The Best Man

Right.

“I hate that bathroom,” Colleen said, pulling Faith out of the bog of memories. “It’s freezing, first of all, and those automatic toilets are dangerous, like they could suck down an entire child.” She sat back down. “Hey, did you notice I’m wearing a push-up bra, Holland? For you. Connor always says women get more dressed up for each other than for men.”

“It’s true. I’m wearing a Microfiber Slim-Nation undergarment for you.”

“Really? Just for me? No wonder you’re my best friend.”

“You’re welcome. But you always wear a push-up bra.”

“You have a point. But I’m wearing glittery eye shadow, see?” Colleen batted her long, black, completely natural and totally unfair lashes for Faith to admire.

Suddenly, the back of Faith’s neck prickled. She felt it first, that reverberation in her stomach, then heard it.

Jeremy’s voice.

Oh, God, he had the best voice, low and warm and always with a laugh behind it, as if he found everyone and everything utterly wonderful.

“The time has come,” Colleen confirmed.

“No! No, no, no. I’m, I’m not ready. I hate this sweater.” Faith swallowed. “Coll, what do I do? What do I do?”

“Um...go say hi?”

“I can’t! I have to lose fifteen pounds! Plus, I’m not ready. I have to...prepare.”

Colleen laughed. “Just bite the bullet! You look great.”

“No. Really. Not yet.” She risked a glance at him—broad shoulders, that beautiful black hair, and he was laughing now, oh, crap! All he had to do was turn forty-five degrees, and he’d see her.

“Bathroom,” she said, and bolted.

She made it. No one else was in here, praise the Lord. Her heart was doing a fair impression of Secretariat at the Belmont, and there was a good possibility she was about to puke.

Faith caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror. She definitely wasn’t ready. First of all, the fifteen pounds. And her hair was dopey today. Also, she’d maybe put on some glittery eye shadow and something sexier than a black wrap sweater that looked like something a Mennonite would wear to a funeral. Honestly, what had she been thinking when she bought it? It wasn’t even low-cut.

No. She had to prepare, because if she was going to see He Who Left Her at the Altar, she was going to look amazing and have some remarks planned. Not have two martinis inside her, and look at this! A blob of egg roll on her boob, and Colleen had said nothing! Some friend.

Okay. She’d just call Colleen, ask her to pay the bill and then let her know when Jeremy wasn’t looking, and she’d bolt to freedom.

Futtocks. She’d left her purse (and phone) at the table.

Well. She had to pee, anyway. Terror did that to her. Going into the stall, she unwound her sweater—the Microfiber Slim-Nation undergarment (try saying that five times fast) required that she practically strip naked to use the bathroom—and wrestled up her undergarment. The martinis, while relaxing and excellent, didn’t help her in the grace and coordination department, let alone the slutty, high-heeled boots she’d donned for Colleen.

Men never had to deal with this, Faith thought. Men didn’t hide in bathrooms and wrestle microfiber and pantyhose. Totally not fair. Men had it easy. Did men get bikini waxed and wear uncomfortable underwear? No, they did not. Faith would bet her life that a man had invented thongs. Men sucked.

As she yanked the Microfiber Slim-Nation undergarment back into position, she reached for her sweater—so complicated! She got one arm in, couldn’t find the other one, groped, missed...and all of a sudden, heard the roar of the child-sucking toilet. There was a tug on her arm, and Faith staggered back, watching in horror as her sweater peeled off and disappeared halfway down the toilet, one black arm dangling out like a dead snake.

Colleen had been right. The toilet was on steroids.

“Well, this...bites,” she announced, her voice echoing. Her sweater was in the toilet and obviously she wasn’t going to wear it. She picked up the dry sleeve and gave a tentative tug. Whoosh—there was the damn sensor again, and just like that, the sweater was gone.

And Faith was alone in the bathroom in a red skirt, slutty boots, a black 36-D push-up bra and beige Microfiber Slim-Nation undergarment slip that stopped under her boobage, the only reason she could still fit into this outfit.

She was trapped. Wait, wait...she had a raincoat in Colleen’s car; Coll had driven tonight, and it had looked like rain, but it hadn’t rained, so she’d left it in the car. There. A plan. She’d just call Colleen, ask her to get the raincoat, bring it in, then they could flee like the wind. Also, she should stop drinking martinis.

