when she finally got him aside for a moment.
He shrugged. “They said they would leave.”
“They’re gone, then?”
“I have my doubts. They all have this kind of glassy-eyed, hungry stare when they deal with me. To them, I’m not even really human. I’m just a story they’ll do anything to get. Maybe I should have listened to you and left it alone—and don’t give me that I-told-you-so look.”
“I’m sure I do not know what look you are talkin’ about.”
“The one on your face right now.”
She made a show of crossing her eyes—and then grew more serious. “Did you tell them straight out that we just got married?”
“Hell, yes. They followed us from the courthouse, and that leads me to believe they probably already knew—which is just fine. Let Robert Atwood read all about how you’ve married the famous—and rich—Bravo Baby, let him think about the ways it will mess up his plans. Let him—”
“Hey, you two,” called Uncle Hubert from over by the big bowl of sparkling-wine punch that Aunt Catherine had made. “Stop that whispering. Get over here with the rest of us. Time for a little toast…”
“Yes, come over here right now.” Camilla paused to sob and dab at her eyes with a tissue. “We want to wish you both the best of everything.”
* * *
Camilla cried until six-thirty. But then the doorbell rang. It was one of Wayne’s bachelor uncles from the wedding the week before—the one who had stayed so late last Saturday night. The uncle, whose name was Ezra Clay, did not come empty-handed. He had a gift for the newlyweds and a huge bouquet of tiger lilies for the mother of the bride.
At the sight of her admirer, Camilla ran upstairs to freshen her makeup. When she came back down, she took Ezra Clay’s hand and led him to the kitchen. They stayed in there for quite a while. When Joleen went in to hunt down more pretzels, her mother and Wayne’s uncle were standing close together at the counter, a tall crystal vase in front of them. Half the lilies stood in the vase, half lay in wait, bright splashes of sable-spotted gold, on the counter.
Camilla chose a flower from those waiting on the counter, clipped the stem at an angle with her gardening shears, and carefully propped it up in the vase. Then she leaned close to Wayne’s uncle and whispered something.
The uncle laughed, a low, intimate sound. Camilla laughed, too, and leaned close again to whisper some more.
Joleen watched them from the corner of her eye as she got a fresh bag of pretzels from the cupboard by the stove. Ezra Clay could have been anywhere from forty-five to sixty. He had intelligent dark eyes and nice, broad shoulders. He owned a couple of ice-cream store franchises, Joleen thought she remembered Wayne mentioning once.
Could this be the man who would convince her mother to settle down at last?
Sure. And maybe tomorrow the sun would set in the east.
Joleen closed the cupboard door. Whether Ezra Clay lasted in her mother’s affections or not, Joleen was grateful to him. Camilla had not shed a single tear since he’d walked in the front door.
Romance, Joleen thought wryly, did have its uses.
* * *
Dekker, Joleen and Sam left the party at a little after nine. The reporters—who had not gone away when Dekker asked them to—snapped pictures when the newlyweds emerged from the house, their flashes explosions of blinding light in the warm autumn darkness. Then they jumped into their cars, ready to give chase.
Dekker swore under his breath as he swung out of Camilla’s driveway. “They said they’d leave us alone for tonight, damn it.”
“Well, they are not doing it.” Joleen fastened her seat belt. “Take your own advice and ignore them.”
Dekker muttered a few swear words under his breath. Joleen pretended not to hear. She smiled and waved at the family members who had gathered on the porch to watch them drive away.
“And how the hell am I supposed to see to drive?” Dekker grumbled as they took off down the street. He had to squint through the words Just Married, which Bud and Burly had scrawled on the windshield in shaving cream. There Goes the Bride was written on the rear window. And a bouncing row of tin cans clattered along behind them.
Joleen brushed the birdseed from her hair. “It’s three blocks to my place. Take it slow and we’ll make it okay.” They’d chosen to stay at Joleen’s house for the wedding night. First thing in the morning they were leaving for Los Angeles.
As soon as they turned the corner and all the waving relatives disappeared from sight, Dekker swung over and stopped at the curb.
“What now?” Joleen demanded, as one of the reporters’ cars slid in behind them and the other rolled past the Lexus and nosed in along the curb just ahead.
Dekker whipped out his Swiss Army knife—the one with three blades, a corkscrew and just about every other tool known to man tucked inside. “Be right back.”
“Dekker—”
He was out of the car before she could tell him to stay where he was. She watched him circle around to the rear bumper, where he crouched, disappearing from her line of sight. When he stood again, he had the cans, still hanging by their strings.
He came back to the front of the car and presented them to her. “Here. Do something with these.”
Like what? she thought, but decided not to ask. She took them and set them on the floor next to her door. They rattled together as Dekker swung away from the curb. He passed the car in front before the reporter at the wheel had the wherewithal to shift into drive.
“I thought you said you couldn’t see,” Joleen reminded him as the powerful car picked up speed.
“I’m managing.”
“Lord, I hope so.”
“And this baby handles like a dream.”
“Oh. Good news to all of us, I am sure.…”
Sam laughed in pure glee from the backseat. He let out a string of almost-words, followed by a rousing, “Vroom-vroom-vroom!”
Joleen clutched the armrest and thought of all the times she’d suggested her friend ought to get himself a new car. And now he had done it. She could almost wish he hadn’t.
But then again, his old Road Runner, which still sat beneath the carport outside his apartment building, boasted 383 cubes on a V-8 block—a fact he mentioned often and with considerable pride. If he’d been driving it right now, they’d be going at the same speeds—and the ride would have been a whole lot rougher.
They barreled around a corner, tin cans rolling at her feet. “Dekker…”
He wasn’t listening. “Very fine,” he murmured, “like a knife through warm butter…”
In seconds they reached another corner and spun around it. Joleen
