Bed of Roses (Bride Quartet #2)(80)

It felt good. Whatever the hell it meant, it felt good to know she'd come back soon and they'd share a meal out on her patio.

He poured himself a glass of wine as he began to sauté garlic. "Here's to the rest of the spring," he said, lifting his glass, "and right through summer."





"RED ALERT!" ATOP THE LADDER, HER HANDS FULL OF DELICATE garlands, Emma craned her neck to read the display on the beeper hooked to her pants. "Crap. Crap. Red alert. Beach, you'll need to finish the garland. Tiff, swags. Tink, ride herd."

As she scrambled down, Jack stepped forward to spot her. "Careful. It's not a national emergency."

"It is when Parker issues a red. Come with me. Sometimes an extra pair of hands, especially male, can come in handy. If it's just a girl thing, maybe you could come back, help cover chairs. Damn it. I was on schedule."

"You'll make it."

She moved like lightning, across the terrace, up the steps-that still needed to be dressed-and through the door to the corridor outside the Bride's Suite.

Straight into hysteria.

The small mob of people crammed the hall, all in various states of dress. Voices pitched toward the register only dogs could hear. Tears flowed like wine.

In the midst, Parker stood like a cool island in stormy seas. But Emma recognized the fraying of desperation around the edges.

"Everyone, everyone! Everything is going to be fine. But you have to calm down, and listen. Please, Mrs. Carstairs, please sit down here. Sit down now, take a breath."

"But my baby, my baby."

Carter nudged his way forward-a brave soul-and took the weeping woman by the arm. "Here now, have a seat."

"Something has to be done. Something has to be done."

Emma recognized the mother of the bride. She wasn't crying-yet-but her face approached the color of ripe beets. Even as Emma moved in to take her, or whoever needed it most, off Parker's hands, a shrill whistle cut the air into shocked silence.

"Okay, everybody, just stop!" Laurel ordered. She wore a white bib apron smeared with what looked to be raspberry sauce.

Parker plowed into the opening. "Mr. Carstairs, why don't you sit down with your wife a moment? Groom, if you and your party would go back to your suite, Carter will give you a hand. Mrs. Princeton, Laurel's going to take you and your husband downstairs. You'll have some tea. Give me fifteen minutes. Jack, could you go with Laurel? We'll bring Mr. and Mrs. Carstairs some tea up here."

"Any chance of scotch?" Mr. Princeton asked.

"Absolutely. Just tell Jack what you'd like. Emma, I could use you in the Bride's Suite. Fifteen minutes, everyone. Just stay calm."

"What's the story?" Emma demanded.

"Quick update. Two of the bridesmaids are severely hung-over, and one was puking heroically in the bathroom moments ago. MOG had a meltdown when she went in to see her son in the Groom's Suite, which annoyed MOB-they don't get along particularly well. Words were exchanged, tempers flared, and continued to flare as the women battled their way to the Bride's Suite. The drama apparently sent the MOH, who's eight months pregnant, into labor."

"Oh my God. She's in labor? Now?"

"It's Braxton Hicks." Parker's face was a study of sheer determination and unassailable will. "It's going to be Braxton Hicks. Her husband called the doctor, and the MOH convinced him to let us time the contractions for now. Mac and the bride and the rest of the party, not currently puking or moaning, are with her. She and the bride are the only ones keeping their heads. Besides Mac. So."



       
         
       
        

Parker sucked in a breath, opened the door of the Bride's Suite.

The MOH lay propped on the little sofa, pale, but apparently calm with the bride-a hairdresser's cape over her corset and garters-kneeling beside her. Across the room, Mac offered a cool compress to a bridesmaid.

"How are you doing?" Parker asked as she moved briskly toward the pregnant woman. "Do you want your husband?"

"No. Let him stay with Pete. I'm okay, really. Haven't had anything in the last ten minutes."

"Nearly twelve now," the bride told her and held up the stopwatch.

"Maggie, I'm so sorry."

"Stop saying that." The bride gave her friend a shoulder rub. "Everything's going to be fine."

"You should finish getting your hair and your makeup. You should-"

"It can wait. Everything can just wait."

"Actually, it's a good idea," Parker said in a tone that managed to be brisk, businesslike, and cheerful all at once. "If you're not comfortable here, Jeannie, we can move you to my room. It's quieter."