She turned for her purse. Dang. Right, it was back at the table.

Faith chewed on her lip for a second, then glanced down and adjusted her right breast. Okay. Time to summon the cavalry.

She tiptoed to the door—why tiptoe, who knew?—and peeked out. To see the actual dining room, she was going to have to leave the bathroom, go down the hallway a few steps and take her chances. But she should be able to flag down Colleen, who, after all, might possibly remember that her oldest friend was in distress.

She opened the door. No one was in sight. One step out. Another step. She crossed her arms over her chest, then over her Microfiber Slim-Nation undergarment. Which did she want to hide more, the boobage, or the fat-squishing undergarment? The Microfiber Slim-Nation undergarment it was. Another step. She could see three empty tables, but the noise level had escalated. Another tour bus, most likely. One more step and, yes, she could see her purse. Faith leaned forward a little more, ready to hiss at her friend to come save her.

But no.

Colleen wasn’t there. Where the heck—oh, great. She was at the bar, flirting with Greg, the waiter.

And here came a little old lady with a cane.

Without thinking, Faith scrambled back to the bathroom, the air cool on her bare shoulders, and leaped into the farthest stall from the door. God, this was so embarrassing! She stood there, waiting for the woman to take care of business. The seconds ticked past. It was getting chilly, too.

Finally! The toilet roared, the woman exited the stall, then washed her hands (thoroughly, Faith was pained to note). A paper towel. And another one. And one more. Then came the blessed sound of the door squeaking open and wheezing closed.

It dawned abruptly that Faith could’ve asked the woman to get Colleen. She dashed out of the stall, causing the toilet to flush again, but the woman was gone...fast little thing, considering the cane and all. Faith tiptoed as fast as she could down the little hall, hoping to catch her. Nope. Speedy Gonzalez, Senior Edition, was nowhere to be seen. And still no Colleen.

Jeremy, however, was just sitting down at the table nearest the hallway.

Cursing silently, she whirled and dashed again before he could see her, back to the sanctuary of the bathroom.

You know what? It was time to go. There was no exit back here, but there was a window in the last stall. Faith could slip out; it couldn’t be too high from the back of the restaurant. She’d jump down, get her damn raincoat out of Colleen’s car, find a pay phone, if the one by the post office still worked, call Colleen and tell her to get her flirtatious ass out of Hugo’s.

It was a good plan, Faith thought, as far as this type of sans-clothing nightmare went. She stood carefully on the toilet seat (it flushed yet again, the hungry beast). The window wasn’t huge; she did a quick assessment of her boobage and the width of the window. Fairly close, but she could make it. She’d have to squeeze out, rather than climb. But, hey, why not? When was too much humiliation really too much? Microfiber Slim-Nation undergarments and sweater-eating toilets were still better than angry wives and adorable toddlers calling you a whore, right?

She stuck her head out the window. Five or six cars, including Colleen’s, and no people. It would be so, so great if her dad just happened to be pulling up at this moment and could save her. But, no, just a dog near the Dumpster. Feral? Savage? Savage and feral? “Hey, cutie,” she said, trying to evaluate its ferocity. It wagged. “Good puppy,” she said. The dog wagged again. A yellow Lab. Not feral.

It was nearly dark, thankfully. Perfect. Time to be Spider-man.

Faith put the heels of her hands on the window ledge and gave a little jump, using her arms as leverage as she maneuvered out the window. Head clear, shoulders clear, boobs clear, stomach clear. Then her momentum stopped abruptly.

Ass not clear.

She wriggled again. Nothing.

The dog barked in delight, sensing some fun coming on.

“Shh,” Faith said. “Quiet, sweetie.” She gave a flop, rather than a wriggle, figuring force might win over torque, or vice versa. Ground her hips down and pushed up with her arms. Kicked her legs, which had nothing to push against. Twisted and pulled. Twisted and flopped. Heaved. Pushed. Grunted.

Nada. Nyet. Nuttin.

Okay, fine. She’d have to go back in and think of something else.

But apparently “in” was not an option, either. Faith was stuck like a cork in a bottle.

“Okay, shit,” she said aloud. Her head was a little dizzy from the two martinis or the fact that her blood supply was being choked off by the window, or both.

