First Date - [Bridesmaid's Chronicles 01] Page 2

  Sydney reeled. What ? Her little sister had some "splainin" to do. Oh, no, she is NOT flying off, not before talking to me first Sydney lunged at the phone and dialed the Marv's Motor Inn of Fredericksburg, Texas.

  After being fired from her job as a buyer for Nordstrom, Julia had accepted Marv's decree that the only thing she was good for was running the smallest motor inn in his domain. "And she'll probably screw that up, too," Marv had said uncharitably. "She's not the responsible child."

  Sydney knew it was useless to point out that Julia hadn't "screwed up" at Nordie's. She'd ordered exquisite clothes. She just didn't have a very good head for figures.

  Julia had more of a figure for good heador so the joke had gone in high school. Sydney still remembered the only fistfight she'd ever gotten into because Chucky Malone had made that very comment.

  She'd punched him in the eye. Never mind that Chucky, after recovering from his shock, had then spanned her face with his ham hand and pushed her head into the lockers. She'd just kneed him in the balls, too. And then she, Sydney Spinelli, straight-A student, had gotten suspended from school for three days.

  At least Julia had snuck her a family-sized bag of nacho cheese-Doritos to keep her company. And she'd been able to watch all the soaps.

  Today Syd was an accountant and had curbed most of her tendencies toward violence. Chucky Ma-lone, however, was now in the Middlesex County jail, serving a sentence for grand theft auto. He'd never quite lived down getting sucker punched by a girland Sydney was okay with that.

  The Marv's Motor Inn phone rang and rang before it was answered by some kid with a hick accent. Naw, Miss Julia warn't thar, ma'am. Could'ee take a message ?

  Sydney tried Miss Julia's cell phone, but she wasn't picking up. She threw the phone in frustration. What the hell did Julia mean, she was getting married? She'd only been in Fredericksburg for a month .

  Sydney herself couldn't even meet a man in a month, much less marry one. And Marv was going to have a coronary. Roman Sonntag? What kind of name was that? Was he Italian or German? Oh, God, probably both. A man with the morals of a Sicilian alley cat and the anal-retentiveness of a German general. Roman Sonntag?

  Julia had always had packs of men barking at her heels, but this was the first time she'd gotten engaged to one. Most of the poor guys had been unmemorable; only a couple stayed in Sydney's mind. There'd been Santiago, the Argentinian boy who'd sobbed uncontrollably while warbling Latin love songs under her window before passing out cold in the hydrangeas. And then there'd been Somers, who'd sued Marv for eighteen thousand dollars after Julia lost the family heirloom necklace he'd given her.

  The rest of them sort of ran together in Sydney's mind. She told herself that this engagement was no different than the boyfriends. It would be done, over with, in a few weeks. Except Marv had given Julia such a hard time over the Somers situation that she'd sworn the next boyfriend was the last. In fact, Sydney clearly remembered her sister swearing on every Jimmy Choo in her closet that her serial relationships were over.

  Was it possible that she'd marry this Roman person just to make a point?

  Sydney turned the college class ring on her finger, tugging at the blue topaz in the center of it. Then she drummed her fingers on the ridiculously ornate desk. She drummed them until they hurt and her nails vibrated. And then she logged on to an airline Web site, keyed in her password and arranged a flight to Texas.

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  Alex Kimball was known in boardrooms across Texas for his piercing, eagle-eyed stare. He leveled it now, growled from deep within his chest and waved his arms for good measure.

  The emu due north of hima giant goddamn chickenjust bobbed her head and tilted her crazy beak. That she did so to the bass beat of the Stevie Ray Vaughn pulsing from the open door of Alex's Suburban probably made the bird talented.

  He didn't care. "Get back on the other side of that fence, you friggin' feather-face, or I will tie a knot in that silly long neck of yours. I will sprinkle your ass with Tabasco and eat you raw for breakfast." He surged toward her. "Yah!"

  The ostrichlike emu executed a step-ball-change and flapped her wings. Then, ignoring Alex completely, she twisted her neck backward and buried a long beak into her tail feathers. Apparently he was far less important to her than an itch. Alex would have gladly used the Suburban to nudge her back into her pen, but there were about seventeen of the birdsnot to mention their chicksto contend with.

