Chapter Twenty
Pat stepped clear with the makeup kit and Jo’s face reappeared in her bedroom mirror. She blinked in surprise.
“Well?” Pat prompted.
“Forget Dan, I can do better.” Her eyes had been highlighted with a smoky gray shadow, lashes lengthened, skin tone a flawless porcelain.
Pat laughed. “Too late now.”
Jo smoothed out the skirt of her wedding gown and tried not to look at her watch, a delicate silver thread on her wrist, sparkling with marquisette. She’d only checked it a few minutes ago. It was twelve-thirty. And not a peep from Dan.
“Every bride suffers the jitters.” Pat twisted one of Jo’s red curls so it spiraled artfully over her left eyebrow, then smoothed the lace on the short sleeves. “You’ll be fine.”
“Of course I will.” Standing, Jo took a spin in front of the mirror. “You made me beautiful,” she said and hugged her future mother-in-law. “Thank you.”
Pat fumbled for a tissue on the dressing table and dabbed carefully under her eyes. “Don’t you dare make my mascara run.”
There was a tap on the door and Ross’s dark head appeared. “Ready?” His mouth was grim, which meant he hadn’t heard from Dan either. Ignoring a flutter of panic, Jo picked up her beaded white bag.
“Ready.”
“You might at least compliment the bride,” Pat complained.
The best man cast a perfunctory scan over Jo’s appearance. “Gorgeous.” Silver eyes met hers, steely with anxiety. “Shall we go?”
Jo picked up the skirt of her gown and started downstairs, her dress a slither of cool silk against her legs. “Relax,” she said to Ross. “There’s still plenty of time.”
“And it does make sense to visit Rosemary first.” Pat had misinterpreted the comment. “But it is a shame Dan’s seeing you before the ceremony. Is he downstairs, Ross? Let me look at him.”
“He was running late,” Ross lied smoothly, “so I said I’d pick Jo up first and then go back for him.”
“That’s not like Dan.” In the hall, Pat gave Jo the soft white stole that would keep her warm en route to the church. “I thought you weren’t supposed to be driving yet.”
He wasn’t. Jo answered for Ross. “Something came up last minute on the farm, I expect.” Hold steady, she told herself, no wobbles. She draped the stole around her shoulders and gave her appearance a perfunctory check in the mirror.
“Nip that in the bud right now,” warned Pat. “You don’t want Dan ending up like Herman. So how are the nerves, Jo?”
She smiled. “I’m holding them at bay.”
“By rights Jo should be a basket case,” Pat commented to Ross. “Her bridesmaid is missing in action, Tilly tore a flounce on her flower girl’s dress and Merry’s had to rush her to the dressmaker’s for emergency repairs. And what did Jo do this morning but go to work!”
“Deadlines,” Jo said. “You learn to live with them.”
Ross massaged the groove between his eyebrows. “Your bridesmaid’s missing?”
“Not exactly.” Patiently, Jo waited for Ross to open the front door. “Delwyn sent a text to say her future happiness was at stake, that she’d meet us at the church and she knew I’d understand.”
Pat frowned. “You’d think it could have waited.”
“I do understand,” Jo said.
Ross closed his eyes briefly, as if for strength, and finally reached for the door handle. In passing, Jo patted his forearm. “You look handsome.” He wore a suit like Dan’s, charcoal black, except without a waistcoat. Jo straightened his taupe tie. “I think Barry was right about this color.”
Outside the day was still overcast and a light wind chilled her exposed skin. She refused to shiver.
Ross had driven over in Dan’s ute; from here they’d travel in the bridal car, a white Daimler polished and decorated with white ribbons that had been delivered earlier.
“I think I left a key in Dan’s car,” Jo said. “Won’t be a moment.”
Walking over to the ute, she opened the driver’s door. As she’d hoped, Dan’s Swanndri hung over the front seat. Making sure she wasn’t seen, she leaned forward and pressed her nose into the wool, breathed deeply, then straightened, shut the door and returned to the Daimler. “Ready,” she said, pretending to close her beaded bag.
“Let me grab my camera,” Pat said. “Jo, you look a picture. Any man would be lucky to have you.”
“Good,” Ross muttered as they waited for Pat. “We might need a stand-in.”
“That’s the best man’s job,” she deadpanned.
He smiled suddenly, the harsh lines of his face relaxing. “You’ve heard from him. You wouldn’t be this calm otherwise.”
“No.”
Pat returned and snapped a couple of shots. Jo settled in the back of the car, fanning out her white skirt.
“So rendezvous at the church in a few hours,” Pat said.
Jo smiled. “See you there.”
