he’d tried to make the best of it.

What a relief it would be for both of them, she supposed, if he went away. Once her mother found out Sonya wasn’t getting married, she would try to keep McPhee on the payroll. But she had a feeling his mind was made up. This time, he was really going, really moving out of her life.

A noise at the kitchen door startled Sonya. The Patterson estate had security up the wazoo. At night the gates were locked up tight, and electronic sensors around the perimeter fence would detect any intruder. But Sonya had inherited some of her mother’s paranoia, she supposed. Whenever she heard a strange noise at night, or even if a stranger looked at her funny, she mentally reviewed escape routes and the location of the nearest weapons for self-defense.

The sound at the door came again, and then the door opened. Sonya tensed, then relaxed when she recognized the nocturnal visitor. It was just Jock McPhee, John-Michael’s father, who was harmless as a baby bird so long as he hadn’t been drinking. And even drunk, he wasn’t mean, just a bit reckless.

“Hello, Jock,” Sonya said, alert for any sign that the gardener had been drinking. Jock was probably no more than five-ten, small and wiry. There was some resemblance to John-Michael in the lean face and the shape of his jaw, but that was where the resemblance ended. His coarse hair, once a dark brown, was salt-and-pepper, and it stood out from his head in unruly tufts, as if he’d just gotten out of bed. His cheeks bore a dayold, silvery beard, and his front teeth were slightly crooked, though still a bright white.

His most startling feature was his eyes, a vibrant sea blue. They hadn’t faded with age. And in this instance, they were clear and alert. No sign that he’d fallen off the wagon. His work pants were old and faded, but clean, held up by his trademark rainbow suspenders.

“Hello, Miss Sonya,” he said with a tentative smile. He spoke with the faint trace of an Irish cadence, a legacy from his home country. “I couldn’t sleep, and I saw the light. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”

“Of course I don’t mind. Would you like some macaroni and cheese?”

He shook his head. “I’m not very hungry these days. I just can’t seem to settle down since they carted Miss Muffy to the hospital. Nothing bad’s happened, has it?”

Sonya’s heart went out to the man. He’d lived on the Patterson estate since he was a baby, when his mother came here to work as a cook. He and Muffy had grown up together. They often fought like a couple of bulldogs over what should be planted and where. Muffy had some old, decrepit camellia bushes that she absolutely refused to let Jock replace or even prune, though they were overgrown and past their prime, and they argued about those silly bushes on a monthly basis. But Sonya knew there was a deep, mutual fondness between the two. No one had given Jock much thought the past couple of days, but he was probably devastated over her mother’s health crisis.

“My mother is doing better,” Sonya said. “I just heard from the hospital. They might even move her out of Intensive Care tomorrow.”

“Oh, praise the heavens,” Jock said, sinking into a kitchen chair. “I’ve been just sick with worry. Is there anything I can do? Oh, of course there isn’t, but that’s what everybody asks at a time like this.”

“I’m sure my mother would appreciate your kind thoughts and prayers,” Sonya said gently.

“Do you think—would it be all right if I visited her at the hospital? I wouldn’t stay long. I could bring her a few blooms from the greenhouse.”

“She would love to see you, I’m sure. I’ll let you know as soon as she’s allowed visitors.”

“Thank you, Miss Sonya. I imagine this has put a kink in your wedding plans.”

“We may have to delay the ceremony,” she confirmed. Every time she said it, she felt relieved. When would it be appropriate for her to call the church and give up the date she’d selected, January eighth? Once the wedding was no longer scheduled, it would be easy just to never reschedule. Then it would be easier still to convince her mother she’d changed her mind about tying the knot with Marvin. Maybe she would never have to tell Muffy what a fool she’d been, allowing Marvin to fleece her. The whole subject of Marvin could just quietly disappear.

“I was looking forward to making your wedding bouquet myself,” Jock said quietly. “I know you’ve hired a big fancy florist to do all the arrangements, but I was hoping…well, I have some of the most beautiful roses you’ve ever seen in the greenhouse.”

“Why, Jock, I’d be honored to have you do that for me.” She knew he was up to the task. He often put together fantastic arrangements for the house. “Don’t pick out the blooms just yet,” she added hastily. “But whenever I do get married, I definitely want you to do my bouquet.”

He seemed pleased to hear her say that, and he offered her a warm smile. “Thank you, Miss Sonya. You and your mother have always been so good to me, even in bad times.”

“Your son tells me the bad times are over,” she said.

“I’m working real hard,” Jock confirmed. “I’m in AA. In fact, I thought I’d head out to a meeting right now.”

“Do they have meetings at this time of the night?”

“Just about any time you need one, you can find it. And I need one. This thing with your mother—well, if a man can’t drink when someone he cares for is at death’s door, when can he drink?”

