(Book
#11 in the Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series)
By
Joanna
Campbell Slan
Chapter 1
Our wedding day dawned like a scene from a fairy
tale. Frozen rain coated the freshly fallen snow. The glassy surface glistened
like a million tiny diamonds. Icicles hanging from the eaves of our house
formed natural prisms, casting rainbows across the blanket of white. Sunlight
transformed the long dead banks of mums into mounds, like glittering pillows
under a white duvet. The scene before us was beautiful, but treacherously
slick. This overnight winter storm had paralyzed travel throughout the St.
Louis area. All the salt and sand we’d tossed down on the walkways hadn’t done
much good.
Our friend Detective Stan Hadcho guided me along the
flagstones, by means of a good grip on my elbow. He escorted me from the back
door of our house to the gazebo. As we walked, Leighton Haversham, our former
landlord and dear friend, snapped photos so I could make a memory album. That’s
what I do. I'm a scrapbooker and owner of a store called Time in a Bottle.
At the stairs to the gazebo, I stared up into the
smiling faces of the people so dear to me: my newly adopted son, Erik; my
daughter, Anya; Erik’s aunt, Lorraine Lauber; our nanny, Bronwyn Macavity; my
fiancé, Detective Chandler Louis Detweiler; and of course, our animal friends,
my dog Gracie and Lorraine’s dog Paolo. They’d all stood there patiently in the
cold, waiting for me to arrive. Detweiler reached down to take my gloved hand so
I could step up and join him. His eyes were warm with emotion, and his gaze was
steady. Moist clouds of exhalations floated around all our faces, forming
gossamer veils of moisture. As we turned to face Lorraine, who would be
conducting the ceremony, Detweiler wrapped an arm around my waist.
Correction: A small portion of my waist.
At eight-and-a-half months pregnant, I’m the size of
the Goodyear Blimp. Or at least that’s how it feels.
But Detweiler loves me. I’m carrying our baby, and
our other two children are happy and healthy. Even though the overnight storm
was keeping much of our extended family from joining us today, our wedding
would be a joyous event.
Detweiler’s shoulder brushing up against mine, so
strong and solid, augured a good start to the rest of our lives. We stood
side-by-side, exactly the way we intended to go through life, as friends and
lovers.
"Not too bad for a wedding thrown
together in forty-eight hours," he whispered in my ear as Lorraine (aka
“Aunt Lori”) opened her prayer book. There was a chuckle in his voice.
I tried not to giggle. Although I have been dreaming
about marrying Detweiler ever since I met him nearly three years ago, this day
was a long time coming. Even though I kept telling myself that a ceremony was
only a formality, deep down I really wanted to wear a wedding band again—as long
as it was his! The legalities of our relationship might not matter much to
Detweiler and me, but they could matter terribly to our two kids and to the
baby who was kicking imaginary field goals inside me. I’d learned the hard way
that the legal system can be your best friend and your worst enemy.
Initially I'd planned for us to get
married in the gap between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Detweiler and I had even
talked about flying our whole family to Las Vegas and visiting the wedding
chapel inside a Denny’s. The kids would have loved that combination, wedding
bells and pancakes. But my friend Clancy Whitehead reminded me, "You're
eight months along. They don't allow women that pregnant on a plane."
Oops.
Who
knew?
So I'd tabled that project, and made a
notation on my calendar to revisit our wedding plans after December 25th.
I would have hurried through the holiday season and put the idea out of my
head, except for something unsettling that happened to my son.
My sisters, Amanda and Catherine, had
asked if they could spend a Saturday baking cookies with my kids. Of course, I
said yes. Anya and Erik were delighted. From the big smiles on their faces,
they’d had a wonderful time.
“Look, Mama Kiki,” said Erik, as he offered up a
small shopping bag. Inside were two shoeboxes and two Pringles cans filled with
yummy treats.
“I’ve got one too.” Anya grinned at me. “We’ll have
plenty to share with Aunt Lori and Leighton.”
After thanking my sisters profusely, I hustled my children out to the
car.
My mouth began to water as we were
pulling away from the curb of the rental house my sisters share with my mother.
The car’s interior smelled wonderfully of butter, sugar, and vanilla. Now and
then, I caught a whiff of cinnamon.
Sometimes playing chauffeur is a drag, but there’s
an undeniable magic that happens when you’re looking out the front window and
your children are in the back seat. Remember Arthur Godfrey? How he said that
kids say the darnedest things? Something about car rides encourages that.
Especially longish car rides.
We were merging onto the heavy traffic on Highway 40
when Erik explained to me that because Detweiler and I weren't married, our new
baby would be a "littermate."
"A littermate?" I adjusted my
rearview mirror so I could look at him. My son’s solemn face stared back at me.
His chocolate brown eyes, his mocha-colored skin, and his red hair testified to
his biracial heritage. He might not be the child of my womb, but he's certainly
the child of my heart. From the moment I set eyes on him, I fell in love with
that little boy.
"A littermate? I don't understand
what you mean, sweetie.”
Anya rolled her eyes and explained,
"He means i-l-l-e-g-i-t-i-m-a-t-e."
It took me a while to put those
letters into a word. When I did, I nearly drove off the road. "Uh, Erik,
honey? Who was talking to you about the baby being a ...littermate?"
"Grandma Collins," he said.
My mother. That paragon of parenthood.
I gritted my teeth. “That figures.”
Although she didn’t know it, my Mom had just moved one step closer to an
apartment in assisted living. Mom didn’t know it, but the rental house was
going up for sale. My sisters and I had several meetings, trying to decide how
to cope with our aging parent. In the end, we decided to wait until after the
holidays were over.
Calling my child "illegitimate"
marked a new low, even for her.
I told myself to shrug it off. To
consider the source. But Anya turned her denim blue eyes on me and said,
"She's right, Mom."
"Don't worry," I said.
"Detweiler and I still have plenty of time to tie the knot."
Two hours later, the contractions
started.
<< To Be Continued >>
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