Loreth White - Safe Passage

Honey perked up, but not because of Scott’s scintillating conversation. Her interest was captured by sudden activity outside the church. Cars started arriving. Small groups of people were entering the chapel.

Scott closed the paper, folded it, watched the action across the street. Two men in suits climbed out of a red convertible parked directly in front of the church. Scott studied them, but he couldn’t see the groom.

Then a Harley, identical to Skye’s, rumbled into one of the parking spaces behind the convertible. Another man in a suit. He carried his helmet under one arm, entered the church.

The activity seemed to die down a little. Scott glanced at his watch. It was almost six-thirty now. By his count there were at least forty wedding guests already waiting inside the church for the bridal party to arrive.

Then he saw it.

A sleek, white limousine cruised down the street, pulled to a stop in front of the chapel. It had no adornment. No silly paper flowers. No ribbons. For some reason, Scott thought this was appropriate and in keeping with the direct and no-nonsense nature of the woman he’d recently met.

A photographer snapped the scene as the driver’s door opened. An elderly gentleman stepped out, dapper in a crisp gray suit. Scott recognized him from the general store. The man walked around the vehicle to open the passenger door. A slim blonde stepped out, the same one Scott had seen at Skye’s house this morning. A long dress the dark blue of midnight skimmed the curves of her body. It was draped in a way that reminded Scott of ancient Greece. She was followed by a miniature version, maybe six years old, with wild fair curls. The little flower girl clung to a simple basket of petals.

Then came the bride.

Dr. Skye Van Rijn stepped out of the bridal vehicle and took the old man’s arm.

And she clean stole Scott’s breath.

She was an ancient Greek goddess. An Aphrodite. A high priestess in virginal white. She stood tall, elegant, strong, the simple yet exquisite fall of her dress in the style of old Athens. Her rich dark hair was loosely piled upon her head, held with a tiny silvery-white wreath of leaves. Loose, smoky tendrils curled down, teasing her shoulders. Her arms were bare. Behind her the small stone chapel was silhouetted against the evening sea and a spring sky turning pale violet as the faraway sun set. Scott could think only of white doves and peace offerings and the gods of Mount Olympus. The bug lady looked like she should be marrying Zeus, for Christ’s sake. Not some guy called Jozsef. The woman was a dream. Brains. Beauty…

And a suspect.

Keep that in your confounded brain, Agent.

But he couldn’t tear his eyes from Skye as the blond woman helped her with the back of her dress. He watched as she climbed the stairs, passed through the chapel doors.

He watched the double doors swing shut behind her. And he imagined her walking down the aisle. “Lucky bastard,” he muttered, resting his head against the truck window.

Honey thumped her tail.

“Not you, you hairy mutt.” Scott eased his aching leg into a more comfortable position and closed his eyes. He took himself back. Back to his own wedding all those years ago. In his mind he saw Leni walking down the aisle. Toward him. A spectral, shimmering vision of white. But he couldn’t see her properly. He strained to make out her face, her features, to call out to her. But she was gone. In a searing flash of white flame. His eyes snapped open. His hand clenched on the door handle. Perspiration pricked along his brow.

He was dwelling again where he feared to tread. This mission was going to drive him clear over the edge. The sooner he unearthed the bug lady’s secret, the better. Then he was outta here. And out of the damn country. He had to get himself back into the field. The international one. Not this domestic crap.

“You look beautiful, Skye. What made you go for the Greek theme?” Charly fidgeted with the train of Skye’s dress for the umpteenth time.

Skye sighed, exasperated. “I’ve told you a hundred times. I just like it. Quit trying to distract me.” They’d been waiting in the little antechamber way too long. The organist was going through her repertoire yet again.

Charly’s little niece, Jennifer, sat patiently on a stiff wooden chair, swinging legs that didn’t reach the ground, wilting faster than her basket of petals.

Mike Henderson, the owner of the Haven General Store, a long-time local and dear acquaintance of Skye’s who’d been more than delighted when asked to give her away, opened the door a crack, peeked into the chapel. “He’s still not here.”

“What’s keeping him?” Charly asked.

“Damned if I know,” Skye snapped. She thought of Jozsef. Of his recent behavior. His hesitation when she asked questions. His unusual appearances at the lab. The increasing frequency of his trips abroad. His growing self-indulgence. Her own insecurities. Her incomprehensible, primal feelings for her new neighbor. And suddenly Skye couldn’t take any more. Anxiety, the likes of which she hadn’t felt in a decade, swooped down on her, clawed at her heart.

The urge to run swamped her.

She took a deep breath, stepped forward. With both hands, she threw open the antechamber doors, glared at the rows of pews filled with her close acquaintances. Not friends. Acquaintances. Colleagues. Dear people. But not family.

Not friends.

Everyone turned to stare at her.

She read shock, pity, on their faces. Skye took one tentative step into the chapel. The organist broke into the strains of the wedding march.

Here comes the bride.

Skye took another step, then another and another. The organ music sped up to match her increasing pace.

All dressed in white.

Skye lifted her dress up about her knees, stormed down the aisle, heart pounding, vaguely aware of Charly running after her.

A murmur rippled through the guests like storm wind through a forest of trees. Some jumped to their feet as Skye marched past them. The crazy organist madly beat at the wedding march tune, trying to match Skye’s pace. She finally gave up in a discordant thrash of keys as Skye reached Jozsef’s best man, who stood patiently near the altar.

Silence now hung thick, anticipatory, under the dark curved beams, the stained glass.

“Where is he?”

“Skye, I’m sorry, I don’t know. We tried calling his home, his cell—”

“For chrissake, you’re the best man, Peter. Isn’t your job to see that the groom gets to the damn church on time?”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Forget it. I made a mistake. Give me the keys.” She held out her hand. It trembled violently.

“They’re my bike keys.”

She dropped her voice to a harsh whisper. “You gonna humiliate me further or are you going to give me those keys?”

Peter fumbled in his pocket, extracted the keys. “Skye, I’m pleading with you. Let’s take the limo. You’re in no state—”

“You expect me to leave in the bridal vehicle? You’re nuts. Just give them to me.”

Peter reluctantly held them out. She snatched them.

Charly tried to take her arm. “Skye, please—”

She shrugged her off, hoisted her dress up with one hand and turned to face the small crowd. “That’s it, folks. Party’s over. Thanks for coming. Maybe next time.”

But there’d never be a next time, another wedding, not as long as she lived.

Skye stormed down the aisle, heading for the massive arched chapel doors, a chorus of shocked murmurs flowing in her wake.

The chapel doors flung open. Scott jerked to attention.

He realized with a shock that he’d dozed off.

He squinted, trying to make sense of the vision in front of him.

The Greek goddess stormed out of the church, down the stone stairs, dress hiked up about her knees. He rubbed his fist in his eyes. Maybe he was still asleep.