SINCE BOTH CASSIE and Drake enjoyed cooking, making brunch for his family was an enjoyable, well-choreographed dance as they moved around their small but well-equipped kitchen. She even saw him smile once or twice—real smiles, not “I’d rather be down at the station chasing the guy who dared burn my work of art,” fakes. Whatever work he’d done in his studio this morning had refreshed his mood.
Maybe it was greedy of her, wanting her soon-to-be groom happy and relaxed before their wedding tomorrow night, but she didn’t care. They’d both been through so much to make it here she refused to let anyone steal this moment from them.
She moved into the kitchen and finished making the coffee while Drake’s family—his mother, aunt, and uncle—gathered around the table, dissecting the press coverage of last night’s events. Soon a tantalizing aroma filled the air. Drake might be the gourmet, but no one made coffee like Cassie. Gram Rosa had taught her how to turn ordinary beans into a thick, strong brew that tasted of ambrosia, not a bitter drop to be found.
She was silent as she walked around the table, filling cups, listening with a smile as Jacob and Nellie decried the Tribune’s lack of standards.
“Their headline editor should be taken out and thrashed,” Jacob said, pointing to the banner displayed on his iPad. “Terrorism strikes Fairstone unveiling,” he read. “Garbage. Absolute sensationalistic garbage.”
“But, Remy, the photos of the paintings—even though they’re grainy—are stunning. Absolutely stunning,” Drake’s Aunt Nellie told him.
“I wish I’d been there,” Muriel said, laying a proud hand on her son’s arm. “All those people applauding your work, not even knowing who you were.”
“They do now.” Drake grimaced. Cassie filled his mug. His hand moved to light on her waist and she left a kiss on the top of his head before moving on.
“Still, I’m so proud of you, Remy.”
Cassie returned the pot to the kitchen and leaned on the bar, watching the family—her family soon, she thought. It had been a very long time since she was a part of a family. It was exciting and scary at the same time. There were at least three conversations going on at the table, overlapping, weaving back and forth without missing a beat.
She started the frittata. Drake would graze all day, but life in the ER had taught Cassie to eat a full meal whenever she found time, and she was certain the others would want something more substantial than toast and jam.
As she beat eggs, she wondered at families—everyone had different names, different faces with their families. Drake was DJ—Drake Junior—to other cops, Remy to his family, Drake to everyone else—but he’d once told Cassie that he preferred Mickey, the same name his father had gone by. So, even though he was Drake to her most of the time, she’d begun to call him Mickey when they were most intimate, when emotions were at their strongest. Four names but one man.
She thought at that. His aunt, Eleanor Steadman, was Nellie to friends and family, despite the fact that she was a Pulitzer prize-winning investigative journalist under her maiden name: Eleanor DeAngelo. And Cassie had noted that when they spoke of work, Nellie called her husband, Jacob, by his surname, Steadman—a habit from their days on the newspaper together, she guessed.
Even Cassie had her share of nicknames. As a child the only people who called her Cassandra were the nuns or Gram Rosa when she was in trouble—which was so often that she’d grown to despise the sound of her full name. Friends who knew her when she was a kid called her Cassie. As an adult, most people used her surname, Hart. She’d grown to like the strong sound of the single syllable. It evoked confidence, a sense of competence. Except when Drake used it—then the name seemed to connote the vital organ. She smiled as she thought of the way Drake could make that single syllable sound powerful, thrilling, knowing that he meant her when he said it.
Then there was her first husband, Richard’s dreaded nickname for her, Ella, short for Cinderella.
She whipped the eggs without mercy. Maybe some nicknames were best forgotten.
<<<>>>
AFTER BRUNCH, DRAKE’S family gleefully kidnapped Cassie, Muriel chattering away about how she couldn’t wait to see Cassie in her wedding dress. They drove to Adeena’s house in Bloomfield where she lived with her Great Aunt Tessa, who had been Cassie’s Gram Rosa’s best friend.