Pushing with her arms, she sucked in her stomach, and tried with more gusto. At least the Microfiber Slim-Nation undergarment was slippery. Oh, goody, she got another inch. Glanced back at her butt. Almost there. Of course, if her butt did suddenly clear the window, she’d fall right on her head and break her neck. Woman Who Didn’t Know Fiancé Was Gay Falls to Her Death Wearing Microfiber Slim-Nation Undergarment.

“Come on!” she said a bit more forcefully. The dog barked again, then jumped up, its paws against the outside wall of Hugo’s. “Help me, Lassie,” Faith muttered. She wriggled some more to no avail.

Then the glare of headlights washed over her as a Manningsport police car pulled into the parking lot.

CHAPTER FIVE

AS A COP, LEVI COOPER SAW his fair share of odd things. Victor Iskin had all his pets sent to the taxidermist after they died. Sometimes, he’d invite Levi in to visit, and Levi would sit there, surrounded by motionless cats, dogs and a couple of hamsters. Methalia Lewis liked to show him how fat she was getting by hoisting up her shirt and grabbing her stomach in both hands. But Methalia was eighty-two years old and laughed merrily while doing it, then would inevitably offer him some pie. Joey Kilpatrick kept his gallstones, six in all, in a little glass bowl on the kitchen table, and liked to recount just how horrified the surgeon had been at the state of his infected gallbladder.

But Faith Holland’s head and scantily clad torso hanging out of a window...black bra, too...that was a sight. He turned off the lights and sat there a moment as she wriggled in the fading evening glow.

Guess he should get out of the car. Then again, that was a pretty great view.

He wasn’t one to smile much, as he was often told by Emmaline, the administrative assistant he still regretted hiring. But this...yeah. He felt a smirk coming on. Getting out of the car, he walked over to the restaurant window, which was about ten feet off the ground. Good thing Faith wasn’t a little wisp of a thing; she might’ve broken something falling if she hadn’t been wedged in there.

“Is there a problem here, ma’am?” he asked.

“Nope. Just taking in the view,” Faith said, not looking at him.

“Me, too.” Yep. He was smirking. “Nice night, isn’t it?”

“It is. It’s beautiful.”

He nodded. “What happened to your shirt?”

One of her arms suddenly flew across her gorgeous rack as if she was just aware that he was getting quite a show. “I, um...I had a wardrobe malfunction.”

“I see.” The arm blocking his view couldn’t stay there long; she needed it to brace herself or risk flopping. He waited. She glared. A second later, her arm went back again, treating him to the stellar view once more. Very nice, all that plump, creamy bodaciousness encased in a low-cut bra. Not that he particularly liked Faith Holland, but he did like breasts, and it had been a while since he’d seen such an exemplary pair. “So, what happened?”

Her face grew red. “I flushed my sweater down the toilet.”

“That happens to me all the time.” This earned another glare. “So you decided to climb out the window?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Where you are now stuck.”

“Wow. Those analytical powers of yours are just stunning, Levi. No wonder you’re a cop.”

That comment just bought her a few more seconds in the window. “Well, if there’s nothing you need, I’ll be on my way. You have a nice night, ma’am.”

He started to get back in the car.

“Levi! Don’t go! And don’t call me ma’am. I’m still a miss. Help me out here. Aren’t you a public servant?”

“I am.” He raised his eyebrows and waited.

“So? Give me a hand and stop being such a hemorrhoid.”

“Should half-dressed people wedged in windows call an officer of the law names, do you think?”

She huffed. “Officer Cooper, would you please help me?”

“It’s Chief Cooper, and, yes.”

He got back in the cruiser and pulled it up so the bumper almost touched the building, threw the car in Park and got out again. “I really have to wonder how climbing out the window seemed like the best decision,” he said, climbing on the hood of the cruiser. “Is Jeremy in there?”

“Just help me,” she ground out.

He’d take that as a yes.

They were at eye level—well, in Faith’s case, eye and torso level. It looked as if she’d been shot through the wall. She was stuck, all right. Short of smearing her with butter (Don’t go there, he warned himself), there was no way he was going to be able to do this without touching her. Which was always tricky, if you were the chief of police. Sexual harassment and all that.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll just...is it all right, Faith, if I hold on to your arms and pull you out?”