Sonya wasn’t used to Jock speaking so freely about his drinking problem, but she supposed it was a good sign that maybe he really had made lasting changes in his life.

“Don’t let me keep you,” she said. “And I’m proud of you. I know it can’t be easy, changing the habits of a lifetime.”

“There are some habits you can change,” he said. “And some you can’t.” With that cryptic comment, he tipped an imaginary hat and departed.

Chapter Two

John-Michael quickly noted that Sonya wasn’t speaking to him as they rode in the limousine toward the hospital the following morning.

“I might have been out of line,” he ventured, “calling you spoiled.”

“Stuff it.”

Okay. She was under stress and he wasn’t helping her any. She’d been acting hinky since she’d returned from her mysterious road trip.

“Were you having an affair?” John-Michael asked. “Is that what New Orleans was about?”

“Yes. With Brenna,” she added, deadpan. “Thank goodness my secret is finally out in the open.”

Tim, who wasn’t supposed to be listening, snorted from the front seat.

“I just can’t imagine what would have drawn you to some of the places you visited over the past few weeks,” John-Michael continued. “Dallas makes sense. But Cottonwood, Texas? And then, some sleazy motel in Smoky Bayou, Louisiana?”

Cottonwood was where Cindy Rheems, another of Marvin’s victims, lived. Smoky Bayou was one of the many stops they’d made as they’d tracked Marvin across two states, always a step behind him. “Will you please just let it drop?”

“I’m responsible for your safety, which means I need to know what’s going on in your life.”

“I hereby absolve you of your responsibility.”

They’d been through this conversation, or ones very similar, countless times since he’d taken the job as her bodyguard.

When they reached the hospital, rather than following standard procedure for entering a public building, Sonya charged out of the limousine toward the front canopy of Harris County Medical Center without waiting for John-Michael to check things out and then escort her. Usually there was no need for extreme security. Unfortunately, today wasn’t usual.

A reporter with a tape recorder appeared out of nowhere heading Sonya off before she could get to the door.

“Miss Patterson, Leslie Frazier from Houston Living magazine. Is your mother all right?”

“Yes, my mother is fine,” Sonya said smoothly, a polite smile pasted on.

“A source close to the situation says your mother is in Intensive Care, that she’s had a heart attack.”

John-Michael was about to jump in and rescue his charge, but she handled the situation just fine.

“She’s undergoing tests,” Sonya said firmly. “I have no further comments.”

The reporter, seeing John-Michael, looked at him hopefully, but he wouldn’t make eye contact, and the firm set of his mouth apparently dissuaded the perky redhead from asking any further questions.

“You shouldn’t go charging ahead of me like that,” John-Michael said when they were out of the reporter’s earshot.

“You’ve been reading your own press,” Sonya said, sounding annoyed. “She was a five-foot-two bubble-head who probably doesn’t weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet. I wasn’t in any danger.”

“She could have been someone more dangerous.”

“McPhee, in all the years you’ve been guarding me, has anyone ever threatened me?”

“No,” he admitted.

“The danger is all in my mother’s head. And you’ve bought into it. Get over yourself.” She switched off her cell phone as they entered the building, reminding him to do the same.

They discovered that Muffy was no longer in the Intensive Care Unit. She’d been moved to a regular room. When they finally located her, she was sitting up in bed, her eyes open, the TV on, though John-Michael didn’t think she was actually watching the show. She wasn’t exactly a Jerry Springer fan. Though she was still hooked up to an IV and oxygen, she looked about 500 percent less scary than yesterday.

“Mother?”

Muffy looked over and managed a faint smile. “Sonya. And John-Michael, how nice.”

He walked up to the bed and squeezed her hand. “Mrs. Patterson. You must be feeling better. You look great.”

“Liar. I must…look like…day-old…paté de foie gras.” Her speech was labored, and it pained John-Michael to see her laid so low. But at least she was awake, and seemingly alert.

“Mother, don’t try to talk,” Sonya said.

“I want…to talk. I have to thank…John-Michael. I should have said something…long ago.”

“Thank him for what?”

“For making me go…to the hospital. I thought it was…indigestion. And for finding my girl…and bringing her home.”

Sonya flicked a curious glance toward John-Michael. “You did that? Brought her to the E.R.? How come no one told me?”

“It was a group effort,” John-Michael said modestly.

“Well, thank you,” Sonya said. “You probably saved her life.”

He shrugged. He didn’t consider himself a hero. He’d done what anyone would do. Anyway, having Sonya’s gratitude felt alien. He was much more comfortable when she was mad at him.

Sonya returned her attention to her mother, brushing her hand lightly against Muffy’s cheek. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you got sick.” She’d already apologized several times, but she felt compelled to repeat herself.