Despite being a low-budget, homegrown affair, the entire wedding was like that—friends and family coming together to celebrate Cassie and Drake’s happiness.
Adeena and Tessa hosted the rehearsal party, scheduled early enough in the day so that all the kids who were participating could enjoy it. The priest presiding over their non-traditional ceremony was retired, but had also officiated Adeena and Cassie’s first communions and confirmations and had been a close friend of Tessa and Rosa.
Cassie thought he’d never agree to perform the ceremony since Drake wasn’t Catholic and she hadn’t been to Mass in years, but apparently Father Serrano had grown more liberal as the years passed. Or Tessa had twisted his arm. Despite being blind and suffering from diabetes, she was just as imposing as Gram Rosa, able to bend almost anyone to her will.
When they arrived at Tessa’s house, Andy Greally was already there, setting up the food for the party. He’d been Drake’s first partner on the police force and, now that he was retired, ran a bar where he enjoyed practicing his culinary skills. Denise Dolan was also there, blowing up balloons that her twins, Bridget and Colton, were having fun floating around the room.
“Where’s Jimmy?” Cassie asked after greeting Tessa, who sat like a queen overseeing things from her chair at the head of the dining room table.
Denise smiled. “He and Drake are working on a surprise for you.”
“Oh no. Drake and I agreed, no gifts. We’re putting all our money into the Liberty Center.”
“Hah, you just want me to tell you what it is. Not going to work,” she replied in a singsong.
Adeena hustled Cassie up the steps to her bedroom where the box that held Muriel’s dress waited. They’d been best friends since second grade and the room hadn’t changed much over the years. The walls had gone from pink to purple to a warm yellow and the decor was no longer magazine cutouts of Hollywood stars, but the furniture was the same maple dresser and double bed that they’d jumped on as girls.
“I can’t believe this is actually happening,” Adeena gushed. “You’re getting married. And on Christmas Eve. It’s just so romantic.” She flopped on to the bed that had shared years of their giggles, secrets, and adolescent angst.
Cassie looked down at her friend’s smiling face. “I can’t believe it either,” she confessed, sinking to the edge of the bed, the dress box propped across her legs.
“Oh no, I know that look—” Adeena sat up abruptly. “You’re not having second thoughts are you? Not about Drake?”
Cassie was silent. Not about Drake. About her. She’d failed so spectacularly at her first marriage, how could she risk a second? When she’d seen all those people downstairs—people here to wish her and Drake happiness, to share in their joy, she realized how many people would be hurt—that she would hurt—if she failed again.
“Drake’s not Richard,” Adeena went on, pulling Cassie’s hair back from her face so Cassie couldn’t hide behind it. “And you’re not the same person either. You’ve been given a second chance. You can’t just turn your back on what you and Drake have.”
Adeena combed her fingers through Cassie’s hair, separating the strands and weaving them into intricate braids just as she used to do when they were twelve. “I wish I could find someone like him.” She sighed wistfully and paraphrased their catch phrase from senior high. “But a good man is hard to find.”
Cassie smiled, her fears receding as childhood memories returned. “And a hard man—”
“Is good to find,” they finished together.
“It was so unfair,” Cassie went on as Adeena completed her braiding. “In high school, I was the one always getting into trouble, who everyone assumed was the ‘bad’ girl, while you were doing half the basketball team!”
“Hey a girl’s got to go with her talents. Mine just happen to be communication and personal relationship skills,” Adeena replied archly.
“That’s not what the graffiti in the girls’ room said.”
“Girls can be so petty when they’re jealous.” She sat back and admired her work. “Let’s see how that dress looks.”
Cassie left the bed and carefully opened the box. Folds of white silk spilled over the tissue paper they were wrapped in. She wiped her hands on her jeans and gingerly pulled the dress out.
“It’s gorgeous.” Adeena slid a finger over the freshwater pearls sewn to the bodice. “Did Muriel really make this herself?”
