“Oh, bless you for thinking of it, but I better get to my folks’ and let them see me.”
“Then I’ll see you at the wedding.”
“Sure.” I reached out, stroked his arm. “What were you doing last night?”
“While you were confronting the real kidnapper?” Jack looked at me darkly. “Well, sweetheart, I was rear- ending your soon-to-be brother-in-law.”
“What?”
“I decided the only way to look inside the car trunks- which, if you’ll remember, was your suggestion-was to have a little accident with the cars involved. It would be reasonable to look in the trunk after that. I figured if I hit them just right, the trunk would open anyway.”
“Did you hit Jess?”
“Yep.”
“And Dill, too?”
“I was about to. But I was thinking I’d get whiplash, so I’d decided just to out-and-out break into Emory’s. Then I got your call. I got to the O’Sheas’ house just as your ex-boyfriend was pulling up. He cuffed me.”
“He
“I didn’t want him going in ahead of me, so he cuffed me.”
I didn’t know what to say. I was trying not to smile.
“I better go get cleaned up,” I told him. “You’ll be there?”
“I brought my suit,” he reminded me.
The only day it was possible for my parents not to cast me disapproving looks was Varena’s wedding day. They were not excited that Jack had dropped me off in front of the house in broad daylight, with me wearing yesterday’s clothes.
But in the melee of the wedding day-and the day before-it could be legitimately ignored.
I took a very long shower and brushed my teeth twice. To regain control of myself, I shaved my legs and armpits, plucked my eyebrows, spent ten or fifteen minutes putting on lotions and makeup.
It was only after I came into the kitchen in my bathrobe to drink some coffee that my mother spotted the bruise.
She put her own mug down with a clunk.
“Your neck, Lily.”
I looked in a little mirror in the hall outside the kitchen. My neck had a spectacular dark bruise.
“Emory,” I explained, for the first time noticing how hoarse my voice was. I touched the dark splotch. Sore. Very sore.
“It’s OK,” I said, “really. Just need to drink something hot.”
And that’s all we said about the night before.
It was the best luck I ever had, that day being Varena’s wedding day.
And the next morning, Christmas Day, I drove home to Shakespeare.
I thought during the drive: I thought what would become of the baby, Jane, whom Eve (I had to think of her as Eve Osborn) regarded as her sister. I wondered what would happen in the days to come, when the Macklesbys would finally get to put their arms around their daughter. I wondered when I’d have to go back to testify at Emory’s trial. It gave me the cold shakes, thinking of going back to Bartley again, but I would feel more amenable when the time was closer, I hoped.
I didn’t have to talk to anyone or listen to anyone for four whole hours.
The tatty outskirts of Shakespeare were so welcome to my eyes that I almost cried.
The decorations, the smoke coming out of the chimneys, the empty lawns and streets: Today was Christmas.
If my friend Dr. Carrie Thrush had remembered, the turkey would be thawed and waiting to be put in the oven.
And Jack, having detoured to Little Rock to pick up some more clothes, was on his way.
The presents I’d bought him were wrapped and in my closet. The spinach Madeleine, the sweet potato casserole, and the cranberry sauce were in the freezer.
I shed the past as I pulled into my own driveway.
I would have a Shakespeare Christmas.
Charlaine Harris
Charlaine Harris is the author of
