Free Mother of the Bride by Lynn Michaels Page A

Cydney standing in the dining room doorway.
    He smiled at her, a soft-edged, half-asleep smile that made her stomach flutter. He has no idea what he's doing, Cydney told herself, no clue, thank God, that you're thinking about his underwear. He's half-looped, that's all, from the pain pill he took.
    “Check it out, Uncle Gus.” Aldo leaned over him, unrolling a blueprint in his lap. “The house I'm gonna build for me and Bebe.”
    “But we can't decide where to go on our honeymoon.” Bebe opened two travel brochures and spread them on top of the blueprint. “What do you think, Mr. Munroe? Cancun or Cleveland?”
    “Cleveland?” He gave a raspy, not quite awake laugh that made Bebe stick her lip out. “What the hell's in Cleveland?”
    “The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Uncle Gus. Jeez.” Aldo laughed. “You gotta get out of Crooked Possum more often.”
    “Dinner, everyone!” Georgette came out of the kitchen ringing the little crystal bell she'd given Cydney with the silver coffee carafe. No matter what cabinet or drawer Cydney hid it in, her mother always found it.
    Georgette lit the candles and everyone sat down, Cydneyat the end of the table closest to the French doors. Angus Munroe sat on her right, across from Aldo and Bebe, her mother at the opposite end. Cydney said grace and Georgette started the salad around.
    Bebe chattered mindlessly, as Bebe always did, mostly to Aldo about shopping and school and his new Jag and shopping. Cydney kept waiting for one of them to mention the wedding, but they were off in their own little world. Angus Munroe didn't say a word, just ate steadily—two helpings of chicken and noodles—and watched them.
    The subject didn't come up until dessert. A three-layer carrot cake Georgette found time to bake between laps in the pool, her hour on the Stairmaster and taking Bebe shopping. Sprinkled with pecans and coconut, dotted with orange icing carrots with green icing tops and served on a footed crystal cake plate and a white paper doily. Some days Cydney really hated her mother.
    Angus Munroe ate two slices. Aldo finished a third piece, drained his glass of milk and grinned at his uncle across the table.
    “Eat your heart out, Uncle Gus. Mrs. Parrish taught Bebe how to cook. I'm gonna eat like a king.”
    “Call me Georgette, Aldo.” Her mother rose and laid a hand on his shoulder while she filled his glass from a crystal pitcher. Milk cartons were not allowed at the table in Georgette's presence. “Or Gramma George if you prefer.”
    “Okay, Gramma George.” Aldo beamed at her, then at Cydney. “Can I call you Uncle Cyd, Miss Parrish?”
    “If you'd like, Aldo.”
    Angus Munroe scowled. Either the pain pill's wearing off, Cydney thought, or he only smiles twice a year—when the royalty checks arrive.
    “You certainly will eat like a king.” He put his fork down and lifted his coffee cup from its saucer. “A delicious meal, Mrs. Parrish. Thank you. And wonderful coffee.”
    “Uncle Cyd made the coffee,” Bebe chimed in. “She only drinks tea, but my Grampa Fletch says she makes the best coffee in the world.”
    “Does he?” Angus Munroe glanced at Cydney, her pulse jumping at the quick smile he gave her. “Well, I agree with him.” He saluted her with his cup. “Delicious, Miss Parrish.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Munroe. Would you like a refill?”
    “Yes, thank you.” He put his cup down. “And thank you for inviting me.”
    “You're welcome, Mr. Munroe.” Cydney filled his cup and put the server down, seated herself and smoothed her napkin in her lap, glanced up and saw her mother eyeing her with an arched, what-gives eyebrow.
    “My, my, you two are awfully formal,” she said, aiming her megawatt TV smile on Angus Munroe. “Since we're going to be family, please call me Georgette. Do you prefer Angus or Gus?”
    The question caught him with his coffee raised partway to his mouth. His arm froze for just a second, then he put the cup down without drinking