  Sighing, Alex plucked his cell phone from his pocket and dialed his Uncle Ted's number. "Ted, it's me. Chickens've flown the coop again. I have over a dozen of them here and they're not cooperating. What d'you say I just shoot 'em all and we scramble any remaining eggs?

  "No? C'mon, Ted, this is the great state of Texas we live in, remember? Whatever happened to cows ? Nice, normal, four-legged critters. Easy to feed, herd and eat. Easy to market

  "No, Ted. I'm not dissin' you. Not doubtin' you, either. Big guy, I am still a venture capitalist. Just never been involved in a venture quite like this one, okay? Yeah, I'll wait 'til you get here. I'll do my best to keep 'em somewhat contained. Just hurry."

  Alex hit the off button and stared at Bad Mutha Emu. "Women usually fall at my feet, darlin'."

  The emu bobbed her head again and opened her beak to display a black tongue and wide gullet. Then she made a weird grunting noise.

  "Charming." Alex wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

  Edward Kimball, his father's brother, had operated a thriving San Antonio law practice at this time last year. Alex would never understand what had made him trade that in for a cussed emu ranch, of all things. And Ted couldn't start small, either. No he'd invested over a million dollars in these bizarre birds.

  "It's the new beef, Alex!" he'd said. "Mark my words. Emu will hit menus all over the world. Low fat, high protein, no danger of mad cow disease great with beer, wine or tequila. The oil is restorative and excellent in cosmetics. And the boots you can make out of emu hide! Move over, ostrich, elephant and alligator. Emu is the new 'It' skin."

  Uh-huh. So here Alex was, chickinguh, checkingon the investment for which he'd mistakenly helped round up the cash. Christ Almighty .

  Problem was, emu meat had aroused only mild interest across the country and now even that was fading. And Aunt Susie had gone all earth mother and freaked at the concept of processing the birds for distribution.

  "Nothing will be killed on my land!" she'd declared. "It's just not right."

  The result was just what Susie ordered: No processing was done on Kimball land; the birds were purchased and shipped elsewhere. At least that was the plan. The actual purchasing was going slow. Alex hoped that emus weren't highly sexed birds; otherwise the Kimball flock was going to overrun all of the Texas Hill Country.

  Ted and Susie were still developing a new cookbook: Recipes from the Cordon Emu . Somehow Alex didn't think the French would be too impressed, though he himself made a mean emu chili and was perfecting a spicy, chipotle-based emu barbecue sauce.

  The sadistic Texas sun started to steam him in his own juices, and he climbed back into the Suburban, hunkering down in front of the AC. No matter how many years you lived in the Lone Star State, you never got used to a Texas August. He was sure his toes had melted and become grafted to the lining of his Lucchese ostrich boots.

  "Ostrich," he said aloud, and made a gun out of his finger. He aimed it at Bad Mutha Emu. "Pow."

  She bobbled her head and pretty much ignored him until Uncle Ted showed up with a couple of field hands, Bud and Smudge.

  Ted was an unusual figure of a man: a string bean with a potbelly. Truth to tell, he resembled an emu himself. He swung down from behind the wheel of a Jeep, mock-saluted Alex and strode right over to Bad Mutha.

  "Hello, Beautiful," he said to her. Then he grabbed her chick under the chest, holding the wings down under his arms. The chick didn't like it much, but couldn't do a damned thing about the situation besides wriggle his l
ittle three-toed legs. Uncle Ted de-posited him on the other side of the downed wire fence and said "Shoo." Bad Mutha followed and joined him.

  So simple. Why the hell didn't I think of that?

  Bud and Smudge did the same and soon all seventeen birds were two-legged-trotting back north. The field hands produced a coil of wire and set to repairing the gap in the fenceprobably made on purpose by a teenager, just for fun.

  Alex felt like a fool.

  Uncle Ted grinned and snapped his gum. "All there is to it. Chick gives you problems, just grab 'er by the breast."

  "Yeah," said Alex in wry tones. "Next time I'm in a bar, I'll remember that."

  By the time they'd exchanged some more easy banter, Alex had devised a whole new recipe for Szechuan Shredded Emu. He couldn't wait to make it at home.

