What Doesn't Kill Her (Cape Charade #2)(85)

“She’ll arrange...” Max was obviously confused. “Who will?”

“The goddess.”

Max turned to Kellen. “I’m not happy that Nils Brooks is calling my daughter.”

“If I had a cell phone, you wouldn’t have to know about it.” Obviously, Rae believed she’d hit a home run.

“The best reason I ever heard not to get you a cell phone,” Max said roundly.

Rae’s smirk disappeared. “But—”

Kellen shook her head ever so slightly.

“I don’t never get to win.” Rae flounced off her chair. “Can I be excused?”

“May I?” Verona said.

“May I be excused?

“Of course,” Kellen said.

Rae ran out of the kitchen.

Verona said, “Ever since she got back from your trip, she has been cleaning her plate.”

The other two nodded.

“Tell me again,” Verona asked, “what’s a Triple Goddess?”



48


A week later, Kellen found herself crawling through the shrubbery—again. She didn’t mean to be here, among the three-foot-tall azalea bushes that had been trimmed to provide a lush leafy display on top with bare branches beneath. Last time she had crawled through the bushes outside the wine cellar, she’d almost been killed by a falling roof tile. Some might call this childish behavior, but right now, being childish seemed more sensible than dealing with table settings and groom’s cake and gown fittings.

The Di Luca family was everywhere, talking loudly about the grape harvest and giving Max unwanted wine-producing advice. He was unfailingly pleasant, but they weren’t all here yet. In fact, according to Max, the influx had barely begun.

They were arriving from Italy, from the eastern United States, from California’s wine country. They were old, young, laughing, melancholy, but all were nosy and all loud. They kissed and hugged her, spoke in Italian and English, cooked flagrantly and with extensive arguments. They overwhelmed with their exuberance.

Kellen settled, cross-legged, near the far end of the hedge. Occasionally, a pair of feet would wander past on the lawn; someone using a shortcut from the winery to the house, to the bocce ball court, to the tables that had been placed under the cherry trees.

Kellen pressed her back against the winery wall, breathed in the warm scents of bark mulch and vegetation and tried to meditate. But inner peace was elusive. She thought longingly about the door that led into the cool wine cellars, but she didn’t dare make the dash because even if she didn’t get caught before she reached the door, she was sure some of the Di Luca family would be touring. She would be expected to join the tour or, God forbid, lead the tour. That was so not Captain Kellen Adams.

Sometimes it seemed as if she was losing herself, the self she had created out of the remnants of Cecilia and memories of Cousin Kellen, in this wedding onslaught.

She heard the patter of running feet coming across the lawn and tensed.

Rae dived under the shrubs and slid close to Kellen. “Mommy, that man pinched my cheek!”

Kellen found herself instantly ready to kill. “Where?”

“In the yard!”

“No, I mean—where on your cheek?”

“Here!” Rae showed her a red mark on her face.

Kellen relaxed. “Which relative?”

“I don’t know. He had a funny accent.”

“Not Italian then.” Kellen wasn’t joking; they’d both heard so many Italian accents they thought nothing of it.

“No, a funny accent! He said he was from fah away and asked when and where I was bawn.”

“Sounds like he’s from Boston. What did he look like?”

“Like a man. Hair.” Rae ruffled her fingers over her head.

“Brown? Blond?”

“Brown. Dark brown. Brown eyes. He wanted to know my name and all about you and I told him some stuff, but he kept asking and finally I ran away.” Rae cuddled close to Kellen’s side. “Grandma said I can’t punch any of these people in the sternum. Because they’re relations.”

“No, you can’t.” Kellen hugged her. “But we can think about it with great relish.”

Bushes rustled at the far end of the row of shrubs, and to Kellen’s left, along the winery wall, Arthur Waldberg appeared, crawling toward them. He wore a white shirt, a blue tie, black linen pants and his handkerchief had been folded with precision and placed in the pocket of his gray sports coat. Sweat beaded on his shiny forehead. “Miss Adams, Miss Di Luca, I need some answers from the bride and the young maid of honor.”

Kellen moaned and thumped the back of her head against the wall—and tensed. Nothing happened, reality remained within reach, and she mentally cursed the stupid bullet for making the most innocent gesture a trial.

Arthur settled next to Rae, looked around at the well-trimmed branches around them and the dense foliage of leaves above and said, “This is quite pleasant. Rather like the tent I played in as a child. No wonder you hide here.” He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead, then carefully folded the linen into an origami fan and arranged it back in his pocket.

“Yes. To be alone,” Kellen said with emphasis.

“I know, Miss Adams, I sympathize with your desires, but we’re on a truncated wedding schedule and I must know what the bride wants.” He sounded sympathetic but ruthless.