Page 112 of A Dead End Wedding

"You're not holding up any fingers. You're clutching my arms," I pointed out.

Jake moved behind me and looked at the back of my head. "How many stitches?"

There was ice in his voice, and I shivered again, but this time for an entirely different reason.

"Only two. It's really no big deal, except for the part where they tried to STAPLE MY HEAD. Anyway, it looks like somebody threw a rock and it hit me in the back of the head," I mumbled.

Max started crying again, and Jake moved around to stand in front of me, arms folded. "What did OGPD say?"

"They figured it was juvenile delinquents. And before you ask, yes, I told them about the painting incident, but they thought a connection was pretty far-fetched."

Max let go of me long enough to wipe tears off her cheeks. "Did you tell them about the threatening phone call?" she asked.

I winced. "No, I didn't even think about it, to be honest. My head was hurting, and after I practically threw up in Cowboy's lap, I was so embarrassed?—"

Jake cut in, smiling and raising an eyebrow. "Who is Cowboy, and what were you doing in his lap?"

I shook my head, and then stopped, hissing at the pain. "No, no, he was playing cards, but he touches the brim of his left side, well, both sides, but left side for bluffing, and Emily said . . . but, then she left, and I was walking to the car, which, by the way, is gorgeous, but we have to talk about how much I loan you for the owner, I mean owe you for the loaner, and . . ." I stopped dead and looked up at him. "What was the question, again?"

The nurse walked in just then and saved me from whatever he'd been about to say. Tracey Eller was embroidered in flowing script over the pocket of her Winnie the Pooh scrubs. "Okay, dear. You're good to go home, but you need to follow the directions on this sheet. You can take regular-strength Tylenol for any discomfort."

"I'll take her home and take care of her," Max said. She was wearing denim shorts and a ratty old t-shirt, with not a stitch of makeup. Shemusthave been worried about me.

Tracey smiled at her. "Okay, sweetie, but loosen the death grip on her arms."

I signed a few papers and took my copies as Tracey bustled off. Then I gingerly climbed down off of the table. Jake put his hands under my elbows and helped me down, and the temptation to lean against him and close my eyes was nearly overwhelming.

Nobody ever gave me a concussion when I did corporate work.

I stiffened my shoulders and stepped back from Jake, but smiled my thanks at him. I think the smile came out more like a grimace, but all I wanted to do was go home and take a shower and get the dirt and blood out of my hair.

Clean clothes would be nice, too.

I peered blearily up at Jake. "Why does that song about 'you've got to know when to fold 'em' keep running through my mind?"

He put an arm around me and helped me walk out to the car, despite the five times I told him I was fine. Max trailed behind us, carrying my purse and muttering terrible, un-beauty-queen-like words under her breath. When we reached the parking lot, Jake led the way to a late-model silver Mercedes sedan and opened the door. I looked at him and then at Max. "I'm sure Max can drive me home," I said, not really wanting to go through the knight-in-shining-armor routine again, even if Max didn't really look all that stable, what with the hysterical crying and all.

He shook his head. "I called her when I heard the report and picked her up. I figured you'd rather have her spend the night with you than me."

Then he flashed that evil grin at me.

I rolled my eyes, too tired and sick to rise to the bait. "Thanks, Brody. I'm still not really sure why you're playing fairy godmother, but I have to admit I appreciate it."

"You're interesting. Been bored for a while," he said cryptically, opening the door. "But don't call me a godmother."

21

By the time I finally convinced Max to take me home on Sunday, after a rough night of trying to sleep in her guest room (she woke me up every hour, peering at me with a flashlight), Aunt Celia and Uncle Nathan were walking up the sidewalk.

"I tried to call you at Max's every hour to be sure you didn't fall into a coma and die like my third cousin twice removed Ingrid did after that frozen herring incident, but it kept ringing straight into voice mail, so Nathan said she'd probably turned the phone off. Max, not Ingrid," she said, practically yanking me out of the car in her haste to hug me and examine me for broken bones.

"Oooh, careful. My head is still aching, and I haven't taken anything for pain yet today," I said, trying not to whimper. Aunt Celia's fussing always put me back in little girl mode.

Next door, Emily came running out of her door. "Oh, my goodness! December, are you okay? Celia told me all about it! I've been so worried about you! I baked you a giant chocolate cake, and Rick is bringing our guest room bed over for you right now, so you don't have to sleep on the floor anymore."

Celia patted my arm. "I've made you your favorite pot roast and a pumpkin pie, dear," she soothed.

"With whipped cream?" I whimpered.

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