The Perfect Match (Blue Heron #2)(117)

“Wow, Mom,” Abby said, pointing to her eyes. “Tears.”

“So? Not everyone is great at public speaking,” Prudence said, chugging some wine.

“Are you saying you’re not great?” Ned asked.

“Honor, say something nicer than I did,” Pru ordered. “These panty hose are riding where no man has gone before, can I say that?”

“Dear God,” Levi murmured as Faith wheezed with laughter.

“Just fifteen months till I go to college,” Abby said. “But who’s counting?”

Honor stood and looked at her father, who was quite dapper in his suit, and Mrs. Johnson in her beautiful, elegant dress. “You two,” she began, feeling a smile start in her heart. “Look at you. All these years, Mrs. Johnson, you’ve taken care of us. Cleaned for us, cooked for us, yelled at us. I can’t remember a school concert or graduation you missed. And all these years, you watched Dad by himself, doing his best to be happy. But some people just aren’t whole unless they have someone to love, and I think Dad’s one of them.” Dad wiped his eyes and kissed Mrs. J. “And, Dad, what a brave guy you are, daring to kiss Mrs. J. that first time when it must’ve seemed like she was going to bean you with a pot!”

“I was brave,” Dad said. “Thanks for noticing.”

Honor grinned. “So thank you, Dad, for picking such a great woman, and thank you, Mrs. J., for loving our father, and for being our second mother all these years.”

“Hear, hear,” said Jack, and Mrs. Johnson bustled over and gave Honor a watery kiss. Then Abby put on her iPod, and Etta James’s voice came over the speaker. “At Last.” Indeed.

Cars drove by and honked their horns, as news of the wedding had been broadcast. Dad and Mrs. J. started dancing. Faith and Levi, Pru and Carl, Ned and Abby, Goggy and Pops, joined in, and when Jack sighed and stood up, extending his hand to Honor, she took it.

“I hate weddings,” he said, stepping on her foot.

“Ouch. Are you sad because you can’t be Mrs. Johnson’s favorite anymore?”

“Why wouldn’t I be her favorite anymore?”

“Um, because Dad is?”

“Oh, please. Mrs. J., am I still your favorite?” he called.

“Of course, Jackie, my darling boy!”

“See?” he said smugly, going to cut in on Dad.

Dad stepped in to dance with Honor. “How’s my girl?” he said, putting his cheek next to hers, humming.

For a second, she remembered what it was like to be little, when her father would come home from the fields and pick her up to dance, how high she’d felt, how small her hand had seemed against his neck. How adored and safe she always felt. “I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you, too, Petunia. My beautiful girl.” He leaned back to look at her, his blue eyes kind. “How are you really?”

As in Are you sobbing inside?

“I’m fine,” she said.

“I loved your toast,” he murmured. “You might take your own advice, of course. Half of a whole and all that.”

“I just ordered a husband on eBay,” she said.

“I saw Tom the other day. I was under the impression he’d moved.”

“Not that I know of.”

“Any chance you might get back together?”

She stumbled a little. “Sorry. I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

I don’t love you.

“Whatever happens,” Dad said, almost reading her thoughts, “you’re the heart of this family, Honor.”

The words were a gift, and Honor’s eyes filled. She leaned her cheek against her father’s shoulder and hugged him tight.

* * *

LATER, WHEN DAD and Mrs. J. had left for a night in the city before they’d go on to Jamaica for their honeymoon, when everyone else had gone home and the yard was tidied and the dishes were all done, Honor went to bed, and while she’d expected to be tormented with thoughts of Tom, she surprised herself by falling fast asleep.

She woke up abruptly. Glancing at the clock, she saw it was 2:41 a.m. But it seemed more like six, because the sun was rising in an orange glow. Maybe the power had flickered and the clock was wrong.

But then she heard it. A low roar, and before her brain had processed the sound, she was on her feet and at the window.

Three hundred yards away, the Old House was on fire.

Jeans. A heavy sweatshirt, shoes, a blanket. She’d already dialed 9-1-1 before she was conscious of reaching for her phone. “A house fire,” she told the dispatcher as she ran down the stairs. “The Hollands’ on Lake View Road.”

Every stride, every footfall, was so clear. The sound of her breath rushing in and out of her lungs as she ran, the wool blanket wadded up under one arm like a football. The cool spring air.

The fire was a living creature, roaring, cracking, keening. The old saltbox, built in 1781, was a tinderbox, how many times had they said that? Why had Honor allowed her grandparents to stay there? This was bound to happen.

Pops was in the side yard, twenty feet from the kitchen door, on his knees, coughing, rocking back and forth as he tried to suck in air. Smoke inhalation, but he was alive. “Pops! Where’s Goggy?” she said.

He pointed, tears streaming down his face, unable to speak.