beside her, fastened her seat belt. Then froze the air between them with a "Thank you."
He grinned, fast as a lightning strike. "You mean go to hell. Drive safe," he added and shut the door. She turned the key, found herself mildly disappointed when the engine purred like a kitten. As she drove away, she glanced in the rearview mirror, saw him standing, hip-shot, watching her. Rude, she thought - absurdly rude, really. But he apparently knew how to do his job. When she parked near the bridal boutique where she intended to meet her client, Parker pulled out her BlackBerry to e-mail Emma.
Em. Car is done. Looks and runs better than it has since you bought it. You owe me more than the bill. Will discuss tonight. P
A T HOME, EMMA USED THE TIME BETWEEN APPOINTMENTS TO write itemized contracts. She loved the choices made by her last client, a December bride. Color, color, and more color, she thought. All that hot and bold would be a pleasure to work with in winter. She sent the contract to the client for approval, copied Parker for Vows' files. She smiled when she spotted an e-mail from Jack. Then snorted out a laugh as she read it.
"Trench coat and elbow pads. Good one. Let's see . . ."
You'll need to choose between my red lace elbow pads and the black velvet set. Or I can just surprise you. I'll try them on later with my collection of trench coats. I have a particular favorite. It's black and has a shine so it always looks . . . wet.
Unfortunately tonight won't work for me. But that gives us both more time to think.
"That ought to give you a moment or two," Emma murmured, and hit Send.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AT SIX, EMMA WALKED INTO THE KITCHEN FROM THE MUDROOM as Parker walked in from the hall.
"Good timing. Hi, Mrs. G."
"Grilled chicken Caesars," Mrs. Grady announced. "Use the breakfast nook. I'm not setting up the dining room when you girls are going to be coming in and out and picking."
"Yes, ma'am. I worked through lunch. I'm starved."
"Have a glass of wine with it." Mrs. Grady jerked her head toward Parker. "This one's in a mood."
"I'm not in any particular mood." But Parker took one of the glasses of wine Mrs. Grady poured. "Your bill."
Emma glanced at the bottom line, winced. "Ouch. I guess I deserve it."
"Maybe so. But I didn't deserve the angry lecture from the proprietor who assumed I was you."
"Uh-oh. What hospital is he in? I should send flowers."
"He survived, unscathed. Partially because I was on a schedule and didn't have time to hurt him. Your car was also detailed, expertly, inside and out - gratis to first-time customers. Which counted in his favor. Marginally."
Pausing, Parker took another sip of wine. "Mrs. G, you know everyone."
"Whether I want to or not. Sit. Eat." When they had, Mrs. Grady plopped down on one of the counter stools with her own glass of wine. "You want to know about young Malcolm Kavanaugh. Bit of a wild one. Army brat. His father died overseas when he was a boy. Ten or twelve, I think, which may account for the bit of wild. His ma had a hard time keeping him in line. She used to waitress at Artie's, the place on the avenue. He'd be her brother, Artie would, and why she moved here when she lost her husband."
Mrs. Grady took a sip of wine, and settled back a bit to tell the rest. "As you may know, Artie Frank is a complete asshole, and his wife is a prissy snob of a woman. What I heard was Artie decided to take the boy in hand, and the boy did his level best to snap that hand off at the wrist. And good for him," she added with some relish. "He went off, the boy did, to race cars or motorcycles or something like. Did some stunt work in the movies, I believe. Did well enough for himself, from what I'm told. And made sure his ma got a piece of the pie he was making."
"Well. That speaks well of him, I suppose," Parker allowed.
"Got busted up on a stunt, and got some kind of settlement out of it. He used it to buy the garage out on Route One, about three years ago. Bought his ma a little house as well. He's built up a nice business, from what I'm told, and still has a