  He drove slowly, drinking in the landscape and letting the idea of home curl into his belly. The gray tarmac sliced through fields unusually green for this time of year. The cedar and mesquite trees, normally scrappy and rugged, sported luxurious foliage and seemed almost drunk with complacence. The heavy rainfall made for an explosion of vegetation, and the grapes and peaches reveled.

  Unfortunately the rain had also bred an explosion of young mosquitoes and flies that feasted on misera ble steers and quarter horses; fleas were as thick as fur on outdoor dogs and cats.

  Why had it taken tragedy to bring him back here? He'd taken so much for grantedfamily, home, women and money.

  He'd had everything and known everything until the phone call from his father two months ago.

  He'd known the sky was blue. He'd known catastrophe, a snake, struck quicklybut he'd always sidestepped it. He had not known his own limitations.

  "I need you to come home," his father had said.

  Alex cited twenty different business obligations.

  "I need you to come home," his father repeated.

  "Why?"

  "Just come, damn it."

  So Alex cancelled meetings and conference calls, put off correspondence and hitched a ride with his best friend, Roman, who'd been in San Antonio on business. Romanthough he must have known, like the rest of the townpretended not to, thinking it was a family matter. Alex, oblivious, enjoyed a Shiner Bock, wondered what his wily old dad was up to, and heard the unbelievable news that Roman was engaged.

  Say what? To whom? A Yankee from New Jersey? He had to be kidding. He was not.

  Before he'd fully digested the news, Roman dropped him off at the gorgeous old limestone Kim-ball casa. The first thing Alex noticed was the peculiar state of the flower beds. They were well-tended as usualhis mother was meticulousbut the color scheme, if you could call it that, was bizarre and there were several clumps of dead branches? Not plants that had died, but cut limbs, "planted" in a careful mix of potting soil and mulch.

  Alex gave them a curious stare as he strode up the flagstone path to the front door of his childhood home. He felt a little guilty that he hadn't made it home to visit his parents in over three months. Well, he was here now. He'd find out what his father wanted soon enough. He opened the screen, pressed the latch and walked into the heresy of crumpled laundry on the formal living room couch. He blinked. Not in thirty-five years had he ever seen such a thing

  The house was spotless, its soft yellow walls and beautiful dark wood trim the same. An oil portrait of his grandfather hung over the stone fireplace; comfortable chairs in hideously expensive fabrics still retained the shapes of the last derrieres to be seated in them. That was goose down for you.

  Crystal sparkled from the old mahogany break-front; touches of highly polished silver gleamed from various corners. Not enough to be oppressive or pretentiousjust enough to look casually elegant.

  "Mama?" he called. He set down his overnight bag and walked into the kitchen. It was redolent as al ways with delicious cooking smells: sauteed garlic and onion, olive oil, rosemary and a waft of pinot grigio. Two loaves of fresh-baked bread were cooling on a wire rack. Mama had always been a helluva cook. Hundreds of recipe books from all over the world lined the shelves of the large, airy kitchen.

  "I see you." His mother's voice was sharp and bright with fear ?

  Somewhere in the back of the house, no doubt from his father's office, came the rumble of a male voice on the telephone.

  "I saw you walk into this house like it's your own," said Mama. Her eyes reflected sheer terror and not a trace of recognition.

  What? It is my own .

  "You'd better stop right there, mister, because I've called the sheriff." Always high and girlish, the timbre of her voice had risen an entire octave. A misplaced lock of her salon-rinsed blond hair trembled on her forehead. Her mascara had smudged under her hazel eyes, and into the laugh lines that only made her more beautiful.

  Sheriff?

  "Don't you come one step farther!" His mother, the woman who'd given birth to him, brandished a knife in her right hand and the cordless phone in her left.

  "Mama?" He held out his arms.

  "Not one step! I'll stick you like a pig!"

  Jesus . What in the hell was going on? Alex swallowed. "Mama, it's me. Alex. What are you doing?"

  "Thought you'd help yourself to the Francis I silver, did you?"

  Huh? No! Who is this crazy woman, and where is my mother ? "Mama!" He unconsciously stepped toward her, but she gave a frightened squeak, the noise of a field mouse, and retreated behind the central butcher block.

  Horrified at the pathos and helplessness of the sound, Alex froze. He closed his eyes, praying that when he opened them his world would make sense.