Ross eased into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Waving a cursory farewell to Pat, he pulled out of the driveway. “Whatever you’re taking, I want some.”
“He’ll be here,” Jo said and shivered.
Ross said nothing, but he turned the heat on high. “He’ll be here,” she repeated.
“I don’t blame you,” he said, “I blame myself. You don’t know the Ureweras. I do. There’s plenty of hazards to trip up a guy in a hurry…I didn’t even leave him a goddamn compass.”
“Don’t start melting on me now, Ice-cream.”
“I hadn’t anticipated having to lie to his mother.”
“A white lie. No point worrying anyone until…unless we have to. Now pull over and let me drive. I can see it’s painful for you.”
As usual he ignored her. “If we haven’t heard from him by the time we get to the church I’m calling in a search party.”
“When he’s thirty minutes late,” she said evenly, “you can start pushing alarm buttons. Until then you’re doing what I’m doing.”
“What’s that?”
She noticed her hands had clenched in her lap. Jo uncurled her fingers, laid them flat and wide on the silk georgette. “You’re believing in him, Ross.”
* * *
Dan stood on the bank studying the river. If water levels had been low he could have walked across; high he could have floated. Instead the river was neither one, which meant plenty of hazards lay hidden just under the surface.
Using his hunting knife, he finished trimming the twigs off the sapling he’d chosen as a walking stick and eyed it critically. Good enough. Then he stripped to his underwear, shivering as the cold wind goosed his skin.
With quick economy, he rolled his clothes tightly in the polypropylene groundsheet and jammed them inside the rucksack, then put his boots on over his bare feet. Slinging the pack over one shoulder so he could shrug it off if he got swept away, he waded into the river.
The water was so cold it made his toes ache and by the time it swirled around his knees, his feet were numb. Using the stick as a probe, he shuffled across the riverbed at a forty-five-degree angle.
The water rose to mid thigh and lapped at the hem of his boxers, wicking up the silk until, wet, it clung to his ass. Ignoring the discomfort, he focused on finding footholds in the slippery, river stones. The toe of his boot jammed in a crevice. Bracing himself with the stick, he wiggled it free.
Two-thirds of the way across, the stick missed the bottom and disappeared under the fast-flowing water. Frustrated, he looked at the opposite bank, tantalizingly close, then downriver to where the channel narrowed and foamed between glistening rocks. If he had to swim, he needed a bigger margin of error.
The alarm on his watch beeped 12.30 p.m. Dan hesitated.
You won’t be any good to Jo drowned.
“Son of a—” Shuffling his way back to the bank he’d just left he got dressed, frozen hands fumbling with zips and buttons, cursing himself warm. He wouldn’t make it in time, had no bloody hope of making it in time. If Jo didn’t know that, Ross did. He would kill his so-called wingman when he got out of here. Slowly, torturously, painfully.
Hell, he might as well slow down…viciously he reshouldered the pack…take his time, enjoy the goddamn walk.
He broke into a jog.
It took twenty minutes he didn’t have anymore to find the right place to cross. Stripping again, he emptied his water bottle for extra buoyancy and packed it in the rucksack. Then holding it out in front of him, he launched into the water and started kicking.
Halfway across he spotted a telltale ribbon indent snaking across the muddy water ahead of him—an underwater snag. He flattened out, hoping to float over it but the strap of the pack caught, swinging him around and downstream. His grip on the canvas tightened. The strap held, water gushed around the pack as he bobbed in front of it like a human starfish.
A dozen thoughts raced through his mind.
My wedding suit is in there.
Like you have a hope in hell of making it now.
Let go.
Twisting his head with the flow of water he saw there was still a clear run to the bank. His biggest risk in holding on was hypothermia. Every two minutes his body was losing another one degree Celsius. Nine minutes and he’d pass out.
With monumental effort, he hauled himself closer to the pack and, ducking his head, fumbled under the surface trying to find where the broken sapling held the strap. Water poured up his nose. He lifted his head, gasping and coughing. One arm hugging the bobbing pack, he strained with numb fingers for the knife sheathed in the net side pocket, clamping his fingers around it through sheer force of will.
Gritting his chattering teeth, he sawed at the resistant strap. The pack shot toward him, slamming into his face and nose. He almost dropped the knife and grabbed it in a death-grip, rolling the rucksack downstream while he started kicking toward the opposite bank. His legs jerked feebly.
In a last frantic flounder he kicked to where the water eddied and slowed and grabbed a clump of trailing tussock grass. As he staggered onto the muddy bank his legs gave way and he toppled forward. For a moment he lay gasping, then hauled himself up to higher ground.