“Yes! Isn’t it obvious? Were you planning to use the Force instead?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “I think you should be a little nicer, Holland,” he said, “given that I could call the fire department right now. Gerard Chartier lives for this sort of thing. And isn’t your nephew a volunteer?”

“I will castrate you if you call the fire department. You’re bad enough. Just help me.”

He took hold of her upper arms and immediately chastised himself. Her skin was freezing, as the night had gotten cool. “Count of three,” he said, bracing a foot against the building. “One...two...three.”

He pulled, and out she came, half falling against him, all soft and white and plump in the gloom. He took a step back as soon as humanly possible, ending contact, and jumped off the hood of the cruiser, then looked back up at her.

“What is that?” he asked, tilting his head. She was wearing some kind of weird, beige, shiny tank top or something that ended just below her bra.

“It’s a slip. Stop looking and don’t you dare say another word.”

He offered his hand as she climbed off the cruiser—imagine writing up that report. The half-naked woman then fell off my cruiser because I didn’t want to touch her. Her hand was cold, too. “Want my coat?” he asked, shrugging out of it.

Faith ignored him, going to Colleen O’Rourke’s red MINI Cooper. She tried the door. It was locked; that was good, as there’d been a few car break-ins lately. She sighed heavily, then turned back to him. He held out his jacket. “Thank you,” she said, pulling it on without looking at him. “Can I use your phone, please?”

“Sure.” He handed it over and watched as she dialed.

At that moment, Colleen’s face appeared in the bathroom window. “What the hell are you doing out here, Faith?” she asked, starting to laugh. “Did you actually climb out the window? Hey, Levi.”

“Colleen.”

“I really needed you five minutes ago,” Faith said. “Can you please get my purse so we can get the hell out of here? Pretty please?”

Colleen obeyed, and before too long, Faith handed him back his jacket and put on her own raincoat. They were gabbling away, laughing about the incident now. “See you soon, Chief,” Colleen said with a smile.

He nodded. Faith waved but didn’t quite meet his eyes.

Then they drove off, and though his shift was technically over, Levi walked over to the station. May as well finish some paperwork.

His jacket smelled like Faith Holland’s perfume. Vanilla or something.

Something you’d eat for dessert.

CHAPTER SIX

WHEN FAITH AND JEREMY BROKE up three weeks before the senior prom, it sent ripples of shock through Manningsport High. Who would be prom king and queen, if not the golden couple? Had Jeremy found someone else? If so, who was the lucky girl?

When Jeremy glumly informed Levi that he and Faith were “taking a break,” Levi asked if he wanted to talk about it and was relieved when Jeremy said no.

It was a strange time. All anyone could talk about was where they’d be in the fall. A couple kids were going to the community college, a couple would be going straight into the workforce, but most were headed away and talked endlessly about the need to buy supplies, clothes, a new computer.

As the only recruit in their high school class (though Tiffy Ames was going to the Air Force Academy, and George Shea was Navy ROTC), Levi didn’t have the same issues. His father had cemented the impossibility of college, and the Army felt like a good fit. But in addition to the sense of pride he already felt about serving in the military, a melancholy was descending. He tried to spend a night or two watching TV with his mom each week, knowing she was more worried than she’d say. He took Sarah fishing and read Harry Potter to her, hoping in the back of his mind that if something happened, she’d remember him. She was only eight.

He was ready. He wanted to serve, figured he’d be good at it. He’d passed all his tests, and his recruiter thought he might make a good sniper, based on the psych profile and his innate skill with a gun. Whatever the case, chances were high that Levi would be on the fast track to Afghanistan.

So things like Faith and Jeremy’s relationship status tended not to matter, aside from the fact that his buddy was glum.

Ted and Elaine Lyon had hired him for the spring. They made Jeremy do the same thing, though they didn’t pay him; said he was heir to the land, even if he did spit in their eye and decide to become a doctor (this statement was usually followed with a slap on the back or a hug). This week, however, Jeremy and Elaine had gone to California to visit relatives, so Levi was on his own. “If you don’t mind working solo,” Ted said, “the merlot trellises need checking. You just tie up the vines so the grapes won’t fall off or touch the ground. You’ve done that before, right?”

“Yes, sir. Jeremy and I did that last week in the Rieslings,” Levi answered. It wasn’t exactly brain surgery.

“Great! Thanks, son.” The lady from the tasting room gave him a bag lunch and a big bottle of water, and Levi headed to the western edge of the vineyard, close to Blue Heron, where the land got pretty steep, not too far from the woods.

He worked from the top of the hill downward, one row at a time. The sun beat on his back, and he pulled off his T-shirt after fifteen minutes. It was hot for early May, and he was glad he wore shorts. Might hit the lake for a swim later on, no matter how cold the water was.

He’d been working a good hour and was already damp with sweat when he heard the rumble of a truck. It was John Holland’s red pickup, identifiable anywhere due to its age and general filth...always mud-splattered and crusty. It stopped, and an enormous Golden retriever bounded out, followed by Princess Super-Cute.

She wore cutoff shorts, a white sleeveless shirt, the tails tied under her breasts, and a blue bandanna on her head. Levi felt a generic stir of lust. Nothing personal, Holland, he thought. He’d been stealing looks at her chest since he was fourteen.

The dog ran over to him, tail wagging, and barked once, then collapsed, rolling on his back. “Hey, buddy,” Levi said, rubbing the beast’s stomach.

Faith shaded her eyes and looked at him. “Hi,” she called tentatively. “What are you doing?”

“Tying up vines. You?”

She smiled. “Same thing.” She held up an apron, then tied it on. “My sister’s cracking the whip.” She paused. “I guess Smiley likes you.”

Smiley. Leave it to Faith Holland to have a dog named Smiley. Speaking of, the dog apparently had had enough of a scratch, because he leaped up and went romping through the vineyard rows, tail waving.

Faith, however, came to within two rows of where he was, and he braced himself for questions about Jeremy, or an explanation, or a discussion. Girls, he well knew, liked to talk about their feelings until they had nothing left to say, at which point they’d start repeating themselves.

Instead, she bent over and started doing exactly what he was. Except she was better at it. The apron held twist ties, and she didn’t have to check each shoot the way he did. She was kind of a pro, actually.

And when she bent over, there was that mighty rack on display. He didn’t have a lot of use for Faith Holland, but, man, that was a nice pair.

She glanced up. Busted. “I thought you were more of the princess type,” he said as explanation. “Run out of townies to do the grunt work?”

She just laughed. “If you’re a Holland, you’re a farmer,” she said. “If you’re a farmer, you work. You don’t just gaze out over the fields and sip wine.” She gave him a knowing look and twisted on another tie, her fingers fast and clever.

“Guess I was wrong.”

“Guess you were.”

She bent over again, and the lust felt much less generic. “So this is the property line, huh?” he asked.

“Yep. See that stone marker up there? That’s what divides Blue Heron from Lyon’s Den.” She secured three vines while she was talking, reminding him to drag his eyes off her breasts and get back to work.

She moved steadily, bending, sometimes kneeling, holding a cluster of the dusky grapes in her hand from time to time, and somehow, out here in the field, everything she did looked unabashedly sexual. She was soft and round and sweaty now, her red hair in pigtails, basically any male’s fantasy of a farm girl.

Jeremy’s girlfriend, dude, his conscience chided.

Except they weren’t together anymore.

“So how you doing, Holland?” he asked, surprising himself.

She glanced over at him, then stood up, taking the bandanna off her head and wiping her face, then retying it. Yep. Everything she did looked like she was on a Penthouse photo shoot. Except for the clothes. If she’d take off the clothes, things would be perfect.

Damn.

“I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

What did he ask? Oh, right. Jeremy. Maybe he’d finally come out of the closet. Or maybe she’d guessed.

“When do you leave for basic training?” Putting her hands on the small of her back, she stretched, her breasts straining against her shirt.

“Uh, July twentieth.”

“Are you nervous?”

He started to say no and put forth some of the bravado expected. “A little,” he heard himself say. “I’ve never really been away before.”

“Me, neither.”

“You’re going to Virginia, right?”

“Virginia Tech. It seems like a great school, but now all I can think of is how far it is from here.” She gave him a funny little smile, half sad, half embarrassed.

“You’ll do great. Everybody likes you.” Aw. Wasn’t he being super-sweet?

“Not everybody,” she said, twisting those little ties with amazing speed.

“No?”

“You don’t.”

Well, shit. “Why do you say that?” he asked.

She laughed. “It’s pretty obvious, Levi,” she said. “You think I’m spoiled and irritating and ditzy. Am I right?”