  In the back of the house, Alex heard his father's boots; he was emerging from his office. "Dad? Get in here!"

  "He's dark and dangerous-looking," his mother quavered into the phone. "About six foot two, and he's in my kitchen 1 ." Her voice rose yet another octave. "Please send someone right away!"

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  DON'T MESS WITH TEXAS, the sign read. Sydney raised a brow. "Wouldn't dream of it," she muttered. "All I want is my sister back."

  She stepped on the gas and her rented Ford compact strained to reach seventy miles per hour. Though the Austin airport had yielded nothing more surprising than Texas wine and loud chili-pepper neckties, she was beginning to realize that she'd arrived in a foreign country. No doubt about it: Jersey didn't feature pickup trucks with gun racks and bumper stickers that read i brake for armadillos.

  And the farther she got from Austin, the scarier it became. She passed big spreads of wire-fenced land dotted with brush, scrub trees and water storage tanks, a business called Big Rack Taxidermist and another called McCoy's Building Supply Center. McCoy's, for real?

  She expected to then roll by Hatfield's Demolition, but instead the next business of interest proved to be something called the Wild Ride Saloon. Hmmm. She had a feeling they weren't referring to horses.

  After the Nutty Brown Cafe came big signs for a new Polo Club. Weirder and weirder: She could have sworn they rode Western in Texas. Polo? Ohit was a housing development, perhaps represented by Ranch Real Estate nearby.

  Syd passed the American Red Brangus Associationwhat the hell was a brangus?and tried to imagine her sister Julia living out here. She failed miserably. Julia's Manolo Blahniks would catch in every gopher hole from here to San Antonio. She'd bounce all her checks from the Cattleman's National Bank. And Syd couldn't possibly picture her employing anyone from Ole Yeller Landscaping.

  Julia, purchasing hay for thirty dollars a bale? Hanging out in the 101-degree heat astride a longhorn? Or perhapsSydney snortedchomping down on a piece of Whittington's Beef Jerky. Yeah, right.

  She ignored the rumbling of her stomach, not wishing to risk stopping at a barbecue place called the Pit, even though it smelled more promising than its name. She saw signs for Johnson City, birthplace of Lyndon B., and her stomach asked if she wanted to stop at a different restaurant, this one called the Feedmill. God help me , she thought. The next sign she noticed just
read, stop here, good stuff. I don't think so .

  That's when things started to sound not only Texan, but Germanwhich made even less sense to Sydney. Oma's Haus and Garten? The Vogel Orchard? Becker Vineyards?

  Texas possessed vineyards? Syd's Jersey lip curled. Well, if barley and hops could make beer, and potatoes made vodka, then she supposed hay could make wine.

  The German influence continued as she approached Fredericksburg. The road she was on, Highway 290, became Main Street as she passed the intersection at Goehmann, and Sydney tried very hard not to be charmed.

  She failed. The curl in her lip relaxed without permission or warning into a delighted smile. Through her window yodeled the sound of country music: "Why don'tcha luv me like you used to do? Why do ya treat me like a worn-out shoe?"

  You've got to be kidding me . But she grinned at the sheer hokiness of it, and rolled down her window to hear more. The tune blasted from the truck ahead of her, driven by a man in a bona fide white ten-gallon hat. He must be one of the good guys

  Bemused, she drank in the vista before her. Main Street was lined solidly with shops: wood and stone cottages with big picture windows and welcoming porches, carved cedar benches and urns of flowers.

  She drove slowly, taking in the galleries, gift shops, cafes and bars. A wine market, several jewelers and countless antique stores surprised her. What were they doing in the middle of Nowhere, Texas?

  The NASCAR place, Forever Texas Souvenirs and a quilt shop were more along the lines of what Sydney had expected. She was tempted to stop at the Uptown Visitor Center, but frowned at the impulse. She was there to talk sense into her sister, not be a tourist.

  She panted along in the Ford, looking for Orange Street where Marv's Motor Inn was located. There was Crockett, which according to her map meant Orange was the next one. Aha. A right turn and there it was, a squat, ugly, no-frills building painted in Marv's familiar brown and mustard yellow. To complete the aura of bad seventies welcome, a giant neon arrow pointed to the come on inn sign, of course underscripted with their father's famous tagline: