Made Of Honor. Marilynn Griffith

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СКАЧАТЬ free, I guess Tracey couldn’t resist—across the sprinkle of autumn leaves on the ground. Rochelle tiptoed up beside me, fanning her face, despite the growing chill. Man Mania was in full swing.

      “Did you see Ryan’s brother?” she said breathlessly. “From the looks of things, Tracey should have picked him.”

      From the reality of things, anyone seemed a better choice. I mentally squashed the nagging doubt about my friend’s hour-old marriage. Thoughts like that were getting me nowhere. It was done. God would have to take it from here. Me worrying myself to an ulcer before I got back to work on Monday was definitely a waste of resources.

      I shook my head at Rochelle and considered reaching out and shaking hers. This time she was really in the zone. I spoke right into her ear, hoping it would jar her brain. “I wasn’t really paying attention to the brother of the groom.” Or any other man around here. What would be the point? The last guy I dated had just married my best friend.

      Rochelle made a clucking sound. “You should have been paying attention. His brother is fiiine.” She rolled her neck for effect, but didn’t quite pull it off. I just stared. She’d been watching too much UPN again.

      “Come on.” I tugged at her arm and started back across the smattering of red-gold leaves, away from Mr. Fiiine. She’d hate me tomorrow if I didn’t. If a man showed up later on in response to Rochelle’s flirting, she would run for her life while dictating a restraining order into her recorder.

      Usually, her wedding trance would have been long since broken. But this was Tracey’s wedding. And whether Rochelle and I were willing to admit it or not, we’d both thought that if anyone got married, it’d be us, not the cute, fat, geek of the group. Not that Tracey was fat anymore. Plump-but-cute girl was currently being played by moi, my midsection pressed against the strangling fabric of my dress as if in agreement.

      Rochelle made a shrill sound, almost like a whistle. The weary-in-well-doing sigh. Not a good sign. Her pink leather t-strap shoes, designed by her own hand and much prettier than my prom knockoffs, peeked from underneath her Pepto-pink frock, several sizes smaller than my own. Our skirts skimmed the lawn every few steps. This was downright antebellum.

      Rochelle’s words cut through my thoughts. “I can’t help feeling romantic on days like this. Lately, I even wonder if—”

      “If what?” My body stiffened. I’d heard this speech before. All my die-hard single friends give this little talk before crossing over into the sea of wanna-be wives. Tracey’s little rant three months ago was still fresh in my mind. Rochelle? Despite her wedding breakdowns, I never thought I’d hear it from her. Well, not this soon anyway.

      “I’m just talking,” she said, moving faster. “It’s nothing, really.”

      More like a big something, but I decided to leave it. This day had enough mess going without adding to it. Time for a detour. “I hope the punch is good.”

      Rochelle nodded, gathering her skirt to gain a little speed. Good punch could cover a multitude of sins. Even Tracey marrying Ryan. Okay, he’s not so bad. He’s rich, handsome and loves her to pieces. But there’s just something creepy about the guy. I don’t know. Forget I said anything.

      While I pondered the groom’s strangeness, Rochelle grabbed my wrist, digging her natural-length nails into my flesh. Without looking at her, I knew it was already too late. And we’d almost made it to punchdom.

      Tracey wouldn’t, couldn’t throw that bouquet at me.

      But she did.

      A few inches ahead, a group of women floated onto the green in front of us, forming a frightening pastel cloud. The bride broke through, holding her weapon of choice—peach hybrid roses from the Leverhill Botanical Gardens.

      “Run!” Rochelle screamed with the concern of a fire marshal at a brewing blaze.

      Obeying her command was my first mistake. The stop-drop-and-roll technique is always best to achieve my goals: avoid head trauma, keep the contacts in and keep the dress covering my backside.

      As previously stated, I deviated from this method.

      When nothing tagged the back of my head—seriously, they stopped aiming for my hands two summers ago—I did a dumb thing and turned around. The bouquet slapped against my forehead like a Jackie Chan sound effect. I tripped on my skirt trying to escape—she’d already nailed me, of course, but it was instinct. My dress ballooned around my waist like a giant boat made of Bubble Yum.

      Then…the pain burned beneath my eye. What was that? I dropped to one knee, jerking the whole pink mess of me back into place, while peeking through my fingers. Something I mistook for tears trickled into my mouth. Blood.

      I wobbled to my feet. “What in the world?” I’d been hit with a lot of flowers, a few small shrubs even, but no one had ever drawn blood. This was past wrong.

      Rochelle hovered over me, panting and picking greenery from between my braids. Satisfied with her job on that, she peeled back my fingers and surveyed the scratch under my eye. “The thorns. Tracey forgot to have them removed. It was the only thing on her list…sorry.”

      I took my hand off my eye. Rochelle’s tone let me know that she hadn’t been in on this but she had been aware of the possibility. Not for the first time, the Sassy Sistahs made me mad. Tracey approached slowly, waving like she always does after doing something crazy. I felt my anger wash away at the sight of her silly grin. Still, this was a bit much. “Thorns? You’ve got to be kidding.”

      “Wish I was.” Rochelle dabbed my face with a napkin from her clutch. No doubt there was a first-aid kit, needle and thread, makeup bag and two shades of pantyhose crammed in that tiny thing. How she’d even managed to hold on to it while trying to drag me to safety was beyond me, but I’d long given up on trying to figure out Chelle’s superhuman womanhood. She just has skills like that. I’m lucky to keep my shoes on. Although I did manage to keep my contacts in. A new accomplishment.

      Just before Tracey reached us, someone from the groom’s family intercepted and wheeled her away. The beginning of the end. She was no longer my roommate, my best friend. She was someone’s wife. We walked past Tracey, giving us the “be right there” signals.

      Rochelle smiled.

      I sulked. “Knowing Tracey, she probably thought it was more Christlike to leave the thorns on.” Mock disgust sounded in my voice. I was trying to be mad and couldn’t.

      “Hush you,” Rochelle said, using our code phrase for when one started in on another of the three. It was the standard defense, but right now I felt like pushing past it.

      Tracey joined us and slipped an arm around—well, almost around—my waist. “Got you, didn’t I? Sorry about your eye though.”

      “You’d better be glad I love y’all,” I whispered as people packed in around us. Pain seared my scalp where Rochelle had raked a stem through my hair.

      “Maybe if you’d helped with the wedding errands, you could have taken care of those thorns,” Rochelle said, reaching back in her purse for her dabbing cloth.

      Ouch. That hurt way more than my eye. The truth always does. I pushed away Rochelle’s hand, preferring to blink my own way back to health. In a minute, there’d be no skin left on the right side of my face. That girl was dangerous with a Kleenex.

      Tracey СКАЧАТЬ