With violently shaking hands, he wrestled with the pack’s straps and dragged out his dry clothes. It took him fifteen minutes to dress himself, piling everything on—the long johns, the wedding suit, the Swanndri and beanie.
Then, stumbling around like an old man, he gathered driftwood and made a fire, sitting as close as he dared, wrapped in the ground sheet. He choked down another couple of energy bars while he set river stones at the edge of the fire. When they were warm, he stuck them under his armpits and between his thighs, letting the major arteries there carry the heat around his frozen body.
It seemed hours before the tremors stopped and feeling returned to his extremities. Anxiously checking the time, he swore. The face had been cracked during his river swim and was full of water, the hands paralyzed at one o’clock.
He tried to think positively.
At least he was on the right side of the river.
Dousing the fire, he tied a knot in the backpack’s broken strap, then reshouldered it and followed the current, his desperate gaze scanning the surrounding terrain. Within half a kilometer he spotted an old trail marker.
Finally, he had a route out.
* * *
“I had a dress like that once.” Nan leaned over the teacups to finger the material of Jo’s skirt with her good hand.
“This is your wedding dress,” Jo reminded her patiently. “You made it, right down to sewing all these Swarovski crystals on by hand. And when Pops saw you in it, his eyes nearly popped out of his head.”
“Pops?”
“Graham.”
“Graham…yes,” said Rosemary thoughtfully. “But should you be wearing it while we’re planting? It might get dirty.”
When Jo and Ross arrived, she’d been in the garden checking on her seedlings and had come inside for afternoon tea reluctantly. This wasn’t the visit Jo had hoped for.
“Let me show you this special photo album I made you.” Jo moved to sit next to her grandmother on the couch, picking up the album she’d dropped off earlier. She’d chosen the photographs carefully, leaving out any pictures that evoked sadness—Jo’s mother, Pops as an old man shortly before he died.
She’d designed the album solely as a testament to her grandmother’s many achievements—Rosemary hosting a Chronicle fundraiser, Rosemary behind the Thrift shop counter, Rosemary accepting a prize for her preserves, and, Jo’s favorite, Rosemary encouraging Jo through the gate on her first day at school while Jo clung tightly to her grandmother’s hand.
Jo reached for it again now, but Rosemary pulled it free to turn another page.
“I was quite something, wasn’t I?”
“Yes, you were.”
At least she didn’t have to explain Dan’s absence, except to the curious staff. Nan hadn’t remembered she and Dan were visiting, let alone that her granddaughter was getting married within the hour. Polly was on stand-by to bring Nan to the wedding if Jo thought she was up to it, but clearly she wasn’t. Besides, Jo couldn’t be sure there’d be a wedding.
Or even that Dan would still want to marry her.
Stop it. Stop thinking like that. She couldn’t afford to let doubt in now, even for a second. We’ll make it.
Rosemary pushed the album aside and stood. “I need to get back to the garden now.”
Jo had hoped for a much longer visit. Swallowing her disappointment, she also stood. “Absolutely, if that’s what you want.” So they wouldn’t make a connection on her wedding day. She didn’t have to make it this important. It didn’t have to be an omen.
Ross entered the lounge. He’d been outside calling Father O’Malley in case Dan had already shown up at the church. Catching Jo’s eye, he shook his head, then noticed she and Nan were standing. “Your visit’s over already?”
“Nan’s very busy in the garden today,” she said cheerfully. “Nan, this is Ross.” They’d already been introduced but he had been gone ten minutes.
Ross limped forward to shake her hand and Rosemary frowned. “You hurt your leg…you should rest it.”
“That’s what I keep telling him,” said Jo.
“You should listen to Jocelyn,” Unexpectedly Nan turned and gave her a sweet smile. “You’re a good girl,” she said. “A good girl, my darling.”
Caught by surprise, Jo felt tears start to her eyes. She couldn’t cry, Nan would get upset. Helplessly she looked at Ross.
“I’ve always wanted to grow vegetables,” he said, drawing Rosemary’s gaze. Jo had briefed him on suitable conversational openings. “But I don’t know where to start.”
Nan beamed. “Well, you’ve come the right person.” She sat down again. “First, you need good compost, and I don’t mean that rubbish they sell at garden centers. Jocelyn, come and tell…what’s your name again?… Ross? Jocelyn, come and tell Ross what I’ve taught you about compost.”
The Iceman poured tea and handed around lemon cakes while Jo extolled the virtues of humus and potash, seaweed and worm farms. Nan took her hand and squeezed it approvingly. I can do this, Jo thought with strengthened resolve. We can do this.
“Of course,” she said reflectively, “Ross already has a working knowledge of manure.”