“Drake said her mother helped her. Muriel always wanted to be a fashion designer but left school and took a job at the ad agency after she got married.” Cassie held the dress against her body, swirling around and feeling faintly like Cinderella.
“Go ahead, put it on.”
Cassie hesitated. The dress was the most beautiful thing she’d ever been given. But what was even more valuable was the thought and generosity that had come with the gift. Muriel’s acceptance and approval was as dear to Cassie as the wedding gown.
Finally, she slid out of her shoes and clothes and Adeena helped her to lift the gown down over her head. The bodice was formfitting with tiny triangles over the shoulders that dropped down over her upper arms. Otherwise, the gown was sleeveless, the skirt billowing out from under a yoked waist, full but not puffy, with no need for crinolines or flounces, just a simple underskirt for modesty. Tear drops of pearls hung from the shoulders, the edge of the bodice and along the tea-length hem, creating movement that caught the eye, drawing it down the length of the dress. Cassie pirouetted in front of Adeena’s full-length mirror, one hand caught to the bare skin above the neckline, unable to believe the woman in the mirror could be her.
Adeena clapped her hands as she circled around, admiring the dress from every angle. “It’s perfect.”
“Hey, you girls!” Tessa’s voice rang like a church bell. “What’s taking so long?”
Cassie and Adeena turned to each other, giggling like girls caught playing with forbidden make up and nail polish. “Coming!” they called out in unison.
Adeena turned to Cassie and wrapped her arms around her friend. “I’m so happy for you,” she whispered.
Adeena went down the steps first, leaving Cassie to make an entrance. Cassie could hear voices, happy, laughing voices, drifting up from the living room. She picked out Andy Greally’s guffaw mixing with Ed Castro’s more nasal laugh; Nellie’s precise, cultured voice mingled with Tammy Washington’s and Denise Dolan’s Pittsburghese. Denise’s twins, Bridget and Colton, were concocting a story about rescue heroes and spacemen with Antwan, Tammy’s little boy. Father Serrano’s low murmur echoed up the stairwell as he and Jacob debated religious tenets.
All these people here for her. Cassie shook her head as she gripped the banister. She’d always thought of herself as a loner. When Rosa died, she’d lost the last of her family. Then Richard had isolated her from anyone who could have saved her. So she had saved herself and avoided future emotional entanglements. Or so she thought. The truth of the number of people she’d accidentally allowed into her life, her heart, was frightening.
As Cassie walked barefoot down the stairs into Tessa’s living room, the conversation stopped and all heads turned to her. Even the children’s squeals quieted. She reached the bottom step and three-year-old Antwan Washington ran up to her, his mouth open wide in surprise.
“Dr. Cass, you’re a fairy princess!” he exclaimed, breaking the silence that had settled over the room.
Bridget raced to take Cassie’s hand. “Me too, I’m a princess too!” She and Antwan, followed by her brother, tugged Cassie off the steps and into the crowd of people. Soon Cassie found herself smothered in hugs and kisses and well wishes as the living room swirled with activity. There were presents piled on the coffee table, most of the ones from the men bearing the distinctive wrapping paper of a well-known lingerie chain. Even the kids had gotten into the act, Cassie saw as she noted two presents wrapped with paper lovingly colored with crayon, her name printed in painstaking letters.
“You kids come get into your seats,” Tessa commanded, the blind woman effortlessly herding the perpetual motion of the three children to the dining room table. “No fingers on that wedding dress, but you can have some apple pie while we wait for Drake.”
The doorbell rang as Cassie was starting up the stairs to change out of the dress. She was still blinking back tears of joy and needed a few moments privacy.
“I’ve got it,” Cassie said, moving to open the door. She glanced through the leaded glass of the sidelight. It was a man. The man from last night at the gallery, the one who’d frightened her. He’d mentioned Drake, spoke as if they knew each other—had Drake invited him?
She opened the door. Then she saw the two men with him. The two men with guns.