“I know, pumpkin. Is Marvin here?”

“He’s still in China. I can’t get hold of him.” She said this quickly, as if she’d rehearsed the answer over and over. And her eyes flickered up and to the right. John-Michael had studied neuro-linguistic programming as part of his criminology curriculum. Sonya was lying, or at least not telling the whole truth about Marvin’s whereabouts. John-Michael wished he could get to the bottom of this mystery, but he didn’t want to press Sonya when she was still so worried about her mother.

“How are the wedding plans coming?” Muffy said to Sonya.

“I’ve put the wedding on hold,” Sonya said firmly. “We’re not going to focus on anything for a while except getting you well.”

“You can’t postpone it,” Muffy said, her voice suddenly stronger. “We’ll lose our date at the country club!”

“Mother, don’t worry about it. I promise it will be fine. We’ll work it out. I want you to focus on getting better.”

“It’s not for two months,” Muffy persisted. “I’ll be fine by then.”

“We’ll see,” Sonya said.

It amused John-Michael to see Sonya playing the patient parent figure, Muffy the petulant child. He and his father had experienced that reversal many years ago, but he’d never expected to see it between these two. In his mind, Sonya was the eternal child, the spoiled princess, and Muffy the overindulgent but firm mama.

Sonya had seemed different, though, since her trip. More mature, more serious, more assertive. Unfortunately for his mental well-being, more attractive, too. He would have to adjust his thinking.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” he said, moving toward the door.

“Oh, John-Mikey,” Muffy said, using his childhood nickname. Muffy was the only person who could get away with that. Not even Jock tried it. “Could you bring me something to eat? Maybe a nice blueberry muffin?” She batted her eyelashes. “The breakfast they served me was pitiful.”

“Don’t you dare,” Sonya said. “She’s not getting one bite of anything the doctor didn’t prescribe. But I understand if you’d like to get something for yourself,” she added. “I did get you up rather early this morning and didn’t even offer you breakfast.”

“I think I will get something,” he said gruffly. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.” John-Michael slipped out the door, needing some space and distance from Sonya. He wasn’t sure he liked her being polite to him, nice, even. Such behavior upset the world order. It was much better that he treat her like a contemptible snail.

She’d started to be a little bit nice last night, too, sharing her macaroni and cheese. And he’d felt that familiar pull. She’d looked so approachable, all rumpled in her night clothes, her silky robe and nightgown showing far too much of her body’s contours to be considered modest.

That was why he’d deliberately picked a fight with her, calling her spoiled. Nothing was as certain to get her dander up. And he needed her mad at him. When she was nice, she was too damn tempting. And this added dimension she’d recently acquired, this mysterious allure he’d never noticed before, only added to the overall package.

SONYA HAD THOUGHT that, once she and her mother were alone, she might broach the subject of calling off the wedding altogether. Though she wasn’t ready to admit she’d been seduced, conned, dumped and picked clean, she couldn’t allow the wedding plans to continue. Her mother had already spent a fortune on the preparations, much of it nonrefundable.

But Muffy’s first words, once they were alone, changed her plans. She grasped Sonya’s hand with more strength than a woman so recently at death’s door should have been able to muster. “Sonya, promise me something.”

“I’ll try. But I won’t smuggle you any of Thomas’s cheesecake.” Thomas was Muffy’s favorite dessert chef, from the Cheesecake Emporium.

“No, be serious. You can’t postpone the wedding.”

“Mother—”

“Listen to me. Planning that wedding was…the most fun I’ve ever had in my life, more fun than planning…my own, even.”

“I know,” Sonya said. “But the stress—”

“Oh, stress, schmess. I was enjoying myself, and having fun never caused a heart attack.”

Sonya knew differently. Even good stress could affect the body in negative ways.

“Years of ignoring my doctor’s advice—and yours—are what made me sick,” Muffy continued. “But as I was lying on that gurney in the emergency room, and I heard them yell ‘Code Blue!’, only one thing kept me alive. I kept telling myself, ‘you have to get through this for Sonya’s wedding. You can’t miss Sonya’s wedding.’”

“Oh, Mother…”

“We can’t delay it. What if I have another heart attack and I don’t make it?”

“That’s not going to happen. Your doctor told me—”

“Doctors don’t know everything. We can’t predict the future. Promise me…” She paused to catch her breath. “Promise me you’ll carry on with the preparations, that we’ll do it on January 8, just as planned.”

Her heart dropped like a rock thrown down a well. The last thing she needed was to continue the pretense that she was going to marry that skunk. “Of course, Mother.” What else could she say? She’d straighten everything out when her mother’s health was better, when she was in no danger of relapsing. Meanwhile, she would have to pretend she was still a blushing bride-to-be.